Surrender Read online

  “Fuck yes,” I shout, more to myself than anyone else.

  Thane smiles. “The heavier the anxiety, the heavier the weights. It’s a physical reminder that you can bear more than you think and that if you can manage things incrementally, you can push through the heavy stuff.”

  “I see what you did there,” I say, receiving a sweaty side hug from the power bear.

  “Sometimes the obvious metaphor is the best one,” he says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

  Jean-Pierre

  “Is that even safe?” I ask Elijah, watching Jake pick up huge weights that are, in my opinion, way too heavy for him.

  “Dude, Thane is the best at getting people out of their heads. It’ll be good for him, I swear.”

  “Hmm,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest as Thane puts his hand on Jake’s back to correct his posture.

  Elijah bites a corner of his lip, I think to stop himself from laughing at me. “Hey, will you able to stick around and help with a new guy? He just lost his arm six months ago in a training accident, and he’s been having a rough time of it.”

  I started volunteering at the gym a couple of months ago, and it brings me a lot of joy to help people out and to maybe help them to change their attitude about what is possible for them. And Jake isn’t the only one who needs to get out of his head. “Of course,” I respond as I clap Elijah on the shoulder. He stumbles forward, laughing.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I go to find Benning, my usual workout buddy, and he’s on the floor under the scaffold wall, changing from his full-length legs to his stubbies, a pair of shorter prosthetics with a solid, rubberized square foot that gives him more stability and mobility during strength training. I slump next to him and add the ankle weights to the stubbies’ posts while he rewraps his thigh stumps.

  Benning is maybe my age and has a surfer attitude, a sun-worshipper’s tan, and long, thick, bleached-by-the-sun hair that is usually tied back off his face, especially when he’s working out. He’s also the most built guy I’ve ever met, and considering the people I meet at Wrecked, that’s saying something.

  Given his injuries and the modifications he’s had to make to get around in life, he looks like a badly-put-together-yet-impressively-strong Ken doll. He is muscular—so muscular that my post-retirement middle feels downright flabby next to his belly’s I-lost-count-pack. His strong legs both end midthigh, and his arms are a study in contrast; the right one ends mid-forearm, and while we do a lot of strength training with modified weights, it is merely muscled in comparison to his monster left arm. Roly’s nickname for that arm is Vein Porn.

  We chat as we work together to get him into the stubbies—a process he can do by himself, but one that we share to make it go by more quickly—and I explain that I’ll be splitting my time between him and the new guy.

  “JP, buddy, let’s all work out together. And besides, if he’s recently lost an arm, maybe I can be helpful,” he says, pulling on the liner, rubber grip, and rigid over piece for his arm’s weight-lifting prosthetic. He locks in the large C-shaped attachment, which means we’re starting with pull-ups. If the gleam in his eye is any indication, we’re going to be competing for most pull-ups in a minute.

  And I will lose. Again.

  While I mentally check my wallet for the five dollars I’m about to hand over to my friend, I hear Jake yell from across the gym, and immediately pivot toward the noise. Are those… chains? Absolutely not. No way in— Benning grips my ankle and stops me from walking over there. “He’s just working it out in the Corner of Heavy Things, man. Gotta let him do it.”

  I grind my teeth and try to shake Benning from my ankle. “Yeah, but Thane has him picking up those barbells that weigh more than he does, and now there are chains!”

  He pulls Vein Porn around tighter around my ankles and says, “Dude, be cool. If you wanna get the guy, you’re gonna need to stay chill and in control. Especially around that one.”

  Just as I’m about to protest his assumptions (which are one hundred percent accurate), Elijah approaches us with a quiet young man with a cool advanced arm prosthetic. His sharply angled, monolid eyes speak to eastern Asian descent, but his features in total are unfamiliar to me. His eyes are set wide against high cheekbones, his nose is mostly flat with a pretty rounded tip, his lips are shapely, almost feminine, and his complexion is ruddy. His dark brown hair is shorn close to his head, and he’s wearing loose-fitting linen, not unlike Jake’s favorite yoga gear.

