Out of the Ashes Page 2

  Darting a glance over into the kitchen, I catch sight of his fiancée, Noelle Davis, and my eyes return to his. “Pretty sure I have an idea.” A thought hits me. Raising an eyebrow, I taunt, “Guess I can say that I’ve had my lips on your woman, now can’t I?”

  His expression darkens, eyes turning flinty. “Don’t even go there.”

  I shrug. “You’re the one who started it.” Then, pushing the envelope because, hey, it’s what I do, I add nonchalantly, “Plus, you couldn’t really blame her if she chose me over you. I mean look at me.” Waving a hand, I gesture to my face and body. “I’m hot as shit.” And I’m full of it, too, which Fos and I are both fully aware of.

  “Oh, I’m looking at you all right.” Foster’s tone is low, lethal, and he gives me a death stare.

  Grinning manically, I flash my eyes wide at him. “You missed me giving you shit. Admit it, Fos.”

  Squinting at me dangerously, he mutters, “Not about my woman,” before scooping another chip in the salsa.

  “Kavanaugh, be nice to your friend,” Noelle calls out as she approaches with a platter full of what looks to be slices of mozzarella, prosciutto, and crackers.

  “I’m letting him eat our food. That’s pretty damn nice,” he grumbles, but his eyes have lost that dangerous appearance. They’re now heated with affection for the blonde placing the platter on the coffee table before us.

  And I don’t miss how he tracks her movements, glossing over her ass and lingering there.

  When he turns to face me again, he catches me watching him, and I give him a shit-eating grin. I lower my voice but not enough to prevent Noelle from hearing. “Do you always eye fuck the hell out of her when she bends over?”

  Before he can respond, Noelle chimes in. “Pretty much.” She walks back toward the kitchen, tossing a saucy wink over her shoulder. “And that ain’t all he does when I ben—”

  “Davis,” Foster warns, but his stern tone is at odds with the lightness in his eyes, and the corners of his lips tip up slightly. “Language.”

  Her laughter trails off as she leaves us in the living room, watching ESPN, and I focus on my friend again.

  “She’s good for you.”

  It’s like I’m looking at a different version of Foster Kavanaugh. Sure, he’s still the same shit-talking, tough, intimidating dude, but something else has replaced the darkness that has always lingered behind his eyes.

  Happiness. Contentment. Love.

  All because of the blonde in the kitchen.

  Never in a million years would I have expected this, and I’m not only glad but relieved he appears to have put his demons to rest and returned to the land of the living.

  Tipping his beer to his lips, he takes a swig, his eyes still trained on the two college football teams playing on the large, flat-screen television. “Word is you’re trying to find a better doc for pain management.”

  Unsure of where he’s going with this, my answer’s brief. “Yep.”

  “Got someone in mind for you.”

  “Really?” Since when does Fos have his finger on the pulse of physicians?

  His whiskey-colored gaze lands on me. “Raine’s been singing the praises of this chiropractor in town. Turns out the doc is also a licensed naturopath, as well.”

  With the casual mention of Raine, who’s married to Mac, a former SEAL buddy of ours, he shifts slightly, propping his left arm along the back of the leather couch. “Could help you get off that toxic shit they prescribe.”

  We’ve talked about the nasty meds they’ve prescribed me—and insist on me taking. I’ve steered clear of the antidepressants, but when the pain gets to be too much, especially at night when I know I need to rest, I’ll admit that I’ve succumbed and taken one or two of the pain meds on occasion.

  I always end up regretting it. Not because I don’t feel manly—well, maybe a little—but more so because I hate the way that shit makes me feel. Loopy. Not in complete control. Just…off.

  Eyeing Fos skeptically, I cock an eyebrow. “And you’d take Raine’s recommendation if you were me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  His immediate answer surprises me. I know that Raine is known as a bit of a “witch doctor”, of sorts, among my friends. Hell, once when I was back here for a visit and went surfing, I felt the onset of an earache. She put some oil of oregano or some shit in my ear and cured me within a few hours.

