New Lease of Life (7 page)

“I’ve lost muscle tone”—Pip let his crutch take his weight and gestured at himself with his free hand—“everywhere. I’m too skinny, and the clothes just hang off me now. I can barely make it up the stairs, so I can’t see me getting that
beautiful
body back anytime soon.”

“I said
you
were beautiful. Not your body.”

“Wow, thanks!” Pip snapped. “Anyway, who wants to see a cripple parading around pretending to be a peacock?”

“You’re an idiot.”

For the first time, Colby responded with the same venom that Pip used when he got riled. Pip didn’t like it; he wanted the other Colby back, the laid-back man who would shrug Pip’s angry words aside or ignore them completely. Not this man who bounced his rage back at him.

Colby’s anger only went as far as his words, though. Where Pip might have thrown his crutch in a fit of fury, Colby deftly folded the shirts that had been layered on the dummy. He muttered angrily to himself while he worked.

“Cripple! Bah!”

Layers of tissue paper separated each garment as Colby placed them carefully in a packing crate by the bed. He folded the top flaps in and hoisted the box into his arms. Still, Colby muttered away to himself, Pip only catching the occasional word until Colby walked past him toward the stairs. His gaze flicked to the lower half of Pip’s body, and he clearly heard the words Colby let slip.

“Emotional crutch.”

By the time the implication of those words had registered, Colby had long since passed, and Pip could hear the easy gait of a man with the use of both of his legs. A man who took his perfect body for granted. What the hell!

Before he knew what he was doing, Pip launched the crutch across the room. It landed with a satisfying clatter on the floor.

How bloody dare he? How dare he cast aspersions on Pip’s invalid status and then walk away! He’d had to get rid of his beloved bug-eyed Sprite because he couldn’t change gear anymore, his gammy leg unable to apply the pressure needed to depress the clutch pedal. Now his cousin owned his precious cherry red Austin-Healy and probably thrashed the life from it on a daily basis.

With his crutch farther away than the doorframe, Pip dragged himself using the furniture, walls, and sheer willpower in the direction Colby had taken.

“Fuck you!” Pip shouted before he’d even reached the threshold. When he made it to the landing, he leaned his weight on the banister that looked out over the stairs, watching as Colby jogged back up the stairs, all loose limbs and easy breaths. “Fuck you and your perfect fucking unbroken body.”

As though Pip’s words had physically struck him, Colby came to an abrupt halt a couple of steps from the top. It had the effect of making them almost the same height. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t defend himself. He just waited, and Pip obliged.

“Permanent limp. The doctors’ words, not mine. Doctors, plural, because I refused to believe the first two.” Pip gripped the wooden rail in front of him, turning his knuckles white. “You don’t know anything about it. About me. Per-ma-nent.” He sounded out every syllable of the last word, surprised to find himself panting breathlessly when he’d finished.

“Tell me.” Colby’s voice held none of his previous irritation. His eyes, which had flashed with annoyance whenever they fell on Pip not minutes ago, had softened to a cornflower blue and pleaded with Pip to acquiesce to his gentle request. “Tell me what happened to that beautiful man that is smiling in every photograph in that album.”

“You looked at the album.”

Colby winced. “Albums. I’m sorry. They were there, and would you believe me if I said I wanted to see how you put the different garments together to make a fashionable outfit?”

He might have believed him if Colby hadn’t phrased the question in that way. But Pip found he didn’t have it in him to get mad about that too. Almost as if the barrage of f-bombs and Colby’s gentle acceptance of them had sapped the fight right out of him.

“What happened?” Pip repeated, so tired that he sagged against the banister rail. “That beautiful man, as you put it, was too bloody kindhearted.”

“
Too
kindhearted?” Colby asked as if that weren’t possible.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, I do. Beautiful in spirit. That’s what I saw in each and every one of those photographs. All that ‘clothes maketh the man’ stuff is bullshit. You bring life to the clothes, not the other way around. So, you were too kindhearted…?” Colby prompted.

“Yes. Stupid, really. I was out jogging around the park one morning. What? My body had to look good to show the clothes at their best.”

“Your smile does that. Did that.”

“Do you want to hear this, or are you going to keep interrupting?”

