Harlow: A Military Bad Boy Romance: The Bradford Brothers (10 page)

It’s been a day since my first therapy session with Whitney, but I still can’t forget about it. I’m at my “office” at Dr. Davis’ facilities but in my mind I’m still in that room with Whitney. I’m wishing I had bent her over the barre and taken her from behind. I’m sure that would have made her forget all about her putz of an ex.

“Harlow, there’s a patient I need you to speak to,” Dr. Davis says, quite gruffly, stepping into my office without knocking.

“All right.” I look up at Dr. Davis’ large frame looming above my seated position.

I hope my annoyance isn’t
too
obvious.

“He’s an airman,” Dr. Davis continues, “who is undergoing phase 1 of his reconstructive surgery tomorrow.”

I help Dr. Davis with administrative tasks but my main job is to talk to the patients who are scared of upcoming procedures. I tell them that I too was once in their position, and was also scared, but that everything turned out great.

When I meet with this patient, he looks like a deer in headlights, as they often do. But he’s also happy to see me, which is also a common reaction.

“Hello, Harlow, I’m Jesse Morrow,” he says, shaking my hand.

“Harlow Bradford,” I say, and then immediately feel foolish. “But I guess you already know that.”

“I’m so glad to talk to you,” he says, after Dr. Davis formally introduces us and leaves the room. “And to have the opportunity to work with Dr. Davis just like you did.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I tell him, looking him straight in the eye, or at least the piece of skin that is covering what used to be his eye. “Are there any questions I could try to answer for you?”

I know how awful it felt to never have anyone look at me. At first Dr. Davis gave me a mask to wear while “in transition” between my wounded face and my “fixed” face, but it looked pretty obviously fake. I never knew which was worse— my horrible scarred and mutilated face, or my fake face.

“How long did it take you to get back to normal?” he asks. “You seemed to have made such a quick rebound.”

“I guess I did,” I say, looking at him thoughtfully. “I’m really not sure how to answer that question because my memory immediately after the accident and upon waking up is very fuzzy.”

I remember lying bed- bound at Walter Reed wishing I would have just died. I remember being too embarrassed when even my brothers or mother came to visit me. I felt that I had let them down, let everyone down. I worried I’d never walk again, although walking didn’t end up being too much of an issue.

“I feared the worst for a while, which is normal after trauma,” I tell him, trying to spin my message to be as uplifting and positive as I can.

Dr. Davis has made it clear that my job is to help reassure the patients, not further depress them. Although I can still remember and relate to the depression phase all too well. “But everything worked out fine.”

I have seen the videos— of course, since Dr. Davis plays them all the time— of my initial attempts to do simple tasks such as eat, talk or write. But luckily, although the humiliation is forever recorded, it doesn’t take up a large amount of room in my memory.

Dr. Davis has explained that the human brain has protection mechanisms to shield itself from things that would be too powerful to handle. Kind of like when victims can’t remember being abused. My body can’t remember being that helpless. Thank God, or I might not ever have found the will to be strong again.

“So how is it being back with your unit?” Jesse asks, his eyes searching my face for a happy reunion story. “Was the transition hard? Were they happy to have you back?”

“Actually…” I begin.

How do I put a positive spin on this, the one thing I still feel so negatively about? The one thing I have not been able to achieve despite my greatest attempts? “The whole unit has been so supportive, and helpful. I see them often, but…”

I look at his eager face, not wanting to tell him that I still haven’t been cleared for duty. I’m sure he’ll ask how that can be the case, with all the progress I’ve made. And I really wouldn’t have an answer for him.

I hate not having the answers for everyone, but it’s part of the job. Just like when they ask me if their results will be the same as mine. Of course I try to be encouraging but no two patients are equal.

In fact, I don’t know of anyone who has had such a successful comeback as I have managed to have, and I don’t want to fill them with false hope. It’s a delicate balance to try to dispense the right amount of hope.

Dr. Davis swoops into the room and saves me from having to go into an awkward explanation of my current duty status.

“I’m glad you boys hit it off, but it’s time to wrap it up,” he says, and I’m annoyed at the paternal tone his voice takes on yet again. “There are pre-op duties to attend to.”

“Nice to have chatted with you…” I begin, but Jesse grabs my arm and won’t let go.

“Can you be there when I get out of surgery?” he asks.

