Page 19 of Not That Guy

Brenner

I slept poorly that night. Between the pain in my ribs, the pounding in my head, and the swollen ankle, I couldn’t get comfortable. Nausea came and went, and true to their word, every couple of hours a nurse or aide would come into my room to make sure I was lucid.

“I swear I’d get more rest at a baseball game than here,” I complained to the resident who’d come to check my vitals for what seemed like the four hundred and fifty-eighth time.

“You might at that,” she laughed. “But the good news is, you’re going to be discharged. Just let me run through some tests first.”

After twenty minutes of counting and moving my head—which, although it still ached somewhat, no longer sent shooting spikes of pain through my skull—she declared me ready to go. My ankle throbbed in the brace they’d put on it.

“There you go!” she said, way too cheerfully for my liking. “I’ll forward the discharge paperwork, and they’ll come and tell you when you can leave, but it’ll be a little while. It’s barely nine a.m.”

“Thank God.” At her departure, I decided I should get up and use the bathroom to try and get ready.

Moving gingerly, I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

A bit lightheaded, I waited several moments for my vision to clear before attempting to stand.

When I was fully upright, I faced the bed and put half my weight on the injured ankle.

It buckled, so I returned to my previous stance as a flamingo, perched on one leg.

I needed those crutches and fast. No way I could walk on this ankle yet.

“Fuck,” I swore, pain radiating up my calf. How the hell was I supposed to walk or do anything? Every part of me ached.

“Tsk, tsk. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to swear in public? So low class.”

At Weston’s mocking voice, my head snapped up, and my vision swam. I forgot and leaned my weight fully onto my injured leg, which sent me off-balance. To my horror, I started to fall.

Strong arms wrapped around me, and a raspy cheek pressed to mine. Weston’s lips found my ear. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.”

Those words sent a shocking wave of heat through me that even the painful state of my body couldn’t shrug off and deny.

I wanted to push him away and tell him to let go, but the truth was, I hurt so bad, I couldn’t afford to, so I allowed myself to sink into his chest. I’d never known how good being held could feel.

And the fact that Weston was doing the holding only made it better.

I turned halfway, and our eyes met. I wasn’t expecting Weston’s face to mirror my emotions—uncertainty, fear, and desire.

“I’m okay. You can let go.” I hopped on my good leg.

“Let me help you to the bed.” I allowed him to steady me as I lowered onto the mattress. Frustrated by my body’s inability to do what I wanted, and a bit disturbed by my reaction to Weston, I rubbed my face.

“I can’t believe this.”

“What were you trying to do?” Weston looked at me, arms crossed.

“Go to the bathroom and get dressed. They’re discharging me. I can’t go out in a hospital gown.” My legs stuck out from beneath the thin fabric, and Weston’s lips kicked up.

“No, you wouldn’t want to give anyone a show.”

Something about how Weston’s gaze traveled up and down my body left me breathless, and my natural reaction to him kicked in.

“What’re you doing here?”

He sat in the chair he’d occupied yesterday. “When I called this morning to find out how you were, they told me you were going to be discharged, so I figured I’d come over and help you.”

My brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you want to help me?” I pinned him with a frown. “I mean, it’s nice that you’re trying, but we’re not friends. We barely tolerate each other, so I don’t understand this sudden desire to insert yourself in my life. In law school—”

“Oh, cut the shit with law school already,” he snapped, surprising me with his vehemence. “Fifteen years have passed, for Christ’s sake. Do we really need to keep doing this? Maybe I’ve changed. Haven’t you?”

I blinked, the shock of his words sinking in. “I-I don’t know.”

The air between us crackled with awareness, and I wondered if he was thinking about that night. The pain in my ribs faded, replaced by a different kind of ache. I licked my lips, and the golden glints in the depths of his green eyes burned bright. Was Weston into men? Into me ?

Was I into him?

Shit, I was getting hard under the gown, and I couldn’t let him see it happening.

An aide bustled into the room. “Mr. Fleming, I’m here to get you ready for discharge.” Oblivious to the tension between Weston and me, she kept up a rapid-fire stream of talk, even as he and I continued to stare at each other. It was as if a spell had been cast over me and I couldn’t look away.

“Mr. Fleming?”