Colby mimed zipping his lips, locking them, and throwing the imaginary key over his shoulder. Shaking his head at the ridiculous display, Pip attempted to smother the smile conjured against his will by the action.

Colby made a “go on” gesture with his hands, and Pip took a deep breath before continuing.

“It was early. Quarter to seven, maybe. I needed to be home by seven to shower, dress, and get to work for eight thirty. I had a client meeting at nine. My iPhone had just run out of charge, but I’d nearly finished my run, so I pulled the ear buds out and stuffed them in my pocket. That’s when I heard it. The low whine of pain coming from the lake. Pitiful, it was. Tugged at my stupid, soft heart.”

Pip paused and scrubbed a hand over his face. When he looked up, Colby still watched him intently, waiting.

“I had to scramble through the bushes on the bank of the lake to find the source of the noise. I was filthy before I even found him. It was a dog. A small terrier type. He’d slid down the muddy bank and become tangled in something. It looked like fishing line, although that could just be hindsight because I know it was a broken rod that some careless fisherman had abandoned. They’re not even supposed to fish in that lake.”

“The dog?”

“Oh, yes. The dog was distressed, its legs beneath the waterline, and from the angle of his body, his head was dangerously close to any lapping wave from passing fowl. I should have called for help, but I had no way to make a call, the park was empty, and I couldn’t leave him there. Some of the swans on that lake are huge, and there are carp in the water. By the time I got back with help, he could have been drowned, battered, or bitten.”

Pip tightened his fingers into the banister rail again, trying to convince himself it was purely for the balance and not the knowledge of the path his story was about to take. “So I eased myself down the bank, and one foot ended up in the water, maybe ankle deep, before it found purchase in the mud.

“I attempted to free the dog, but the fishing line was wrapped tightly around him, and the wire cut into my fingers. I figured I could just pick him up—he was a small dog—and get him untangled out in the open. But there was something beneath the waterline preventing me from getting him out. I thought I could dislodge what was holding him in place, so I turned my attention to the water. The water was murky and stagnant beneath the trees near the bank, and I couldn’t see anything, so I plunged my hands beneath the surface, groped around until I found what appeared to be the cause of the problem, and pulled.”

Pip glanced up to find Colby had moved and now stood immediately in front of him. “I should never have taken my attention off the dog. He howled in pain and lashed out. I couldn’t blame him, still can’t when I allow myself to think about it. I thought I was freeing him from a branch when I was actually tugging on the handle of the fishing rod, tightening the line and pulling on the hook buried in his rear quarters. The bite, when it came, shocked the hell out of me. I’ve been nipped before, but this… the teeth sunk into my flesh and stayed there until I lost my footing and the dog had to let go or be pulled under the water.

“That was what did it, apparently. The open wound and that filthy water. Luckily for me, some early commuter heard the dog’s howl from outside the park and came to see what was happening. One call and we had the lot there. Ambulance, fire brigade, animal control. A riotous carnival of flashing lights.”

“The bite had gone through to the bone, an impossible thought considering the size of the dog. The myriad of bacteria in that water found their way into the wound, settled in my ankle bone, and made their home there for the duration. No amount of antibiotics could shift the infection. Osteomyelitis. That’s the official name for it. They got rid of it eventually. More antibiotics and surgery to remove some of the bone tissue that had died while my body was fighting the infection.”

“That’s shocking.” Colby reached out, his hand closing over Pip’s shoulder, and he squeezed, a more gentle touch than such strong fingers should be capable of. “Bad karma for a kind act.”

No, what was shocking was Pip’s reaction to that simple touch. Tears leaked out from between his lashes, despite having squeezed his eyes shut at the first hint of contact. One or two escaped to roll down his cheeks.

“Just one of those things,” Pip tried to say, but his throat closed up around the words.

“Oh shit,” Colby cursed. “I didn’t—bollocks!”

Colby tightened his grip, pressing his fingers into Pip’s shoulder. It was the only notice Pip received before he was reeled in and enveloped in a hug. Strong and reassuring, Colby tucked Pip against him, fitting them neatly together with Colby’s chin resting on the top of Pip’s head. Pip slipped his arms around Colby’s solid torso and, without conscious thought, grasped the material of Colby’s shirt.

How long could a hug with a stranger go on for before it was deemed inappropriate contact?

