Nothing Between Us (14 page)

The ride back to Colby’s place was a quick and quiet one, and Keats was looking forward to crawling into bed and passing out. His head was pounding, it hurt to move, and his eye felt like it had its own heartbeat. He just wanted to sleep for a few days. But Colby had other ideas because not twenty minutes after they’d gotten back and Keats had lowered himself onto the bed, Colby was back in the guest room.

Colby leaned over the bed, frowning. “Lie still. I’m going to take a look.”

“I’m fine.” But Keats’s fingers dug into the sheets when Colby dragged Keats’s shirt up and off to inspect his back and ribs. The soreness was settling in now, and even the brush of cotton over his skin felt like too much. Colby pressed a warm palm along his side, applying the barest amount of pressure.

“Any trouble taking a full breath?”

“Not really.” Keats demonstrated and managed to keep his grunt of pain to himself. “I cracked a rib in middle school. This doesn’t feel like that. I’ll be all right.”

Colby leaned back, looking unmoved. “We’ll see. I have a doctor coming over to check you out anyway.”

Keats rolled onto his stomach too quickly, sending a sharp pain up his side, and his breath left him for a moment. “What?”

Colby hooked his thumbs in the pocket of his jeans. “I know a guy who’s willing to make a house call and won’t ask too many questions.”

“You know a guy?” Keats asked, adjusting the pillow beneath his head and trying to keep the bracing pain each movement caused from showing on his face. “Did you forget to tell me you were in the mafia or something?”

Colby smirked, his dimple making him look like a mischievous kid. “Not the mafia.”

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang and Colby left the room. Keats pulled the blanket over himself and let his face drop back onto the pillow. The last thing he wanted to do was see a damn doctor. He just wanted to crash and forget tonight ever happened. But Colby wasn’t going to be swayed, so he’d have to grit his teeth and get through this.

Footsteps and voices sounded in the hall, and Colby returned to the room with his guest. “Keats, this is Dr. Montgomery. He’s going to take a look at you. Let him.”

Keats kept his face planted in the pillow. “Please tell me you come bearing fistfuls of pain pills.”

The doctor sniffed. “Rough night, huh? Why don’t we see what we’re dealing with?”

Keats peeked out with his good eye, surprised that the doctor seemed vaguely amused. Colby leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, obviously intending to stay for the exam, and Dr. Montgomery—who was hard to think of as a doctor with his jeans and faded Oregon Ducks T-shirt—came to the side of the bed. At least he had a stethoscope around his neck. Keats gingerly rolled onto his back and moved the blanket aside.

The doc recoiled.

“Jesus.” Anger crossed his features. He sent a hard look toward Colby, accusation in his eyes. “What the hell did you do, Wilkes?”

Colby frowned deep, his gaze darting to Keats for a brief second before returning to the doc. “Seriously, Theo? You know me better than that. The guy got in a fight.”

“Oh.” The doc’s shoulders sagged as he released a breath. “Sorry. I just—”

Colby waved it off, though he still looked annoyed. “Just make sure he’s okay.”

Keats peered back and forth between them, trying to figure out what was going on. Why would the doctor think that Colby had hurt him?

The exam proceeded without many words exchanged. Dr. Montgomery poked and prodded, asked a few questions about pain levels, and checked Keats’s vitals. When he seemed satisfied, he stood and declared that Keats had bruised ribs and a mild allergic reaction to ant bites but was otherwise okay. Then the bastard prescribed regular ol’ ibuprofen because he figured Keats “could handle a little discomfort” and prescribing pain meds outside the hospital could raise eyebrows.

Colby thanked the doctor and walked him out, leaving Keats not much better off than he had been before the doctor came. When Colby darkened the doorway again, the grim expression he’d been wearing since he’d found Keats at the motel had softened a bit—relief. So Colby really had been worried. That concern burrowed into Keats and settled into a place he didn’t want to examine. He shifted on the bed. “Well, a helluva lot of good he did me. Ibuprofen and rest. I could’ve told him that. And where does he get off knowing what I can and can’t handle? This shit hurts.”

“All the tattoos and the fact that you’re at my place probably gave him that idea.” Colby gave him a wry smile. “He thinks you’re a masochist who’s used to handling pain.”

“Why the fuck would he think—” Then it hit him. “Shit. He thinks I’m like—”

“Mine,” Colby said, leaning against the wall and looking way too entertained by Keats’s reaction. “He thinks you’re my submissive. That’s why he was pissed when he saw how hurt you were. He thought he was coming over to tend a few battle scars after a fun night. That’s usually what he’s called in for.”

