Page 7 of The Trauma Response
I smack my forehead, which sends radiating pain up to my elbow. I wince but hide it well enough that the men don’t notice. With a grumble, I say, “I think he means motorcycles, Jax. What about Cai says that he rides a bicycle all over Denver?” When I motion over his body—which is certainly lithe enough to indicate he’s a cyclist—my cheeks burn. Why am I pointing out his athleticism? And why does it suddenly scream bad boy biker to me? I try to cover my sudden blushing marathon by waving in the same direction he did. “Motorcycle, see?”
Bad boy biker. Ha! Cai has said more words in this conversation than he used to say in a month. There’s nothingbadabout him. At least, there never was. Not unless a lot has changed over the years, but something tells me he’s the same comedic, golden boy he’s always been. Cai only chuckles and nods toward me.
“Yeah, what she said. A motorcycle.” He motions toward his bike again and glances at it over his shoulder. It’s a beautiful bike, but I’m more focused on something Idon’t see. I can’t help noticing there is no ring on his finger, which I assume means he is also not married. Unless firefighters don’t wear them at work. I once read that regular rings can be a problem for them, but I don’t remember exactly why. When Jackson talked about Denise, Cai didn’t mention a wife or girlfriend either. Not that it’s any of my business anyway.
And it’s fine. I don’t need to know those things. Totally…don’t…need to know.
“Unfortunately, no. I don’t ride, but I could be convinced if you can make the case to my wife.” Jackson smiles but we both know there is no chance Deni will support the purchase of a death rocket.
When Cai’s gaze bounces back to me, wide with a question, I shake my head. “Aw, come on, Whits.”
“Nope, not a chance. I’ve put way too many people back together after crashing on those. Please be careful.”
“Always am, I promise. I wear full gear and nothing less.”
A blasting tone emanates from the building, indicating our visit is definitely over.
“Sorry, I gotta go.” Without another word, Cai grabs me around the waist and pulls me into a quick hug, then he’s off to save the day. I’m left stumbling but catch myself on the trunk of the car. I can’t pull my eyes off him as he jogs to the bay where men flood the trucks, pulling on turnout gear and boots. Cai snatches his from the locker and pulls it on then hops into the back of an engine. Then they’re off, alarms blaring.
“Well that was fun and exciting,” Jackson says. “I hate that you had a wreck, but I’m glad we’ve reconnected with him. I didn’t realize how much I missed him around until now.”
“Yeah,” I whisper as I stare down the road where the red engines disappear, wondering why we ever lost touch in the first place. There was no real reason other than the usual distance that comes from going off to college. Like Jackson, I bear the sting of that loss along with the swell of hope that this might be the one good thing that comes from my accident. Reconnecting with Cai.
“Let’s get you back to the house. Am I taking you to yours or back to Mom and Dad’s?”
I sigh, knowing it’ll kill our parents for me to up and leave, but I need it. I need to be in my own space again, among my own things where I’m more comfortable. And with my books.All of the dozens of books I haven’t gotten to read with my hands out of commission. The bookish girl in me longs for some quiet moments with book boyfriends, funny heroines, daring adventures, and maybe even a dragon or two.
“Take me home, and I’ll break it to them. I’m ready to sleep in my own bed again.”
“They’re all dead,” I mumble to no one and drop a handful of dried, brown leaves into the trash. Every plant, save a persistent aloe, died while I was away. My own little botanical heaven is gone, leaving one spikey friend to share the space with me. I relocate the lone survivor to my office where I can sort through the books that have been piling up on myto be readlist for months.
There’s a stack of non-fiction, mostly memoirs and biographies about people I admire, but I’m not in the mood for real life. I push them aside and gently sort through a stack of sweet romances. My fingertips barely register the smooth covers, only enough to know I’m touching something but not how fine the texture is. When I don’t find one that jumps out at me, I sort through the fantasy stack until I land on something that catches my eye.
Across the room, my plush sofa invites me to lay down, relax, and get lost in another world, one where the main character’sproblems are bigger than mine. Problems I don’t have to solve. Things that take my mind away from the odd sensations in my hand.
I glance at my palms. Scars run across the left one and down across my wrist, a constant reminder that, for some reason, my hand went wonky and through the window. My airbags deployed, but in a rollover accident it’s difficult to know what happened after that. Knowing how it happened doesn’t change anything, so I try to focus on healing instead.
Holding the book is harder than I expect, even though it’s a paperback. Still, I manage to rest it on my thigh and read a few pages before the pain is almost unbearable. It isn’t fair that the intense ache radiates up my arm, all the way to my shoulder, yet I feel nothing in my fingers. I turn another page and wince. Even the tactile aspect of reading is lost. It’s just not the same with only onefeelinghand. I’d forgotten how much the feel of the pages, the rough texture and crinkle, brought to the whole experience of reading a book. Soon, frustration makes it impossible for me to focus, so I close the book and lay it on the table.
Frustration is soon followed by anger, which gives way to depression. Even in my own home, I still feel out of place. I’m not myself, and I’m not sure I ever will be again.
Chapter four
Present Day…
“Wait, wait, wait, are you trying to tell me she ghosted you? You? Mr. Flirtatious himself got ghosted by a woman?” Christian almost falls out of his chair laughing at Thor, whose eyes sparkle. There’s a lot more to his story, for sure, but I keep my mouth shut because every time I open it, the guys’ teasing shifts to me.
Brokedown Tavern is slow tonight, but that’s probably because hockey season hasn’t started. It’s still a few months off, but the tavern is popular with the Denver Dragons players even in the off season. For now, we have it mostly to ourselves.
Holt shakes his head and grabs another piece of bread from the basket at the center of the table.
“Maybe I was just too much for her to handle?” Thor teases. “I’m a lot of awesome to manage all at once.” He runs his handover his red beard and chuckles while the whole table, even reserved Desmond, bursts out in laughter.
I’m probably the only one who knows Thor is messing with them because…dating? Not really his scene. He’s more of await for the right womankind of guy, but his flirtatious ways tend to interest the wrong ladies. And by wrong, I mean women who don’t appreciate what a faithful, loyal guy he is.
The guys, also known as my riding buddies, are the closest friends I have. Thor’s flirty ways always give us a good laugh, but Christian can’t get enough of digging into his personal life tonight. Holt and Des exchange a glance, then both look at me. This will go on all night if one of us doesn’t intervene and change the subject. I nod slightly, accepting the challenge even though I’d rather keep quiet and let my mind wander to a set of gorgeous blue eyes I can’t stop thinking about.
“Hey, Chris, did you ever go test ride that bike you were talking about the other day?” I ask, shifting the topic to something we all love. Not that we don’t love women. We do, but so far Christian is the only one to have found a happily ever after.
