Rowe by Jessica Gadziala

CHAPTER FOUR

Rowe

They were all worried about me.

And that made me feel even shittier than I already felt.

But what could I do? I barely had enough energy to eat and get myself into the bathroom without assistance, let alone put on a brave face for everyone around me who wanted me to start getting better.

The thing was, I wasn’t sure that was possible.

The doctors weren’t sure that was possible.

All they could do was give me the facts. Which they started to do as soon as I woke up in that hospital bed, numb from head-to-toe, and absolutely fucking terrified that I was completely paralyzed.

It wasn’t long until the nurse came in to calmly reassure me that it was the medicine that was making me feel numb, and that feeling would start to come back once I was awake for a bit.

Then the doctor came in, handing me the facts I needed.

Spinal fracture.

Healing time would vary, but I couldn’t expect to feel even close to normal before three months passed.

There would be pain.

There could be numbness in parts of my leg or my groin.

There could be lifelong complications.

They had no way of knowing how things would go since it was so soon.

So they jacked me up with morphine for the couple of days at the hospital, then sent me home with a script and instructions to stay as active as possible.

The problem was, activity wasn’t all that possible when it felt like someone was jabbing a knife in my spinal cord anytime I tried to move.

The meds they gave me? All they managed to do was take the edge off. And even that only for a little while. So I spaced out the pills for when I knew I was going to need to take a shower or walk out into the main area of the clubhouse for something.

Then, well, then there was the on-again, off-again numbness that the doctor had warned me about. In my legs, my hips, my ass, and my groin.

And as the days chugged forward, none of it got better. If anything, shit all started to feel worse.

So I couldn’t fake happy and recovering. I could barely force a cordial tone when someone brought me a meal, or came to ask if they could get me anything.

I was lucky to have them. And I loved them all. But their expectations for my recovery only managed to make me feel more like a fucking failure because my body wasn’t cooperating with the plan.

A plan that included going to fucking physical therapy. I damn near blacked out from pain in the shower. How the hell was I supposed to try to move around and do abdominal exercises when standing was intolerable?

I knew they were all losing patience with me. When the sweeter, more tolerant of the girls—Andi, Gracie, Luna, Summer, etc.—started to avoid coming into my room, I knew I was barely keeping it together enough to not bark at them.

Which made me a dick.

I knew it did.

They didn’t deserve it. They were just trying to help.

But I couldn’t see through the pain. It was always right there, stealing my breath, making it hard to function or see or even think.

It got to the point where only Dezi and Malcolm would come into the room to check on me. Dezi, because nothing got to that guy. Shit just rolled off his back, so he was unfazed by my attitude. And Malc, because he was my best friend, because we’d been through a lot of shit, because he wouldn’t give up on me, no matter how hopeless I got.

Which was why I was in his truck for some fucking reason.

I wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to talk me into it. Something about fresh air and just getting away from the clubhouse before I got cabin fever.

He’d been unexpectedly talkative. Well, talkative for Malc anyway. And I think I’d just been too confused to argue. And the next thing I knew, I was sitting in the passenger seat, and we were driving.

“I thought you said we are getting fresh air,” I said after he parked and hopped out of the car, and grabbed the damn wheelchair out of the bed.

I hated the thing.

I refused to use it around the clubhouse because I didn’t need to be seen as any worse off than I was. But Malc hadn’t exactly asked, just loaded it into the truck, then came to my door with it like he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“We did. Now we’re doing something else,” he said as I hissed as I swung my legs out onto the bar to lower myself down.

“No, I’m fine,” I gritted out when he tried to reach for me to help. I saw the disapproval in his eyes, but I was thankful that we were old enough of friends that he didn’t push, didn’t argue with me over it. “What are we doing then?” I asked as I dropped my numb ass down into the seat, trying to fight off the surge of insecurity I felt when Malc wheeled me backward so he could slam the door.

It was right then that I was able to see where he’d parked.

At an apartment building.

But not just any apartment building.

This was Billie’s apartment building.

“The fuck? No,” I choked out, but even as I said it, Malc was starting to book it across the parking lot, making it impossible for me to attempt to place the hand brakes or even get to my feet and take a literal stand against this.

