Unwound Page 4

  “Beautiful. Right. I look like hell.”

  “Still brushing aside my compliments.”

  She moved closer. “I’m chalking them up to your muddled brain. What do you remember from last night?”

  “The very last thing?” He frowned. “Did you really ask me how I liked being strapped down for a change?”

  She smiled. “Yes. I also said I could see the appeal of binding from the other side.”

  “Evil woman.”

  “Just an opportunist.” She pointed to the strap dangling from the bed frame. “Did they release your restraints, or did the ninja master manage to undo them by himself?”

  “Sometime during the twenty million times the nurse poked me awake, she freed me.” Ronin shifted his arm, and the movement caused a sharp pain in his shoulder. “How long did you stay?”

  “Until your pain drugs kicked in and you were down for the count. Knox gave me a ride home and moved your motorcycle into the back room. Which meant I had to stick around to tell Molly why your bike was there. I postponed a client meeting, changed out of my blood-spattered clothes, and grabbed these.” She set his cell phone and his keys on the side table.

  “Thank you for all that. But mostly thanks for coming back.”

  “I almost didn’t.” Amery ducked her head, and her strawberry-blond hair covered her face. When a drop of wetness landed on his arm, he realized she was crying.

  “Baby. Can you look at me?”

  She raised her head. Her blue eyes flashed a message of anger and fear. “Do you have any idea how terrifying last night was for me? Seeing you like that and then hearing you admit things were left unfinished between us? Dammit, Ronin. In the past five weeks, after you stopped calling, I assumed you were done with me.”

  “Done with you,” he repeated. “Maybe I assumed after calling you sixteen times a day for seven days after you walked out on me and you didn’t return a single phone call that you were done with me.”

  “You didn’t leave a single message in all the times you called.”

  “And it never occurred to you to pick up the damn phone when it was ringing to see what I wanted?”

  “I didn’t know you’d called. After I left the dojo that day, I was in a daze. I charged my phone in my office while I finished up a few things. I didn’t realize I didn’t have it until three hours later, when I was on the road headed to North Dakota.”

  “You didn’t have your phone for a week?” he asked skeptically.

  “Evidently I didn’t need it. I checked in with Molly once a day on the office line. When I called my cell voice mail, I didn’t have a single message from you. In seven days.”

  His eyes searched hers. “If I would’ve left a message?”

  “I would’ve returned your call.”

  “Instead you got pissed off and returned my ropes.”

  “Not even that garnered me an enraged visit from Master Black. Anytime before when I’d pissed you off, you showed up loaded for bear.”

  “Baby.” He unwrapped her fingers from the metal side rail and kissed her knuckles. “We’ve both got a lot to learn when it comes to communication.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But thank you for reaching out to me.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “The package you sent.”

  “I sent the ropes weeks ago.”

  “No. The box I got yesterday. With a peace lily and an invite to come by so we could talk. I’m pretty sure that’s how I got it in my head to show up at your place last night.”

  “Ronin . . . I didn’t send you anything like that.”

  They stared at each other. “Somebody wanted to get us talking again.”

  “Now you babbling about a peace offering makes sense. But that wasn’t—”

  Three knocks sounded on the door, and a guy in a white coat walked in.

  “Mr. Black, I’m Dr. Dainsworth. Your neurologist.”

  “I hope you’re here with good news.”

  “I guess that depends on your idea of good.” He glanced around the dark room. “Still having light-sensitivity issues?”

  “Yes.”

  “It might take as long as a week before you’re back to normal. If it takes any longer than that, you’ll need to contact my office so I can coordinate with an ophthalmologist for additional testing.” The doctor gave Amery a once-over, and Ronin bristled. Mostly because the young blond doc was the type of man Amery found attractive.

  But her eyes were firmly focused on him.

  “Can I speak freely? Or would you prefer we discuss my concerns in private?”

  Amery released his hand. “I’ll wait outside.”

  Ronin snatched her wrist before she’d even moved. “I want you to stay.”

  That shocked her.

  “Why don’t you both have a seat.” The doctor pointed to the small table and chairs in the corner. “I’ll be right back.”

  Ronin gritted his teeth from the sharp sting zipping down his spine when he simply rotated his body to set his bare feet on the cold tile.

