Chapter 18
Colby
It’s Wednesday morning in the hospital room that’s come to feel like my iron cage, other than when my beautiful Lydia is here with me and I’m able to forget how miserable I am. Thank the lord, though, my doctor has finally cleared me to get the hell out of Dodge later today. In a couple hours, Kat and Ryan will come to whisk me away to my parents’ house where I’ll recuperate for the next six to eight weeks, for however long I’m stuck in a wheelchair. But before I head out, my gorgeous and sexy and funny and sweet physical therapist, the only good thing about being trapped in this broken and aching body, is here to work her magic on me, yet again.
Today, as usual, as Lydia has been manipulating my muscles and joints, we’ve been chatting nonstop. And by that I mean I’ve been talking just as much as Lydia, if not more. It’s crazy, I know. Anyone who knows me is well aware I talk infrequently in most social situations. Yeah, I mean, I talk. Especially with Ryan and my family. But even then, I don’t contribute nearly as much to conversations as everyone else. In my family, if you want someone to tell you a rip-roaring story or bust your gut with a joke, then you want Keane or Ryan or Kat. They all inherited Mom’s sparkling gift of gab. But, on the flipside, if you want a Morgan who tends to sit back and listen and observe much more than speak, and then pipe in with a zinger only when he thinks he’s got something worthwhile to say, then you want Dad, Dax, or me.
And yet, whenever I’m with Lydia, my normal reserve flies out the window. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lydia has wished a time or two that the doctor would shove that ventilator back down my throat.
Over the past week together, Lydia and I have covered endless topics in our conversations. The usual stuff, of course, like where we went to school, our favorite music, movies, and TV shows. She told me about her schooling to become a physical therapist. I told her about mine to become a paramedic-firefighter. The other day, I babbled to Lydia about Ralph, and that prompted her to tell me about the Australian shepherd mix she grew up with—Ginger. And, man, the way she described that poor, bedraggled, fucked-up puppy she rescued from a dumpster as a kid... That’s when I thought to myself, “This woman is going to make a fantastic mother one day.”
And now, here we are again, just the two of us, chatting enthusiastically again.
When Lydia got here a half hour ago, I asked her to tell me about her childhood in Kentucky, and that’s what she’s done. She’s told me story after story. Some of them funny. Some poignant. She’s touched on what it was like to have a white mother and black father and how she often felt like she didn’t fully belong in either racial group. And I’ve loved every minute of listening to her. Man, just the sound of her voice is a salve for my splintered and broken soul.
“But enough about me,” Lydia says as she moves to gently manipulate the muscles of my left arm. “Tell me a story from your childhood. How about a funny story this time.”
I purse my lips, considering, and finally say, “‘Ryan and the Shitty Towel.’”
She giggles. “Oh boy.”
I tell Lydia the whole tale—the story of seven-year-old Colby, five-year-old Ryan, and the shit-streaked towel Ryan re-hung on a towel rack. “It was that very day The Morgan Mafia was born,” I say, and Lydia throws her head back and whoops with sexy, throaty laughter, instantly making every cell in my body vibrate with longing to muffle that laugh of hers with a deep kiss.
“Tell me another one,” she says. “I’m a kid in a candy shop with these stories.”
I tell Lydia a couple more stories, ultimately telling her about the time I helped Dax Superglue our mother’s prized crystal vase back together and she didn’t discover our crime for five full years.
“Was Momma Morgan pissed when she found out?” Lydia asks.
“As hell,” I reply. “But Dax was like, ‘Look, Mom. If you haven’t noticed our shitty-ass Superglue job in five full years, you obviously don’t care about that dang vase as much as you say you do.’ And she had to begrudgingly concede he was right.”
Lydia giggles. “You and Dax seem like you’re cut from the same cloth.”
“We are. Exactly.”
She asks some questions about Dax and I tell her about his indie rock band, 22 Goats, and how he’s working his ass off to make his musical dreams a reality.
“Did you ever dream of being a rock star?” Lydia asks.
“Oh, God, no. Just getting up in front of a class in high school to give a speech about alternative power sources practically killed me. I play piano, but only because my mom made me take lessons for years. I don’t have actual talent like Dax. My brother is a true artist. I’m more like a highly competent factory worker.”
“I noticed the piano keys on your arm.” She motions to a tattoo I’ve got on my right forearm. “I highly doubt factory workers get tattoos of the factory equipment they operate.”
“Yeah, okay, I admit it: I love playing piano,” I say. “But, honestly, not because I’m any good at it. Just because it gives me time to think and decompress. As far as the tattoo goes, I have Ryan to thank for that. His favorite thing in the world is getting me drunk on tequila and taking me to a tattoo parlor to get another round of fresh ink.”