“Yes. I’m sorry, but yes,” Malcolm said, jerking the chair a bit to get it up onto the curb. “I get it if you are going through some shit. And I know pain can fuck with your head. But if the meds aren’t helping, I figure maybe my cousin has something that might. If you try it and it doesn’t help, fine. But I can’t just sit back and watch you lose your will to live your life, Rowe. At least not without knowing I tried everything I could.”

Luckily for Malc, and unluckily for me, Billie lived on the first floor, so there was no pausing to wait for the elevator so I could get up, get away.

One moment we were outside, the next we were in front of Billie’s door.

“If this fucking door is unlocked again,” Malc grumbled as he reached for it.

If it was unlocked again, he would give Billie a brotherly, frustrated, yet firm lecture about safety. As much as Malcolm liked to act tough about the girls, they were his soft spot. He never got angry with them, loud with them.

Sure enough, though, the door handle twisted in his palm, making him let out a growling sound even as he pushed the door open.

And there was Billie’s apartment.

It was different from the last time I’d seen it, back when she’d just moved in, so the place was a blank canvas.

And fuck if the woman didn’t take her brush to it.

Have you ever seen someone’s personal space and went Yeah, this looks just like you?

Well, that was exactly what Billie’s place was like now that she’d had some time to put down her roots.

The colors jumped out at you all at once, seeming not to go together until you had a second for your eyes to adjust, and then you could see how cohesively all the chaos seemed to go together. Gone were the sterile walls and the ugly carpet. Hell, even the kitchen cabinets had gotten a makeover.

And this was Billie we were talking about, so there were crystals everywhere. Tumbled ones, rough ones, ones as small as a fingertip or as large as a man’s fist. There were dried flowers and herbs hanging upside down on the walls, a giant collection of artwork, seashell “beads” on the windows like curtains, too many houseplants to name, candles, sculptures, and a few tarot cards scattered on the coffee table. Hell, there was even a vintage glass-front cabinet on a wall near the kitchen packed with glass jars of all sizes, sporting various dried herbs, flowers, and oils.

Then, well, we had to talk about the elephant in the room.

Meaning the giant fucking pussy statue wedged in a corner near the bathroom. It had a fucking pierced hood, for fuckssakes.

It shouldn’t have surprised me, of course. What with her earring collection that seemed to exist solely of cock, pussy, or breast charms. And because she was the niece of a sex store owner and the daughter of a woman who, as the legends went, collected alien and monster cock replicas for fun.

But the whole place, it just screamed Billie.

Then, like I conjured her, the woman herself was walking out of her bedroom in this filmy white sundress that, when she moved past the light, proved practically see-through, showing off the curve of her hips, the shapeliness of her thighs.

Billie was like a kick to the gut every single time I saw her.

What could you say about the woman other than that she was nearly absolute perfection?

There was the body, of course. Fit, but feminine, with hips, ass, tits, and thicker thighs.

But the face?

Fuck, that face.

Soft and feminine with strong brows and thick lashes around these stormy gray-blue eyes. The high cheekbones, the thin nose with the dainty-ass little septum piercing. And then the lips. The full, pouty fucking lips that were prone to smiling more than anyone else I’d ever seen.

Her hair was the same as it had been since I’d known her, this pinkish-purple mauve color that was just the right kind of wild to suit her.

Billie was the whole package.

With the looks came the confidence, but not an arrogance, just a comfortableness in her own skin.

And aside from her looks, she had that personality too. Sometimes just completely fucking insane and out there, spouting off about pussies and cocks and tantric sex one moment, then alien porn or yoga positions the next. But to balance out that crazy, there was the sweet side too. I wasn’t sure there was anyone in the club or the family that surrounded it who had as big a heart as Billie did, who was more there for her loved ones, who always wanted to help and reassure them all.

Like I said, the whole package.

That I could never, ever fucking unwrap.

“Oh,” she said, jerking back at seeing her cousin, looking surprised even though it seemed like Malc had a plan in place.