  It doesn’t mean I’m not skeptical about going to this doctor, though. But nothing else has worked, and the VA has agreed to let me see someone outside their network of doctors. I’ve just been putting that shit off.

  “I’ll consider it.” I uncap my bottle of water, drinking to assuage my thirst. I’m dry-mouthed at the idea of someone new looking me over and seeing my damaged body…watching as their expression morphs into utter repulsion.

  “Made you an appointment.”

  My head jerks around to stare at Foster who merely shrugs.

  “Figured you might put it off, so I helped you out.” Tipping his head toward the dining room table and gesturing to the thin, stapled stack of papers, he adds, “Got you the new patient info packet to fill out, so you’ll be all ready to roll.”

  “Great,” I grumble, wishing I had a beer in my hand instead of this damn bottle of water. But even I know alcohol encourages inflammation, and I need all the extra help I can get at this point.

  Tipping the bottle back, I drain it, ready to get another one. Maybe I can pretend it’s an ice-cold beer.

  “You have an appointment Tuesday morning at nine. Kane will drive you.”

  My hand clenches the plastic bottle, the loud crinkling sound resonating throughout the house as it’s crushed beneath my grip.

  Friends. Damn interfering fuckers.

  Chapter Two

  Presley

  Be a chiropractor, they said. It’ll be fun, they promised.

  Yeah, except for one, tiny side effect when you’re adjusting someone’s spine.

  “Sorry, Presley.”

  This apology comes from sweet little Mrs. Sommers. The woman’s pushing eighty and fit as can be, which she attributes to her love of Pilates and daily prune smoothies.

  I’ll repeat that for you. Prune smoothies. Every. Morning. So that apology should now be clearer.

  “I just don’t know where all this gas is coming from,” she expresses in surprise. The same way she says it every time she comes in for her weekly adjustment. “Do you really think it might have something to do with my smoothies?” she asks me—again. The way she always does.

  Every. Single. Week.

  “You’re darn tootin’.” I grin, helping her up from the adjusting table.

  But I can’t be upset with her. She’s just too adorable and sweet as pie. Not to mention, she makes these pralines at Christmas that are to die for. So, for that, I overlook her flatulence.

  Again.

  Being a chiropractor and naturopathic doctor in Fernandina Beach is more than rewarding. I get to help people achieve optimal health, not be as dependent on pharmaceuticals, and when they see the results—feel and look better—that’s what makes me the happiest. Helping others.

  “See you next week, Mrs. Sommers.” I wave as she heads down the hallway to my receptionist waiting to take her payment. As soon as the older woman is out of sight, I grab one of the issues of Chiropractic Wellness Magazine and fan it around the room to dissipate the odor.

  “Damn prune smoothies,” I mutter under my breath before setting the magazine down beside the small computer monitor. I quickly input my notes on the electronic file before heading to the other room to see my next patient.

  And I’m not going to lie. I’m praying this next patient hasn’t also jumped on the prune smoothie bandwagon.

  * * *

  Kicking off my shoes as soon as I get in the door of my house, I breathe a sigh of relief and set my small briefcase and keys down on the far corner of my dining room table. The same dining room table my fiancé, Dylan, had been so a
damant I purchase because we’d end up “having many large family dinners there.”

  Fast forward to three years after the purchase of said table.

  Clue: Number of large family dinners we’ve had at this table.

  Answer: What is zero?

  Padding over the hardwood floors to grab an apple from the fridge, I slide onto a dining room chair and pull out the thick, burgeoning file from my briefcase. Clara, my receptionist, had finished scanning the documents and uploading them to our electronic filing system, but I much prefer the tangible paperwork in my hands. I hadn’t made it all the way through Mr. Hendrixson’s file today—not only because of its size, but also because it had become so difficult to pore over the contents.

  I will soon be responsible for treating a former Navy SEAL. While that might sound kind of thrilling to the average person, the real kicker is this isn’t just any Navy SEAL. I’ll be treating the SEAL pronounced dead along with his fellow men when they went missing after an attack while on a mission in Afghanistan.

