Page 66 of On Fire

Chapter Eighteen

Dave Keller

The first few days Nic is home he’s grouchy. And when I say grouchy, I mean Nic’s quiet. Too quiet.

There were no other bombs found and there’s a manhunt on for Jimmy Graham. I know Nic wants to be a part of it, but Finn has him under strict orders. He needs to rest at least four days before he returns to any kind of active duty.

His whole body is sore to the touch. I can tell because every movement he makes and every touch from me is met with a blank look, showing the effort it takes to will pain away. I accuse him once of being a Vulcan and that joke fell flat. The second night I suggest the hot tub, and he manages to get in it with some help from me.

I time his dousing for five minutes and then shoo him out. His blood pressure still fluctuates wildly and twice he nearly fainted when he stood up from a chair.

He towels off on the back porch, and I marvel at how his skin color is a much healthier brown. He was so white in the ER he looked like paste . . .

“Still offering that massage,” I say. He has turned me down at least four times already. “I’m really good. I’m a frustrated physical therapist.” All those years of coaching soccer, I watched the sport med guys do their thing.

He pauses for a moment, the towel still wrapped at his waist. The bands on his wrists are fiery from the hot water. I could kill Graham.

“Really?” he says, his shoulders sagging slightly.

“Yeah. I’m so good, I have a table.”

“Can we just do it on the bed?”

“You got it.”

He slowly takes the stairs up and stops to pee in the bathroom while I lay an extra sheet on the bed. I have him lay out on his stomach, with his head hanging over the edge slightly. I take massage oil and begin kneading, stroking, diving into creases between bone and muscle trying to squeeze out all that lactic acid.

At first there’s a couple of quick hisses. I lighten my touch, use more oil, moving from his shoulders and coming around with my hands. A few times his breath is shaky, but then it grows steady and even and every now and then there’s a small moan of pleasure.

Making large fanning motions with my hands, I work from scapula to lower back, elbowing the buttocks and sliding fingers down the legs. I finish by slipping a finger between each vertebra. Then the pattern is repeated. This goes on for forty minutes or so in silence, except for a series of satisfying sighs.

“Ready to turn over?”

“No. I can’t move. You have magic hands.”

It’s the first light-hearted thing he’s said since leaving the hospital. I help him roll over and he lands heavily in pillows on his back, one arm over his eyes. I gently lift it and place it by his side.

I take more oil and start up by his clavicles which lie flat and straight like a dancer’s. The guy is so built. I start on his pecs but he finches and starts to sit up. But the effort must be even more painful, and he lays flat again.

“Oh, sorry,” I say quickly.

He settles back down and closes his eyes. “No, I’m sorry. That’s really sore. And my sides.”

I move down to his legs instead and dig deep into those muscly quads and calves and then make my way back up.

He sighs and opens one eye. “You done?”

“I want to at least try,” I say and slide fingers along the clefts left by ribs and slowly apply pressure. He tenses for a moment and then breathes into it. I lift his arm so I can lightly stroke his side and then do the other, though I have to be very careful: a large bruise has formed where he struck the ground at the staging area.

I squirt more oil into my hands and then place my left hand over his right pec and apply the slightest pressure wiping out and down while the second hand follows right behind.

There’s another sigh, different, and I glance at his face. A single tear slips down and wets his temple.

“Am I hurting you?” I stop and wipe it away with a thumb.

He takes my hand in his and gives it a squeeze before placing my hand on his chest. “No. I’m just . . . so grateful right now.” He closes his eyes again and shuts me out.

I wish he wouldn’t. He needs to talk. He needs to talk more than I need to talk, and I need to talk all the time.

Right now, though, I need to be quiet.

In silence, I move back and forth, back and forth, up the sternum and down, then gently knead and slide hands in a clockwise circle over his stomach and groin. I’m so focused on what I’m doing, I don’t notice when his breathing grows deep.

When I finally look up from his chest to ask him how he feels, I can’t. The guy is completely, and utterly asleep, that beautiful ribcage rising and falling, one hand on his chest. I gently take that hand and interlock fingers.

You’re mine. Thank God.