Page 8 of Big Trouble
Waking up in the hospital and finding out I might never get back on a bike was the most painful experience of my life.
Particularly when the crash hadn’t even been my fault.
Oil on the track from a bike that shouldn’t even have been out there.
A slick surface from a recent downpour.
A rider who liked to chance his luck on getting a fast lap time.
I’d felt the bike squirrelling a couple of times before I even went into that corner.
But because I was a maverick, I’d ignored it. Pushed myself harder.
Didn’t want that prick Marquez getting another pole.
And as the bike slid out from underneath me, I saw my life flash before my eyes.
I thought that only happened in the movies.
It was the last thing I remembered.
Now, several weeks later, I resented being asked the same questions by someone I’d known for all of four minutes. Didn’t she read the files? Didn’t she watch the news? I was pretty sure I would have made the Cali Cross headlines.
“Rough day at work,” I said instead, keeping my tone curt. “I crashed. Wasn’t my fault, but I’m the one paying for it. Shattered my ankle. Is that what you want to hear?” I overemphasized the details of the injury for dramatic effect. In truth, there was ligament damage, a chipped bone and plenty of bruising. The force of the crash, plus the fact I’d hit my head on the bike as I’d bounced past, meant the doctors wanted to be careful because of the after effects of the concussion.
Lo gave no evidence of a reaction, which made me unnecessarily angry. She was meant to be my therapist for God’s sake. She was meant to care about how I felt.
“How long were you in the hospital?” She turned to face me.
I was startled how pretty she was up close. Naturally beautiful, not like the grid girls who tended to be, well, somewhat enhanced. She wore mascara and a slick of lip gloss; no doubt her job didn’t like a full face of caked on make-up. Ha, the cliché of falling for your therapist. But I wouldn’t do it, because as soon as I was fixed, I’d be back on the road. I wouldn’t stay around Cali Cross, no matter how pretty the girl.
“Too long, and not long enough,” I said eventually. “Look, I’m just here to appease my Mom and the racing bosses who think I need this therapy to get better. I don’tneedyou. I don’t need anyone. I can do this on my own.”
Lo didn’t respond straight away and I wondered what was going through her head. She’d probably dealt with easier patients…sorry,clients.
“Great, that makes my job much easier then.” She stood up and motioned to the machine over on the other side of the room. “Let’s get you on the treadmill. We’ll see where you’re at and what we need to do to get you where you want to be.” Lo paused. “Which, according to you, isn’t much. We’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Her tone was professional, cool even.
She wasn’t going to back down.
I didn’t move.
“Let’s go, Jack. You want to get this over with, right?”
Lo placed her hands on her hips and I was drawn to the curve of her waist, the way her tunic flared over it. Underneath that basic ordinary uniform, I could tell she had a killer body. My dick twitched.Fuck.
I still didn’t move, this time for fear of revealing too much.
She shrugged. “Okay, then I’ll test your mobility first.”
Before I could object, she moved in front of me and dropped gracefully to a squat. She reached out to wrestle my poor wrecked ankle from its boot and I make a stupid, impulsive decision.
“You know, the last woman to drop to her knees in front of me reached for my fly, not my ankle.”
I expected her to storm away.
I expected her to give me back as good as I gave.