Pip should pull away. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. How long had it been since anyone had held him like this?

His mother had tried. Holding his hand from the chair next to his hospital bed while he’d cried, but she’d never been a touchy-feely sort of parent. Hugs hadn’t formed a major portion of his childhood, and since puberty, even that sparse contact had been relegated to a hand on his shoulder as she leaned in for a buss on the cheek.

He’d had boyfriends, friends with benefits, fuck buddies. No one special to share a simple intimacy like this with, but that had been before…. Before his Good Samaritan act had landed him in the hospital. Some had even tried hanging around after, but he’d pushed them all away.

Pip resisted the urge to bury his face against the slope of Colby’s neck, instead taking advantage of the position to inhale the scent of sweat and a fresh, earthy soap or shaving balm. Pip’s jaw nestled into the hollow at the base of Colby’s throat, stretching out the neck of his T-shirt, and dark hair tickled at Pip’s skin. It felt good, this contact from a man he barely knew.

Was he that touch starved that he would accept the comfort of a stranger over that of friends who had fallen by the wayside? A man who had only known him as a crotchety bastard, who hadn’t known the fun-loving man that laughed all the time and loved to get dressed up for even the most mundane occasion. Did Pip even remember what it was like to be that person?

Colby murmured something inaudible into his lank hair, and then lips brushed the top of his head.

“Shit!” Colby released him immediately and took a step backward. “That was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.”

Without Colby’s support, Pip teetered unsteadily on his feet and made a grab for the banister. He felt drained and inexplicably exhausted.

“Hey!” Colby grabbed at his arm. “You okay?”

Pip glanced up, surprised by Colby’s concerned expression. Diverting his gaze, Pip lingered a moment too long on the dark hair exposed at the neck of Colby’s T-shirt, remembering the feel of it against his skin. “Tired.”

“You’ve been up and down those stairs a fair bit today. It’s no wonder you’re exhausted.”

Not that sort of tired, but Pip would take the offered excuse for his clingy behavior.

“Do you mind if we finish this tomorrow? I could do with a lie-down.”

Colby shook his head, his tone apologetic. “I’ve only got the van for today.” He paused, obviously thinking carefully about his next words. “I’ll only be another half hour or so up here. Then I need to load the van. I could finish up and let myself out, if you’ve got somewhere to rest that I haven’t cluttered up with clothes.”

“The spare room has a futon, but it means you won’t be able to make yourself a drink if I’m asleep in there.”

“I’ll be fine.” With his hand still on Pip’s arm, Colby guided him toward the spare bedroom. “Anyway, there’s no incentive to stop for a drink if you aren’t around to share it with me.”

Normally Pip would have shaken off the unwanted touch. Except it wasn’t unwanted. Not when Colby’s words hugged him almost as tightly as his arms had.

HAVING CHECKED
the van doors were locked and all of Pip’s precious clothes were secure, Colby jogged back down the stone steps and into the apartment. He took the door off the latch and let it close silently behind him.

Pausing in the hallway, he listened for any telltale signs that Pip had woken, but the house was quiet. With the narrow box he’d retrieved from the cab of the van tucked under his arm, Colby once more headed up the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step third from the bottom.

At the landing he stopped again to listen. The silence had given way to the soft grunts and the snuffling noises of a man at rest. The noises drifted to him through the door to the spare room, which he had left ajar at Pip’s request.

Unable to resist, Colby crept forward and placed an eye to the gap. He could see Pip in the light and shadows of the waning sun, which—diffused by the curtains—dappled the bed in an ethereal glow.

Pip must have discarded his sweatpants at some point after Colby had left him in the room, the pile of fabric by the bed implying that he had simply dropped trou and stepped out of them. No careful hanging on a tailor’s dummy for something Pip obviously saw as a necessity rather than an item to treasure.

On the bed Pip lay stretched out on his back. His T-shirt had rucked up around his waist, exposing an inch or so of pale hairless flesh, and the wide elastic of arse-hugging boxer briefs. The tight dark material finished at the top of Pip’s thighs, a stark contrast to the almost ghostly white of his legs. The Pip in the photographs had a glow about him and, while Colby hadn’t found any evidence of him wearing shorts, he doubted the insipid tone was a result of his natural coloring. Had Pip become a recluse since the incident with the dog?