Page 118 of The Boss
I’ve been getting up every couple hours to stretch. I’m full of ibuprofen and have had plenty of sleep. I lift my chin and grit my teeth, straightening to my full height by the bed. He watches, looking me up and down. He frowns at the visible bandages under the blank tank top I’m wearing. Ellie helped me put on a bra and leggings, too, but I still feel naked under his assessment.
“How is your hip?” He finally asks.
“Fine,” I lie. Right now I’m at the end of the four-hour painkiller window and it hurts like a motherfucker.
“Then let’s go,” He twists his big body in the doorway and starts moving. I move too, going faster than I have on my walks thus far. We move through Ellie’s beautiful home. It’s a traditional home but renovated in recent years. The walls and woodwork are all bright whites and neutrals but she loves deep red and you can see pops of it everywhere. Kinda feels a bit Christmassy to me, but it suits her.
I also wish it was smaller! Damn it, this hurts. We pass through the entry, living, dining and kitchen area, which is all open and connected, to another hallway to Mark’s office. There, Van finally turns around.
He walks into my space, way too close, and says, “Up,” before I know what’s happening, he’s grabbed my thighs, avoiding my hurt hip, and hoisted me up around his waist.
“Ow! Fuck! I can—”
“You’re not taking the stairs,Lasa.” He says, but he’s not moving. He’s just holding me to him, watching me.
“And you can’t carry me the other way?” I say, wishing he would shift me into bridal hold instead and feeling…too much with his eyes this close to mine…his mouthright there.
“Too narrow,” he answers as he finally starts to move. His eyes are trained on where we’re going, the office closet, a second door, a narrow stairwell, another door. But my eyes are studying him.
He is…magnificent. I can appreciate that. What he’s done with his clan, weeding out the old guard and training new men with honor, rebuilding his family from the ground up, it’s…incredible. His muscles shift under me and my core pulls tight. It can’t help it. His body is a masterpiece. The way he fights, his speed, his accuracy.
I am in awe of all of it. All of him.
But that doesn’t mean I’m in love.
And sure, he respects me too. Wants my body, enjoys my snark.
Again, doesn’t mean we’re in love.
Once we’ve passed a couple doors in the creepy basement hallway, we enter a small, long, in-home gun range. Van sets me down. I hiss as my leg unfolds. My husband looks at a corner behind me and says, “Ellie, it’s time for more meds.”
Mark’s voice comes back, “Affirmative.”
I don’t look, I just flip the camera the bird. Van smirks.
“Let’s see how you shoot with a busted shoulder,” my husband says simply as he grabs gear off the wall to our left. I pick up the ear and eye protection from the counter in front of us and already my upper arm is screaming at me.
But he’s right. I can’t expect perfect fighting conditions in this…war that we’re in. I need to be able to fight through the pain and shoot back.
“You’ll have adrenaline on your side in a scuffle, but you have to back that up with—”
“Training, I know,” I mutter as I roll my eyes and take the Glock 43 from his hand. He’s chosen something lightweight on purpose, but I let it slide. This is going to suck. He puts on his own ear protection, crosses his arms and waits.
I begin.
My eyes sting as the shots go off. My arms burn. The pain is almost unbearable.
I expect my trainer to come behind me like he always has, to adjust my legs, my arms. If nothing else, his hand should lift mine, his fingers ghosting over my own.
But he doesn’t.
“Good but not great,” is all he says, arms still crossed. He pushes the button on the wall to move the target sheet closer to us and says, “Again.”
I try another round but I’m starting to feel lightheaded. The pain is…and…why isn’t he touching me?
“Damn it!” I finally yell. The target is ripped to shreds and my arms are trembling. “I can’t hold it up anymore.”
“Good. That was fine.”