“Did Ryan get a tattoo with you when you got the piano keys?”
“Of course. That dude can’t walk into a tattoo parlor without getting something. That particular day, he got a sword in the exact same spot on his forearm as my piano. Yet another entry in Ryan’s collection of pirate-themed tattoos.”
“I’ve noticed. Why does Ryan like pirates so much?”
“‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,’” I say. “Ryan’s initials are R-U-M, so everyone calls him Captain Morgan.”
“Ah.”
“Not to mention Rum Cake, Bacardi, and Rummy-o. Anything rum-related. Ryan’s a commercial real estate broker, but his dream is to open a bar called Captain’s one day.”
“Oh, that’s cool.” She begins rotating my right elbow. “So what’s your dream? You’ve told me about Dax’s and Ryan’s. What’s yours?”
“I’ve already made my dream come true: I’m a paramedic-firefighter in my favorite city in the world. Doesn’t get any better than that.”
“Wow. Not too many people can say they’re living their dream.”
“Pretty cool, huh? I used to dress up like a firefighter for Halloween every year growing up. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”
“What about goals? Got any of those?”
“Of course. I’d like to do another triathlon with Ryan someday. Beat my last time. We love doing races and fitness challenges together.” My stomach flips over as I suddenly remember the body I’m currently trapped in. “I guess I’d better adjust my goals, huh? At this point, I should probably aim for being able to go for a light jog again one day.”
Lydia stops what she’s doing and levels me with an intense hazel gaze. “You’ll get there, Colby. Don’t despair. It’s going to be slow-go, yes, but you will get there.”
I nod but don’t reply. My brain believes her, but my heart and body aren’t so sure.
We’re silent for a long beat, both of us lost in our thoughts, apparently. Finally, Lydia says, “So what about Keane? Is he a dreamer like the rest of his brothers?”
“Oh, Keane’s a huge dreamer. That’s all that guy does is dream. Unfortunately, he recently hit a dead-end on his dream, though.” I tell her about how Keane has always aspired to become a major-league pitcher, ever since he could throw a baseball. “I know he presents himself like a goofball-slacker, but trust me, Keane Morgan worked his ass off playing baseball his whole life. He was a star in both high school and college, and then he got drafted and tore it up in the Cubs’ minor league system.”
“Wow.”
“And he was absolutely slaying it in the minor leagues. Slaying it. He got all the way up to triple A in record time, which is really, really hard to do. His coach told him he was about to get called up to the bigs any day and that’s when Keane’s elbow crapped out on him and he needed surgery.”
Lydia looks stricken. “Oh no.”
“Unfortunately, surgery and rehab didn’t go as planned. It was one letdown after another for the poor guy. We just found out last night he officially got cut from the team’s roster a few weeks ago. He told my entire family about it right here in my hospital room after you left to go home. It was heart wrenching. Keane started crying while telling us about it.”
“Poor Keane.”
“He’s devastated. He doesn’t know who he is if he’s not a star pitcher. He loves the game and pushing himself to be the best. Not to mention, he liked the adulation and attention that went along with being a star. Honestly, I think Keane’s been having somewhat of an identity crisis since baseball ended for him.”
“I never would have known he’s having a tough time,” Lydia says. “Every time I’ve been around Keane, he’s been the one laughing the loudest and telling the funniest jokes.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s Peenie Weenie for ya. The class clown. I always say he’s not our family’s black sheep—he’s our neon sheep.”
Lydia laughs. “Perfect.”
“Trust me, though, Keane’s not handling the end of his baseball career well. Underneath those dimples, he’s most definitely not smiling.”
Lydia looks sympathetic. She puts down my right leg and gently begins working on the other one. “How old is Keane?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Still plenty of time for him to chase another dream. Does he have any idea what he’ll do next?”
“Funny you should ask that. Right after my parents left the room last night, Keane told my siblings and me about the new ‘career’ he’s started pursuing. We kids already knew he’d been dabbling in it part-time, along with bartending, but now Keane, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to become... a full-time... male stripper.”
Lydia gasps. And then snickers.
“Honestly, I think he’ll be great at it,” I say. “It might even wind up being the dude’s calling, for all I know. He’s an incredible dancer and the biggest flirt you’ll ever meet. Oh my God, Lydia, girls have always lost their minds over Keane Morgan. I’m sure he’ll clean up on tips.”
Lydia levels me with the sexiest look she’s ever bestowed upon me and says, “From what I’ve observed, Colby, I don’t think Keane is the only Morgan brother the girls lose their minds over.”
Heat spreads throughout my core. Please, God, let that be Lydia’s coded way of telling me she’s as insanely, intensely, ridiculously attracted to me as I am to her. Please, please, please, don’t let that be a generalized observation about all four of us.