Keats’s lips parted, the information almost too much to process. “Usually? You injure people often?”

“No. I hurt people often, but with their permission, and I know what I’m doing. I’ve never had to call in Theo for one of my own. But I work at a kink resort on the weekends as a trainer, and Theo’s the go-to guy if something goes wrong. Accidents can happen.”

“So he’s like—fine with all of that?”

Colby shrugged. “He’s part of all of that. Very popular with the female dommes at The Ranch. Excellently trained submissive.”

Keats scooted up the headboard and raked a hand through his knotted hair while trying to picture the smug doctor kneeling at some woman’s feet. “I don’t get it. The guy seems like a bossy asshole. I wouldn’t think he’d be the type—”

“There is no type,” Colby said simply. “The man’s a world-class trauma surgeon. Successful, well respected, in charge in his day-to-day world. But behind closed doors, he likes something different. What people are on the outside doesn’t always match the desires hiding beneath the surface.”

Keats considered that. “I guess I just had an image of what a submissive guy would be like, and I was expecting some wimpy dude who wanted someone to take care of him.”

Colby rubbed a hand along his jaw, observing him in that way that made Keats want to squirm. “Submission takes more bravery than anything else—especially for a guy because of all the stereotypes out there. Putting complete trust in someone else, someone who happens to enjoy using implements of torture on you? Cowards wouldn’t go near a dom. And yes, a dominant takes care of his or her submissive, but that goes both ways. Some of the worst fights I’ve seen in my years in the kink world are submissives going into protective mode when someone tries to mess with their dominant.”

“I guess it’s just hard for me to understand it.”

“Is it?” Colby asked with a little head tilt. “Last night in the kitchen, you said you were fine suffering the torture of listening if it turned Georgia on. You said there wasn’t much you wouldn’t do to please a beautiful woman.”

Keats blinked. “All I meant—”

Colby held up a hand, halting him. “So if Georgia wanted to tie your hands behind your back, put you on your knees, and demand that you make her come, that would turn you off?”

Keats groaned at the image, a twinge of heat sparking low. “Well, fuck, of course it wouldn’t. But what guy wouldn’t be turned on by that?”

“I wouldn’t,” Colby said matter-of-factly. “I had to do submissive training in order to be a trainer at The Ranch. I was terrible at it. Couldn’t get hard when I wasn’t in control.”

Keats stiffened, embarrassment and anger mixing into one. “So what? You’re saying something’s wrong with me?”

“I tell you I couldn’t get it up for something, and you think I’m saying something’s wrong with
you
?” Humor sparked in Colby’s eyes and a hint of a smile appeared. “Of course not. People who like to be tied up and forced to do things are some of my favorite people.”

Keats’s stomach dipped, and he hated that his body responded even when he knew Colby was purposely goading him.

“I’m only trying to help you understand that there’s nothing wrong with being one or the other, or both or neither. You asked me earlier about my lifestyle. Since you’re going to be staying with me a while and probably meeting some of my friends, I’m simply answering some questions.”

“And you think I’m submissive,” he said flatly.

Colby crossed his arms, impassive. “I don’t make assumptions about anyone, especially someone who’s never tried kink before. Nobody really knows until they experiment and find out what does it for them. There aren’t always neat boxes. I know masochists who are dominants. Submissives who hate pain. People who switch roles depending on who they’re with. It’s complex. So no, I haven’t slapped some label on you, Keats.”

“So the people you train at that resort, they already know what they are?”

“No. Some of them are still figuring it out. I help them with that if they need it.”

Keats focused on folding the edge of the blanket into small zigzag folds. “So that’s what got you this house, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“This isn’t a neighborhood for a teacher’s salary.”

“Counselor.”

“Whatever. Bet it pays a lot less than fucking people for cash.”

Colby’s jaw clenched. “I’m not having sex for money. I’m a trainer. I don’t fuck students.”

Keats couldn’t help the snort that escaped. “Yeah, I got that message the night you tossed me out of your house. Loud and clear.”

Colby blew out a breath and ran a hand over his face, looking drawn and exhausted all of a sudden. “You know what, Keats? Part of me wishes I had kissed you back that night. No matter how wrong or inappropriate or illegal it would’ve been. Maybe that would’ve kept you there for the night and off the street the next day and the day after that.” He met Keats’s gaze, regret resting in his. “You were too good a kid to have to travel down this road. The world had bigger things waiting for you than this.”

