With every hour, my enthusiasm about tonight waned even more. So far, I hadn't been in too much pain to function in the bedroom, but I'd known all along that trend wouldn't last forever. After a solid week of extra stress and no sleep, which had aggravated all my muscles as well as my brain-and waking up shaking from nightmares never helped with the pain-I was lucky to be walking. Who was I kidding if I thought I was having sex tonight?
There was no point in fighting it. I could knuckle through a lot of things. I could even run the damn PRT because my career-and who was I kidding, my ego-depended on it, but I definitely didn't enjoy it. Something that was meant to be enjoyed but caused too much pain? Not really an option when I felt like this.
No two ways about it-it was time for Clint to experience one of those nights that my last few partners had grown tired of really quickly.
Well, better now than after I'd had a chance to get attached to him.
More attached to him.
You're an idiot. This is going to be a disaster. You know that, right?
Of course it was, and I was one hundred percent convinced we were a time bomb that was down to T-minus the rest of the day . . .
Until Clint walked into my office.
One look at him, and despite the ax in my back and the knot in my stomach, my heart fluttered.
Oh God. Does this disaster have to crash and burn today?
Probably.
"Hey." He smiled uncertainly. "How are you feeling?"
Like I don't want you to leave but I also don't want you to see me like this.
"Eh." I shrugged as much as my cable-tight muscles allowed. "Like forty-five is the new eighty-five?"
"Ouch. Any better since this morning? Worse?"
He couldn't possibly imagine how much I wanted to fake it and tell him I was well on my way to normal, and that tonight, it was so on. I wasn't that good of an actor, though.
I exhaled. "Not great. Tonight's definitely still going to be . . ."
"I'm fine with that. Your place or mine?"
I chewed the inside of my cheek. As much as I hated giving up on our hotter plans for the night, there were worse ways to spend an evening than just hanging out with someone. "Your choice."
He quirked his lips. "You know, if it's not too weird for you and Kimber, your place might be better. That way you don't have to drive home at the end of the night."
It was all I could do not to sigh with relief. He got it. He . . . he fucking got it?
I nodded. "That would work, yeah. You don't mind?"
"Of course not." He ran his thumb back and forth along my arm. "I know PRT is coming up, and we should both probably be watching what we eat, but I could go for something unhealthy tonight."
"Hmm. Unhealthy sounds good."
"You like chicken?"
"What the fuck kind of question is that?" I laughed, though my voice hitched slightly when a spasm reminded me that laughing was not permitted. I muffled a cough-which also hurt, damn it-and grinned through the pain. "Of course I like chicken."
He laughed with enough enthusiasm for both of us. "All right. I'll pick something up. See you around six?"
"Six works. I'm looking forward to it."
The instant Clint walked into my house, the whole place smelled like the most deliciously fragrant fried chicken.
"Oh my God." I took in a deep breath of it. "That smells amazing."
"I know, right?" He held up a paper bag with a few grease spots on the bottom half. "This place is unhealthy as hell, but I've been hooked on it since the first week I lived here."
"Well, I'll probably be hooked on it after tonight. Open that shit up."
As we pulled cartons and cups out of the bags, Kimber walked into the kitchen in her work clothes and sniffed a few times. "Someone went to Larry's."
Clint made a mock toast with a box of boneless wings. "Guilty."
"Oh, you bastards." She groaned. "Now I want some." She narrowed her eyes at me. "Hey, isn't PRT coming up for you guys?"
I glared back at her. "Isn't there a time clock you need to be punching into?"
She huffed. "All right, fine. I've gotta go. I'll see you guys later." With a wistful sigh, she added, "Enjoy the chicken."
"Oh, we will. Get to work."
Rolling her eyes, Kimber turned to collect her wallet and keys. A moment later, she headed out.
"I guess I should've asked if she'd be here," Clint said after she'd gone. "I didn't even think about it, but I could've picked up some for her."
"That wouldn't be weird? Having her join us?"