It’s an odd request, and one I haven’t heard before. But I’ve certainly heard that
tone
before, and I know what it really means. What tough, strong soldiers are thinking but will not say.
I’m scared. And lonely. Please stay by my side.

Dr. Davis is shaking his head, but I had already said “I’ll see what I can do” before I noticed. He frowns, but Jesse is happy. He squeezes my forearm.

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

Before heading home for the day, I swing by Dr. Davis’ office.

“Harlow,” he says. “I’m glad you stopped by. Listen, don’t agree with patient requests without checking with me first. It’s not ideal for you to attend surgeries. They’re messy, and unsanitary. I’m sure you understand.”

I nod, but I don’t say anything. I guess it’s not really my call.

“Yes. But Doc, I wanted to let you know that my first physical therapy session went really well.”

“Did it?” he asks.

I almost detect a hint of surprise, or even anger, in his voice, but that would make no sense.

“Yes. I’m sure the… people… from the PT facility will talk to you about it soon,” I continue, visions of Whitney’s curves dashing through my mind, “but I just wanted to be the first to let you know. I think I passed all the initial tests and things are about to be more challenging.”

“That’s good.”

He looks down at a random file in his hand— probably belonging to Jesse, the airman to whom I’m just spoken— as if our conversation is over. But I can’t resist pressing just a little harder.

“Do you think if the next rounds of assessment go well, that I can get back in soon?” I ask, although what I really want to ask is
when
?

“Harlow, I wish I had better answers for you,” he says, his words reminding me of how I myself talked to Jesse just a little bit ago. “But, as I’ve said, it’s out of my hands. The military makes the call. The physical therapists have input at this point but I really don’t. I’ve explained my position to them and that’s that.”

He shrugs.

“I just hate having to jump through so many hoops,” I tell him. “This PT today…”—
don’t think too hard about her
, I will myself— “was having me do the most humiliating exercises. As if I was a little kid. And she was impressed, as if she hadn’t believed I could do them. It’s embarrassing, actually.”

“Don’t be a pussy,” Dr. Davis says, returning to the relaxed demeanor I’m more familiar with. “You can easily handle some uppity intern. Of
course
you impressed her. She was probably falling all over herself for such a hot stud. You were in the goddamn Special Ops for Christ’s sake.”

I
am
in the Special Ops
, I want to correct him.
I
was
, and I still
am
.

“But Harlow, just because you impressed a new intern doesn’t mean the military thinks you’re up to combat level. I’m just trying to be straight with you.”

I sigh, and nod. I have no idea what they want me to prove, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes.

Whitney was the first hurdle and it was easier than I thought to crack her resistance. Now to move on to where it really counts. Impressing the Powers That Be in the military, whoever they are.

And just who
are
they, anyway? I wonder. And how exactly do I go about impressing them?

I think about Jensen’s offer to have his lawyer- girlfriend Riley help me out.

“Is there some kind of an appeal board we could go talk to?” I ask him. “To see if they will just take your recommendation instead of putting me through all these ridiculous and unnecessary tests? Certainly they’ve all been impressed by your work and they know what kind of progress I’ve made. Maybe with a lawyer or something, they might see things differently.”

“Harlow, you don’t know how bad of an idea that is. You need to impress these people with your physical skills,
not
threaten them with some outside lawyer. As I’ve told you, the way to win is to have the physical therapists agree with my assessments and certification.”

“Okay. Yes, of course.”

I feel stupid for suggesting anything different. He
has
told me all of this before, but I guess that as usual I’m being pig- headed. Of course the threat of litigation is a bad idea. I was just pulling at any available straws, because I hate feeling this helpless.

“I’ll see how it goes with continued sessions with the intern, then,” I say, heading out of his office.

And of course I definitely mean that in more ways than one.

Harlow pants as he finishes his timed run. When I pant, I look like an idiot and sound like a dog. But when Harlow pants, it’s sexy. Just like everything else that Harlow does.

“Good job!” I tell him, stopping the watch and making a note on his log. “You did it with plenty of time to spare. That was two miles in nine minutes, forty- one seconds.”

He trots over to me, with a goofy— yet still sexy, of course— smile on his face. It looks like he’s about to hug me, but he must think better of it at the last second, because he ends up just extending his hand for a high five. I give him one, enthusiastically, and then we kind of shake/ hold hands for a few seconds.

