“Gale,” Chris’s voice calls from deeper in the house, sounding groggy. “Knock it off.”
Closing the door behind me, I spot him down the hall through the open door of his bedroom. One arm slung over his eyes, bare-chested in nothing but a pair of blue jeans, there’s an open book lying at his side. A blue ice pack peeks out from underneath his back.
“Chris?” I call back. “Are you all right?”
Jerking, his arm comes down, and he glances over at me in surprise. “Remy?”
“Hey.” I give him an awkward wave as I slowly close the distance, feeling like an intruder now that I know he’s alive and well. “I got worried when you didn’t show up this morning and…well, it looks like maybe I was right to do so. Wild night on the town?” I joke, hoping to take some of the spotlight off the fact that I just barged into his house uninvited.
He presses a hand on the mattress and starts to sit up. It’s a short-lived effort. He makes a hissing noise and grimaces, clutching his back with his other hand.
“Hey, just stay there. You’re clearly in bed for a reason.” I rush over, no longer giving a damn about an invitation. Stopping by the bed, I give him a quick survey but don’t see any signs of new injuries. Gale hops up on the bed like she thinks a party is starting, her weight shifting the mattress and making him wince. “What did you do?
When his flash of pain passes, he lets out a haggard breath of relief, gripping her leg like he’s silently begging her to hold still. Flicking his gaze up to mine, his expression has a chastened appearance. He sighs, lowers himself back onto his pillow, and scrubs a hand down his face.
“I’ve been working on my abs on my crunch bar after our workouts every day. I guess I overdid it a little. Add in the spillover from the hurricane going on in the Gulf, and it didn’t make for a very wise combo. I’m done with the other kind of wild nights, though. I haven’t had a drop since that night at the bar. Getting to sleep isn’t worth becoming an alcoholic in the process.”
I hadn’t even considered that the weather might be impacting him today. Jumping to conclusions about him has probably made me look like I suck at my job. Still, I’m glad to hear it was only Mother Nature and ambition that laid him up. I thought he was looking a little slimmer.
“You’ve been cheating on me, huh?” I tease, hoping some humor will alleviate his frustration.
Peering out from behind his hand, he snorts. “With myself.”
Lying in his bed like this, hair askew, dark circles under his eyes, and a book by his side, he looks like a big kid who’s mournful that he can’t go outside to play. I don’t want to stick afeather in my cap, but it’s kind of cool if I motivated him, even though he’s a damn fool for going about it all wrong.
It smells of Mentholatum in his room. The piquant odor overpowers his wonderful Chris scent. The tube of muscle ache rub and a handheld massager on his nightstand topple any reservations I had about violating his space, especially when he adds remorsefully, “I’m sorry I stood you up.”
Stepping forward, I wave my hands and ease my hip onto his mattress. “Roll over.”
Gale flops down onto the mattress, causing Chris to let out a grunt. Her body twists, all four of her legs extending into the air as she looks over at me with what can only be described as a hopeful doggy smile.
“Are you talking to me or Gale?” Chris deadpans.
I hiccup a laugh at both of them and motion again. “Now you.” His expression turns reluctant, so I add, “Can you handle being on your stomach for a few minutes? I can try to make you feel better.”
Judging by the way he cocks a brow, that seemed to pique his interest. “You can actually scratch my belly just like this.”
The bit of adorable flirting has me fighting a smile, considering how his face looks like he thinks he’s pushing his luck. It’s sweet and humble, not a rushing waterfall that will drown me.
“Yeah, but you can’t get a free massage that way.”
“You want to massage me?”
“No, I want you to listen and stop being a grumpy asshole.”
He lets out an amused sound, but a veil of wariness shutters his face again. Pursing his lips, he gestures to where his back is pressed against his mattress. “It’s not pretty,” he warns.
“You’ve never been pretty.”
The little bark of laughter he lets out is a beautiful sound. When he realizes my deadpan expression means I’m serious,he sighs. Shaking his head, he digs his elbow into the mattress and turns onto his side. I hear something in his back make an unnatural popping sound, almost like a dullclankingnoise if someone were to drop a bolt on a hardwood floor a room away. He gives no comment or reaction other than a stifled huff. Jesus, it must be his broken hardware. I can’t stand the thought that any wrong turn could potentially paralyze him.
“On your side is fine, if that’s better for you,” I insist, dreading the thought of him having to twist everything back around when we’re done.
“Yeah, the side is good.”
I wait until he gets comfortable, hugging his pillow with one arm underneath his head. There’s a bottle of lotion among the remedies on his nightstand, but oil would be better so my fingers don’t skid against his flesh and cause him any more pain than he’s already in. Eyeing his nightstand drawer, I hope to the gods of men that he’ll have the alternative I’m hoping for. Tugging it open, I suppress a sad laugh at the sight of more ointments, a gay men’s magazine that I know Jamie has had articles featured in, several individually wrapped Rice Krispies Treats, and one very small bottle of lube that’s nearly empty. That will do.
“Are you…in my drawer?” He tenses.
