Page 13 of The Wounded Warrior

Something was buzzing, clicking. Something…huge.

Rory shook his head, trying to make himself wake up.Come on. Come on, man. You have to move. You have to get the fuck out of here.

A rush of bile flooded his mouth and he screamed, the sound muffled, trapped in his throat.

“He’s choking. He’s choking. He’s choking.”

What the fuck was that?

Wake up, Rory. You have to move. He knew he had to crawl, he had to get away, but he was tied like a calf at a junior rodeo.

He bucked, his head slamming against something hard, and he couldn’t breathe from the acid and the burn, his lungs on fire.

Oh, please, just let him have some air, an ease from this nausea he couldn’t shake.

Sparkles showed up behind his eyes, which wouldn’t open for love or money, and he convulsed, desperate to catch a single breath of air.

He landed on the floor of his bedroom with a thump, theblankets wrapped tight around him, the light on in the en suite.

Rory sucked in a huge breath, relieved when his lungs worked, when no gag filled his mouth. Oh, Jesus, what a shitty dream.

He crawled into the bathroom, where three bottles of water in an ice bucket waited.

Oh, he totally owed Lori a raise.

Rory snagged one and let himself collapse in the tub, thanking God, not for the first time, that he had invested in the tankless water heater. He could just let the water rain down on him, steam beginning to rise almost immediately. He needed to scrub.

Soaking, scrubbing, then sleeping. No more beer. None. Then he would go find Luke LeBlanc and say how sorry he was.

How he was obviously being poisoned by manky beer. Maybe he’d even offer to take the guy out to lunch. Probably get shot down, too, but Luke had gotten under his skin.

Figuratively, not literally, because oh, Jesus fuck, no. Rory shuddered. Right. No more thinking.

Thinking bad.Fire angry. Soaking in the tub?Good.

Rory lay back, tilting his head over the edge of the tub so he didn’t drown. He frowned, wondering what had made him think he was tied and gagged. Dreams were odd things.

He guessed the lingering nausea was just flavoring everything. Flavoring. Right. Gross! He needed to have calming thoughts. Breathe. Meditate.

By the time the water cooled, Rory was sound asleep, snoring and dreaming of Oompa Loompas doing the can-can.

It was better than drowning.

Chapter Eight

Physical therapy sucked giant hairy donkey dicks.

Luke did it because he had every intention of getting out of the wheelchair, no matter what he told Matt about giving up. He really did.

Still, the cheerful chirp of Avery the therapist’s voice as Luke pushed his newly changed body to do things that used to come easy as breathing… Well, it made him want to hit something.

So he’d let Matt in the house when they got home and gone to the yearling barn. He needed some horse time.

The babies nickered and tossed their heads, calling to him. He loved that, loved that they knew him and that they weren’t scared. They had been, that first bit, but he didn’t mind. He’d been afraid of them, too, and he’d been raised with them. Everything was different in the chair. The whole world looked huge, and everything seemed designed to tip a man over.

Now, he knew they wouldn’t hurt him unless he did something stupid. “Hey, guys. Guess who brought apples.”

Tom-Tom peeked over the gate, chin banging on the wood.

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