Keats’s lungs felt tight, and it had nothing to do with his ribs. He didn’t want to think about the
what if
s. He dropped his gaze to the comforter, memories flooding him. Memories of the boy he used to be, the dreams he used to cling to, and how his dad had finally crushed the last bit of them that night. Remembering how desperately he’d wanted to believe that if he meant something to Colby, then maybe he wasn’t as worthless as he felt. “I don’t even know what I would’ve done if you had kissed me back. It’s not like I had any idea what I was doing.”

“Would’ve never happened anyway.”

Keats smirked, still staring at the comforter. “You’re bad for my ego. I had no shot, huh?”

Colby made some indecipherable sound and moved toward the door. When Keats dared to look up, Colby’s back was to him, his hand braced on the door frame. “No, Keats. You were a kid. I didn’t think of you that way. Not back then.”

With that, Colby disappeared into the dark hallway and shut the door behind him, leaving Keats staring after him.
Not back then.
But now . . .

Below the covers, Keats’s body stirred to attention.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

He planted a pillow over his face and groaned.

“So how’d it go?”

Georgia sipped her coffee and tried not to smile at the eager face staring back at her through her computer screen. “Are you asking as my therapist or my friend?”

Leesha sat up straighter in her office chair, pushed her dreads behind her shoulders, and put on her reading glasses. “Therapist first. Were you able to complete your goal?”

“Yes. I made it into his house with no panic attack.”

“Anxiety level from one to ten?”

“It hit about a seven, but he talked me down, helped me to breathe through it and to distract myself from the negative thoughts.”

She lifted a brow—her mildly impressed face. “Intuitive.”

“He’s a school counselor.”

“Oh,” she said, shifting into her fully impressed face. “Well, that helps.”

“Yeah, he’s really understanding about it. I was able to stay a while without any of the anxiety coming back.”

“A while, huh? Did you tell him about the watching you’ve been doing?”

She set her cup down. “He already knew. Apparently, I wasn’t quite as stealthy as I thought. Cancel my application to become an international spy.”

“He
knew
?” Leesha’s green eyes went big. “So he . . .”

“Yes, he let me. He”—Georgia’s face heated, but she pushed on—“he said he liked that I was watching.”

“Ho-lee shit.” She took her glasses off, apparently switching out of therapist mode into BFF mode. “That is either exceptionally creepy or freaking hot.”

“Hot,” Georgia said with a solemn nod. “Believe me. So. Hot.”

“Damn, girl.” Leesha glanced to the side, probably double-checking that her office door was still shut. “So what happened after that big revelation?”

Georgia sipped her coffee again and gave a shrug. “You know, stuff.”

“Oh, hell no.” Leesha leaned closer to her camera. “You can’t get vague on me now, woman. What happened?”

She attempted a nonchalant expression. “Oh, you know, I might’ve broken my dry spell.”

Leesha’s face lit and she smacked a hand on her desk. “Hot damn! Really? That’s a huge breakthrough—huge!”

Georgia laughed. “Oh, it
definitely
was. Huge, that is.”

Leesha blinked, obviously surprised to hear her make a joke. It was something old Georgia would’ve done. But Leesha recovered quickly and grinned wide. “Lucky bitch.”

“So you’re not going to lecture me on why I shouldn’t sleep with a guy on the first date or how I should take things slow?”

She snorted. “This wasn’t exactly a first date. If he knew you were watching, you’ve been somewhat intimate for months, even if it was through glass. And honestly, I think something casual and fun with a guy could help. Beyond needing face-to-face connections with the outside world, trusting someone enough to be sexual with them is a big step in repairing the damage Phillip left you with. It shows progress.”

“Me screwing my hot neighbor is progress? I like your version of therapy, Dr. Richards,” she teased, trying to keep the mood light. She wanted to have a fun chat with her friend. She didn’t want to think about treatment plans and goals and how Colby could fit onto that list. She didn’t want her sexy fling to be something to check off on a list to show that she was A-OK again.

“This isn’t Dr. Richards’s advice. This is advice from the girl who’s known you since sixth grade and wants to see you happy and healthy again.”

That took Georgia’s smile down a notch. “I know, Leesh. I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” she said, her voice sympathetic. “This is hard work, and I’m proud that you’re pushing yourself. Keep stepping outside those comfort zones, and we’ll get you into that courtroom. Then you can put all this shit behind you.”

