Under Locke(143)

"I had cancer when I was little," I told them, looking at Blake as I said it. Maybe my story wasn't the best one to try and relate to him. If Junior was sick, hearing that I'd gone through four different surgeries wasn't a fairy tale. But I was alive and I was here. Alive and here were much better words than the simple word—not. Not here. Inexistent.



Back when I’d been sick, I’d always dreaded hearing other words. Spread. Lymph nodes. Amputation. Those words, those possibilities, make you grow up quick. They made me remember to prioritize correctly, to value and appreciate. But mainly the branches of those words scared me so much, I wanted to live even if it wasn’t always going to be fun and games.



I’d forgotten that along the way somewhere. There was a difference between living and surviving. And this place, these people, reminded me of that.



After a second I dropped my thinner limb, and let out a breath. Dex watched me with a blank expression while Slim's eyes went wide.



"No shit?" he asked, reaching out to grab me. He lifted my arm up and touched the desensitized skin there with gentle fingertips. "What kind?"



"A form of soft tissue sarcoma," I explained. “Cancer in my muscle, pretty much.”



Slim's wide expression drooped before a frown crossed his lips. "Why didn't you say something?"



That wasn't exactly what I was expecting. "I'm telling you now."



"But you could've said something before," he shot back solidly. "Hey, Slim, I used to have friggin’ cancer. Just thought you should know."



I opened my mouth to argue back with him when Blake made a noise I hoped to never hear from him again. Ever. "JR has acute lymphoblastic leukemia."



Any argument in my mouth or Slim's died quickly.



It was Blue that spoke first. "Sorry, B," she said, throwing her arms around the much bigger man.



"Dude," was the one thing Slim muttered harshly.



Oh shit. I slipped my knees onto the seat and leaned across the table, careful not to knock over any of the bottles, and put my hands on Blake's arm. "I'm sorry."



He let out a weak, worried exhale. "The doctors called to say his red blood cell count was off. They ran a few tests to figure out what was wrong," he explained from Blue's shoulder. "I'm scared outta my mind."



"They have all kinds of treatment for cancer now," Slim piped up.



Blake nodded just a little bit. "Yeah, that's what the doctors said. They told us his kind is one of the most treatable, but it still scares the shit out of me."



Of course it would. We sat around, trying to offer our best words of comfort and reassurance that Junior would get better. No one drank anything else while we talked to him but by the time we left over an hour later, it seemed like he was a little more calm.



I didn't have the heart to say that he'd probably freak out a hundred more times over the course of the next few months, but I hoped he'd turn to one of us for moral support.



What did get me was that Dex didn't say anything on the walk to his bike, his hand on my hip. When we got home, I'd barely sat on the couch when he came to stand in front of me. Four fingers flicked up. He growled, "Take it off, babe."



I raised an eyebrow slowly. "Excuse me?"



"Your shirt," he said like he was telling me to get on the back of his bike.



"Why?"



Dex ducked enough to grab the bottom of my sweater, slipping it up and over my head while I squirmed.



"What the hell, Dex?" I swung my hand out toward him, catching him on the stomach.



He wasn't fazed at all by my pathetic swing. Dex dropped to his knees in front of me, lifting my arm without another word. A crease lined his eyebrows, his mouth set into a grim line. He brushed a tapered, neatly groomed finger over the inside of my arm. One, two, three times. I couldn't feel it well but the act itself seemed more intimate than what we'd done on his bed the day before.



When was the last time I'd let anyone look at my scarring so closely, let alone touched it? Never.



His breathing grew labored, the pressure of his pad increasing before he finally spoke in a low grumble. "You didn't think to tell me about this?" he asked, eyeing the knotted skin. "You didn't think to tell me you're sick?"



"I was sick, Dex." I tried jerking my arm away but he held it too tight. "I haven't been sick in a long time."



"How long?" His voice was low, hot and seeking.



"I've been in remission for five years."



Dex's body jerked. "A long time is ten years ago, twenty years ago. Not five, Ritz." He shuffled forward on his knees, ducking his head closer to mine. "Not five fuckin' years ago."