It’s awkward, but I don’t care. Harlow has a look in his eyes that says
if I weren’t your physical therapy patient and we weren’t outside for everyone to see, we’d be celebrating with a victory fuck instead of a victory handshake
.

Or maybe that’s just what I imagine he’s thinking. Or want him to be thinking.

“Hate to crash the victory party,” I hear Lance’s familiar voice say, and I quickly drop Harlow’s hand. “But I just came to check in on our hero’s progress.”

His tone is light but the usual wink isn’t in his eyes. I have a feeling he’s not happy with the level of chumminess between Harlow and me. I do my best to sound professional.

“Oh yes, of course,” I say.

I could kick myself for inviting Lance to observe this session, and then forgetting that I’d done that.

“Harlow continues to be passing all of his assessments with flying colors,” I continue. “His walking and running times are particularly good. That’s why we were just… uh… high- fiving each other.”

Thank goodness he didn’t go for the hug!

I hand my clipboard to Lance so that he can see the times I’ve noted.

“Really?” says Lance, looking at the latest time. “I would love to see that.”

“Sure,” says Harlow, and starts jogging back to the starting line on the track.

“Harlow, you don’t have to do it again…” I start to protest, but he waves me off as if it’s no big deal.

He probably
wants
to do it again. He likes showing off. And yet, I’m afraid he won’t be able to repeat the performance and Lance will think I’m fudging the numbers in his favor. He clearly thinks we have some kind of romance going on.

I wish
.

Harlow re- runs the two miles he’d just done, and this time he comes in even faster. I’m exhilarated for him all over again, but we don’t dare repeat our hive- five- slash- handshake.

“Wow, that really is something,” Lance says, visibly impressed.

He shakes his head.

“I know, right? Dr. Davis is going to be so happy to hear how his star patient has turned out. Should I change the time to this lower number?” I ask.

“We’ll just keep it how you have it,” Lance says, “Since that was the official one.”

“Okay.” I shrug, and then begin taking Harlow through the remainder of the assessments.

He has to walk and then jog around the track while kicking up his knees. And then while kicking his feet up behind him, to where they touch his lovely ass.

He does everything perfectly, and midway through Harlow’s exercises, while he’s still out on the track, Lance says, “Well, good to see everything’s checking out well.”

“I
told
you he’s just fine,” I tell him. “Isn’t it strange?”

“Yeah, I don’t know what to make of it.”

Lance pauses for a second and then resumes.

“I have a patient myself now that I have to go see, but good job with Harlow. Just make sure…”

“I know. No fraternizing with the patients.”

I’m embarrassed, but I want to make it clear that I get it.

“I don’t even care about that,” says Lance. “Normally. It’s just… he’s obviously a player and I know you’re on the rebound. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Awww. Isn’t that sweet.”

I smile at him.

“I know you’re a big girl and you can take care of yourself,” Lance says. “There’s just something about this guy that doesn’t quite add up.”

“I kind of understand what you mean,” I tell him, making sure that Harlow— who is on the other side of the track and deep into his leg kicks— is well out of earshot.

“You know better than anyone that I was initially very dubious about Harlow,” I confide. “But after spending time with him and seeing how he acts, I really think he’s genuine. I mean, you saw him when he was talking to that patient I was working with in the physical therapy session room when we first met him. He was so nice, and helpful, and not even boastful like Dr. Davis comes across.”

Lance just says, “Hrmph,” but he nods as if maybe I have a point.

“I don’t know. Maybe I was being too harsh on Dr. Davis, too, because I really thought something was up. I even thought they could be in on some kind of a…
con
… or something.”

I squint at Harlow and give him an enthusiastic wave, before I continue. “Like maybe they were pretending that Harlow was further advanced physically and mentally than he really is, or maybe it was all completely fake.  But clearly the medical records show that this horrific thing happened, and it would be awfully hard for Harlow to pull off a sham about how far he’s come, on
us
. Maybe that’s why the military doubted Dr. Davis’ treatment, and want an independent professional to back him up?”

“Maybe,” says Lance.

He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He heads back to the office just as Harlow’s rounding the bend, finishing his exercise in good time. I try to remain in good spirits, since, aside from Lance’s visit and strange comments, everything has been going so well.