Chapter 49
Current day
I gently knead the aching muscles and tendons of my injured leg while trying to push the ache aside at the sight of the black gates of Monroe's home. The effects of the ibuprofen wore off an hour ago and I need to get out of the car and stretch my leg. Taking pain pills was impossible because I wanted to drive and now I'm paying the price. The gates open and I feel a sense of returning home. It's been this way since my first visit. Even the sight of the ever dour Stephens opening the front door lightens my grumpy, pain-induced mood.
"Good evening, sir. Master Nathanial is on the phone. I will assist you to your room. Do you require a snack before the evening meal?"
It took me a few years to get over Stephens' stiff upper lip and understand the hidden humor behind his uptight, crotchety behavior. "No, Stephens. Are any of the women here this evening?"
"No, sir, except for Miss Angel, but she is unavailable."
Angel isn't the name of one of the usual models, but from time to time Monroe adds a new woman to his exhibit, so I shrug off the information. "If you don't mind carrying my bag to my room, I'll go find Marguerite."
"Yes, sir."
With a slight limp because I'm trying not to show how hard the drive was on me, I wander through the familiar home. The d閏or hasn't changed much over the years. Every so often Monroe picks up another of his odd tastes in art when he's out of the country doing his dastardly deeds. I can't help but think Monroe is getting too old for that shit. I know how it is though, and I miss my department. Monroe is who he is because of the government work he does. He heads off to the unknown, kills those who need killing, and comes home to his art.
The smells coming from the kitchen bring a smile to my face. Marguerite is cooking Mexican food because she knows it's my favorite. I walk up behind her, place my arms around her ample waist, and press my lips to her neck. "Marry me, Chiquita?"
She turns and large welcoming arms wrap me in a deep hug. "Se駉r can do better than vieja mujer gorda."
I shake my head. "No one can cook like you, and there is more of you to wrap my arms around. I can make you scream in ecstasy, mi amorcito bello."
She pushes me back with a robust laugh and the dishrag in her hand snaps at my stomach. "Se駉r has been practicing more Spanish, but I am not your sweetheart. I will cook and make you hombre gordo, no?"
I rub my stomach and can't keep the grin off my face. My parents are vegetarian and I mostly starve when I'm with them. Or at least I think I'm starving without meat. "The last thing I need is fattening up," I say honestly because I've gained ten pounds since my knee was busted up. "But I will never resist your cooking. Right now, though, I could use a large glass of water."
"Your knee is bothering you?"
Marguerite, Stephens, and Monroe are a not-so-typical family, and I should have known they would all be aware of my circumstances. I refuse to give in to her probing because I'm damn stubborn that way. "What would my knee have to do with a glass of water?" My attempt at faking it is pathetic.
Marguerite shakes her head and mutters under her breath before she calls me out. "You think Marguerite cannot see the pain around your eyes? I am not mujer est鷓ida. Sit down and I will get you water. Where are your pills?"
I at least know when to give in gracefully. I remove the prescription bottle from my pocket and place it on the table. I slide the chair out and take a seat. Marguerite and Stephens eat at this small kitchen table, and I join them when I'm here and Monroe is away. I enjoy the family setting more than Monroe's vast dining room.
A low groan escapes me when I sit and prop my leg on the opposite chair. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes. When I hear the sound of the water glass placed in front of me, I open my eyes just a fraction and peer at Marguerite. That's when I see a man's wrist grab the pill bottle.
"Don't make me get up and kick your ass so I can have one of my pills." I close my eyes after I make this grand statement.
"You disregarded the plane ticket I sent and drove straight through instead of taking a break," Monroe huffs in a disgruntled voice.
"You need me, I'm here."
"I may bind your ass and work that leg for you."
My dick shouldn't care about what he says, but the thickening ache I have whenever rope's involved wins every time. "Promises, promises. Pill, please," I say to hide the effect Monroe's words have on me.
He doesn't give in. "Only if you let Marguerite make you hot and cold compresses and allow me to massage some healing oil into the swelling."
"Stop, you bastard, I may come right here!" I laugh, hoping he thinks I'm joking. "I'd prefer one of the models, but if they're not available, I suppose I'll accept your gentle touch."
A lone pill settles on the table. "Yes, you need drugs if you think my touch will be gentle."
"Ha, you're too easy, Monroe." I snatch the pill and pop it in my mouth. Sadly, I know Monroe is fast enough to stop me if he really wanted to deny me the pill, but the game's fun. I'll use anything to take my mind off my throbbing knee.
"Do I need to carry you to my den or do you think you can walk?"
I don't bother answering. I bring my leg off the chair and stand. Hard-muscled strength embraces me.
"It is good to see you, my friend."
"I appreciate you coming to the hospital," I say gruffly, "even if I wasn't in a talkative mood." Monroe rarely touches me outside working his art. He's the same way with the models unless he's playing with one of them. I'm a pussy and fight back the well of tears behind my eyes. My life has been hell lately and being here just feels right.
"I am surprised you even remember my visit."
I laugh to hide my emotion. Yep, a fucking pansy is what I've turned into. "How could I forget waking up and seeing your ugly mug?"
"And to think I have been worried about you." Monroe leads the way through the house thankfully walking at a slower pace to accommodate my gait. With the pain I'm in, I decide to allow Monroe to coddle me. His show is tomorrow and if there's any hope that I'm semi-normal and able to perform, I need some TLC.
We enter the den and Monroe pulls out an ottoman. "Pants off," he says in the dominant way that drips off him. It's taken me years to figure him out. Well... figure out parts of him. Monroe is an odd, mysterious duck. I'm grateful to call him a friend.
"You have such a lovely bedside manner, Nate."
The first smile splits his face. "And you are loopy even before the pill takes effect. That is how I know you're in pain."
He walks away and I remove my pants like a good boy. I lean back in the overstuffed chair, letting my eyelids lower, and wait for the devil to do his worst. I hear the door open and close but I don't bother opening my eyes.
Heat, almost too hot, settles over my knee. I inhale sharply without moving because I'm too tired and in too much pain to object. When the heat begins to feel good, it disappears. Oiled hands dig into the muscles and tendons around my knee.
"The swelling should have improved after three months. You have not been obeying doctor's orders. Do not even try to deny it."
"Uhh."
The velvet laugh that I occasionally hear in my dreams rumbles from Monroe's throat. His hands continue their magic and I lose myself in the memory of the first time Monroe rubbed me down with oil. It isn't a memory I can easily forget.
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