And now here they both were, trapped in a tiny house together for a week. And yes, feeling her hands on his head and neck had been amazing.
But then he'd felt himself get hard, and suddenly, he was filled with rage as he realized that he had never felt more powerless or less sexy in his entire life.
He'd wanted to stand up and wrap his arms around Missy and shove her up against the bathroom wall and take her, roughly, over and over again. But he knew he couldn't even get up without feeling like there were rusty knives sliding into him between his ribs, and with one arm trapped inside a cast, he wouldn't be holding or shoving anyone anytime soon.
Even when he'd been in juvie, even when he'd served four years in prison, he'd never felt truly helpless before. He'd never needed anything from anyone since the day the wrench connected with the side of his father's head. He'd gone through life secure in the knowledge that the only person he'd ever really need to rely on would be himself. Some people might have found that idea lonely, but he'd found it deeply comforting. He knew where he stood.
And now he could barely stand at all without someone's help.
Cain stepped into his jeans, then slowly bent over to pull them up his legs, cursing and hissing the entire way. With one hand, he clumsily zipped the fly and fastened the button. He hadn't bothered toweling off, and the legs of the jeans stuck to his damp skin.
For a long moment, he looked at his t-shirt, crumpled up into a ball in the corner of the bathroom. It seemed to be mocking him and he kicked at it. Fuck it. It was crusted with blood anyway.
Before he opened the bathroom door, he took one last look at the conditioner on the floor before speaking his general housekeeping mantra out loud: “Screw it, I'll get to it tomorrow.” The idea of bending down again to clean the puddle made his sides hurt even more.
Cain turned the doorknob and peered out, silently preparing for another ugly exchange with Missy. But he didn't see or hear her. He looked at the kitchen and saw that the dishes had been cleaned, and were drying on the counter on top of a dish towel.
He ventured down the hall and saw that the door to the only bedroom was closed. He never used the room since he generally fell asleep on the couch. There was no bed in it and he wondered how Missy would sleep.
Well, that's her fucking problem, he thought morosely. If she wants a bed, she can go home or sleep in a goddamn hotel for all I care. I didn't ask her to be here.
Cain hobbled to the living room, switched the TV on, and lowered himself onto the couch. On the screen, an excited British man was demonstrating a vegetable-chopping tool while the studio audience nodded and clapped. Cain uncapped his medications, dry-swallowed the pills, and waited until the pain released its grip on his body and his eyelids felt heavy.
A few minutes later, he was snoring gently and dreaming of the punishment he'd dole out to his attackers when he caught up to them.
Chapter 15
Missy
After Cain kicked Missy out of the bathroom, she finished washing the dishes, fuming quietly.
Fine, Cain was in a lot of pain and embarrassed that he needed to rely on someone. She got it. She'd tried to be understanding and unflappable in the face of his temperamental outbursts, hoping that would snuff the fuse of his anger quickly and allow him to accept her assistance more easily.
But all of his bluster and machismo was rapidly becoming ridiculous. And if he didn't start dealing with her more maturely—and soon—she wasn't sure how she could be expected to take care of him or prevent him from injuring himself by ignoring the doctor's orders.
“Stupid male pride,” Missy muttered darkly under her breath. Cain, Hunter, her father, all of them. Swinging through the world from vine to vine and pounding their chests for dominance without caring what it did to the hapless women who had to clean up the swathe of debris they left behind. All that posturing alpha bullshit, and where did it get them?
Dead, usually. Or at least so banged-up they couldn't even feed or bathe themselves.
But there never seemed to be a shortage of women who'd stand by and enable them. As a child, she'd often wondered why her mother had accepted this. Tonight, she bitterly hated herself for occupying the same role. Worst of all, she hated finally knowing how it had come to this, as it must have for her mother—by wanting what was best for someone even when they didn't want it for themselves, and by frankly not knowing what the hell else to do with her life.
She couldn't decide which was more humiliating.
While Missy's father had been off riding around with his friends—or serving a series of stretches in prison—her mother her done her best to make sure that Missy's grades were decent. She'd wanted her daughter to get more out of life than she had.