  “Do you need help?”

  He tamped down his automatic response that he wasn’t a fucking invalid. “No.” As soon as he put pressure on his bruised knee, he nearly stumbled.

  She said, “Careful,” but didn’t touch him.

  Goddammit, he hated—fucking hated—how he shuffled the twenty feet between the bed and the chair like an old cripple. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t hurt.

  Suck it up and be a man.

  Ronin caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. His right eye was discolored red and purple. He had a bandage above his left eyebrow covering stitches. Bruises dotted his jaw. His bottom lip was busted up and also sported stitches. In his younger years, he would’ve shown pride in his injuries. Now? He was disturbed Amery had seen him this way.

  Easing himself into the chair caused the hospital gown to ride up. To make his humiliation complete, Amery draped a blanket across his lap.

  Dr. Dainsworth returned and sat on the rolling stool, getting in Ronin’s face. “I did my homework on you, Sensei Black. Impressive that you’ve achieved the eighth-degree black belt level at your age. Aren’t most jujitsu practitioners who reach Hachidan status in their fifties?”

  “Yes. But my sensei in Japan factors other things besides mastering techniques into advancement. The belt system in Japan is different from the U.S.”

  “Understood.”

  “I imagine my sister contacted you because you’re . . . ?” Ronin purposely left that vague to see how this doctor would fill in the blanks.

  “A neurologist specializing in treating sports-related brain trauma for athletes who have a documented history of repetitive cranial injuries.” He raised an eyebrow. “Need my other qualifications? Medical degrees? Internships? I can have my secretary send you a copy of my latest article in the New England Journal of Medicine on the four years of research I compiled on potential long-term effects of brain injuries in mixed martial arts fighters as compared to boxers.”

  “So you’re the best of the best.”

  “Yes. And like you, I reached that level at a relatively young age, also due to dedicating my life to my studies.”

  Ronin respected warranted cockiness. “Hit me with the questions.”

  “If you had to guess, how many times would you say you’ve been knocked unconscious either during a match or in practice?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Because it’s too high a number to count?”

  He nodded.

  The doctor jotted something down in Ronin’s chart. Then he asked, “How many times have you been knocked out in the last month?”

  “Twice.” Ronin didn’t look at Amery, but he felt her staring at him.

  “Did you seek medical attention after the first incident?”

  “No.”

  “What was different this time? Did you feel your injuries were more severe?”

 
; “Not especially. I probably wouldn’t have sought help on my own. But I had some . . . confused moments and showed up on Amery’s doorstep and she . . .”

  “Had no choice but to call an ambulance when you passed out on my floor,” she finished.

  Dr. Dainsworth focused on Amery. “Did you see him after his first concussion? Were his reactions and behavior similar?”

  She shook her head. “We broke up a little more than six weeks ago.”

  The doctor directed his shrewd gaze to Ronin. “Did this breakup directly contribute to your need to compete on a more physical level?”

  Here was a moment of truth between them. Ronin reached for Amery’s hand. “Yes. Being in the cage forced my focus away from what was going on in my personal life.”

  The sound of the doctor scrawling seemed unbearably loud in the quiet room.

  “Look. I’ll be brutally honest here.” The doctor’s eyes searched Ronin’s face. “You’ve suffered two major head injuries in the past four weeks. Have you heard of second-impact syndrome?”

  “Of course.”

  “So you know that a second impact to the brain, while you’re still symptomatic from the first traumatic concussion, can result in cerebral edema, brain stem herniation, cerebral hemorrhaging, and even death?”

  “I’m aware of the risks, Doctor.”

  “But you disregarded them. Why?”

  “Physical pain is something I know how to deal with.” Even though Ronin wasn’t about to start discussing emotional pain with the doctor, the topic seemed to hang in the air like a foul odor.

  Walking like a cripple, complaining about your head hurting—why don’t you just start crying so you come across as a total fucking pussy?

  “After studying your CAT scan,” the doctor continued, “your MRI, and your PET scan, my recommendation for treatment hasn’t changed. Before I tell you what that is, I have to ask: If you were aware that one of your students had these same types of brain injuries in the same time frame, what would your recommendation be for recovery?”

  “Medical tests. Rest. Observe the practices but zero physical participation until cleared by a medical professional and after all the risk factors for returning to the discipline were weighed.”

