JOSEPH
There’s just something about that first touch.
The slide of my finger into a woman’s panties and over her clit. Damn. It gets me every time, like a lightning bolt to the nerve endings in my dick.
She parts her legs, moaning softly as I caress her, feeling her arousal slickening my fingers. God, she’s beautiful. Gorgeous shiny long hair, wide eyes, pouty lips. All the things that make her such a hit on Instagram.
I kiss her neck, nuzzling against her warm soft skin as I get my first feel inside her. Two fingers first because she feels really tight. Three fingers. Four. I know I have to open her up nicely so she’s ready to take my big dick. She grunts a little at the stretch and I love it. She’s gonna grunt even harder when I bury myself inside her. Her little tits are high and round, pink nipples hardened into points. I lick my way around each one before biting gently. The way she arches her back tells me she likes the pain more than she would probably ever confess.
I want in her so badly; to feel her come around my cock and then let go of all the pent up sexual tension that’s building with every touch and stroke. Her panties are in the way so I drag them over her amazing legs…
My throat feels raw. It’s dark. I try to take a deep breath but I can’t. I try to open my eyes but I can only get them open enough to see two crescents of light. It burns. I squeeze them shut again, giving myself some time to get used to the bright orange behind my lids, slowly opening one, then the other. Something's shoved up my nose, and my head is throbbing painfully, even more painfully than that one time I woke up after hitting my head on the side of a nice sharp boulder while rock-climbing. The steady beeping going on to my right is enough to make me want to rip whatever it is apart, it's so annoying.
That's when I realize that the deja vu I'm feeling is a little too real. Fuzzy images of the fresh powder flying into my face as I'm going head over snowboard assault my already groggy mind, and I bring my hand up to my head, groaning. That diamond trail proved to be more than I could handle, and the last thing I remember is a sick crack, a pain driving home right through me. At least, I think that's the last thing... everything seems so mixed up.
Like a jigsaw puzzle scattered across a table.
When I finally get a good look around, the blurry room's details come swimming into view. It's not the stark white room, the old ass TV set on the wall, or even the litany of machines I'm hooked up to, wheezing and beeping, that leave me frowning.
It's the way Michael is dressed up like he's going to a goddamn meeting with the board members, yet he's slouching just so, asleep in an ugly brown armchair next to me. Oh, I can just imagine the smug look he'll give me the moment he wakes up...
I go to move the sheets away from my legs so I can slowly swing them out and see just how fucked I am, but my legs are asleep as I push the thick white covers down. Shocking lines zigzag across one calf, while the other one is mainly bruised, black and purple blooming out all along it. Gritting my teeth, I know it's going to hurt like hell trying to maneuver out of bed, but I know I have to test my weight on my feet.
It's harder than I realize to move my legs, and there's no annoying pins and needles feeling in them after waking up like usual, there's just a dead weight to them. I try to wiggle my toes, and focus hard, watching for the smallest twitch, but still nothing.
"What the fuck?" I shove the blankets all the way down, trying to pull myself up using the flimsy bedrails, desperate to move my legs because holy hell, they can't be this messed up. I can't be fucking paralyzed. There’s no fucking way. Sweat pricks across my scruffy face as I push at my thighs, panicking because I definitely can’t feel them.
"Whoa, whoa. What's going on?" Michael's voice is coming from the chair but I'm still so out of it, that it takes a moment for me to remember he's here with me. I point to my legs, my mouth hanging open because I can’t fucking speak I’m panicking so much.
Michael's solemn expression makes me want to punch him right in the damn mouth. Just say it, motherfucker. Just say it. "What the fuck…” My throat is sore, my voice gravelly. “What happened to my legs? Am I…?"
My just barely-older brother runs his hand through his short-cropped hair, before leaning forward and pushing the faded red button on the bedrail. There's suddenly a nurse's voice right by my ear, asking if we need help. "Can I get a nurse to room 302? Thank you," Michael says in his cool and collected tone. As if his brother isn't lying in a hospital.
Coming to stand at the foot of the bed, he places his hands on the footboard, leaning, the bed creaking. "I'm glad to see you're finally awake. You've been out for two days already. They had to fly you to Mariners Medical Center, right outside of Aspen." There's definitely concern in his voice, but it's colored with the smallest edge of him wanting to shout 'I told you so.' But I know he won't. Michael isn’t really the shouting kind. He usually leaves that up to me.
