Well, no more. No more.
Lightning flashed, followed by a clap of thunder. The lights flickered.
“You know, I really hate this place.” Sarah rubbed his arm. “Come stay with me and the boys. I promise the snake will stay in his heated aquarium.”
“Sarah, please. We’ve been over it. I just started a new job, and I’m settled.”
“Settled? In this dump? Honey, you need an apartment. And you haven’t been able to work.”
“I’ve got enough savings to get me through. A couple more trips to physical therapy, and I can get back to work.”
“James Ernest Sutton. Be realistic here.”
“Just give me until the end of the week. If the PT doesn’t clear me by Friday, I’ll stay with you until I can work. Deal?”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “Deal.”
* * * *
Remy pushed himself, splashing through puddles, rain saturating his sweatshirt. His shoes squished with every step. For the umpteenth time he glanced at his watch. Down to a six-and-a-quarter-minute mile.
Terrific.
Now if only that took his mind off Jamie.
How could he fall so hard for a guy in a matter of days? A knife skewering him through the heart wouldn’t hurt more than this. Staying away had gotten him keyed up. So here he was again, running ten miles through the pouring rain. Like some lovesick teenager in a movie. He shook his head, slicked his hair off his forehead, and pounded down the pavement.
It’d been three days, but Jamie hadn’t called. Remy had called, had texted a dozen times, and then quit when he’d started to feel like a stalker. Backing off had made him crazy, but pushing wouldn’t get Remy where he wanted to go.
Vince had done a number on Jamie. And likely would have done more if Remy hadn’t come home. If Jamie had had the strength to leave that asshole in the first place, he could’ve handled a verbal confrontation. Jamie could have beat Vince with a crutch. He could have called 911. Short of a physical attack, Remy should have stood aside and kept his mouth shut, but he hadn’t. It was what it was.
Just how to fix things?
He put his head down and ran harder.
Chapter Eight
Jamie planted the cane on the concrete and hobbled to the door of Plains Physical Therapy. It had been three weeks since he’d fractured his ankle. Today, he’d bug the therapist to let him go from tripod to biped. The cane said “old and decrepit.” He didn’t need a cane. If Jamie had to gimp, he’d rather do it with dignity.
Yes, folks, step right up and see the male ego in its native habitat, still intact and in denial.
Despite the fact that PT was on the same medical campus as the hospital, the chance of running into Remy was remote. So why had Jamie’s stomach tied itself into knots? Better off without some jealous doctor going all King Kong on him. In a town this size, Jamie could meet plenty of guys. It just wouldn’t be while running in the park. And never on rollerblades. A nice safe bar, maybe something with handicapped access for those with orthopedic issues. Something to look forward to.
He hit the automatic door opener, and the heavy glass door swung open. Mixed smells of plaster, lemon cleanser, and adhesive tape wafted out, accompanied by notes of New Age music. Very Zen, in a rehabilitative sort of way.
Jamie shuffled the dozen steps to the front desk.
Looking up, the receptionist gave him a sunny smile. “Here for PT, Mr. Sutton?”
“Yep. And it’s Jamie.” He returned the smile.
“I’ll let Craig know you’re here.” She swung away and picked up the phone.
Without using the cane, Jamie limped two paces and sank into a chair. Vanity rewarded him with a symphony of pain. He winced. Without the splint, he had to pay attention to those twisting motions. Maybe Craig could tape the joint, or give him a lace-up ankle boot. Maybe high-top basketball shoes? But then he’d look like an overgrown kid.
“Hey, Jamie.” Craig smiled and held the door to the therapy area. “Come on back.”
Grimacing, Jamie got to his feet. He’d wanted to forgo any walking-assist device, show the therapist how much progress he’d gained since last week, but the ache in his ankle forced him to lean on the cane as he tottered toward the back.
“Not improving?” Craig studied his progress with a clinical eye.
“It’s getting there.” With the speed of a snail on sedatives.
Craig nodded and walked next to him. “Let’s go to the table and take a look.”
A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows curved in a ninety-degree arc around mats, weight machines, and parallel bars. Nubby cranberry and gray carpet covered the floor in a random pattern of circles. A few other injured souls glanced up, grunting and sweating their way through sessions with their physical therapists. Jamie flashed them a wry grin in commiseration.