“The door, Billie. The fucking door,” Malcolm growled at her, getting a serene little smile out of her that said she knew about the door and she had no plans on changing the fact that she never locked it.

But that soft little smile that made her eyes bright and warm fell as soon as her gaze shifted from her cousin to me.

It wasn’t the pity, either. I’d gotten used to the pity glances from everyone around me since the guys brought me back about a week ago. They meant nothing of it, of course; they just felt bad for me.

I’d gotten good at recognizing the look before they, inevitably, tried to hide it away.

This was not pity.

No.

It was worse than that.

If I didn’t know any better, I would have called it hurt. She’d looked hurt before her gaze skittered away.

Billie.

This was Billie.

Her gaze never skittered away like she was uncertain or uncomfortable. She wasn’t built that way.

Yet there was no denying what I’d seen.

Or the fact that she was studying her bare feet instead of looking at me.

I mean, I’d said some shit to her. I won’t try to lie about that. She’d clearly been harboring some little crush on me for a while there. And when it started to get too obvious, and I was worrying about what the OG members of the club would think about it, I’d said some shit. To discourage it, so she would let the flirtation drop.

Clearly, though, I’d been harsher than I remembered.

Harsh enough that she didn’t even want to look at me.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, voice more careful than usual. Gone was that easy warmth you would typically find from her.

I had no right to, but I missed it.

“Fine,” I lied.

It was that lie that did it. That made her gaze snap up from the floor to look at me sitting there in the chair. I knew what she saw. I saw it myself in the truck mirror on the way over.

My dark hair was a mess from tossing and turning all night, trying to find a halfway comfortable position to fall asleep in. My face was scruffy because standing for too long was painful, so I prioritized showering and brushing my teeth over shaving. There were bags under my eyes and purple smudges from the lack of proper sleep and the constant pain. My skin looked pale and sickly. I was just… not looking my best, that was for sure.

“Okay,” Billie said, tone disbelieving, but not telling me that I looked like shit, even if she clearly saw that for herself.

“What does your cousin know about back injuries?” I asked, going to look at Malcolm, then freezing when the motion met with the resistance from the stitches on my shoulder.

I hadn’t intended for the words to come out as tight and rough as they sounded even to my own ears. It was just a question. Billie wasn’t a doctor or physical therapist.

“Malc just wanted to see if there was anything I could do to help you with the pain,” Billie said, chin jerking up slightly. She wasn’t someone prone to a lot of pride, but she didn’t like when people talked down about her and her skills either.

“And with that, I’m out,” Malcolm said, pushing me forward another couple of feet to completely clear the door as he pulled it open again.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re not leaving,” Billie said at the same time. If I wasn’t completely mistaken, she sounded almost desperate.

For what?

For him to stay?

Because she wanted nothing to do with me?

Probably. That was probably it.

I couldn’t be upset about it, either.

“Look, I don’t want to get in the way of Billie’s work,” Malc said, backing into the hallway.

“You won’t be in the way!” Billie insisted, voice a high squeaking sound I’d never heard before.

“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” Malc said, and then he was gone.

“A couple hours?” Billie squeaked again, her hand actually rising to close over her throat. Which was an oddly anxious gesture. I never would have associated Billie and the word ‘anxious’ before.

But even as I looked her over once again, I saw it in other aspects of her as well. In her ramrod-straight posture. In her tight jaw. In the way her other hand kept opening and closing into a fist.

“I’ll go,” I said, reaching down for the wheels.

“What? No,” she said, snapping out of her thoughts. “Don’t be silly,” she added. “I told Malc that I would see what I could do. So, let’s see,” she said, taking a step back, and waving a hand to her apartment.

And not, I might add, trying to go behind the chair to steer me. Which I appreciated more than I could tell her. Even if it would have made my life easier to have her push me around, I appreciated her not babying me.

“Do you want to tell me more about your back?” she asked as she moved one of the chairs away from the dining table to make room for me to roll up.

She debated sitting across from me but ultimately decided to walk into her kitchen instead, flicking on the kettle.

“I fractured my back in two places,” I told her.

“Top, bottom, middle, mix?”

