It Takes A Hero

Next morning, same song and dance, but this time Jamison didn't sit. "Got you in at my gym at a reduced rate." He looked pleased with himself. I just grunted.

"Let's go." He came up behind my chair, hit the locks, and wheeled me down the hall.

"I'm not dressed," I managed to get out.

"I can see that." We arrived at my room and pushed the door open. "Get in the shower and shave. Put on fresh sweats and a clean T-shirt."

"I guess that means I don't have time to jerk off, huh?" I don't know why I said it. Probably to get a reaction from him. Maybe I hoped he'd follow me. When he didn't move, I pushed myself to the bathroom and closed the door.

Which was really too bad, because until he'd walked through my bedroom door I hadn't thought about sex since Iraq. There, I'd thought about it all the time as I hung on the edge of death and danger.

Even though I thought about it now, didn't mean I could do anything about it.

When I came out, he was standing in the center of the room, like some kind of statue. He eyed me up and down. "Better."

"Glad you approve. I'd hate to embarrass you at the gym."

"Don't worry about it. You won't." He twisted, searching for…my sneakers and found them under the bed where I'd tossed them the day I moved in. Holding up the left one, he announced, "You'll have to wear this and a sock. We have a strict dress code."

"So, it's a country club sort of place, huh?"

"Only the best for my patients."

His patient. It was a done deal, despite my protests and my clever avoidance techniques. Although I could see I was losing the battle over the past few days, I was still going through the motions.

He wheeled me out and down the ramp that Claire had installed. I'd never used it other than to go inside when I'd first arrived.

At the car, he opened the passenger door, positioned the chair, and locked the wheels.

"Can you get in by yourself?" He flipped the footrests out of the way with his foot.

"Sure." I levered myself out, and with a couple of hops, made it to the car and into the seat. I fastened the seat belt around me as he hooked the chair on the back rack.

We drove with the windows down, and I enjoyed the breeze in my hair and face. It'd been a long time since I'd been outdoors. Twenty minutes later, we parked.

Reverse the performance.

He pushed me to a door of what looked like the side of a large warehouse. A small sign above it read MIDTOWN GYM. Inside, he greeted a young man at a counter, who looked very happy to see my physical therapist. A flash of jealousy arced through me.

Shit. No future in that, so cut it out.

Down a wide hall to a double door. Inside the expansive room, dozens of weight machines stood in tight formation, along with several benches and barbell sets.

And an entire wall of mirrors.

I froze, staring at my reflection.

Dark straight hair, bangs too long. Thinner than I remembered myself. I stared at the dangling, empty leg of my sweats. My hands clenched the arms of the chair and my eyes darted around to the other people in the gym.

About six or seven men were working out, some alone, some with spotters or with personal trainers. I was the only white guy in the place. Not to mention, the only cripple.

A few of the guys looked me over, waved to Jamison, and went back to work.

A man with close-cut gray hair came over. "Marcus! So this is the guy?"

I shot my eyes to Jamison. "Yep. This is Tony Richmond, formerly of the Marine Corps. Tony, this is Darnell Roberts, the owner of the gym."

The guy stuck out his hand. I took it and shook. "Thank you for letting me use the gym." I wasn't a complete cretin.

Jamison smiled at me and I felt those damned butterflies.

"No problem. Have a good workout." Darnell moved away and went through a door, probably his office.

"Let's see what you can do." Jamison wheeled me over to the leg press machine and slipped some weights on. "We'll start with twenty-five pounds."

I sat in the chair, trying to figure out how to get from the chair to the floor without falling on my ass. Jamison stood in front of me.

"Stand up. Let me do the work."

I stood, balancing on one leg. It began aching. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. I faced him, only six inches between us, and looked up into his eyes.

He was three inches taller than me. I liked that.

He took my wrist, and pulled my arm around his shoulder, stepping to the side at the same time. An elegant move, like a dancer. I was impressed.

We limp-hopped to the machine and he lowered me carefully to the floor, as if I'd break if he let go. I scooted around on my butt, laid on my back, and tried to swing my leg up to the bar, but without my other foot to use, my bad leg pulled my good leg down.

"Shit." I tried again. This time, Jamison's hand hit the small of my back and pushed.

"You'll get your balance soon enough. For now, let's use this." He pulled out one of those rubber exercise bands and strapped my legs together at the knee.

It felt odd, but it worked.

Twenty-five pounds proved to be easy, so he stopped me and added ten more pounds. After the fourth set of reps, I was drenched in sweat, and my ankle and calf were screaming for mercy.

"Good job, Tony." And he meant it. He seemed impressed with my efforts.

So was I.

"I hurt."

"I imagine so. It's been how long since your accident?" He pulled the band loose and freed my legs, then handed me a towel.

I wiped my face and neck. "About three months."

He knelt and gave my calf and ankle a rubdown. His hands were strong, but his skin was soft. I didn't want him to stop.

"For no exercise, you did well. Must have been in peak shape prior to it, huh?"

"Yeah. Top of my game."

He shook his head, sat back on his heels, and exhaled. "That's a real bastard, Tony."

It was the only time I'd ever heard him express any regret over what had happened to me.

"It's a bitch, all right."

He looked into my eyes and smiled. Unable to resist, I smiled back. That little shock of connection hit me and I had to look away, afraid my eyes would give me away.

"Let's get out of here," he suggested.

"That's all for today?"

"You want more?"

"Fuck no." I shook my head and held out my hands to ward him off.

"Lunch?"

Christ, my heart skipped a beat. Lunch with Marcus sounded like a slice of heaven. One I wasn't supposed to have, but I'm a fool, so I took it.

"Sure."

He packed me back into the Explorer and we got on the road before I could really think about it. Lunch meant a restaurant, and I hadn't been out in public yet. My stomach churned at the thought of everyone staring at me. At my missing leg, or at least where it should have been.

"Burgers sound okay?"

"Yeah, that's good." I tapped my fingers on the console between us as he drove. I chewed my lip. Finally, I blurted, "I want to go home."

Shit, I sounded like some panicked virgin on her first date. Scared, unsure, and intimidated. I'd faced gunfire, mortars, and had done hand-to-hand combat with an Iraqi guerilla, but none of that had terrified me as much as this.

Because I knew what was coming.

And mostly because I had imagined how it would be.

Getting that look.

"It'll be all right, Tony. No one will care about the leg." His voice gentled me in a way I'd never have thought possible. That usually happens with physical touch, but the depth of his voice, its timbre, reached inside and stroked me.

"Okay."

We pulled up to the restaurant and parked.

My mouth went dry.

"I could really use a beer," I said under my breath.

"I'll bet." He chuckled and squeezed my arm.

From the shivers that raced up my spine, I knew I was in big trouble.