Beyond the glassed-in area, ten exam tables separated by striped curtains occupied the therapy department. Craig strolled ahead to a table at the far end, then pivoted and observed Jamie’s progress. Gritting his teeth, Jamie straightened as much as he could and tried not to limp.
Jeez
. He was sweating like a pig. By the time he made it to the table, he was only too ready to slide onto the paper-covered Naugahyde and lie down. Would he ever get back to his routine of running in the park?
Remy would be out there, training for the next big marathon. No, running didn’t sound so great after all. A new sport might be in order—something that wouldn’t attract Remy. Like water ballet. Beneath Jamie’s head, the pillow crackled inside its cotton pillowcase.
“Looking forward to coming back to work?” Craig asked.
“I’d much rather be here as a massage therapist than a patient,” Jamie grumbled.
“Soon.” Craig bent Jamie’s knee, then gently unlaced and removed his running shoe and sock. “Tell me if this hurts.”
“So far it’s okay.” Bearable.
Craig flexed the ankle. “How about now?”
“’S okay.” Not enough to say uncle yet. Maybe aunt.
Studying his face, Craig put more pressure on the joint.
“That’s…uncomfortable.” Yeah, about like having a scalpel buried to the hilt in his Achilles’ tendon.
“And now?”
Straight past uncle to Great Aunt Jennie’s hot-pepper pancakes.
Damn, that hurt
. Jamie clamped his teeth together.
“Still pretty tender.” Craig straightened Jamie’s leg and let him catch his breath. “I’m going to get the whirlpool set up and I’ll be back. Maybe a little massage to loosen you up?”
“Sure.”
“Go ahead and get ready. Back in a minute.” Craig pulled the curtain around to table to give him privacy.
My God
. The throbbing in his ankle brought tears to his eyes. Was he ever going to get over this? Jamie pulled off his other shoe and sock and stripped off his warm-up pants. In his running shorts, he eased onto the table and lay down on his stomach, sighing with relief.
No way could he keep up the pretense that his ankle was all better. He’d have to figure out something else he could do at work, something that wouldn’t involve standing. Maybe Sean would let him do light duty—setting up and supervising the whirlpool would be okay for a couple of weeks. Weights clanked somewhere out in the therapy area, and a man groaned.
Returning to his old job with Baron was an option.
And deal with the possibility of Vince? No, thank you.
There was always telemarketing from his cozy rent-by-the-week motel room. Or move in with Sarah. Or return Remy’s calls. He buried his face in his folded arms. A great bunch of alternatives.
“Ready?” Craig’s voice came from behind the curtain.
“Yeah.”
Metal rings scraped along the rod as the curtain was whisked open, and then back in place. “Okay. I’m going to start with some lotion.”
The squirt of the bottle reminded Jamie of massaging Remy. A light scent reached his nose, and his chest ached. Large hands slicked down his calf, and strong thumbs dug into the tense muscle. Jamie jumped.
“Relax.” Craig’s voice had that therapeutic note all medical professionals seemed to use as he rubbed into the knots there. “Use some visualization.”
“Trying.” Taking a deep breath, Jamie closed his eyes, pictured the sprain healing, pictured himself running, pictured giving Remy a massage. Now that wasn’t helpful.
Strong hands flexed his knee, brought his foot up. Gentle fingertips stroked along his calf to his instep, across his arch. Not painful, just relaxing. Heat radiated from the palms rubbing along the bruised tendons and ligaments. With a slow, careful motion, Jamie’s foot was lowered to the table.
Craig moved out of sight. “Okay, pal?”
“Mmm. Yeah.”
“Back in a second.” Curtain rings scraped.
A few moments later, another squirt of lotion, then more forceful strokes—along both calves this time, working up to his knees and the backs of his thighs, then beneath the edge of his shorts to the curve of his butt.
Whoa
. Way above the call of duty for an injured ankle. As a massage therapist, Jamie had no illusions the attention had crossed from professional to personal. Doubtful the boss would approve. Craig really hadn’t
seemed
like a closet case.
“Uh, Craig?”
The hands moved from Jamie’s thighs to his shoulders. Fingertips massaged his scalp. Warm breath touched his ear.
Oh, God, this was awkward. What should he say? “Hey. I can’t—”
“I missed you.” The husky voice poured over him like sweet cream.
Jamie froze. Not his therapist. Relief warred with anger. “Remy?”
Lips nuzzled his ear.