  “Guys, this is Ivan. He’s a Marine, six months out from a helicopter accident, and his limb is fully healed. We chatted when he walked in, and he’s mostly looking for strength training, but was happy to realize that he might have some folks to talk to about being an amputee.”

  Benning scans the stocky, tallish man, and my buddy looks like he’s been smacked on the back of his head with a cast-iron skillet. After an awkward moment, he holds out his hand in greeting. “Um, hi. Ivan. My name is Stephen, and you could say that I’m an expert at being amputee, arm or otherwise. Is right your dominant hand?”

  Ivan kneels to take Stephen’s welcome hand. “Yes, I’m right-handed.”

  “Excellent! Let me tell you—changing your dominant hand, especially to the left hand, sucks,” he says good-naturedly.

  Ivan picks at the nubby fabric on his thigh. “Yeah, I know. I’m lucky.” Looking at Benning’s many prosthetics, he says, “I guess I shouldn’t complain.”

  There’s gotta be a fifteen-year age difference between the two of them, but it disappears as Benning’s face and voice softens. “Hey now, I’m not a fan of people seeing me and assuming that they don’t get to think that life is hard. It’s a terrible thing, losing a limb. If you don’t have to switch dominant hands, then I’m genuinely grateful that’s one shitty piece of recovery you don’t have to go through.”

  Ivan lowers his head and nods, rubbing his prosthetic arm as though remembering what it felt like before the accident.

  Benning catches his eye and smiles at Ivan the way that the sun smiles on flowers, and Ivan blooms in return. After a few seconds of this, I shift my feet and Benning remembers that I’m standing there. “Oh, yeah. Ivan, this is Jean-Pierre.”

  Ivan looks up and startles. “Wow, you are so tall,” he says, standing to shake my hand. He doesn’t seem to register who I am, which is surprisingly common in Austin.

  “Yeah, you get used to it after a while,” Benning says, grinning up at me.

  Jake lets out another yell from the other side of the gym, and I nearly grind my teeth into dust. Benning puts his hand on my leg, gently this time. “He’s fine. I promise, Thane is incredibly careful and won’t let somebody do the move until he feels that they can do it safely.”

  Ivan looks between me and Jake, a smile playing on his lips. Shit, I have to be a little less obvious around people I don’t know. That said, I’m not the only one being obvious, especially when my friend’s eyes rove up and down the younger man’s form.

  Thankfully, Jake is starting his cooldown, and I try not to be too jealous when I see Thane give Jake a side hug. Thane is a good guy, which probably explains the jealousy. Anyway, I feel like I should give Benning and his new buddy some space. “Hey, Benning, I’m going to go check on Jake now that he’s done. Maybe I also need to book a little time in the Corner of Heavy Things.”

  Benning colors slightly, then refocuses on Ivan, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor so that they can discuss various strength-training options. It occurs to me, as I’m walking over to Jake, that Benning and Ivan have a complementary set of limbs, and that tickles me to no end.

  It should also be noted that when I call Benning later that night, he doesn’t answer the phone.

  Chapter Seven

  Jean-Pierre

  After I left Jake at the gym, I had a long day of investor meetings and volunteer work with the UT basketball players, and I’m ready to treat myself. I smile as I park at my favorite pizza shop, run by Scout and Ev
ie, and I wonder what Evie has conjured up for her customers today. I unfold myself from the driver’s seat, having driven through the first circle of hell that is Austin traffic, safe in the knowledge that her pizza is worth it.

  I see Jake pulling stacks of huge bags of flour out of the back of his old car and jog over to him. He stiffens, then relaxes as he recognizes me. Better.

  “How are you doing, mon am-ami?” He stutters on the word ami, and for a moment I think about the related word—amour—falling from his lips in a moment of ecstasy.

  “I’m doing well, Jake,” I respond, loving the feel of his name on my tongue as I take several of his burdens from him. “How was the rest of your day, mon petit homme?”

  He flushes at my little nickname, and I swell with pride at his reaction. Not many would have the temerity to call him little at six foot three, but I think… yes, I think he likes it.

