Page 43 of From the Ashes
I set my clothes on the lid of the toilet seat and head back downstairs to find Phoenix. My boots are loud, but my appearance still seems to startle him when I find him in the kitchen, standing with his palms on the counter and his head hanging between his arms.
The sight guts me, and Ineedto make it better.
“Hey,” I start slowly. “Are you okay? If me being here is too much, I can?—”
“It’s fine,” Phoenix says, interrupting me. “Knox was right, I need the help andon such short notice, I don’t know that I could find anyone, let alone train them, by Monday.” He looks over at me. “You come down here just to check on me? You’re the patient, remember?”
“Yeeeaahhh,” I draw the word out slowly. “About that. I can’t get my boots off…or my shirt…or my pants.”
I watch Phoenix rub his forehead and pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s battling a migraine.
“Have a seat at the table,” he says, waving a hand toward the wooden furniture.
I do as he instructs, gripping the side of the chair with my left hand to prevent myself from sliding onto the floor as soon as he yanks. Kneeling on the floor next to me, he pulls my boot in his lap and works the heel off first like a pro. The boots don’t put up much of a fight and although they’re comfortable, I’m relieved to have them off.
Suddenly, I’m terribly self-conscious because feetreekafter being in cowboy boots for twelve hours. As soon as the second one is off, I quickly drop my foot to the floor to get it as far away from his nose as I can.
But he says nothing, just plants his hands on his knees and stands up, motioning for me to stand with him.
“You too. I don’t want to have to bend over for all of these,” he says, pointing toward the buttons on my shirt.
I don’t argue.
His hands tremble as he raises them to start on the buttons at my chest. Trying to ease his discomfort, I crack a joke, like he did for me when Knox called me to the stalls. “It’s a shame I haven’t gotten around to making those easy-to-remove shirts and jeans that actually leave room for our nuts. I have to admit, you were really on to something back then.”
It’s not the first time one of us has referencedthat night. The references come in small spurts though, like neither of us can face it all at once, but ignoring it isn’t an option either.
Phoenix huffs a laugh seemingly against his will before his features turn back into a scowl, but I’ll take it as a win.
I can tell he’s trying to get through the buttons quickly because his speed is causing him to fumble them. He’s only on the second one when he realizes instead of a white t-shirt under my button-down, I have on a black wifebeater tank top.
His knuckles graze the top of my bare chest where the scooped neck of the tank doesn’t reach, and we both falter. I hold my breath the entire time.
I desperately want to ask him if he thinks about that night as much as I do…or at all, but this thing between us is too fragile to handle that question just yet.
By the time he gets my shirt open, we’re both breathing hard, and I could die with how badly I want his hands on me.
He’s trying to maintain the distance between us as he moves to the button on my jeans, but the angle isn’t right and the button isn’t giving. Relenting, Phoenix moves a step closer to me. My cock is more swollen than my fingers at this point, and I’m not sure if he’d rather I apologize for it or pretend like it isn’t happening.
When the button finally slips free, he practically runs for the door.
“I need to go feed my trail horses,” he calls without a backward glance.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” I manage in a whisper, watching him go before heading back upstairs, wiggling out of my clothes, carefully peeling off my brace, and stepping into the hot spray of the shower. The heat of the water feels incredible—although, not nearly as good as my hand feels around my cock.
I’m clumsy with my left hand, but thankfully I’m sofucking wound up that I don’t even need a consistent rhythm before I’m spilling my release down the drain.
Feeling a little more in control afterwards, and dressed in clothes I can manage by myself—athletic shorts and a baggy t-shirt—with my brace back in place, I go looking for Phoenix once more. If we let the awkwardness hang in the air, it’ll only be worse tomorrow.
I find him on the couch downstairs, watching T.V.
Guess the trail horses don’t require much attention after all.
Flopping down right next to him, I try to act totally nonchalant. “They deliver pizza out here? I haven’t eaten in a while and the oxy-whiskey combo on an empty stomach is making me a little queasy.”
My admission spurs Phoenix into action.
“Oh, fuck. I didn’t even think about that.” He jumps off the couch and heads for the fridge. “A couple places will deliver out here, but if you want to eat before midnight, it’s probably best just to eat what’s here.” Pulling the door open, he surveys what’s inside. “I’ve got some leftover ribs, homemade mac ‘n cheese, baked beans, and there’s some chicken thighs in here that are still good. But if none of that sounds appealing, I can fix?—”