  Except for the spoiler alert of sorts—he wasn’t actually dead. He’d dragged his fellow brothers-in-arms, who had been either critically wounded or killed in the ambush, managing to hide their bodies so they wouldn’t be found and mutilated to celebrate and broadcast on their own terrorist version of YouTube. He’d managed to evade the enemy for days before finally being captured.

  But that’s not the worst part. He was held captive and tortured for over a year.

  While I know for a fact these documents don’t contain everything that happened to Cristiano Hendrixson, or “Hendy,” as is deemed his nickname, due to confidentiality and classification of top-secret information, what’s in this file is enough to make even the most callous-hearted person sit up and take notice.

  On top of that, the VA is killing me. Killing. Me. And not softly or with a ballad, like The Fugees’ song. Nope.

  With our new president completing such an intense overhaul of the Veteran’s Administration and subsequent care, things have changed, and our government’s healthcare system designed for veterans is passing the buck in an attempt to “get the job done.” Those under the VA’s care who are not responding to their current treatment are now eligible for referrals outside their network of doctors…with Uncle Sam readily footing the bill.

  This is how Cristiano Hendrixson’s care has fallen into my hands. I’ll treat him for the next six months, at which time I’ll be required to submit a full assessment to the VA—including all physical, emotional, and psychological aspects.

  When I finish reading through my new patient’s file, I find myself sitting, dazed, staring down at the photocopied picture of his military ID. My index finger traces over his face, my heart aching for this man I’ve yet to meet, aching for all he’s been through and the extent of the injuries he’s sustained.

  The documents show that the majority of his doctors never thought “outside the box,” not to mention the obvious lack of concern for their patient. He hasn’t experienced much relief with his back, and my fingers itch to get my hands on him. I would bet all my savings his spine resembles that of a coiled snake and is completely unaligned, which could lead to much of the pain he’s been experiencing.

  “Cristiano Hendrixson…” I find myself murmuring his name under my breath, my eyes still trained on his identification photo. “I’m going to do everything I can to get you back to normal,” I whisper, tracing a finger over his photo. “I promise you that.”

  * * *

  I pore over his file and X-rays again in my office while I wait for my new patient to arrive. For a Tuesday, it sure as hell has felt more like a Monday. Much of that is because I’m equally anticipating and dreading my meeting with Cristiano Hendrixson.

  Anticipating it because I know I can help him. Dreading it because, well, I’m not entirely certain he’s truly on board with me treating him. That point was driven home, even more, when Clara informed me that his friend had picked up his new patient paperwork.

  And I get it. People usually dismiss me once they discover I’m a chiropractor. When I also disclose I’m a naturopathic doctor, that’s when the barely concealed smirks appear.

  Most people think I’m a joke, like a witch doctor of sorts. Like I cackle while stirring a boiling cauldron and sprinkling in the hair from a bison or tossing in a rabbit’s foot. Granted, my heterochromia—two different colored eyes—freaks some people out right off the bat. But I swear I’m not a witch. If I were, I’d have cast a spell long ago to give me bigger boobs.

  Because, you know, that’s a top priority when you’re a B cup.

  Hell, even my parents think I’m a bit of a witch doctor. Having two successful cardiologists as parents, I’m certain the moment I told them I wanted to go to medical school and then a chiropractic college, they experienced some crazy arrhythmia and thought they were about to stroke out from the news. Either way, to say they weren’t pleased is an understatement.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to practice real medicine, honey?”

  That question. I heard that all through medical school, the moment I graduated with my license to practice naturopathy, and even after I finished chiropractic school.

  It doesn’t matter that I treat two of the most exclusive athletes in the area—the running back and quarterback of the local NFL team in Jacksonville. Sure, we attended the University of Florida together, but they weren’t believers in chiropractic treatment until injuries and ailments started lingering.