  “Don’t you ever wonder if, maybe just this time, you’re carrying too much?”

  “Not when you’re here to help me.”

  I give him a lingering once-over. His hair, a bit longer these days, is dark and shimmers whenever light hits it, but his skin is like milk, luminous. His eyes, blue gray edged in amber, as always, striking in their rarity and contrast with the rest of his coloring. His wool coat doesn’t quite fit with the layers of gauzy black and charcoal material, but I think the coat means something to him. He’s not wearing gloves, though, and my fingers want to reach out and warm his skin.

  I won’t pretend that I’m being overly subtle, and my heart jumps when I realize that he is doing the same thing. Looking, with intent.

  Shaking it off, I put my hand on his lower back, guiding us to the restaurant. I open the door for him and head to the back of the kitchen with supplies in hand, where I ask, “How’s Roger doing?”

  Like I said, not subtle.

  “Wouldn’t know. I got annoyed at him halfway through that dinner we went to and told him to lose my number.”

  “Oh my god, what did he say?” I’m trying to sound concerned instead of thrilled, but the smirk on Jake’s face tells me that maybe Heath and Cricket should hold off on finding me acting jobs.

  Laughing, he jokes, “He bitched about me dumping him halfway through the insurance conference season.”

  “What a tool,” I say, leaning my shoulder into his. He smiles and leans back into the touch without a drop of anxiety. I swoon at the fact that his body is soft and warm against mine.

  “Yep,” he says, stepping away to arrange the huge bags of flour in a neat pile.

  I help out and decide to push a little further. “Been meaning to ask you, who was that visitor you had a while back?”

  Jake continues rearranging the bags of flour, but there it is… a beautifully amused smile. Perfection. His tone is playful as he asks, “You’ve been waiting all week to ask that, haven’t you?”

  “Maybe. Is he your next boyfriend?”

  Jake laughs, and I don’t even care if it’s at my expense. “Uh, no. He’s an ex-coworker. To be fair, we play for the same team, but we had a great working relationship, and no desire to screw any of that up.”

  Hm… he’s calling the guy who’s obviously ex-military a “coworker.” Also gay. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “Probably pretty smart to not mix the two,” I say as I load another bag of flour onto the pile. Unfortunately, I’ve misjudged the distance and knock into a rack of freshly washed pint glasses, pushing it to the concrete floor. Everyone jumps a little, and a rare curse flies out of Evie’s mouth. I’m midapology when I see Jake, and the words die off on my tongue. He’s wedged himself into the corner facing the wall with his arms curling over his head, as if he’d tried to flee the sound itself but was stuck, helpless.

  Evie’s honey-colored eyes swim as she approaches her brother. “Jake, you are safe,” she says softly, gesturing for me to come near.

  “May I touch you?” I ask, my voice as soft as I can make it.

  He recoils, covering his eyes with trembling hands as he shakes his head.

  It hurts so much to not be able to comfort him, but I immediately step back and take several deep, slow breaths. Within moments he starts mirroring my breathing pattern, and after a few more moments, the stiffness leaves his bones and he lowers his hands from his eyes, hugging himself.

  “Jake?” I ask, and he opens his eyes. I hold my arms open to him, and after a few more ragged breaths, he takes a few steps toward me and I pull him into a careful hug. He is beautiful and fragile in my arms, yes, but I would give anything for this not to be the reason he needs to be held.

  Evie quietly puts a soda on the counter next to us and quickly rolls out a simple cheese pizza. Carbs are helpful, no matter what Nick says.

  “Jake, you are safe. We are here in Evie’s kitchen. You’re going to take a few sips of the soda here, and when the pizza has cooled off, you’ll take two bites of that.”

  He inhales, stilted and shaky, and only nods against my chest. He turns his head enough to accept the proffered soda, taking small sips through the straw before pushing it away. A few minutes later, Evie removes the pizza from the oven and gives him a narrow slice, which he eats slowly.

  After a few minutes, he shakes himself and steps away from me, rolling his eyes. “Good thing I don’t drink anymore. All of the loud partying with bull horns and noisemakers has made me into a drama queen.”

