Page 41 of From the Ashes
Phoenix
I’ve never been so pissed, hopeful, horny, and frustrated all at once in my entire life. What thefuckwas Knox thinking, orchestrating this shit? He had to have been listening from his truck or eavesdropping elsewhere to appear at the most inopportune time.
But thanks to his meddling, I’m now unlocking my front door with Walker DeVille hot on my heels.
His snarky,I’m-only-telling-the-truth-from-now-onattitude may very well earn him a broken jaw to match his wrist. Although, his sincere comment about my house lessens my annoyance, albeit ever so slightly.
I flip on the foyer light, taking comfort in the creak of the loose floorboard beneath my boot. I hang my hat on the hook above the small bench and walk straight to the kitchen for a beer.
Walker drops his bag and follows behind me at a slower pace. When I look at him over my shoulder, he’s glancing around my space with interest.
“You want a beer?” I ask, figuring his day’s been worse than mine and the least I can do is offer him a drink.
When he finally ambles into the kitchen, he shakes his head. “Na, I took a couple pain killers at the arena. Don’t think I’m supposed to drink with them.”
“I don’t thinkoneis enough to do any damage, but suit yourself.” I twist the cap off my bottle and chug half of it in one go.
Walker shrugs, throwing caution to the wind. “Eh, what the hell. But if I can only have one, you got anything stronger than beer? I’ve definitely had more of a whiskey day.”
I lick my lips as a truth of my own falls from them. “I’m not so sure you and I should get smashed on liquor together.”
The cocky smile he throws me makes my dick throb. Confidence looks so fucking good on him it makes my balls ache.
“Why’s that, cowboy? Afraid you won’t be able to control yourself around me?” The fucker winks before adding, “Besides, who said anything about getting smashed? You said I could haveone.”
Rolling my eyes, I reach into the cabinet next to the stove and pull down a bottle of Gentleman Jack. I remove the lid and throw back a healthy pour of my own before sliding the bottle to him across the counter.
Before I can stop him, he reaches for it with his right hand and tries to pick it up with still-swollen fingers, dropping it almost immediately.
“Ow, fuck!”
The bottle only falls an inch and lands upright, but Walker’s shout of pain almost makes me dizzy. I’m around the counter guiding him onto a barstool before I really think it through.
“Sit down,” I instruct angrily with one hand on his back ready to steady him if needed. Leaning around him into thecupboard by his head, I pull down a plastic cup and fill it with a quarter of an inch of liquor. “Here.”
He throws it back with no hesitation…and no wince.
“I’m glad to see you’ve upgraded your palate. I’m sorry for not offering you a Smirnoff or vodka and Kool-Aid that night.”
“Fuck off,” he laughs. With the cup in his left hand, he instinctively brings his right hand up to shove me in the chest, but I catch it before he can make contact, the pads of his fingers burning my palm.
“Hey, you gotta be careful with this thing. You need it to heal correctly so it doesn’t give you complications and keep you out another season.”
Walker nods. “Yeah, you’re right. I just forget and try to use it. Sucks it’s my dominant hand.”
“Better than your face,” I tease. The shot of whiskey I took from the bottle is knocking the edge off my anxiety enough for me to get the joke out.
“I suppose. Definitely better than my back.” He looks up at me where I’m still standing in his personal space. “Thanks for that catch by the way. I know Jonas thinks it was a bad call and breaking my wrist fucking blows, but on the back of that horse I knew it was going to be bad and I froze. I didn’t know what to do except brace for the impact and the subsequent pain.”
I return to the other side of the kitchen counter, needing space in order to think clearly.
Even still, all I come up with is, “No problem.”
I leave out the details of how my heart ceased to beat when I saw him get unbalanced or how I almost shit my pants knowing what was coming next, afraid I wouldn’t get the words out in time, or that he wouldn’t hear me, or listen to me. I don’t tell him how I was already pushing people out of the way to launch myself over the gate by the time he hit the dirt.
Walker swirls his whiskey in his cup, looking like he’s contemplating the meaning of life.
After watching his brows repeatedly pinch together and then relax, I finally ask, “What’s on your mind?”
