Page 29 of The Darkness Within

“What’s this?” He flips it over, reading the logo on the plastic poker chip.

“A white chip. It means surrender. It’s meant to be a reminder of your struggle. The poker chip symbolizes that when we use drugs and alcohol, we’re gambling with our lives. Use it as a talisman, to remind you of the hope you have for your future, not the hell from your past, like that bootlace.”

“Surrender?”

“Yes, surrender. You better get used to surrendering because every time life gets hard, you’re going to have to surrender again and again. Every time you have a nightmare, or a flashback, every time you feel like running away, you’ll have to surrender again.”

Without saying a word, he pockets the chip in his jeans and finishes off his bowl of soup.

Well, that went better than I’d hoped. We’ll see how tomorrow goes.

After clearing the table, I reach for the large plastic zip-sealed bag holding his meds and begin doling them out one by one according to the dosage on the labels.

“Here, now that you’ve eaten something, take these.”

Nash swipes them from my hand and swallows the entire cocktail without even looking to see what I gave him, chasing it with a glass of water.

“Sorry, I forgot this one,” I add, grabbing the little egg-shaped brown pill.

This time, maybe because the pill is by itself, he recognizes it, and he becomes angry, roughly grabbing it from my hand.

“I don’t need you to dole them out to me like I’m a fucking child,” he snaps, swallowing it dry.

Years ago, another lifetime ago, my first reaction would be anger, to become defensive and snap back, but after years of professional training, I’ve learned to bite back the first words that dangle from the tip of my tongue and practice patience. Putting myself in Nash’s position, I try to see things from his perspective. He’s embarrassed, maybe even ashamed of the fact that I’m aware of his erectile dysfunction. So many men place false importance on their virility, or what they think is a sign of their virility. It’s a crock of shit.

“You know,” I muse, taking a seat beside him, “you could have ended up with worse side effects than ED.” Nash glares, shooting icy daggers from his pale blue eyes. “Instead of shooting you in the leg, they could have cut your dick off.” It’s hard to say it with a straight face, so damn hard. “If I were you, I’d be counting my blessings.”

Suddenly, his face shifts, like the sun emerging from behind a dark cloud, and his expression brightens. Nash chuckles. “You’re something else, Brewer.”

“It’s perfectly natural, you know that, don’t you?”

“There’s nothing natural about having a limp dick.”

“There is if you’ve suffered a great trauma. Also, it’s a side effect of your high blood pressure meds. If we can bring down your blood pressure, you might be able to stop taking them all together.”

“Really?”

“I see you’ve spent a lot of time researching this.”

He laughs again, and I feel like I’ve been given a gift. Nash has a beautiful smile—even white teeth, full peach lips surrounded by pale stubble, set in a square jaw. I always think of G.I. Joe when I look at him. His arresting looks make it hard for me to turn away.

“You can’t take those with alcohol, so, if you’re not ready to surrender completely, let me know and I will eliminate them from your regimen.”

He doesn’t answer, just nods his head. “I haven’t been taking them. Haven’t needed to. It’s the last thing on my mind.”

“You know, your physical therapist, Navarro Riggs, has a theory about that.”

“About limp dicks? Let me guess, he channels the anger and self hatred, which is a side effect of limp dick, into getting his patients to workout harder?”

I can’t not laugh at that. Nash has a very dry sense of humor, which he displays at the worst times. “Not exactly. His theory is that libido is a great motivator to recovery. Not everybody wants to get better for the right reasons—”

“But everybody wants to have sex,” he finishes.

“Well, not everybody, I guess, but most people do, and to have it, they’ll work twice as hard to improve.”

The way he studies me makes my heart beat faster. My stomach warms the longer he stares. I know he’s thinking about me, about having sex with me. My eyes widen, my nostrils flare, giving myself away. He knows he’s affecting me, and he smirks, a roguish half grin that makes him look infinitely sexier.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. With the right person, sex can be a great motivator.”

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