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Chapter Five
Ryan
There are a lot of things I hate about my life.
I hate the way my gut clenches every time I look at myself in the mirror. That split second of disconnect when I see the gnarled-up mass of lumpy scar tissue that covers nearly half of my body and my fucked-up leg and I think Jesus Christ, get a load of that poor bastard before I remember that it’s me I’m looking at—I’m that poor bastard.
I hate the fact that I can’t remember the names for things I’ve used my entire life. The words and names sit in my brain, taunting me, just out of reach because I know what a goddamned fork is, what to do with it, but when I reach for its name, I can’t remember what it’s called, not if someone held a gun to my head in one hand and a fistful of them in the other.
I hate the fact that I wake up every morning feeling fussy and muddled. That I have to lay in bed for a while, mentally turning and shifting the past six months of my life. Broken fragments. Jagged puzzle pieces that don’t fit together right. That I have to force them into the right shape and when I finally get it right, when I remember who and where I am, my reward is to remember that I’m useless. Not even capable of performing even the most basic of male functions.
Which brings me to the thing I hate most about my life.
My dick.
More specifically, the fact that it’s fucking broken. As useless as the rest of me.
I know how that sounds. The fact that I’m more worried about my dick than my brain is ridiculous. That I’d rather have a fucked-up brain than a limp dick for the rest of my life.
You’re physically intact, Sergeant O’Connell. While you’ve suffered extensive damage to your reproductive organs, our reconstruction was successful. Tests indicate that there is no physiological reason for your sexual dysfunction.
The doctor didn’t come right out and say it, but his implication was pretty fucking clear, even to a guy with a head full of scrambled eggs, like me.
The problem isn’t that I can’t get it up.
The problem is that I don’t want to.
Which is fucking bullshit.
What guy wants to be impotent, for fuck’s sake?
Not that it matters.
Hard or not, any half-sane woman would run away, screaming, if she saw the equipment I’m sporting, anyway.
When I told Tess as much last night, she said none of that would matter to the right woman. What she didn’t say is that she’s not that woman.
She didn’t have to.
I never had a real chance with Tess. Not even when I was 100% from head to toe, and the one slim chance I did have I let pass me by a long time ago.
Declan just left.
He came by to apologize. Ask me for forgiveness for the way things played out when we were kids. For turning me in. Getting me arrested.
I told him the truth, that there was nothing to apologize for. That he did me a favor, turning me in. In the moment I was pissed—tell the truth I didn’t understand the gift I’d been given until I got accepted to Ranger school. That’s when it hit me. When I realized that by turning me in, Declan gave me a second chance. A way out.
And yeah, it ended badly. I got blown up. My brain is scrambled, and I feel like my body is on fire most of the time. My leg is fucked up. I’ve got one nut and dick that won’t work but it could be worse. I could be in prison. I could be a fall down drunk like my old man.
When I remember that, what could’ve been—would’ve been—if Declan hadn’t made that call, I remember that owe him.
Someone knocks on my door. Three light raps before that someone eases it open slowly. “Ry?”
Henley.
I look away from the window to watch her poke her head through the opening.
I look away from her and refocus on the window in front of me. “What are you doing here?” Looking at her is confusing because it’s hard for my brain to process. Difficult to connect the way she looks now with the Henley I remember. It’s easier if I focus on her voice rather than her face.