Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Declan

"You're supposed to be sleeping." Jonas didn't seem particularly put out that I wasn't yet asleep. In truth, the dose of pain medication had relaxed me, and feeling something other than my collection of aches had me in a far better mood and more talkative than sleepy.

"Yeah, but the mysterious stranger has been poisoned." I offered up a smile. Jonas had kindly started at chapter one, seeing as how I only remembered snippets of the plot from the other day. And surprisingly, I was all caught up in the discovery of the murder victim. "This is big drama."

"Are you putting me on?" Jonas tilted his head, considering me with his soft hazel eyes. He had an oddly appealing face—not classically hot, but warm and welcoming with nice eyes, a fuzzy beard, and kind expressions.

"I don't have the energy for a prank." I snorted because in my younger years, I might have done such a thing, not that I was particularly proud of that rowdy rep. "I'm serious. I like the story. It's the only thing that seems to require the perfect amount of thinking. Like, not zero, because then my mind races. But not so much that my brain hurts and one of those stupid ocular migraines comes on."

The neurosurgeon had spouted a whole lot of medical jargon, but the part I'd registered was that the headaches and vision disturbances were linked. The worse the headache, the more wonky my vision. Lovely. And the doctor hadn't offered a treatment or a timetable for when the blasted headaches might improve.

"That's one of the reasons why I like cozy mysteries too, actually." Jonas's smile widened. Making him smile made my muscles even more loose and relaxed, and my chest was lighter than it had been since the accident. "The books are predictable but engaging. Reassuring."

"Yeah." I was curious about what this big guy needed reassurance for, but I wasn't sure how to ask the question without being overly nosey. "Read more."

"At your command." Jonas winked at me, and my stomach did a strange little dance.

"Wait." I interrupted the story again a few pages later. "Why does the vicar keep talking to the other stranger? Dude's shifty and probably the murderer, but the vicar keeps noticing how he smells."

"He's the love interest," Jonas said mildly.

"It's a gay mystery?" My eyes and jaw dropped open, which hurt, underused facial muscles tugging on various cuts and bruises.

"I read all sorts, but this one happens to be." Jonas shrugged. "Problem?"

He'd asked that earlier when he'd come out to me. Come out. Such a strange turn of phrase and one that never failed to ignite an almost visceral response in me. That Jonas and this book character were gay wasn't my issue. No, my problem was the wave of mingled nausea, jealousy, fear, and longing. Coming out was a luxury some of us would simply never get.

I first heard a slur against gay people in third or fourth grade. Yes, even in my Seattle-area school. Then I spent time in sports and motocross and, well, I heard a lot worse. For a multitude of reasons, I'd always known I was different and that coming out wasn't an option for me.

"Nah." Mindful of my IV, I carefully waved my hand. "You can continue."

"Thank you." Jonas chuckled, but there was an edge that hadn't been there before. "And the series is what they call a slow burn. I started again at book one for you, and it's book three before anything…spicy happens. Wouldn't want to singe your delicate ears."

"I can handle whatever," I boasted. I was lying, but curiosity made me bold. Also, Jonas seemed safe in a way that most people weren't. He wasn't the type to make assumptions or gossip about what we were reading together. "Let the vicar sniff away if that's his deal."

"Good to know." Jonas's voice was crisp and skeptical.

"I'm serious." I forced myself to stare him down. Mistake. His eyes were easy to get lost in. "Bring on the kissing."

"It's okay to be uncomfortable, Declan." He sounded all academic now, none of the joking from earlier. "You don't have to suffer through a love scene simply to prove you're not homophobic."

"I'm not." I made a wounded noise before mumbling, "And it wouldn't be suffering."

Jonas gave me a long look. Too long. "Okay then."

He returned his attention to the book, but a few minutes into the vicar questioning the stranger, my phone beeped from over on the hospital table, which a nurse had rolled away earlier.

"Hand me my phone." Damn. The order sounded spoiled. "Please."

"You're supposed to be resting," Jonas scolded as he handed over my phone. "And don't be surprised if looking at the screen hurts."