Put it behind her. Like it’d just been a bad marriage or misguided career decision or something. That goal sounded like a pipe dream if ever there was one.

Some scars would never disappear no matter how much salve you put on them or how much time you let pass. But maybe she could learn to live with those marks on her. A life that didn’t involve hiding inside her house like some scared, helpless thing.

Of all the things, that was what she hated the most. The helplessness. Her sister wouldn’t even recognize her, looking down from wherever she was. If she were still here, she’d be giving Georgia a helluva talking-to for being such a coward.

Of course, if her sister were still here, Georgia wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. Her doctors had said the trauma of losing Raleigh and finding out the truth about how her friend Tyson had died had been what set off her breakdown. When she’d turned in evidence on Phillip to the cops, Georgia had already been dealing with the cold realization that the polished, successful man she’d dated was a sick, dangerous person.

When she’d broken up with him, it had taken only a week before the phone calls, letters, and drive-bys had started. First, it’d been the sweet, please-take-me-back approach. But when she’d ignored him, it’d turned ugly and violent quick. She’d protected herself, had taken precautions. But she hadn’t thought to consider her family. And Phillip had known what would devastate her more than anything. Raleigh, her baby sister, dead. Everything had fallen apart in Georgia’s world after that.

Chilled by the memory, Georgia wrapped up her conversation with Leesha and promised to check in later in the week. She had no doubt Leesha would end the call and immediately send the email update to the lawyer. What would it say?

Dear Mrs. Ramirez, Client left the house and screwed her neighbor. We are making great progress on her treatment plan and are confident she will be ready to testify in court when the time comes.

Georgia snorted to herself. Of course, Leesha wouldn’t give those exact details. Beyond confidentiality rules, she would protect Georgia’s privacy as a friend. But still, Georgia had the distinct feeling of being observed like a circus animal—everyone peering in and wondering if she’d be able to perform for the masses when it was time.

Her doorbell rang, startling her from her thoughts. She pushed back from her desk and headed to the front door, the familiar rush of adrenaline filling her as she crossed the bottom floor of her house. She hated that it was such a hair trigger. It was probably just a salesman or Bible pusher and already her body was going all fight-or-flight. But when she got to the door and peeked through the peephole, there was a familiar profile in view.

Nerves of a different sort crackled through her. She took a breath and unlocked the door. By the time she pulled it open, she’d mustered up some semblance of a casual smile—or at least she hoped it looked casual. She didn’t feel casual. “Hey, there.”

“Hey.” Keats tucked his hands in his back pockets and lifted his face to her. “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Oh my God.” She stepped onto the porch, and her hand went to push his hair away from his blackened eye. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said gruffly. But his gaze flared when she ran a thumb along his swollen cheekbone.

She quickly lowered her hand, realizing the move had come across more intimate than she’d intended. “What happened?”

“Had a welcoming committee when I showed up at my place last night. Kind of a long story. The other guy looks worse than I do, at least.” He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. I’m a little banged up but nothing to freak out about.”

“I’m guessing Colby freaked out,” she said, resisting the urge to check him head to foot for injuries.

Keats smirked and glanced toward Colby’s place. “Understatement. I have a feeling if I hadn’t come home with him last night, he would’ve tied me up and tossed me in the back of his truck.”

She crossed her arms. “I don’t blame him. I would’ve done the same.”

Keats’s gaze hopped to hers at that, green eyes sparking. “Yeah? I might’ve enjoyed that. Next time, you come and get me instead.”

She laughed. “There won’t be a next time because you’re not going back.”

His playful expression clouded over. “Well, I’m not going to freeload over at Colby’s forever, no matter how much he says he doesn’t mind me staying with him.”

“No freeloading necessary,” she said, taking a step back into her house and pushing the door open wider. “Because soon you’ll be able to pay Colby rent. I’m going to offer you a job, and you’re going to take it.”

His eyebrows arched. “I am?”

“Yes.”

“O-kay,” he said, doubt lingering in his voice. “You need remodeling done or something?”

“I need a lot of things but not remodeling.”

“A lot of things, huh?” His attention traveled down her body and up again, not bothering to hide his perusal, and then he grinned. “What kind of job is this exactly?”

She pressed her lips together, attempting a stern look, but failed when her mouth twitched up at the corners. “Stop flirting, new hire.”

