Knight In Black Leather by Gail Dayton (people reading books .txt) 📗

Eli was anxious to get his things back. Not so much the clothes, which he mostly couldn't wear, or even his Harley, since he couldn't ride it just now. But he didn't particularly want anyone to know what he was so anxious to have back in his possession, so he had to wait.

The next time Marilyn went in the bathroom, Eli dug his cell phone out of his bag and turned it on to check for messages. Fortunately no one had called. He debated turning it back off. He didn't want it ringing at some awkward time and disturbing Marilyn, but he had made promises.

And any promise he made he would keep, no matter what. That's why he didn't make many of them. He left the phone on, tucking it unobtrusively into a basket of magazines. He would recharge it at night, and if it rang, he'd tell Marilyn what he had to. Though he didn't know what he would do if a call did come in, helpless as he was. He hated it.

If not for that, he might have started to enjoy the routine of life at Marilyn's house over the next couple of weeks. Lying side by side in bed at night, connected only by their clasped hands and the words drifting through the darkness. Waking up next to her in the morning. Sitting across from her at meals. Listening to her rustle around in the bathroom, thinking about what she was doing in there. But he couldn't abide being so dependent on her.

Even after endless practice, he still needed help to get in and out of the wheelchair. He was better at it, but he couldn't do it alone. He couldn't feed himself without spilling half the meal because he was so thoroughly right-handed, and that arm was in a cast. He couldn't even dress himself in anything with buttons or zippers, which eliminated most of his wardrobe. He wore old knit shorts he kept for sleeping because he could get them on himself, and he didn't bother with a T-shirt because those first days it hurt too much to even try putting one on.

He hated the helplessness in part because of old lessons too well learned. On the streets, survival meant staying strong and in control, because the sharks were waiting to attack at the first sign of weakness. Eli knew Marilyn wasn't like that, but it was hard to shake off ingrained responses.

But mostly, Eli hated appearing so weak and useless in front of Marilyn, hated her seeing him that way. He tried to do as much as he could himself, pushing a little further every day. He was determined to get himself into the wheelchair before the thing got returned to the rental agency. But he had trouble finding the opportunity to try it on his own, given the size of the apartment. Marilyn was always right there the minute he looked like he wanted to move.

Finally Eli made up his mind. She was in the shower. He was still in bed. His bruises were healed save for some lingering green-yellow discoloration. The muscles of his good arm and leg were as developed as they were going to get. It was time.

He swung both legs out of the foldaway so he could bring his good arm in reach of the wheelchair sitting just beyond the sofa's armrest. He pulled it into position and managed to heave himself mostly upright on one leg. He was just about to try turning his butt toward the chair when the bathroom door opened.

"Eli Court!"

Marilyn's shout startled him. Not so much the shout, but the anger in it. Eli lost his precarious balance and went down, managing to grab the edge of the bed to keep from hitting the floor too hard. The foldaway mechanism scraped a big chunk of skin off his ribs, but he didn't think the fall did any damage to his bones, broken or otherwise.

"What the hell are you doing?" Marilyn charged across the small apartment to kneel beside him. "What were you thinking? Have you lost every morsel of sense you ever had in that tiny pea brain of yours?"

"I was thinking it was about damn time I got myself in that damn wheelchair by my own damn self." He pushed her away, his bruised pride and his scraped ribs both hurting more than they ought. "Why did you have to screech at me like that?"

"What did you expect me to do? Stand there and watch you break your neck?" She grabbed his arm as he pushed at her and lifted it, gasping when she saw the raw, red skin down his side.

"Damn it, Eli--" Marilyn broke off and sank back onto her heels, then slid her feet from under her until she was sitting on the floor. She curled forward until her forehead rested on his shoulder next to the sling. "I want to strangle you," she said, voice quiet. "Or maybe shake you till your eyes roll back in your head."

He didn't have a clue what was going on, except Marilyn had her head on his shoulder and he didn't have an arm free to hold her with. One was broken and she was leaning against the other one. Just seconds ago, she'd been obviously, flamingly angry. Her words still held the threat of violence, but her voice held something else. Sadness?

"Marilyn--" Not knowing where to go from there, Eli fell silent. He lifted his broken arm in its clumsy cast until his fingertips could brush against her shoulder, move the dark curls back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She popped to her feet. "Why should anything be wrong? Who cares if you break your neck because you're too macho to admit that you need someone else, even if it is just for a few days?"

She bustled into the kitchen and started banging cabinets, looking for something. Eli wasn't any too sure she knew what she was looking