I jerked my attention away from Weston’s face. “Oh, yeah, sorry. Thank you.”

She held out an arm for me to take, and with her help, I hobbled to the bathroom. She handed me my clothes and waited outside the door. “Do you need me to help you?”

“Yes, please.” My hands gripping the sink, the aide helped slip on my briefs and removed the brace before pulling my jeans up.

The shirt was another matter. Lifting my arms with my ribs so sore hurt like a bitch, and I had no idea how I’d be able to put it on.

Weston had remained in the chair, but his penetrating gaze reached across the room.

I could almost feel his hands on me again.

I wanted it.

“I-I can’t do this.”

“It would’ve been better if you didn’t have a pullover,” she agreed. “But we’ll make do.”

“We could trade.” With his fingers already flying down the buttons, Weston took off his shirt.

“We’re the same size, I think. Here.” His nearness in his half-undressed state sent a throb low in my belly, and though I tried not to gawk, I couldn’t help noticing the swirls of golden-brown chest hair.

We hadn’t gotten naked that night—only our dicks had made an appearance—and I had no idea why the sight of Weston without his shirt tied me up in knots and made me alternately hot and cold and decidedly uncomfortable.

I sneaked a glance at Weston, and his face reflected the same turmoil boiling inside me.

The aide’s eyes widened, and she laughed. “Now that’s being a good friend.”

“Why, thank you. I try.”

One thing Weston knew was how to turn on the charm. In that respect, he was a true politician.

“You’re lucky, Mr. Fleming,” she said as she assisted me in slipping an arm into the sleeve.

I met Weston’s smirk with a slight shake of my head yet couldn’t help my lips from twitching. He was annoying as hell, but helpful all the same, and I couldn’t get mad at him. The shirt did fit, and the subtle scent of Weston’s cologne clung to it, invading my senses.

“There you go.” She finished buttoning it.

Finally, I was dressed. I shoved my good foot into my sneaker without bothering to put on socks. I knew I had to say something to Weston, who’d sat watching me struggle.

“All set?” he asked.

I chewed my bottom lip. “Yeah. Uh, thanks for giving me your shirt. It made it a lot easier.”

“At your service.” That cocky grin I’d always hated appeared, but for some odd reason, it didn’t bother me now. Maybe Weston was growing on me. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to take you back to the hotel and then drive you home to the city.”

“What?” The ride would take well over an hour, and I couldn’t imagine sitting in a car with Weston for that long. “Absolutely not. You don’t have to do that. I can manage.”

He snorted. “Yeah, okay, Mr. I-Can’t-Put-My-Pants-On-By-Myself. Are you kidding? You came by train, right?”

I nodded.

His usual devil-may-care expression softened. “Come on, Brenner. Can you picture yourself dragging a suitcase behind you and sitting squashed next to someone who might’ve eaten tons of Taco Bell for lunch and now has regrets?”

I couldn’t help it and busted out laughing. Which hurt like fucking hell, bringing tears to my eyes and spiraling me into intense pain. “Oh fuck, don’t do that again,” I gasped, holding my sides.

“Case closed. After you’re discharged, we’ll check out of the hotel, and I’ll take you home.” Eyes twinkling, he twirled the car keys around his finger.

My head and ankle throbbed in unison, and I had little desire to fight with him. “Fine, fine. Whatever.”

The wheelchair came along with my crutches, and after they adjusted them to my height, I was brought downstairs.

It felt damn good to be out of the medicinal hospital air, even if I was sitting in a parking lot.

Weston pressed a bill into the orderly’s hand, then moved me farther away from the curb.

“I’ll just be a minute. Going to get the car.”

I gave a slow nod, my head still throbbing. As I waited, I mulled the odd turn of events. How and when had Weston become—I hesitated to say it—my friend? I’d hold off judgment. A car pulled up—a Mercedes, of course—and Weston hopped out and attempted to take my arm.

“Lean on me.”

I shook him off. “I have the crutches, and I need to learn to use them.” After only five steps, my breath came in short pants and my shirt—well, Weston’s—was soaked through with sweat.

“This looks a lot easier than it is.” I gritted my teeth but again refused Weston’s help.

To say he was frustrated with me was an understatement.

“Let me help you.”

“No.”

That earned me a frown. “Why are you torturing yourself?”