I bite my lip. "What happened to my legs, Michael? Why aren't they working right?"
"You'll be fine, especially now, after the surgery. They've got a spinal block in to keep your lower spine immobile while you're still healing. Apparently, you fractured the L5 lumbar bone in your spinal cord, but luckily the doctors think you'll eventually make a full recovery."
A huge rush of relief blows through me. Lifting up my head to the ceiling, I shake it. "Thank god. So I'll be fine?”
“Fine? You fractured your spine taking unnecessary risks, Joseph”
“Risks. It’s a winter sport, Michael.”
“Not the way you do it,” he says impatiently.
I take a deep breath. Rowing with him while I’m in this state isn’t exactly the most sensible idea. “So, I’m gonna be laid up in bed then, recovering?”
Something flickers in his eyes for a split second. "You're lucky that you survived the accident, Jo. I don’t think you should be pissed off about being able to take some time out to recover," he replies, his back straightened as he looks me over. I can almost see the rage boiling inside him, but he keeps it all so bottled up and stays so outwardly calm that it almost freaks me out. Me, in his position? Forget it. I'd be throwing shit around, screaming, spit flying out of my mouth, but not Michael.
It's probably one of the reasons why he's the better businessman between us. Dad was proud to be priming my brother for running the casino, always sharing his pointers with him, what to look for, who to rub shoulders with. And you can bet that Michael ate all that shit up, too.
I'm more like our mom, myself, and that’s the way I like it. Short fuse, quick to fire, more liable to trust my gut over facts and figures. She was the heart to my father's everything. Hell, she was the heart to all everyone’s everything. She picked us up and kept us rolling, even after Dad died when Michael and I were twelve, doing what she had to do to make sure we survived. She kept the business thriving, diversified it, made sure we were legit and well-accounted for no matter what, and with her gone... well, Michael and I are all that's left.
Ignoring his passive-aggressive jab, I pull the plastic tube thing out of my nose and grab the pitcher of ice water next to me on the rolling tray table, pouring myself some. "When am I getting out of here?"
He walks the length of the room, peering out between the yellowish blinds. "They'll be discharging you in a few days' time. I've already arranged for you to get back to Vegas. And… I've found an in-home nurse to help you with your recovery since I know how much you hate hospitals."
He has a good point there. The bleached-out smell is already making me nauseous.
"It should all be fine. Well, as long as you don't do anything especially stupid to ruin or hinder your healing, that is." He raises a brow pointedly at me. "But I know you wouldn't want to do that."
I gulp down the water, closing my eyes. "In-home nurse? What kind of nurse are we talking? Not some old dude, right?" I wince as a sharp pain dives down through my head.
"Actually, I interviewed this rather brilliant and giant Russian man named Bruno who used to be part of some kind of Russian law enforcement. Only the best that money can buy for you, obviously."
I can't quite tell if he's just bullshitting me, or if I'm really about to get sponge bathed by some huge Russian dude. The mental image isn't a pretty one.
The corner of Michael’s mouth quirks as he pulls something out from his briefcase. Leave it to my brother to carry one around like that. Handing me a small manila folder, he ends up chuckling.
Flipping it open, I'm surprised to see the beautiful yet shy looking woman with the curly dark hair smiling up at me in a picture clipped to a resume for a 'Lana Romero.' I scan over the piece of paper, looking over all the certifications, somewhat impressed. "She seems perfectly fit for the job."
Michael just snorts, something he only ever does in front of me. "I thought you'd appreciate her credentials. She's incredibly qualified—I don't pick just anyone, you know. I've got Thelma on it, securing Miss Romero the job."
Thelma, our executive assistant, probably has this Lana woman on the job already somehow, as incredibly efficient as Thelma is. "I appreciate it."
I don't want to mention to him just how piss-poor he looks. It's in his eyes—the way they're not as bright, and the dark circles are starting to sink in under them. His hair could be perfectly gelled, his suit perfectly pressed, but I can tell when my twin brother needs some zzz's. A small part of me feels guilty for leaving him worried like this.
There's a short knock at the opened door and in walks an older nurse, carrying a plastic tray of what's supposed to pass as food but smells pretty gross. "I guess there are worse fates than being tended to by some intelligent and smoking hot nurse," I finally admit as the nurse with the food leaves. Poking around at looks like scrambled eggs and bacon, I shake my head. "Like this shit they call food right here."