So not fair for Remy to arrange a secret assault here. Abruptly, Jamie rolled over, running out of tabletop. Strong hands grabbed him.
“Hey, careful.” Consternation showed on Remy’s face. “You’ll hurt something else.”
Yeah. Like my pride
. Jamie sat up and shoved Remy’s hands away. “What are you doing here?”
“You wouldn’t return my calls.”
“Right. I don’t need a possessive jerk.”
“Hey.” For a moment, Remy’s eyebrows drew down and he grimaced. “You’re right. I
did
act like a possessive jerk.”
Not much to say to that. Jamie raised an eyebrow and waited.
Remy reached out a hand, let it drop. “I’m sorry, Jamie. Truly.”
And he did look sorry. Jamie pivoted and let his legs dangle off the side of the table. He hadn’t expected capitulation. “Apology accepted.”
“Come home with me?”
This was how they’d gotten balled up in the first place. “You don’t owe me, Remy. We’re even.”
“Not because of this”—Remy gestured to Jamie’s ankle—“but because I want you there.”
Jamie leaned back on the table, propping himself up on his hands. Outside the bedroom, they’d likely have a blowout over who was in charge within a day. Jamie wasn’t about to give up his newfound freedom away from Vince. He shook his head. “Remy…”
Remy bracketed Jamie’s thighs on the table and leaned in. “The truth is, I need a private massage therapist,” he whispered. “For my…training needs.”
In spite of himself, Jamie smiled. “Yeah?”
“Absolutely.” Remy’s mouth brushed Jamie’s. “But it has to be someone really good.”
“Mmm.” That featherlight contact sent tingles down Jamie’s spine. The softness gave way to a firmer kiss, warm and tasting of mint and Remy. How could Jamie give this up? Despite everything, this was good between them.
“Know where I might find a massage therapist like that?” Remy’s lips stroked along Jamie’s jaw.
Jamie moved his knees apart, and Remy stepped forward, the heat of his body warming the air between them. Jamie’s heart rate ramped up. How could he resist this slow seduction? “The massage therapist’s terms would require the client to let the therapist deal with his own problems.”
The lips exploring his throat hesitated. “If that’s what it takes to get the right therapist for my needs, then yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Remy’s hands cupped Jamie’s butt cheeks and pulled him forward, pressing their groins together. The hot hard length of him grazed Jamie’s cock. “In fact, I’m feeling the need for a massage coming on right now.”
Jamie leaned back. No matter how appealing Remy was, no way would Jamie step back into a situation where he gave up control. “So I suppose you’d want the massage to be at your place.”
“I’d like that.”
Narrowing his eyes, Jamie said, “The therapist can’t live with you. He needs his space.”
“Whatever works for him is fine.”
“He fights his own battles.”
Remy opened his mouth, closed it. “Agreed. As long as the therapist sticks around and communicates with me if I mess up. Or if something is wrong.”
“What if the massage sometimes goes beyond the usual therapeutic limits?” Jamie raised an eyebrow. “Would that be a problem?”
“I can only agree to that if I know the therapist very well.” Remy kissed the corner of Jamie’s mouth. “So, know where I can find a good massage therapist?”
“Mmm, maybe…”
“God, I hope so, because I’d really like a massage.”
Grinning, Jamie wrapped his arms around Remy’s neck. “I can help you with that.”
There was a male throat-clearing behind the curtain. “Uh, guys?”
Whoops
. Craig was back. Jamie said, “It’s all clear.”
“Sure?” Craig sounded anything but.
Remy snickered and tossed a sheet over Jamie’s lap. “Yep.”
The curtain pulled back a sliver. Craig peered in with one eye. After a moment he widened the gap an increment of inches. “So did you get what you needed, Remy?”
“I think so.” He winked at Jamie.
Craig slid the drape open and stepped in. “Then Jamie and I will get back to work.”
“Sure. I’ll be in the waiting room. If that’s okay?” Remy held Jamie’s gaze.
“Sounds good.” Jamie held out his hand. “See you shortly.”
Remy gave it a quick squeeze and ducked out.
Chapter Nine
Remy wound his way through the patient area to the lobby and stared at the parking lot.
Thank God for second chances
. Maybe it would work out.
Jamie looked good. The ankle had improved considerably but wasn’t 100 percent. Was Jamie working now, or was he stuck at home with a bum leg? Home might still be the nightmare motel with the weird neighbors and exploding washing machines.