  “So you’ll enforce that rule with your students but don’t abide by the same rule yourself?”

  Ronin hadn’t seen that one coming. He glanced over at Amery, expecting to see a smirk, but she was horrified. “Amery—”

  “Don’t,” she snapped. “Shut up and listen to your doctor for a change.”

  Fuck. “So what is the verdict?”

  “If I thought you’d adhere to my edict of no more MMA-style fighting—ever—I’d issue it.” The doctor furrowed his brow. “But I’ve dealt with your type for years—physical contact is in your blood. For you personally, it’s a way of life.”

  “And my livelihood,” Ronin pointed out.

  “Teaching is your livelihood,” Amery retorted. “Not fighting.”

  Being a fighter—whether in the ring himself or teaching others, was what defined him. Who would he be if he didn’t have that?

  “My recommendation is one more week of rest. During that time, while you’re working on physical therapy for your knee, you can start gentle stretches to maintain your flexibility. Then for the next month, no body-to-body impact. That means zero. If you can teach without physical demonstration, then return to teaching. But no jarring moves either against the mat, the heavy bag, or another person.”

  A month wandering around his dojo doing goddamn nothing besides observing?

  “Then I’ll see you in my office and we’ll run follow-up tests to see what level of activity you can safely resume.”

  Despite the panic rising inside him, he managed a cool, “Even then, what are the chances my physical activity will be limited?”

  “I guarantee if you don’t follow my instructions for at least a month, it’ll affect your recovery time. But beyond that? Time will tell. The best thing you can do as a teacher is to lead by example. Show your students that head injuries are serious—no matter what level of martial arts mastery you achieve. Don’t risk your life and your long-term health because of pride.”

  “When can I go home?”

  “Tomorrow. You’ll need someone to stay with you, at least for the first few days. I’ll call in a month’s meds to the pharmacy on file. Any further questions?”

  “No.”

  The doctor stood. “Give yourself time to heal. I’ve seen guys in car accidents who didn’t sustain these levels of injury.” He motioned for Amery to walk with him to the door.

  What the fuck was he saying to her?

  Take it easy. Getting angry put more pressure in his head. He closed his eyes. The thought of staying in this place another minute literally made him nauseous. He forced even, slow breaths to try to keep his heart rate steady so it wasn’t obvious on the monitor just how much he felt like a caged animal.

  “Ronin?”

  “What?” When he realized he’d snapped at her, he said, “Sorry. It’s just not what I wanted to hear.”

  “I get that, but on some level you had to expect this.” She reached over and swept his hair from his eyes. “So are you going to ask me to stay with you and take care of you while you recover?”

  No fucking way. She’d seen too much of his weak side already. “I don’t expect that from you.”

  “Then why did you show up at my door?”

  His soul screamed, Because I need you, but his mouth couldn’t force the words out. What if she believed the only reason he said that was because he required a caretaker for the short term? What he wanted—no, what he needed—from her was far, far more than that. So why couldn’t he tell her?

  “Don’t pull that silent macho attitude on me. We both know you need me there. We both know my presence wouldn’t be like hiring a home health aide.” She paused. “But that would be easier for you, wouldn’t it?”

  “Infinitely.”

  “You are seriously pissing me off, and I’m about three seconds from walking out the door for good.”

  “Please don’t.” Ronin grabbed her hand before she ran off. “Come here.” He relaxed when she threaded her fingers through his.

  “Why are you trying to shut me out?”

  Ronin turned his face to the wall.

  “Hey.” She pinched his chin and slowly turned his head back toward her. “Last chance. Ask me.”

  “Fine. Please stay with me. I need you so goddamn much it scares the shit out of me, okay?” Ronin locked his gaze to hers, trying to retain some control in this situation. “But if you agree, you’ll be in my home and in my bed for as long as my recovery takes.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Negotiable, Amery. Period.”

  She smiled. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Jesus. He’d fallen right into that.

  “I’m practicing my bedside manner and telling you to get back in bed and rest.”

  Like hell. He’d let her take care of him at his place, but he was getting out of here today as soon as possible—even if he had to fucking crawl.

  After he’d situated himself in bed, he said, “You don’t have to hover.”