  He’s trembling and trying to make a joke, which I hate, but Evie and I decide to go along with it. For now.

  “No worries. But the adrenaline is bad for driving, so I’m going to take you home, and we will come by to pick up your car later.” I say that in a way that lets him know I will not be budging from that point.

  “Bossy,” he says, still trying to be cheeky.

  I lean down and whisper into his ear, “You have no idea.”

  He inhales sharply and turns to look into my eyes, only an inch or so away from my face. I wink and stand up straight, then start walking toward the door. After a moment’s hesitation, he follows me to my car.

  Chapter Eight

  Jake

  Fuck. Just as I’m trying to get him to think of me as something other than this fragile little thing, I react as though a rack of glasses was a car bomb. By the way, my ops generally involved server rooms and quiet kills, so I’m not sure why loud noises can sometimes set me off.

  While we’re on the subject of men I’d like to fuck and triggers, can I just say how pissed I am that being tied up makes me feel claustrophobic? I used to love that shit. Oh, and that little bossy-you-have-no-idea exchange? Fuck, that was not subtle. I chance a look at the man driving me home, and the thought of him actually getting bossy with me… yes, please. Which means that I’m this weirdly buzzy, unstable mix of adrenaline shivers and turned-the-fuck-on.

  For the love.

  I stay quiet and turn my attention to the houses as we drive by. I wonder if any of the people in there have ever had the experiences I’ve had. Within a few minutes, we pull up to the Levee, the first condos that Scout ever developed. It’s weird that I used to be the maintenance guy here, but now I’m the operations manager for the business that she and my sister Evie co-own. Giving me this job was incredibly generous, and I wish I hated it a little less.

  Jean-Pierre interrupts my thoughts. “Jake, do you want to take a walk? That usually helps me when the memories get to be too much.”

  I forget, sometimes, that he and I have a lot in common, and now that he’s seen me in a bad state, I don’t even attempt to deny the truth of my memories, even if it feels like one step forward, two steps back. We head toward the well-lit trails that run behind the condo. “Sorry about tonight. I know this is a pain in the ass dealing with my shit.”

  He gently runs a large hand up and down my back. “Jake, it really isn’t. Do you know what set you off so badly? I mean, the guys drop weights all of the time in the gym, and I’ve never seen this reaction on you.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek, t
rying to figure out if I should tell him the truth. After a few moments, I figure that, if I really want the man in my life, I need to know that he can handle these bad days, too. “I think I’ve been on the edge for a few days. When I told Roger I was done, and his parting shot was that I’d been lucky to have him because I’m, quote, ‘too fucking messy and broken and not worth it.’”

  Jean-Pierre stops in his tracks and gives me a puzzled look. “Why would he say that? You are quite neat.”

  I frown and focus on a tree in the distance. Pointing to my head, I explain, “He meant that I’m too messy up here, which, to be fair, is true.”

  His chest puffs out, annoyed. “What a horrible thing to say. If he doesn’t see that you are a beautiful and talented artist, then you didn’t need him in your life to begin with.”

  I snap my focus away from the tree. “You’ve seen my art?”

  “I’ve been in your condo, Jake. The new piece above your couch is stunning.”

  I scratch at my wrist, suddenly feeling shy. “You’re a good friend.”

  Jean-Pierre’s shoulders tighten. “For you, Jake, always.” I sense there’s more that he wants to say but doesn’t, and I can practically see him pulling on the kid gloves.

  We walk in silence for several blocks, and then I start the conversation again, midsentence, like a weirdo, because what the fuck does it matter anyway. “And that makes certain things… harder, you know?”

  His jaw clenches, but he keeps his words soft. “I do know. But… please, please don’t let that man make you feel inferior, just because you have things that you’re working through. Okay?”

  He nudges me with his shoulder when I don’t respond right away. “Okay?”

  “Ooookaaayy,” I say, exaggerating the word. “Thanks for walking with me—even if I am a fucked-up mess, it helps.”