Chapter Fourteen

The next few days passed in a slow haze of hellish pain. Dax no longer saw Cameron Wilson as a hot guy he could fantasize over in times of quiet solitude, but as a someone he loathed; a torturer, a devil. Every day, he turned up at ten o’clock on the dot, and he put Dax through a grueling regime of exercises and movements that often left Dax sobbing, and begging for mercy.

But after a few days, Dax found that the mobility in the fingers of his right hand had returned almost to normal. He was able to make a fist and flex his fingers with ease, and they no longer hurt. Although his arm was still in a cast, it was out of the sling, and he could move it up and down, even above his head, although the weight of the bulky plaster meant that he couldn’t hold it up for long.

The most important change had come in that he could now sit up in bed and had even begun to transfer his weight from the bed to a wheelchair. The relief at being able to take himself to the bathroom and finally rid himself of the catheter was priceless, and the first time he sat up on his own on the toilet, Dax wept. He couldn’t believe he’d enjoy peeing while sitting down so much, but it was the first time he’d been able to attend to his own bodily functions without people helping him, for weeks.

By the first of April, he was moving from the bed to the chair with surprising ease, and while he was still in a great deal of pain, he was able to use his left arm to push the wheels to move the chair to the bathroom and back. Kelly offered to push him, but he was determined to do it himself.

His manager, Grant, had taken a room in a hotel in the city, and became a regular fixture at the hospital. At the end of March, Diane Monroe returned to the States, and Dax promised to follow her soon. Grant was keen on the idea, too, and for what seemed like the hundredth time, he came into the room one morning, as Cameron had Dax’s leg bent at the knee while Dax lay on his side, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“I’ve got a plane booked for tomorrow evening,” he said, with no regard for the therapy session being conducted. Cameron ignored Grant, as he always did, and Dax tried to concentrate on his exercise, giving the smallest nod to Grant.

His manager had been a presence since the very beginning of Dax’s career. Since he was signed to the TerrorCorp Records label at eighteen, he’d been beholden to almost everything Grant Beaumont requested. And since the accident, Grant had lost more money than he dared to think about as a result of Dax’s disappearance from public life and the silence from the singer’s camp while rumors continued to circulate about his sexuality.

While the tabloids had taken Dax Monroe off their front pages, they still dedicated several column inches every day to his progress, or lack of it. In some of them, Dax was paralyzed for life and only able to breathe with the help of a ventilator. In others, he was already dead, and that’s why his mom had returned to the USA but had steadfastly refused to give any interviews. In still others, he was alive and well and back in the States, living as a hermit in New York because he feared for his life.

Grant was keen to get him back under his control, that was for sure. He butted heads with Doctor Pravenda and Cameron daily when he first arrived, and they shooed him out of the room to talk to Dax alone. It didn’t matter that Grant had owned Dax for fifteen years. In the hospital, he had no power, they said. But on the first of April, when Grant showed himself into the room and interrupted the session, he knew he could get away with it, as Doctor Pravenda was away at a seminar.

“Did you hear me?” he asked Dax, who moved his leg up once more to his chest with gritted teeth, before moving it back down and looking at Cameron.

“Can you give us a second?” he asked. Cameron was clearly unhappy about the interruption to the session, but with a small nod of his head, he stepped back. Dax looked at Grant. “What? You’ve booked a flight? Okay, great. You don’t need to tell me. I’m hardly going anywhere.”

“But you are,” said Grant. “It’s not just a flight for me. It’s for us. You, me, Kelly and whoever else is still here in this fucking freezing place. It’s all settled. I’ve managed to pull some strings, and we’re taking a private jet to New York tomorrow evening.”

Dax frowned. “I don’t feel ready to quit in the middle of my therapy,” he said. He looked at Cameron, who remained silent. He could see a twitching in his jaw, as though the therapist was grinding his teeth, but still he said nothing.

“Therapy’s therapy. Jesus, it’s not like the therapists in the UK could possibly be better than anyone back in the States.” He looked up at Cameron. “No offense.”

