Page 5 of Coming to Grips
Chapter Three
Chase wakes up with a start, gaze darting to the window. The light and the sounds are all wrong for six a.m. He searches out his phone, and shit—it’s after eight. He’s late. He scrambles out of bed and falls to the floor in an inelegant heap. His arm throbs above the elbow and everything comes flooding back: the accident and his stay in the hospital.
The last two days are a bit fuzzy though. He studies the ceiling from his spot on the floor and catches his breath. Yeah, right. No work for at least a couple of weeks. No, a month or two. Or more. And God, that sucks.
Light rapping sounds on his door. “You okay?” Kyle calls.
A tidal wave of heat rushes over his naked body and he lets out a breath. “Fine. Be out in a minute.” He hadn’t bothered to get dressed last night after his solo shower, opting instead to crawl into bed and pass out. He’d slept so hard and so good, he’d forgotten about his injury.
Chase gets to his feet. It takes three times as long as it should to put his freakin’ boxers on, and, Christ, he’s got to piss. He almost forgoes the underwear, but he’s twenty-seven, not two, he can hold it, and he finally gets his ass covered. With a breath, he yanks open his bedroom door and hightails it to the john.
Kyle’s sprawled in his favorite armchair again, reading his sci-fi novel. He’s dressed for work, except for his boots, which sit near the door. Right. Kyle has to go back to work today.
“You hungry?” he asks as Chase streaks by.
“Hell, yeah.” Chase doesn’t have to stop and think about it after a day in the hospital and the last two days of doing nothing but sleeping. He’s sure Kyle made him eat, but he has only vague memories of chicken noodle soup and jelly toast. He’s ready for something a little more substantial. His stomach grumbles in agreement.
He manages to relieve himself without making a mess and studies the tube of toothpaste before twisting the cap off with his teeth. The glop of toothpaste is a little larger than he prefers, but for a one-handed gimp, it isn’t too bad. It’s weird using his left hand, but he gets the job done.
Chase enters the main room of their ranch-owned cabin, which he prefers to think of as cozy, not compact. Two small bedrooms flank an open kitchen/living space that’s decorated in bachelor cowboy with a large screen TV and broke-in furniture that only sort of matches. The bathroom, on the same side of the cabin as Chase’s room, adds a tiny L to the rectangle of the structure.
Kyle is more than competently making breakfast, and Chase’s jaw drops. This is a guy whom Chase has never seen prepare more than Pop Tarts or microwave breakfast pizza for breakfast in the sixteen years they’ve known each other. He’ll eat anything anyone sets before him—but cook something for himself? Not so much. Usually Chase cooks or they eat in the mess, and seeing Kyle waiting on him both touches and tickles something inside of him.
Kyle plunks down a couple of plates of fluffy scrambled eggs and several pieces of toast. “Coffee, OJ, or both?”
Chase’s toast is slathered with butter and grape jelly, just the way he likes it. Warm fuzzies burble in his chest at Kyle’s efforts. He isn’t sure why things are affecting him so much, but they are. Must be the concussion. Clearing his throat, he says, “Juice.”
Once they’re done eating, Kyle jumps to his feet. “Okay, I gotta go. Just hauling hay today. I have my cell if you need me. I’ll clean this up later,” he says with a wave at the breakfast mess. “Back this afternoon. Get some rest.”
“I’ve done nothing but rest,” he says to the thud of the now-closed door.
Kyle is gone, and Chase is alone. He wanders around the cabin for a few minutes, his eyes repeatedly straying to the breakfast dishes Kyle said he’d take care of later.
Chase plops onto the sofa and turns on the television. Even with so many channels at his disposal, nothing catches his interest, and he clicks the TV off again. He stares at the ceiling for a while and listens to the sounds of ranch life going on without him. Longing clutches at his chest. The only way he’s going to get back to work sooner rather than later is by doing his physical therapy, but he still feels pretty drained.
Fuck it. Lying around isn’t going to solve anything. Surging up, he pulls out a kitchen chair and does every exercise he can manage on his own. Twice. Sweat pours down his face and his chest heaves for breath. His shoulders and his pecs ache, in a good way for the moment, although he may not agree tomorrow.
After a quick shower to rinse off, he collapses back on the sofa once again.
Coherence comes in stages and Chase realizes he slept yet again. Jesus. It’s past lunch time, though, now, and that surprises him. The last two days of sleeping should have been more than enough rest. The workout and nap have done him good, and he feels refreshed and energetic.
Surely, a bit of housekeeping and some lunch aren’t outside his current capabilities. He runs a hand through his hair and smacks himself in the face instead. “Dammit,” he says, feeling stupid. How can he not remember that his elbow, forearm, and hand don’t function?
The breakfast detritus catches his attention again, so he cranks on the kitchen faucet and lets the water run. He rinses and stacks the dishes. So far, so good. A smile dances around his mouth.
The lid on the tub of margarine snaps on one-handed, the lid of the jelly jar screws on easily. It’s not snug, but it’s tight enough not to come off next time someone grabs it. He puts them both in the fridge.
All righty then. He’s accomplished something; he counts the day as a success so far and he feels jazzed.
Until he glances down at himself, still wearing nothing but his underwear. Heh. Yeah, time to get dressed. It’s close to two at this point. In his room, he looks from the closet to the chest of drawers. Jeans are out of the question. He could probably get them up and fastened, but it’d take more time and effort than he wants to expend right now. Not after this morning’s exercise session. His energy is going to be at a premium for a while. Shorts and a tee shirt it is.
His buzz at getting dressed is short lived as realization dawns. His shirt is on backward. No. Screw it. He doesn’t care. He’s fully dressed, and he didn’t need help.
After all that fuss and nonsense, not to mention breakfast being hours ago, his stomach grumbles in the stillness. How can he keep being so hungry when he hasn’t done much other than sleep?
Okay. So food. Kyle had kept him fed the last couple of days, but now he’s on his own for a while. Surely there’s something he can slap together. Metaphorically speaking of course. He peruses the contents of the fridge, seeing his favorite smoked ham from the deli he doesn’t remember buying. Meaning Kyle had bought it. Another burst of warmth fills his chest. Getting bread is easy since he’d only been able to fold the end of the bag up under the loaf itself. A sandwich will suffice until Kyle comes home.
Some sort of tape seals the package of ham, but he sets it on the counter and uses his useless hand as a weight on one side while he releases the tape with his other. He filches several slices and then works the process in reverse to close the package back up. He’ll have to forgo sandwich cheese, as well as mayo and mustard, but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers. He juggles the sandwich to his mouth and takes a bite. Dry, but edible.
