Page 127 of Primal God

To top it all off, I’m worried because I don’t know what my uncle is up to. He’s been radio silent, which scares me, especially since the summer is almost over.

“…friend,” I finish lamely.

“Friend.” Amber hums. “Does the man who periodically pops in know he’s just a friend?”

She’s not wrong. Dimitri has found more than one excuse to see how I’m doing. And I found out from Shelene that he’s started taking fewer cases on the days I have therapy, so he can drive me to and from the hospital.

I’m saved from answering when the door to the gym opens and a tall man with long blond hair saunters in. Saunter is the only way to describe it, too. He walks in like he’s a god, and we’re all mere mortals who are lucky enough to be in his presence. He’s wearing gym shorts and a tank top that shows off his tattooed arms and legs. When he turns, I can see that the tattoos even go up his neck. His left arm is in some kind of sling, but not in a cast.

“How are my favorite girls doing?” His voice carries across the entire gym.

Several of the therapist giggle. The three male therapists seem annoyed, though.

Amber leans in and whispers, “That’s Mr. Motorcycle. He’s kind of a legend around here.”

“Oh?”

She nods. “He’s a charmer and likes to flirt with anyone who will give him the time of day. Definitely a delightful break in the mundane, ya know?”

“I’m sure it helps that he’s not bad to look at.”

She grins and hums her agreement.

By the time my session is over, I’ve watched Mr. Motorcycle move around the room, making nearly every woman he’s come in contact with blush. One lady even got so flustered that she fell off the exercise bike she was on.

I sit in the chair so I can gather my things and give my hand a rest. Sometimes we add ice to my hand, but it doesn’t help that much.

“See you next week,” she says.

I don’t have time to reply because Mr. Motorcycle sits next to me, leaning back into the chair with a loud sigh.

“Fuck, that was rough.”

His therapist slings an icepack on his shoulder, securing it before walking away.

He turns to me. “What are you in for?”

“Broken wrist. You?”

“Damn. Did you punch someone?”

I snort. “Uh, no.”

“How’d you break it?”

“I tripped and fell.”

He gestures to his shoulder. “I fell off my bike and tore my rotator cuff.”

“That stinks.”

“You have no idea.” He holds out his left hand. “Name’s Pretty Boy.”

“Uh, what?”

“Pretty Boy. What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Your name is Pretty Boy?”

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