20
This was fucking bullshit. Neil was stuck in here like a prisoner, Alain and Isaac locked out all night for no good goddamn reason, leaving him alone, and neither of them knew why this was such a bad idea yet. Worse, the presiding physician, who he had barely met, had him sedated and had knocked his ass out for hours.
He’d pace if he could, but he hadn’t figured out how to deal with the walker yet. The walker defeated the purpose of pacing anyway, scootching across the floor at a snail’s pace like someone’s elderly fucking grandfather.
There was a knock at the door, and he looked up, ready to read someone the riot act, when Mitch, the PT from the hospital, stuck his head in. “Good morning, sunshine.”
“It’s not. I have to get out of here, man. I have to.” Neil needed to go to IA, talk to them, and then lay low. He wasn’t—he couldn’t deal with this shit.
“Then I guess we got work to do.” Mitch looked him over. “You need a shave. You’ve scared all the nurses off, they don’t want to have a razor around you, man. What is going on?”
“I don’t like this—I need to get out of here.” It wasn’t secure. Sure, they didn’t allow people in, but cops weren’t people, and he knew that.
“Well, nobody likes this.” Mitch frowned at him. “Are your husbands coming by soon? Did you get a new cell phone yet? You want me to give them a call?”
God yes. Yes. He needed to talk to them, but Isaac was at work, and hopefully Alain was resting. “No. No, I expect to see one or both of them today.”
Mitch crossed his arms. “Okay. So are you going to work with me, or just sit here demanding to go home? Because I’m telling you now. I’m your ticket out of here. You make me happy, I’ll make you happy.”
Yeah, the entire fucking world worked on quid pro quo. He was half fucking wishing that they’d just killed him. “I’ll do what you want.”
“All right then. Let’s get you to the gym.” Mitch brought over the wheelchair and set it by the bed. “You think you can do this yourself yet?”
“Yeah.” He’d do whatever possible, without a bitch, just to get home.
He hauled himself over, the jolt to his hip agonizing, but he made it. He didn’t make a face or a noise, but there was no hiding the gross stress sweat. He figured Mitch was used to it.
“Nice work. We can cross that off the release day list.” Mitch tossed a hand towel into his lap and wheeled him out of the room. He expected to get the hairy eyeball from a couple of the people who were there the night before, but it didn’t happen. Anyone that made eye contact greeted him with a friendly “good morning.” Mitch whistled cheerfully as they went, even on the elevator.
He refused to look at his reflection in the door, refused to acknowledge any of this shit.
Mitch started talking as the doors opened. “So, this is what you’re working with. You didn’t have a regular hip replacement because you were shot and there was soft tissue damage and all this other shit, right? So we have to rehab your hip, and be careful of the rest. You already know it hurts more than it should, so this is some real work. The good news is the tests we did in the hospital show that everything is working like it should, so you’ll get back on your feet for sure. Maybe even pain-free if we do this right. So we’re gonna do everything right.”
“Yes, sir.” He wasn’t sure that he believed Mitch, but he’d just power through this. One way or the other, he was going to get home. Pain he got. He just wanted to go home.
Mitch’s torture routine started slowly, and for a little bit he was fooled into thinking he totally had this. The massage and manipulation work was painful, but he was able to breathe through it. The weights were hard, and he wasn’t happy about how weak that one side was, but whatever, he got through that. The worst was when Mitch told him stand up.
Mitch rolled him up to a bar that was attached to the wall and locked his wheels. “Go on, stand up.”
Okay, you weak asshole. You stand up. You grit your fucking teeth, and you prove to this sadistic motherfucker that you are the biggest badass in the valley.
He stood, the world going sparkly around the edges.
Don’t you fucking whimper. Don’t you so much as breathe. You stand there like you’ve got this.
“Good.” Mitch caught him under the elbows but didn’t hold him up. Just stood there with him. “Good. Excellent. You look like you’re going to pass out, but you’re kickin’ ass.”
There was no way—none—that he could possibly speak. That would require breathing, which would mean putting his energy into anything that wasn’t standing like a statue.
“You gotta breathe, man. If you pass out and fall on that hip, you’ll be sorry. Deep breath. Lean on me if you have to. You’re about done anyway.”
He glanced at Mitch, and he realized, all of the sudden, that he’d forgotten how.
Panic flooded him, and he wanted to scream, and suddenly he knew it was over. Just over.
“Nope. Here.” Mitch pressed against his belly, and he sucked in a hysterical breath. “That’s it, man. It’s natural. Normal. So is the adrenaline. You’re doing this right.”
Mitch eased him down into his chair, and the tremors started then. Mitch pressed down on his shoulders, grounding him. “That’s it, just let it happen. Breathe and it’ll stop on its own. You’re fine. You did great.”