Chapter Six
Raelynn
Doc Reynolds digs his fingers into my shoulder. For a split second, my vision goes white. I try to focus on his wrinkled brow, clenching my jaw.
“When you told me about the bike accident, I expected to find you in a lot more pain,” Reynolds says. “You didn’t do any additional damage that I can see. I’ll tell Ryker you’re cleared to resume training, but you have to promise me you’ll take it slow for the first couple of workouts.”
“I promise. Thanks, Doc.” Snagging my sweatshirt from the back of the chair, I slip it over my head. The slight twinge doesn’t bother me. On Sunday, I’ll be back on that climbing wall without a two-minute head start.
I’ll never beat West. Or Ryker. The man’s so tall, he can sprint faster than all of us—even after the Taliban broke fifty-four of his bones and left him with arthritis and permanent nerve damage.
But Graham is fair game. So’s Tank. He’s not used to these intense workouts. I’ll leave him in the dust.
“I mean it, Raelynn.” He zips up his bag—the damn thing looks like it’s straight out of the 1950s—and squares his shoulders. He carries himself with the authority of a man who’s served, but Ryker warned me not to ask him any questions. Part of the deal he made with Reynolds years ago. “You were lucky in Utah, and you’ve healed well. But in my experience, luck eventually runs out.”
His brown eyes are bloodshot, the bags underneath them darker than I remember. Ignoring Ryker’s orders ain’t smart, but I don’t care. The man is hurting. “You okay, Doc?”
He composes himself with a single, hard blink, and it’s like a mask slides back into place. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You just remind me of someone I used to know. Take care, Raelynn.”
A stiff breeze ruffles my hair as I walk him out to the porch.
“A little advice,” he says, pausing at the bottom of the steps. “If you’re going to stay in Seattle long term, get a car. Just because you can bike everywhere, doesn’t mean you should.”
I frown, though I know he’s right. Ryker’s said the same damn thing to me a hundred times.
“I pay you enough you can buy a car, probie.”
“Thanks, Doc. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see you again for a long time.”
He chuckles as he crosses the street to his shiny silver SUV. With his brusque bedside manner and complete loyalty to Ryker, I doubt I’ll ever find out who I remind him of. Or why the memory made him so sad.
Nash’s beat-up Honda turns the corner, instantly brightening my mood. Until he pulls into the driveway. The trunk of his car has a dent in it the size of hell’s half acre.
“What happened?” It rained again last night, and icy water soaks into my wool socks as I jog over to him, but I don’t care. This is why he sounded off on the phone last night. Bad roofing job, my ass.
Dark circles brace his eyes. He hasn’t shaved, and when he shuts the door, he winces.
“Are you hurt?” I reach for his arm, but he stiffens.
“I wasn’t in the car,” he says, the rough edge to his voice sending my mood plummeting. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” I give him the once over, zeroing in on the slight angle to his shoulders and the way he’s favoring his left leg. “Don’t lie to me, Mr. Fix-it.”
I’m tempted to call Doc Reynolds back. He can’t be more than a couple blocks away, but then I’d have to explain a doctor making house calls and never asking about insurance.
With a sigh, Nash leans over to grab a toolbox and his backpack from the passenger seat. “Some asshole came flying through the parking lot at the hardware store. I had to jump out of the way and fell. It’s nothing.”
“Jump out of the way? Shit.” I point to the large dent. “That could have been you!”
“It wasn’t,” he snaps. But two seconds later, he shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m being an ass. I didn’t sleep well last night. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get started.”
I shouldn’t care so much. I barely know him. But Nash came to my rescue when I needed it. I’d like to return the favor. If he’ll let me.
Biting my tongue before I tell him what I really do for a living, I nod at the house. “Come on, then. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. You look like you could use some. After that, I’ll leave you be.”
Relief softens his features, even brings a smile to his lips. “Thanks.”
I toss a glance over my shoulder as I lead him inside. The limp is subtle, like he’s trying to hide it, but the lines of pain tightening around his eyes give him away.