Christ, she was being so detached and clinical. You expected that from doctors, but not from someone like Billie.

“Lower back,” I told her.

“Do you have numbness?” she asked. I must have looked surprised, because she shrugged. “I have worked with more than a handful of clients who have suffered back injuries at some point.”

Right.

Clients.

Clients for yoga, clients for massage, clients for that energy healing thing… rike or reke or… reiki? Something like that.

And let’s not forget the tantric sex class clients too.

“There’s numbness,” I said, nodding as she got a large earthenware mixing bowl with a pour spout, and put it on the counter before breezing past me to head toward that cabinet full of herbs and spices and oils, going through it and gathering armfuls of things to bring back to the bowl.

“Where?” she asked, untwisting tops of the mason jars, then spooning some of the insides into a big reusable satchel.

“My thighs, my ass…”

“And groin?” she asked, looking over at me as she said it. “Rowe,” she said, putting down the satchel for a second, pressing her palms onto the edge of the counter instead, leaning forward a bit. “It’s okay. It’s not embarrassing.”

Said the woman who wasn’t experiencing groin numbness.

When I said nothing, she took a deep breath, and I tried like hell not to let my eyes drift lower, watch that ample chest of hers lift with the movement.

I failed, clearly.

That damn nearly see-through dress was killing me.

“It’s likely not permanent, you know,” she said, drawing my gaze up again. “The groin numbness. It’s likely not permanent,” she told me. “You’re recovering. Your body is going to be going through a lot for a while. It doesn’t mean any of it is permanent. So you have any sensation?” she asked. “If you touch your penis, do you feel—“

“Christ, Billie. We’re not talking about my dick,” I cut her off.

“Why not?” she asked, brows pinching.

“Do you want to talk about your pussy?” I asked.

“Sure. What do you want to know?” she asked, then half turned and waved toward the living room. “Candy over there is modeled after it,” she declared, meaning the human-sized vagina sculpture. “Well, minus the hood piercing. After my aunt told me there was a very slight chance of a condom tearing with it, I decided to take it out.”

I did not need to know that.

I actually had to force my gaze to stay on her, and not drift toward the sculpture.

“The numbness is worse when the pain is worse,” I told her.

“Okay,” she said, tone light. “And, seriously, Rowe. There’s no reason to be uncomfortable about this. There’s nothing embarrassing about the body.”

I wasn’t embarrassed of my body.

I was uncomfortable with it not working properly.

“Would you judge a man who had some sort of accident and never felt his penis again?” she asked.

“No.”

“Of course not. It’s not his fault. I understand that it is upsetting, but you can talk about it. Not talking about it is not going to help your healing,” she said as she reached for another jar.

“Are those sticks?” I asked as she put a couple spoonfuls into the satchel, then pulled the drawstring, dropped it into the bowl, then poured the boiling tea water on top of it.

“Bark,” she corrected.

“That’s not sounding any better,” I said, shaking my head.

“I’m not going to lie. This may not be pleasant,” she told me, dipping the tea satchel in and out of the steaming water.

“What is it?”

“Tea,” she said.

“I get that. What kind of tea?”

“An anti-inflammatory one,” she told me. “The willow bark’s main ingredient is salicin which is known as ‘nature’s aspirin.’ Then there is some turmeric, that has been used in clinical trials to relieve joint pains. There is ginger which helps muscle pains, which can come with mobility difficulties. There is green and rooibos tea for anti-inflammatory properties. Lavender for the same reason, but also because it is calming. I will drop in some Earl Grey tea too, just for flavor reasons. The bergamot in it is pretty strong flavor-wise.”

“You want me to drink that?”

“Ideally, I would like you to drink this several times a day,” she said, nodding. “Which is why I am making a big batch of it. It will only be good for today and tomorrow morning, but if you feel it is helping, I can make you satchels to make your own. It needs to steep for a while though.”

“You really think that will help?” I asked, and my tone must have been more dubious than I planned because her chin lifted again.

“I’ve used it for pain. Granted, I’ve never had spinal fractures, but it is worth a try, don’t you think? Since your pain medicine is clearly not cutting it.”

