Page 36 of Dax: Gratefully Bonded
And yet, if I did, Dax would have absolutely no avenue for sexual release, and a huge black mark in his interpretation of my opinion of him. That was unacceptable.
Oh, fucking hell, I was really going to have to do this, wasn’t I?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Zeke
Breakfast was already on the table by the time I wandered into the living room. Dax had prepared two plates of scrambled eggs and toast, so I sat, offering him a cursory thank you for the meal.
I had to say something about last night. But fuck knew what it was supposed to be. I shoved the first forkful into my mouth and glanced up, seeing Dax just standing there, staring at me. Shit. He was apparently just as on edge as I was.
“Are you going to eat breakfast?” I asked him, managing to keep my tone light. I didn’t want to spook him while I figured out what the hell I was supposed to be doing about this clusterfuck.
“Yes, sir,” he said, sitting down a little more abruptly than he usually did. He ate, but I suspected it was only because he thought I expected him to, rather than because he was hungry.
Part way through the meal, he paused, eyeing my half-empty coffee cup. “Did you take your pill?” he asked, after a moment’s hesitation.
Fuck, I hated all this walking on eggshells. But I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to explain to Dax that I wasn’t goingto punish him, without having to tell him that my dick had taken a wholescale vacation for the last twelve months.
“Yes, I did,” I answered his question about the pill, before swiftly returning to shoving food into my mouth. I’d nearly finished the meal – and was no closer to knowing what to say to Dax – when his comm beeped. He opened the message, and a moment later, my comm beeped as well; he’d just forwarded the message to me.
“It’s from Doctor Green,” he told me, not waiting for me to open the message. “He’s sent through the information on the physiotherapy support group. There’s a meeting on today, at eleven o’clock. And he’s included directions to get there. We need to take the train to station eighty-three.”
I didn’t comment on what I assumed was a deliberate use of the word ‘we’. I knew Aiden had given Dax various instructions about how to look after me that he hadn’t told me about, and I suspected that one of them was to avoid letting me go out on my own whenever possible.
A small, childish part of me attempted to get angry about being followed around by a babysitter… but a larger, more sensible part of me knew I would be grateful for his company. He could do the planning and make sure we got off at the right station and run interference if anyone tried to get in my face. And it also got him out of the house so he wasn’t bored shitless while I was off doing stupid appointments. All things considered, him coming with me was an arrangement that would do both of us good.
But even despite my reluctant acceptance of the situation, I couldn’t help but groan. “For fuck’s sake, I don’t want to go do that shit.” That much was actually true; I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to hear a bunch of well-meaning sympathy from someone who knew fuck all about what I’d actually been through. I didn’t want to think about the fact that at the ripe oldage of thirty-two, I would likely never have full use of my leg again.
And that thought was accompanied by the equally depressing knowledge that I didn’t currently have the use of my dick, either. But I didn’t think there was any physiotherapy that was going to fix that one.
With a protracted grumble, I hauled myself to my feet. “I’m going to go take a shower,” I told Dax, pausing to drain the last of my coffee before shuffling off down the hall. “For fuck’s sake, they couldn’t have given me a bit more notice?” I asked no one in particular. Yeah, I snorted to myself. Because I was so busy that fitting in a physiotherapy session was going to wreck my otherwise pumping social life. God, I was pathetic.
◊◊◊
“Looks like this is it,” I said to Dax, as we arrived in front of a large, boxy building a short walk from the train station. The session was being held in a community hall, but the electronic panel at the entrance proudly proclaimed, ‘Physiotherapy Session – 11:00’.
A private corner of my mind was immediately grateful for the discreet wording of the sign. It didn’t say anything about it being a support group, or the fact that the class was treating long-term, traumatic injuries. To any interested bystander, it was just physiotherapy. And in the information sent through by Doctor Green, he’d included the fact that if anyone inquired about the class directly to the instructor, they would be advised to get a referral from their doctor, which would provide a neat screening process to keep anyone out who didn’t fit the class’s strict criteria.
I hesitated before opening the door… but Dax completely ignored my reluctance to go in, pulling the door open and holding it for me. I’d learned enough about him by now toknow that he absolutely had noticed my hesitation, and that he’d deliberately chosen to ignore it. Gritting my teeth, I walked through the door.
Inside, we crossed through a small reception area, then through another door into the main hall. It was about as big as a basketball court, with a number of stations set up, with mats on the floor, small dumbbells, some rubber exercise bands, and some coloured tape stuck to the floor in various configurations.
Over at the side, there was a small table set up, with a Solof man sitting behind it. He looked up as we entered the room and shot us a warm smile. “Good morning. You are…” He checked the holographic screen in front of him. “…Ezekiel, is that correct?”
“Yeah. Call me Zeke,” I mumbled, shuffling over towards him. There was only one other person in the room at the moment, a Wasop woman who was doing a few stretches in the far corner.
“Welcome to the class, Zeke,” the man said. “My name is Rolen. Now, if I may, could I just confirm a few of your medical details?”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, glancing anxiously at Dax. Not that I was sure what I expected him to do. I didn’t like talking about my injuries, but this was one of the unfortunate parts of having to start anything new; a certain amount of factual information was a necessity.
Rolen pulled up a file on his screen. “Your doctor reported that you have nerve damage to your right leg and scarring to your left abdomen due to a penetrating wound. Is that the extent of your physical injuries?”
There was absolutely nothing provocative or condescending about his tone. But I bristled nonetheless. “Is that not enough?” I snapped, before I could stop myself. “Am I supposed to be in a wheelchair or something before I’m allowed to come here?”
Rolen didn’t reply. He simply watched me, his expression calm, his hands folded neatly in his lap.
“Sorry,” I apologised, after a long moment. “That was uncalled for.”