PAIN.
So much pain.
Rolling over in my bed, my head felt as if a bowling ball was trying to rocket out of my eyeball. “Oh fuck,” I groaned, instantly regretting it. Even speaking hurt. My mouth was so dry, my teeth fucking hurt.
My stomach grumbled as I reached over to the empty side of the bed. It was cold. Delilah was probably up already, getting Simon ready for school . . .
Awareness jolted me upright despite the razor-sharp pain lancing through my head and body. This wasn’t my room. Delilah wasn’t in the kitchen. Simon was hundreds of miles away, probably getting ready for summer camp.
Nothing was familiar, except Sarge, who lay on the end of the bed, his ears perked, head cocked to the side. “Hey, boy,” I greeted, sliding myself up against the soft headboard. Sarge relaxed, realizing the zombie looking at him was in fact me. He inched his way up to me, nuzzling his nose under my hand.
A secondary awareness dawned as the nerves in the end of what used to be my arm tingled. A quick scan around the room landed my eyes on my prosthetic as it sat on top of the dresser. I didn’t remember taking it off last night. Hell, I didn’t even remember how I’d gotten into bed.
Hanging my head down low, I raked my fingers through my hair, hoping the pounding headache would rouse my memory enough to let me know what the fuck happened.
“Coffee?” The question jolted me from bed.
Standing in the doorway, he held two steaming cups. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of old sweatpants, so worn the fabric over his knees was nearly see through. The sight of his naked chest rendered me speechless. Covered in a smattering of medium brown hair, the muscled ridges of his chest were mouthwatering. Despite the headache continuing to rage, my mind couldn’t help but imagine the sight of his thick cock. The fact that it was bulging more than slightly from behind the soft fabric did nothing to help ease my imagination.
“Sure,” I said, but it sounded more like a grunt. The bed dipped under his weight, and it felt as though we were on a waterbed, my stomach rolling through the seasickness. “Thanks.” After the first sip had settled in my veins, I felt a little more human. “So last night . . .” I started but didn’t really know where to go from there.
Thankfully, Jude took over for me. “You got piss-ass drunk.”
Craning my head up to look at him only caused more pain. “No shit, Sherlock.”
He laughed before adding, “No seriously. Like five seconds away from calling an ambulance drunk.” If anyone knew what drunk looked like, it would be Jude. “The first time you threw up we were in the parking lot of the bar.”
“First?” I questioned, letting the embarrassment cover my word.
After dropping his cup to the nightstand on his side of the bed, he held up three fingers, wiggling them back and forth a few times. And fuck it to all hell that it made me dizzy. After taking another sip of my coffee, I asked, “That bad, huh?”
“Dude, I think I’m going to have to get my car detailed.” He chuckled a soft laugh before adding, “But yeah, it was bad. You’re not much of a drinker, huh?”
“Clearly, drinking isn’t my problem.” Pulling the mug up to my mouth, I muttered around the rim, “Keeping it down seems to be more of the issue.” I took another sip to the sound of Jude laughing beside me.
“Ain’t that the fucking truth?” He grabbed his coffee and nearly finished his mug in a few long sips. Holding his mug in one hand, he folded the other behind his head, leaning up against the headboard. His long, lean body, stretched out beside me was overwhelming. With my senses already on high alert and in hangover mode, being near him made it difficult for my already fuzzy head to function. “So what’s going on?” he asked, his words cutting through the silence.
“Uh, right now. Not much. Just trying to keep this coffee down, before I give you a replay of last night.” My attempt at a joke went nowhere. Jude’s face was as serious as anything. Immovable and hard almost, he glared at me, and his lips were set in a firm line. He wasn’t going to take my shit, and I should have known better than to try and get any of it past him. His history with his father changed Jude in a lot of ways. He was always understanding and caring, but it was clear that over the years, he didn’t tolerate indulgences like this. Giving in to his “take no bullshit” attitude, I reached across my body and placed my coffee mug on my nightstand, only letting myself wonder why he had two nightstands in the first place for little more than a second. “I drank to forget,” I admitted, keeping my eyes trained to the dresser opposite the bed. Looking at Jude was too much. Something told me he’d see straight through it all, and everything I was trying to escape would tumble out of my mouth.
And wasn’t that a fucking kicker? I came here to figure out who I was, yet I was still hiding. Some fucking piece of work.
“No one ever drinks to help remember, dipshit.” Shifting on the bed, he turned to face me, his knee brushing against mine. “And by the looks of it, you’re not very experienced in the fine art of forgetting. So what is it exactly that you need to forget, Micah?”
Combing my fingers through my hair, I was happy to feel some of the aching throbs melt away under the caffeine. “Don’t ask,” I muttered. “Not right now. I’m not ready.” Looking over at him, I caught sight of my arm, amputated above the elbow. “I’ll tell one day, I promise. Just don’t make me do it today.” My bloodshot eyes—I had no doubt they were—begged him to agree, pleaded with him to let this go for now. The truth was, I’d never drunk this hard before. Ever. I was always extremely cautious to keep everything together, never allowing myself any slip ups, on the off chance that my biggest secret would somehow be broadcast everywhere, for everyone to know.
With Jude, that clearly wasn’t going to be an issue. At least notthatpart of my secret. Even if I hadn’t actually said that I was gay, I figured after what he did to me yesterday, it was at least partially clear. With that out there, I felt monumentally lighter, the boulder usually residing on my chest, lifting, leaving behind only a dull ache. The only pieces of weight that remained were those of Delilah and Simon. One day, I would gather the courage to tell him about them. Somehow, bringing up the wife I was running away from didn’t seem like the best idea.
One day, I would figure out what the fuck I was going to do with the rest of my life.
He finished the last sip of his coffee, seemingly satisfied with my nonanswer. “I didn’t know what to do,” he said, tipping his head toward my prosthetic. “I figured you took it off before you went to bed, and I didn’t want you to hurt yourself or damage it somehow.”
The genuine concern in his voice chipped away another piece of my anger. Checking my emotions, I realized, as if I was another entity floating above the entire scene, that I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed by my arm like I normally would be. Dax’s words about being proud that I’d fought in a war, that I’d survived more than most people ever had to face in their lives echoed in my ears. Something told me that was how Jude saw it, so rather than trying to see it any other way, I attempted a different route.
I decided it was time for me to be proud of my scars. If this journey into my past was meant to do anything, it was to let myself be who I was, finally.
And this, I looked down at my half-arm, was definitely part of that person. “Thanks,” I said quietly, willing the thick emotion rising in my throat to go the fuck away. “And yeah, I take it off at night.”
I didn’t bother to tell him he was the only person besides a doctor who’d ever touched it or helped me care for it.