Cameron didn’t react.

Dax stared down at the floor. He’d spent so many days and weeks flat on his back, that finally as he was beginning to make progress and was moving with more confidence, he didn’t want to break his stride. “I don’t feel ready to go back yet,” he said to Grant. “Cancel the plane.”

Grant made a sound that seemed to be a combination of a laugh and groan. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked. “We’re talking a half a million dollar arrangement I just made. The flight’s booked, the hospital in New York’s getting your room ready and the press have been alerted.”

“I’m not fucking kidding you,” Dax said, and with gritted teeth he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Cameron was behind him quickly, supporting his back without speaking. “If I tell you I’m not ready to go back, then that’s that. Cancel the plane. Cancel the hospital. I’ll leave when I’m ready.”

But Grant Beaumont wasn’t a man about to back down. He looked at Cameron. “Get out of here,” he said. Cameron didn’t move, but Dax gave him a reluctant nod, so the physical therapist slowly walked around the bed, picked up his jacket, and left the room.

Dax sighed and shook his head. “You can’t just tell me when I’m ready to leave, Grant,” he said.

“Oh, I fucking can,” Grant spat. “Do you know how many days I’ve spent in this God-forsaken place, ignoring other clients so I can be with you? Getting rid of reporter after reporter who wants the first interview with Dax Monroe after coming out of the hospital? Do you realize how much your value sinks every day you’re not out there, getting better and denying the fucking fag rumors?”

This stung like a slap across the face, so much that Dax winced. He looked up at Grant. “No, I don’t know how much my value sinks,” he said. “Tell me, Grant. What am I worth to you now?”

“A lot less than you were six weeks ago,” Grant said. “Before your addiction to cock ruined both of our lives.”

Taking a deep breath, Dax felt every muscle in his body tense. The pain that never really went away now pounded away at his body with louder screams than ever, and he rubbed his eyes. “So, what happens when we go back?” he asked, softly. “I learn to walk again and pick up where we left before?”

“Pfft,” Grant said, rudely. “If we’re fucking lucky. We need to do a shit-ton of damage control, and none of it is getting done while we’re sitting on our asses in England. We need to get you back to being photographed. Get Alicia back in the picture. Hell, get Cara back in the picture. I don’t care if she costs us ten grand a day in coke and vodka. Anything to get you seen with a pair of tits again. Resurrect this fucking shitty career of yours.”

His face was red, and Dax could see a white line on his neck, where the vein underneath the surface was straining so hard he was sure it was about to burst. He knew Grant was right, despite the somewhat unsavory way he was serving the truth. He needed to go back. A therapist was a therapist, right? He’d find someone else in New York, someone just as good as Cameron Wilson, someone who would be able to pick up where Cameron left off.

But Dax didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to go back to cameras flashing in his face. He didn’t want to return to a life of hanging out of the backs of cabs with women in heels and fur. He didn’t want to croon to thousands of screaming girls and pretend to be bashful when red-carpet reporters insisted he tell them when he and Alicia were finally going to settle down and get married.

He had no choice. He was signed to a label, and he had responsibilities that had been put off for long enough. If he were ever going to have a chance at a career again, he was going to do exactly as Grant ordered. With regret that he was unlikely to speak to Doctor Pravenda again, he managed a small nod. “All right,” he said. “I get it. We’ll go home.”

Grant exhaled with relief. “Good job,” he said, patting Dax’s knee awkwardly, knowing that a hearty clap on the back probably wouldn’t be too well received. “I’ll go get Kelly and get everything moving. I might send her back tonight to get a head start. Maybe I’ll call my security guys in LA and get them to come over and give us a hand. I wonder if it’s too short notice…”

Muttering under his breath, the red-faced, fifty year old left the room, and Dax moved slowly back against the pillows on the bed. Seconds later, Cameron came in, and he took one look at Dax’s defeated face and shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’ve agreed,” he said. “Please, for the love of God, don’t tell me that.”