Page 8 of Opening Strain

Río replies, “Message received, buddy.” He hits me on top of the ice pack and shooting pain screams throughout my body.

“That fucking hurt,” I hiss.

“Sorry man,” Río says. “I thought it wasn’t so bad.”

Through gritted teeth, I answer, “When it’s left alone.”

Brows together, Coop leans toward me. “Are you sure you’re all right? Want me to get a doctor?”

“Luke is,” I pant, “getting someone.” I take several deep breaths.

Noise around me stops. One by one, each of the guy’s mouths shut. I follow their gazes to the threshold, and my own mouth seals.

All the air in the room disappears.

My brain seizes.

Why on earth isshehere?

Luke ushers Jenna Westfield toward me. Our manager and Darren’s ex whisper between themselves. Tris’s head tilts. Río’sbrows pull together. Coop’s eyes reach his hairline. 007’s face glows red.

I bite my inner cheeks.

Luke draws our attention. “Guys, we were lucky to have a physical therapist in the audience.”

“Administrator,” Jenna corrects him.

He continues without acknowledging she spoke. “We need to get Bennett checked out.”

Hands on hips, chest pumping in and out, a red-faced 007 stares her down. In a bellow sure to be heard several states over, he howls, “Get someone else.”

I don’t want Jenna to touch me.

I don’t want to revisit our initial conversation.

I don’t want to be gut punched by Darren, even from the grave.

Still, if Luke brought her to check on me, I’m pretty sure there were no other options. I need to take control of this situation. And fast. “Guys. I’m sure it’s nothing. Remember, Darren praised her work with his wrist injury. I’m going to let her take a quick look at my leg, and then we’ll all be on our way.”

Luke shoos the rest of the band away from us, muttering something about giving us privacy. He literally has to push 007.

Above the jackhammers pounding through my body, I manage, “Hey, Jenna.”

“Bennett.” She removes the ice pack from my thigh. Of course, I’m still wearing my black leather pants from performing, but they’re going nowhere. On the other hand, my torso is bare. Wonderful.

Over the leather, her hands skim my legs. She kneads my upper thigh. She manipulates my leg, causing a bit of discomfort. A bit? It fucking hurts! I remind myself she’s doing an exam, nothing more. To keep my thoughts away from the no-go zone, I imagine the most boring task I can—a meeting with my CPA.

This distraction works for a minute, until she tells me to stand. Unsteady, I rise out of the chair. Relying on my good leg, I stand before her and she continues running tests.

She pulls my leg away from my body and tells me to push against her hand. I try, and maybe succeed a little, but the pain is blinding. My ass lands in the chair again.

“What I thought,” she whispers to herself.

“What is it?” I ask.

Her pink tongue licks her lips. “I’m no doctor, but if I had to guess, you have a grade two groin pull.”

I repeat her diagnosis. “How long til I’m normal again?”

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