Brian, our team manager, was already at the airport with Joey and Miles, and he'd predictably waited until minutes before boarding his flight to deliver bad news. And he'd clearly told others first because my phone was clogged with a host of other messages as well.

"Fuck me running." Anger made my sore ribs start hurting again, along with a dull pounding in my head made way worse by the glow of the phone screen, not that I was going to admit it. "They're calling up Cyrus to train with my team. Can't be a rider short blah, blah, blah."

"A competitor?" Jonas didn't seem too surprised at the news. It would have been just like Brian and Miles to run their mouths where others could hear.

"Competitor would imply he's as good as me." I snorted. I wasn't bragging either. Cyrus was decent, but he'd only made a handful of finals, usually as a last-chance qualifier. "He's not. But this is the big break young guys like him wait for. Riding for a premiere team."

Being older than rookies and young guns like Cyrus was an odd feeling. But each year, a fresh crop of challengers arrived, and I moved closer to being one of the old guys on tour.

"Ah. But will the team save you a spot if you're able to return?"

"You said if ." I glowered at him. "It's when . And yeah, I'll get my spot back. Just part of the fucking sport. Everyone wants a part of the sponsorship dollars and to ride for the best manufacturers. Cyrus texted me all, Sorry you're hurt, bro , but I know he's stoked. I would be."

I sounded damn bitter, but Jonas kept his calm demeanor. "Hopefully, you can get back out there and prove your doubters wrong."

"What's with this if and hope ?" I pursed my lips. "You and my dad, I swear. Worrywarts."

I'd thought maybe Jonas was different. Guess not.

"Your dad is a typical dad and would undoubtedly rather you not risk your life?—"

"He's the firefighter." Raising my eyebrows, I made a rude noise.

"I know." Jonas's tone was as soothing as ever. "And I'm a nurse who's seen far more motorcycle crashes than I'd care to. I know full well that riders are going to ride. I'm not here to talk you out of trying. I can see how much it means to you. You'll get back out there if your body lets you. That's the if. Head injuries are hard."

His patient tone broke something loose in me. My eyes burned as I lingered somewhere between rage and tears. "Like how my vision is still fucked up. And the headaches. I fucking hate this."

"I know."

"How am I supposed to deal if I can't ride?" I whispered like that might make the awful question less searing.

"I wish I had that answer for you." Jonas reached for my hand. He'd touched me before, both in passing and in comfort, but this time, a little buzz accompanied the warmth of his palm. And not a neurological abnormality either. More like I liked his touch. A lot. And I wasn't about to pull away even though I should. "All I can tell you is that you will deal. You'll find a path forward. I'm not going to lie and tell you healing will be easy. It won't. It'll suck whether you make it back to riding or not. But you've got a good support system?—"

"Fuck all this." I let my head fall back, which made my ears ring and my temples throb. "And fuck my fucking head."

"Anger is normal." Jonas kept right on holding my hand, his big, sturdy thumb lightly massaging my palm. What was happening under my way-too-thin cotton blanket, though, was definitely not normal, and I had to wiggle my hand loose before I embarrassed myself further.

"Don't want a pity party," I mumbled. I was a weird mix of in pain, sleepy, turned on, and pissed off. My skin itself seemed to vibrate, nerves jangling. If I could leave this bed, I'd pace or do jumping jacks. Something to relieve this strange energy. "Just read. Please."

"Okay. And this time, you try to sleep." Jonas sat back in the chair. Nothing seemed to disturb the guy. Not my demands or questions or anger. He was the least reactive man I'd ever met, yet there was still something quietly commanding about him.

And I was so fucking screwed because I couldn't go finding random friends of my dad's intriguing, couldn't let myself be aware of his nearness or touch. Yet, here I was, jonesing for him to hold my hand again.

I shut my eyes as he started reading, more out of self-preservation than sleepiness, but the next thing I knew, I was pulled out of a fantastic dream about a giant bed and a mountain of pillows. Voices sounded, and somehow, I already knew I wouldn't like what I heard.