  Those first adjustments I made to their spine made them believers. And now, I’m their go-to chiropractor when they’re here. Sure, they’ve tried to get me to travel with them—and I nearly fainted at the insanely exorbitant amount they offered to pay me—but I’d always wanted to be my own boss and have my own practice locally.

  Again, my parents nearly stroked out when they discovered I turned that deal down.

  “Clara has your new patient all set in exam room two.”

  My head snaps up to find Lucia, my best friend and massage therapist, standing in my office doorway. A smile stretches my friend’s lips, her gorgeous, tanned skin glowing as always.

  Her Colombian accent is my favorite thing about her, reminding me of the actress, Sofía Vergara. It’s still thick and just plain adorable—the way she accents certain words, parts of words, or separates the syllables of words as she speaks.

  She’s been such a godsend by sharing the rent for this office. She has half of it set up for her massage therapy while the other half is for my practice where I adjust patients and consult with them regarding ways to eliminate their dependency on pharmaceuticals.

  “That man,” she says in a hushed whisper, darting a quick glance toward the hallway. “His body is like a jungle gym I want to climb on.”

  I shake my head at her reference of Mr. Hendrixson, scooping up his file as I walk over to Lucia. As I’d perused the contents last night, the copy of his standard, no-nonsense military photo ID made it evident he had been one hell of a handsome guy. Now, though, after gaining knowledge of his extensive injuries, I find myself wondering what I will find when I walk into that room.

  Lucia doesn’t budge from her perch in my doorway. Flashing her an odd look, I ask, “Are you planning to let me see my new patient?”

  “I’m serious, Presley,” she hisses. “That man is impressively built.” Then, her expression turns uncharacteristically somber and she whispers, “But you need to prepare yourself for his face.”

  “Lucia,” I respond in a much more hushed whisper of warning.

  She shakes her head. “Trust me, when I tell you that man”—she tosses a thumb in the direction of the exam room down the hall—“still exudes testosterone and crazy pheromones.” Lucia steps aside to let me pass but snags my arm at the last minute, leaning in close.

  “Guard your lady parts well with him.” She punctuates this with a firm nod.

  Chuckling softly, I head toward exam room two where Mr. Hendrixson awaits. Knocking softly on th
e door to announce my arrival, I quickly enter and greet my new patient who is—

  Oh, holy shit.

  Chapter Three

  Hendy

  I haven’t been waiting long in this room in the chiropractor’s office, and I’m already fighting the urge to flee. Like a fucking pansy ass.

  “You’ve got this,” I whisper to myself, tugging the brim of my ball cap lower over my eyes. “Maybe she won’t totally freak out at the sight of you.”

  Ha. That’s fucking hilarious. Not only am I resorting to whispering to myself like some mental patient, but I’m also delusional as shit.

  My eyes take in the space as I sit in one of the available chairs placed against the wall on either side of the room. Of course, I choose the chair which places my left side facing away from the room’s entrance.

  What I assume to be a chiropractic adjustment table is in the center, and a few feet away is a small desk with a computer atop it and a small desk chair neatly pushed in beneath it. Framed awards and diplomas are on the east-facing wall while the other walls include a display of the entire spine—nerves and muscles affected when misalignment occurs.

  I’m here because nothing else has improved the discomfort in my back. And although I’m no physician, I can assume from the X-rays the receptionist placed on the illuminator that my spine is messed up damn bad. From those views, it resembles the letter S, and even I know that’s not a good thing.

  The door opens, drawing me from my amateur assessment of my spinal column, and suddenly, I’m face to face with my new doctor.

  And I realize how fucked I am.

  This woman—she’s not at all what I expected. Not for the first time since I’ve returned “from the dead,” I wish like hell I was the old Hendy. Because the old Hendy would’ve turned on the charm like no other, made her laugh freely, wooed the pants—nice, slim-fitting gray pants that look finer than fine—off her and fucked her so good she’d forget her own name.

  And would only remember mine.

  Yeah, that would be pretty sweet but no dice. Not now.