There’s a rare moment of silent awkwardness between us, simply because I’m too electrified by the possible implications of what she’s just said to speak. I think she was talking about me, specifically, as opposed to the four of us Morgan boys in general. But if not, if I’m reading too much into Lydia’s comment, then I don’t know what to say. In truth, yeah, the four of us Morgan boys have always done exceedingly well with the ladies. Some of us in larger volumes than others, simply by choice and personality type, but I can’t remember the last time any of us, including myself, didn’t get a resounding “yes” from whichever girl we’d decided to pursue.
“So does Keane have a stripper name?” Lydia asks. “Something like Thunder Balls or Jesse Schlong? Or is it just an urban legend that male strippers go by silly names like that?”
I laugh. “I don’t know what other guys in the profession do, but my brother is going by Peen Star.”
Lydia giggles uproariously.
“Believe it or not, it’s not just an overt reference to his dick. We’ve always called Keane ‘Peen.’ Ever since he was in middle school.”
Lydia shakes her head. “The Morgans and their beloved nicknames.”
“Oh, you’ve noticed we like our nicknames, have you?”
“Just a bit.”
We both chuckle.
Lydia asks, “So is there a story behind Keane’s nickname or did you just like that Peen rhymes with Keane?”
“There’s a story. Keane had used some of Kat’s expensive makeup for Halloween or something. He was twelve or thirteen. So Kat was furious about it and started chasing him around the house, screaming at the top of her lungs, ‘You’re such a fucking penis, Keane Morgan!’” I laugh. “So, of course, Ryan and I thought that was beyond hilarious, and for like a week after that, we amused ourselves by constantly screaming at him, ‘You’re such a fucking penis, Keane Morgan!’ We said it on a running loop all the freaking time, more to mock Kat than Keane. So, of course, that catch-phrase quickly led to Keane getting called ‘Fucking Penis’ by all of us. Which over time got shortened to Fucking Peen. And then Keane’s best friend at school, Zander, came over one day and adopted the nickname, so Keane just sort of became ‘Peen’ in all aspects of his life. And that was that. He’s been Peen and Peenie and Peenie Weenie ever since, plus every variation of Peen we can possibly think of. Peen Star. Peeno Noir. Rumpelstilts-Peen. Peen-elope Cruz. Peen-ta-gram. It’s never-ending.”
Lydia giggles. “God, I love your family. I mean I really, truly love your family.”
Goose bumps erupt on my forearms. Hearing Lydia say those words is suddenly making me realize she’s the first girl I’ve been attracted to in a long time, maybe ever, who’s met every single member of my family. Granted, I didn’t bring Lydia home to Meet the Morgans in the conventional way, but the result is the same: a girl I’m seriously digging has met my entire family and everyone loves her.
Lydia grabs my hand and gently bends my palm back, giving my wrist a much-needed stretch. “Does this feel good?”
“It feels amazing,” I say, heat flooding me at her touch. “Thank you. Everything you do always feels amazing, Lydia. When I’m with you, I forget to feel miserable.”
“Yeah, well, don’t get too used to feeling good around me,” Lydia says. “I assure you, when we get started with strength training in six weeks or so, there will be plenty of times when you’re cursing my name.”
“Lydia, I assure you: your name is and will forever be a sacred prayer to my lips.”
She makes an adorable face. “There he goes again. Such a charmer.”
I wink.
She gently twists my hand in another direction. “Okay, so tell me the scoop on Kat. Dreams? Nicknames?”
I take a deep breath. Damn, the last thing in the world I want to be doing right now is talking about my sister, no offense to her. I suddenly want nothing more than to strip those scrubs off Lydia’s body and kiss every inch of her body. But since that’s obviously not going to happen, I nut up and say, “Kat. She works in PR. Dreams of owning her own PR company. She loves to party and have fun. Hence, one of her many nicknames is Party Girl. At the moment, she’s been living up to her nickname by dating some über-rich dude from LA who drives a Lamborghini and hangs out with music moguls and rock stars. God help us all, I’m praying he’s not a douche because it appears he’ll be hanging around for a very long time.”
“You haven’t met Kat’s boyfriend yet?”
I shake my head. “He was supposed to come to my birthday dinner a couple weeks ago, but he had to cancel at the last minute.”
“Why do you think he might be a douche? Is Kat attracted to douches?”
“Not any more than the average fun-loving girl. I just figure any guy who drives a Lamborghini, it’s fifty-fifty he’s a douche.”
“I don’t think he’s a douche. I saw Kat with her boyfriend the day you arrived at the hospital, and he struck me as a real sweetheart. Or at least, if he’s a douche, then he’s a douche who genuinely cares for your sister. And that’s all that matters in the end, right?”