"For junk food and movies?" He shook his head. "Of course it wouldn't be weird. I mean, not for me."
"Not for me either." I pulled a couple of plates down from the cabinet, ignoring the fresh spasm below my shoulder. "Maybe the next time we do this."
He smiled. "Perfect. She works nights, though, doesn't she?"
"Sometimes. Her department has been short-staffed lately, so she's been taking extra shifts." I put the plates and a stack of napkins on the table. "I'm worried she's working herself into the ground, but she's happy. Especially since she's doing over-the-phone tech support now, which is much more her speed than retail. And the overtime is putting a huge dent in her car loan."
"Can't complain about that, right?"
"Nope." I set a box of wings beside the plates. "She was miserable working in retail. Forty hours of that shit took more out of her than seventy hours of tech support. Long as it makes her happy . . ."
"Good for her." He smiled as we took our seats. "Glad she's found a solid job. And tech support-she must be making pretty good money even without the overtime."
"More than I made at her age," I muttered. "I mean, granted that was right after I'd graduated from the Academy, but still."
He laughed as he put a couple of wings on his plate. "Is that adjusted for inflation? I mean, I'm pretty sure you graduated from the Academy a few years ago."
"Just a few." I chuckled and tore open a packet of Buffalo sauce.
"Like, when Jesus was a cadet, right?"
"Hey! Come on. I'm not that old." I shot him a sidelong glance. "And I'm pretty sure you're not that far behind me."
"Not really, no." He shifted a little. "I turned forty right before I transferred here, and God, some days I feel every minute of it."
"I know the feeling."
He grimaced. "Sorry. I probably shouldn't be bitching about . . . I mean . . ."
"Relax." I waved a hand, then reached for the Styrofoam bowl of mashed potatoes. "Believe me, there are days when it's not old injuries coming back to haunt me. Sometimes it's just being forty-fucking-five."
"Aging is a bitch, isn't it?"
"The worst."
We ate in silence for a minute or so. Then Clint turned to me. "I'm curious about something."
"Sure."
He hesitated, searching my eyes as if he could somehow find the answer before he'd even asked. "When we're in bed, does it . . . I mean, is the pain always there?"
You better believe it.
This was the part I hated. When reality showed up and wouldn't be ignored, and there was no avoiding the conversations.
"It comes and goes. Sometimes it just aches. Sometimes there's spasms. That's where I'm at today." I paused. "I have to be really careful not to move too suddenly or contort myself too much."
He held my gaze for a moment. "Does it hurt when you come?"
Every time, but it's still worth it.
"Sometimes." I took a drink. "It's okay, though." With a grin that was hopefully reassuring, I added, "Not enough to stop me from wanting to."
Clint's forehead creased.
I touched his arm. "If it was a problem, we'd have stopped by now."
"Just . . ." He swallowed. "When we're in the bedroom, tell me if you're in too much pain. I don't want to hurt you."
"Of course." I bit back a comment that he would know before I had a chance to tell him. He'd been great about not handling me with kid gloves, and I didn't want that to change. Sometimes the pain was worth it just to have someone touch me like they meant it.
"Well, I'll always follow your lead. So if it's too much, say so. I don't mind backing off. And I don't mind this, either." He gestured at the array of food. "Kicking back with dinner and a movie is fine too."
"Good to know."
And I pretended my brain wasn't prodding me with that ever-present question: This is fine . . . but for how long?
After dinner, clearing the table was as complicated as rinsing two plates and tossing everything else. I didn't usually like meals that resulted in quite so much trash, but there was no way in hell I was loading the dishwasher tonight, so clearing away the remnants of takeout was fine by me.
Once we'd done what little cleaning was necessary, I pulled an ice pack from the freezer, and we moved into the living room.
On the couch, I leaned back against the ice pack. The cold was uncomfortable as fuck even through the towel and my shirt, but hopefully-please God-it would soothe some of the relentless tension in the muscles.