Tank (Moonshine Task Force Book 2)(8)
“Trevor, where are you?”
My stomach clenches as I hear the voice of the woman-turned-angel who’s overseeing my care. Having Blaze fulfill every need I have is both amazingly sweet of her, but at the same time incredibly frustrating. We’re stuck in close quarters, and we’re so fucking careful with one another, I almost want to antagonize her into an argument to see those green eyes flash with fire and annoyance.
“Back here in the den,” I yell so she can hear me. It seriously sucks trying to get up right now, but an ingrained part of my manhood can’t help but ask. “Do you need help?”
Her tone of voice is a warning. “Don’t even think about it, Trev.”
But I do think about it, and she’s been gone for a few hours, getting stuff I need around here. A tightness settles in my gut. I’m used to doing things for myself, and knowing she’s had to do those errands kills a portion of my pride. Thankful I was given the okay to use crutches, I force my body upright and off the couch. It takes me almost a full sixty seconds to grit through the pain. Every time my leg isn’t elevated, it fucking kills me. Something about the blood rushing down to where the hardware they’ve used to put it back together is located. My arms ache when I test putting my two hundred and twenty pounds on them to swing myself forward, but I grit though that shit, too. Nothing’s ever been handed to me, and I don’t think this recovery is going to be easy. Not by a long shot.
She glances up at me as I hobble into the kitchen, exasperation on her face. “I told you to stay in there.”
The fire and annoyance I wanted earlier? It rages in her eyes and I can’t help the smile I direct her way. “When have I ever been good at following directions?”
She laughs, the sound deep and throaty, going straight to my dick. Good, because I haven’t felt anything there in a while and I was a little worried. Unfortunately, the only thing I can do is lean against the kitchen cabinets and watch her unload the groceries she’s bought.
Blaze is gorgeous today, wearing a pair of cut off jean shorts with an old Brantley Gilbert concert t-shirt. It always amazes people she likes him, but if you ask her, she’ll sit and give you a run-down of the twenty plus times she’s seen him. She bought his first CD online from a boot store in Georgia – she’s a legit fan – and don’t try to say she’s not. Them’s fightin’ words.
“Why don’t you go over there and have a seat. I’ll make us some lunch and you can take a pain pill,” she directs that sharp gaze at me.
We’ve fought over the pain pill issue since I came home. I saw so many guys get addicted to them. They used them to block the pain both physical and emotional, and then they couldn’t live without them. I don’t ever want that to be me. I already know from having a taste of Blaze, I have a fucking addictive personality. Even though I went on dates with other women while we were broken up, I did it to make her jealous in hopes it would show her she missed me. The truth? Since the moment I met her, there’s never been anyone else for me except her.
“Wow,” she turns her back to me, putting the bread on a shelf where she can reach it, as I have a seat, propping my crutches against the back of the chair, as I turn my body around. “The fact you didn’t argue says a lot about the pain you’re really in.”
I shrug, reaching over to pull up another chair, thankful for my long arms as I prop my leg up. If I’m honest it hurts like a bitch. “I might be willing to take one.”
Blaze
To say I’m amazed at the words coming out of Trevor’s mouth is an understatement. He’s fought me tooth and nail about the pain pill issue. I’ve watched him be in agony for days and the only thing he does is grit his teeth and bear it. Watching it is hard, almost as hard as him being in the hospital when I know there’s something he could do for it. I understand his reservations, but I come from the school of helping people and when it’s as simple as taking a pill; you just do it.
“You’ll finally get a good sleep if you do,” I gently persuade him. “I know what you’re afraid of and I’m here to make sure you don’t depend on them.”
He sighs when I mention them again. His annoyance is an elephant in the room. He’s been on edge since he came home and I think it’s because he hasn’t let himself completely rest. I think he’s scared to allow it. But now I’m saying enough, he’s never going to get well if he doesn’t.
I turn around and suck in a breath, struck dumb by the long, lean body in front of me. While he tilts his head back, I let my gaze travel along the picture he makes in front of me. Because he’s hurting, he’s sweating more than normal, which means he’s been going around with no shirt on. Right or wrong, I’ve been giving a thanks to the Heavens above. Trevor Trumbolt is a tall drink of water, as my mom would say.
His biceps bulge where he’s got his arms crossed in front of a chest that’s broad thanks to hard work in the gym. I’ve watched him before; he lifts heavy and runs long distances, which definitely helps his stamina, if you know what I mean. It allows him to be strong, but lean and not overly muscled.
His chest is smooth and most of the hair Trevor sports is on his head and his face. I’ve never seen him without at least a goatee, but since he’s been laid up, he’s let the beard grow, allowing what he already had in place to thicken.