I ask Lydia for details and she tells me about how she watched Josh comfort Kat in the waiting room the night of the fire.
“Why were you in the waiting room watching them?” I ask.
Her cheeks blaze. “I was just taking a little break.”
She’s lying. I can’t fathom why, but she is. But, oh well. It’s a question for another day, perhaps. “I’m relieved to hear Josh seems like a good guy,” I say, “considering he’s going to be part of my family forever, whether we like it or...” I abruptly shut my mouth. Shit. What am I doing? I promised Dax I wouldn’t say a word to anyone about Kat’s bun in the oven. I clear my throat. “I’m not allowed to finish that sentence, actually. It’s a secret.”
One side of Lydia’s mouth curls up. “If you’re talking about Kat’s secret, I already know. Kat told me herself.”
I look at Lydia sideways, not sure if we’re talking about the same secret. “You know Kat’s secret?”
“Well, I know one of Kat’s secrets. The one that would make Josh a part of your family forever, whether you like it or not.”
“Holy shit. Kat told you?”
“Correct.”
“And told you not to tell anyone?”
“Not in words. But she made this face when I entered your room right after she’d told me.” She makes a funny face—exactly duplicating Kat’s “shut the fuck up!” look.
“Great impression,” I say, chuckling. “So tell me this: Is the secret you know the kind a woman can’t keep hidden forever?”
“Yes.”
“Holy shit. How did it come about Kat told you? She didn’t even tell me. She told Dax and he told me on the sly.”
Lydia tells me a story in which Kat told her, a complete stranger at the time, about her pregnancy in a bathroom while the two women happened to be washing their hands side by side at the sink.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, blown away. “You want to know the irony of us keeping Kat’s secret like this? My sister is the biggest blabbermouth you’ll ever meet. In fact, one of my sister’s many nicknames is The Blabbermouth.”
Lydia laughs and begins massaging my quad muscle. “What are her other nicknames?”
“Oh, God, she’s got the most of all of us, even more than Keane. Kat is Kitty, Barf-o-matic, and Kumquat to me. To the rest of my brothers, she’s also every slang term for semen you can possibly imagine.”
“What? Why?”
“Her initials are K-U-M.”
Lydia rolls her eyes. “Good lord. Your family is freaking brutal.”
“Yes, we are.” I laugh. “But, like I said, I don’t join in on that one. My brothers call Kat all the semen names. Kum Shot and Jizz, mostly. But also Protein Shake, Baby Gravy, Jizzy Pop, Jizz Master Flash, Cream of Sum Young Guy, Baby Batter, Jerk Sauce. It literally never ends. I’m sure Ryan and Keane are cooking up some horrendous new semen-name right now.”
Lydia shakes her head.
“Don’t worry about Kat. Honestly, I think she’d be bummed if they stopped calling her that stuff.”
“So you’re telling me Kat has Stockholm syndrome?”
I chuckle. “Yes.”
“Why don’t you call Kat semen names like your horribly mean brothers do?”
“Because I’m the only one who’s old enough to remember the day my parents brought Kitty home from the hospital as a newborn. I looked down at her perfect little angel-face in my arms and felt this overpowering need to protect her. Even at six, I thought to myself, ‘I’d do anything for this little person.’” I shrug. “To this day, when I look into Kat’s face, I still see that same baby face I fell in love with. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to call that face Splooge or Dickspit.”
Something unmistakable flashes across Lydia’s face. Desire. Oh, man, if I had my old body right now, the look on Lydia’s face would be my cue to take her into my arms and kiss the hell out of her.
“What are you thinking?” I whisper, my heart thumping.
Lydia shakes her head and whispers back, “I shouldn’t answer that question honestly.”
“Please do,” I whisper.
She looks toward the doorway and then back at me and says softly, “I’m thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking. Because you’re my patient.”
Okay, that’s it. I’ve got to have this woman. The nanosecond my body’s capable of doing the deed, whether that’s four weeks from now or fourteen, I’m going to make her mine. I look toward the door of my hospital room and whisper, “I assure you, Lydia, whatever inappropriate thing you’re thinking, I’m thinking it, too.”
She bites her lip and her ample chest heaves underneath her maroon scrubs. And I’ll be damned, the dick that’s lain dormant between my legs for the past ten days begins to show signs of life underneath my covers.
“So, hey, Lydia,” I say, sliding my hand underneath my covers and pushing my dick down. “My family is having dinner at my parents’ house to celebrate me coming home and...”
Lydia’s phone rings. When she looks at her display screen, she physically jumps. “Excuse me,” she says tightly, cutting me off mid-sentence. Without another word, she shoots up from her chair and races toward the hallway with her phone pressed against her ear.