Clearly.Did she say that because I was, admittedly, snippier than I should have been?

“I am also going to make you a salve. And a rice bag.”

“A what now?” I asked.

“A rice bag,” she repeated.

“And that is?”

“A bag of rice,” she said, and her lips twitched a bit. “You fill material with rice and some essential oils. Then you can freeze it or warm it in the microwave, then put it on the pain spot. Women have been using them for ages for cramps. The pressure can sometimes help pain. And if not that, then the heat or ice does, and it is more comfortable than having a hard ice pack on the spot.”

“Okay,” I said, shrugging, figuring that the rice bag and salve, at least, wouldn’t do any harm. I wasn’t sure I could say that about the tea. Not because the ingredients would be harmful, but because I wasn’t sure I could choke it down without throwing up.

“And maybe we can try some very gentle stretches. Malcolm said you weren’t going to physical therapy yet.”

“No.”

Billie was undeterred by my sharp tone.

“Why not?”

“It hurts, Billie. It fucking hurts.”

“What hurts?” she asked.

“Existing. Fucking sitting and standing and moving. It all fucking hurts.”

My voice sounded raw to my own ears. And, clearly, to Billie’s. Because one moment, she was in the kitchen, trying to keep her distance from me. The next, she was taking the seat directly to my side, reaching outward and covering both my hands with hers, her delicate fingers curling in, squeezing.

“You’ve been holding that in too long, huh?” she asked, those stormy eyes seeking my gaze.

“They want me to get better.”

“Rowe, it doesn’t matter what they want,” she told me, shaking her head. “I know you want to put on a brave face because you know they just want what is best for you. But what they want and how they feel have nothing at all to do with your recovery, okay? If you want to be a miserable sack of shit for a week, that’s your right. They don’t have to like it. And they don’t have to be around it. But you can’t lie to them or put on a brave face either. What are you accomplishing with that?”

“It makes them stop looking at me with pity.”

“I think you’re confusing empathy with pity. And that’s understandable. A lot of strong men confuse those two because they aren’t always taught the difference when they were little. But, trust me, it is different. Not a single person in our circle is pitying you. They feel sorry that you’re in pain and they want to help. But that is not pity.”

She was still holding my hands and I had this almost uncontrollable desire to turn my hands under hers, to entwine our fingers, to squeeze her hands back.

“Not everyone feels the same way you feel, babe. They don’t all see shit like you do.”

“Hey,” she said, voice a little firmer. “Who knows them better? Me, who grew up with all of them. Or you, who met them a couple years ago?” she asked, brows raising, daring me to contradict her.

“When Nave fell out of a tree and was in a leg cast up to his hip, they all came over, got him things, tried to help him out. Because they cared about him. Because they were empathetic to his situation. Not because they saw him as someone to pity.”

“I heard he is prospecting soon,” I said, wanting to change the subject. Billie might have been comfortable talking about shit like feelings, but that wasn’t how I’d been raised.

“And Vi’s brother, Valen,” Billie said, nodding, but there was something off in her gaze.

“What? You don’t want them to?” I asked.

“I love my family and I respect their decisions. But I think we all know I am not a fan of guns. Or any sort of violence for that matter.”

“I heard your mother once shot a guy who was after Sugar,” I said.

“Yes, well, I’m not my mother. We’re similar in many ways, but not that one.”

“Were we not supposed to shoot the guys who shot at us?” I asked.

To that, her gaze slid to the table as she exhaled. When her eyes lifted again, I saw uncertainty there.

“I think if there was no arms trade to begin with, it wouldn’t have been necessary.”

“And if there wasn’t an arms trade, your father never would have met your mom. Your aunts wouldn’t have met your uncles. You and your cousins wouldn’t exist.”

“Okay,” she said, voice sharp. “Enough. We are not debating personal opinions. We’re talking about your injury. So let’s go get you naked, shall we?” she asked, jumping up.

I won’t lie.

I knew she didn’t mean what it sounded like she meant.

But my cock didn’t.

And it was the first time since the fall that I could feel it start to stiffen.

Over her.

The woman I could never have.