Page 8 of Missed Steps
“Hurts?” Mark checks.
“I’m fine.”
Mark sighs. “You’ve said that about a dozen times now, and it’s not been convincing once.” He hooks my knee over his thigh, and when I brave a peek—his face, not any lower down—he is examining my prosthetic with a look of concentration.
“I’m no expert,” Mark says after a long examination, “but I think you’ll have to replace it. It’s the main support beam that’s cracked. I wouldn’t trust it to hold your weight even if you glue and duct tape it.” His hand is back on my thigh, rubbing me with his thumb in soothing strokes. It feels nice this time. I don’t tense up.
“The pylon? I felt it go earlier,” I admit. There must have been a weakness in the metal already. That fall shouldn’t have been enough to do any damage to steel.
“How long do they take with replacements?” Mark asks. That soothing motion with his thumb is turning into more of a massage. And I guess I’ve really been neglecting that leg, because my lids grow heavy and I barely stop myself groaning.
I see Mark’s grin, and he twists so that two hands are massaging my leg. And—shit. I groan. “Fucker,” I mutter. Mark’s grin becomes a smile. I’m pretty close to fusing with the couch I’m so relaxed.
“How long?” Mark prompts me.
“It depends,” I answer. “I think they told me a month, but with my insurance plan? Probably two weeks.”
I’m trying to look at Mark, but his hands are sinking into the flesh of my upper thighs now, and I’m dead certain that he’s taken classes on giving mind-numbing massages. My eyes flutter closed and I just let myself go, enjoying how good it feels.
“Do you have crutches you can use in the meantime?”
I hum.
“Answer me, Kyle.”
“Yes.”
His hands make their way back down, and he pauses when he’s just above my knee. I peek to see him frowning.
“Is it sore here?” Mark asks. “The way this attaches—is that what hurt when you fell?”
“Yeah.”
“Should we ice it?”
“I’ll do it later.”
Mark stares at the prosthetic, rubbing my thigh absently. I don’t look. I know what’s there. A few inches of leg past my knee, and then a stump for the prosthetic to suction to. I was told by several doctors how lucky I was that they could salvage my knee—apparently the range of movement in the joint is hard to replicate in prosthetics. I kind of get what they mean. Hardest thing about learning to walk with the prosthetic was not having an ankle joint to manoeuvre.
“Is your knee sore?” Mark asks. “And don’t say ‘I’m fine’”
“It twisted a bit.”
“Can I ice that?”
“You’re obsessed, Mark.” Mark just stares at me with those dark, sexy eyes until I grumble, “Fine.”
He snags the pharmacy bag from the ground and pops one of the ice bags. He sets it on my knee, but tugs at my jeans with a frown. “Can I take these off?”
“No.”
“I mean for the ice.”
“I know what you mean. I have to take off the prosthetic to get my jeans off. It’s a whole thing, so no, you can’t.”
Amazingly, Mark accepts that at face value.
“I’m sorry,” Mark says. “I was sure your ankle was broken, and I didn’t want to leave you stuck here. I didn’t mean to force you to show me.”