He chuckled and walked past her into the house. “With you? Not possible. And I haven’t said yes yet.”

Georgia breathed through the shimmer of anxiety that arose from Keats entering her home. Goddamn her brain and its crossed signals. But after a few seconds of focusing on her responses, she was able to recapture the calm. Each time he came over it would get easier. That was what she had to keep reminding herself. “You will.”

“Confident woman. I like it.” He strolled into her living room and sank onto her couch, totally at ease. No visitor had ever sat in her living room here. But somehow his nonchalance helped her to not panic about his presence. “So what is it you need?”

She shut the door behind her, headed into the living room, and sat in the armchair facing the couch. “Office work, mostly. Easy tasks but things that can be time sucks for me. And I need help with errands. I’m not—” She was tempted to make some lame excuse about how she didn’t have time to run errands, but he’d seen her panic attack yesterday. She’d be fooling no one. “I’m not good with leaving the house. It’s a pain in the ass, but I can’t seem to fix it. So it’d be a huge help if I had someone who could take stuff to the post office or pick up things at the store.”

He shifted on the couch, his fingers rubbing along his side like it hurt, but said nothing.

“It would only be part time, but it could get you started and would give you a chance to look for something full time in the off hours. Plus, I could help you put together a résumé. I’m good at those.”

“Are you making up a position for me?” he asked, his tone grim.

She shook her head. “Not at all. I was looking for a virtual assistant already for the office stuff. But I figured this could be even better because you’re here and could help with physical things as well.”

He smirked at
physical things
.

And she had to wonder if it had been a Freudian slip on her part. Maybe this wasn’t a wise idea. She should not be having any inappropriate thoughts about her too-young, too-good-looking future employee. Especially when she’d slept with the guy’s housemate last night. “You’re shameless.”

But she was really directing that accusation at herself.

“Agreed,” he said without remorse. “But this sounds like kind of a cop-out for you.”

She blinked. “What?”

He stretched an arm out over the back of the couch, taking up the space like he owned it and looking older than his years. “For your panic attacks. Instead of facing it, you’ll just send me instead. Sounds like cheating.”

Her spine straightened. “It’s not that simple.”

He frowned. “Or that complicated.”

That ticked her off. “You don’t know anything about what I’m going through, Keats.”

“Maybe not. But I probably understand more than you think. I know what panic attacks are. When I was in junior high, my father made me join a summer football camp he was coaching. I hated it.
Hated.
All the worst of the kids who tormented me in school were part of the camp and now instead of just teasing me, they could crush me on the field in the spirit of the game. And when they did and I couldn’t get up quick enough, not only would they laugh, but my dad would call me a pussy in front of everyone, take off my jersey and replace it with a pink T-shirt that said
Princess
, then make me run laps for lack of effort.”

Her stomach turned.

“I’d make myself sick and have panic attacks over showing up. I researched every trick there was to making myself look like I was sick so my dad wouldn’t drag me out there. Of course, with him, none of it worked. I couldn’t sleep or eat, thinking about what I’d face the next day. The dread was killing me. It was ruining my whole summer—the only time I usually enjoyed. So the third week, I decided that I’d stop worrying over what could happen and make the worst happen—take the control back. I showed up to practice early in that stupid shirt and told those douchebags to make good on their threats or fuck off.”

“Did they back down?”

He made a dismissive noise. “No way. They jumped me. Six on one. But I got what I wanted after all. After knocking out the ringleader with an excellent uppercut—which was awesome—I got shoved down some bleachers and broke my ankle. Couldn’t play any sports for months. I spent the rest of that summer learning how to play guitar while my dad disappeared every day to camp. Best. Summer. Ever.”

“God, Keats, that’s awful.”

“Probably, but it taught me that being scared is usually worse than what you’re scared of. Facing it sucks, but it sucks less than always worrying about the
what if
s.”

She sighed. She could tell him that her fear was well founded, but it wasn’t really anymore. Phillip was in another state. All that was left was the residual, nebulous terror of what could happen. “I know it probably doesn’t seem like it, but I am working on it and taking small steps. The fact that you’re here in the house with me is one. And last night was the first time I went into someone else’s house in over a year.”

She had no idea why she was admitting all this, but Keats had that way about him. He had a face you’d confess deep, dark secrets to because you could tell he’d keep them.

“So why don’t I help you keep that up?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll run errands for you, but only if you come with me.”