“Oh, shit. Babe, I’m sorry. No, you didn’t forget it. We just wanted to make sure if you needed something, you had it.” He pulled a bottle of water out, and twisted the cap off before handing it to her.
She stared at the bottle cap and her expression emptied. She glanced down at the bottle and lifted it to drink. It shook a little in her hand, sloshing the liquid onto her already sweat-dampened shirt. He fisted the bottle cap and the hard plastic dug into his palm. The door opened behind her.
Logan’s face was tight with worry following his chat with Doc. He stared at Jazz before clearing his throat. “We ready to go?”
“Yes.” Her response echoed his right down to the dregs of relief. He lifted his brows in silent question while slinging the pack over his shoulder. Jazz kept her water bottle.
Logan shook his head at Zach and mouthed, “Later.”
Fuck. What’s wrong now?
Chapter Six
Logan watched Phillips lean on Jazz’s right leg, forcing her to push him away to strengthen it. Her face was a mask of concentration. Tension tightened the lines around her mouth and squinted the corners of her eyes. Three weeks of the absolute same routine—physical therapy in the morning from five a.m. ‘til nine a.m, her appointment with James ten until eleven, lunch ‘til twelve. Then she napped or at least retreated to her room for the rest of the afternoon.
They were losing her. She’d pulled back on every front.
Her right leg extended, shoving Phillips upward, and the therapist’s legs began to slide. The grueling control on Jazz’s face gave way to satisfaction.
“Oorah, Gunny!” Phillips broke into applause that echoed around the room.
Belatedly, Logan saw that he wasn’t the only one staring at the strength contest between his woman and her therapist. The gym played host to any number of recovering servicemen and women. Her right leg hadn’t cooperated with her since the first of two strokes she’d suffered after arriving home. In the beginning, Logan put it down to the trauma and the brain surgeries. But her neurologist and neurosurgeons both confirmed that strokes were partially responsible for the loss of feeling and control in her arm and leg.
Jazz sat up, refusing Phillips’ assisting hand. A green baseball cap covered the spiky growth of her hair—a hat she insisted on wearing at all times. Whether it was the need to be in uniform or what, she refused any civilian clothes whatsoever, relying on her MARPATs and her standard Marine workout gear. She wrapped the colors around herself like a barrier against the world.
He understood that desire, maybe better than she realized. But the sturdier she built the barrier, the more she shoved them to the outside. Both of them. That morning had been the last straw. Her cutting dismissal of Zach, the phone call to Phillips and request for a lift to physical therapy effectively shut Logan out as well. His jaw tightened.
Last. Fucking. Straw. It was time for a come-to-Logan meeting.
James’ words from his last session echoed in the back of his mind. “You know, you can talk about this. In fact, I think all three of you should.” He didn’t mind Doc talking about Jazz, even though James refused to, more often than not, beyond initially telling him she would need a prescription for antidepressants. He didn’t want to talk to James about Jazz—he wanted to talk to Jazz.
And today, we are going to talk. You and me, babe, he told her silently.
She fixed the hat back over her head. In a smooth, practiced motion, she worked her way to her feet, resting her hand steadily on the locked down wheelchair. She hated the device, despite the limited mobility it granted her, but walking still eluded her press for recovery.
Sweat soaked her green T-shirt. A faint tan warmed her pale skin. Muscle tone began to fill her legs back out. She’d put back on ten of the thirty pounds she lost during her hospitalization. She needed to gain more to return to the curves he was familiar with, but he didn’t care if she was as skinny as a chicken wing. If she was healthy enough to push him away….
She was healthy enough for the push back.
Phillips nodded to him. Their session was done. Tamping down his innate desire to get his hands on her, Logan marched across the room and took hold of her chair. “Good job. You in?”
She glanced up at him, wariness shuttering her expression. He gave her an easy grin, the same grin he gave her after every session. She wanted to retreat? No way in hell would he let her do that.
“Yeah, I’m in.” Her guarded tone warned him she wasn’t interested in being pushed around. Good, maybe it means she’s ready to push back.
He unlocked the wheels, gave Phillips a wave, and guided the chair out of the building. He was silent all the way to the apartment. At the foot of the stairs, he locked the chair and lifted her out of it. She weighed next to nothing. Mutiny pinched her lips, and he allowed the barest hint of a smile.