Dax Page 7

  “What’s up?” I say into the phone when it connects, trying to sound nonchalant. Regan stirs at the sound of my voice, but I merely tighten my hold around her waist. This causes her to lift her head, and she stares at me blearily having just woken from a sound sleep.

  I give her a smile and she returns it, which brings me relief. Regret was not the very first thing on her mind, apparently. Regan lays her head down on my chest, and fuck if I want to get out of bed today.

  “Just went to the hospital to see Tacker,” Legend says, and that causes me to sit up a little straighter. I haul Regan with me.

  “He let you in?” I ask.

  “Didn’t have a choice. I just walked in. He was by himself when I got there.”

  “How is he?”

  “Banged up. Broken wrist, but that will heal, and he was getting discharged. As I was leaving, there was a police officer there to arrest him.”

  “Fuck,” I growl, causing Regan to push off me. She brushes hair away from her face, which is incredibly beautiful despite her eyes being puffy with sleep and a tiny bit of drool at the corner of her mouth. Her expression is grave in reaction to my tone, and she tilts her head in question. I give a slight shake of my head—indicating I’ll fill her in later—then ask Legend, “What does that mean for the team?”

  “No clue,” he says. “But if I had to guess, I’m thinking he’s not going to be a factor on our team.”

  “Think he’ll be cut?”

  “Maybe,” he muses. “But no sense in worrying about it. I just called to let you know why I didn’t make our workout.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t make it either,” I admit, glancing at Regan who is still leaning up on one arm, staring at me. My eyes drop to her breasts, to the bump where her port is, then farther to the treasure between her legs. I fucking want that again… and more than once. When I return my eyes to her face, her cheeks are pink, but she holds my gaze.

  “You feeling okay?” Legend asks. To his way of thinking, the only thing that would keep me away from a workout would be if I was on death’s door.

  I can’t really say, Sure, man… just lying in bed with my wife who I’m going to fuck again after we hang up.

  So I say, “Yeah… I’m good. I’ll see you at practice, though.”

  “Later, brother,” he says and then disconnects.

  I reach an arm across the bed, place my phone on the table, and turn to Regan. “That was Legend. He saw Tacker this morning briefly. Looks like he’s going to be arrested for driving under the influence.”

  “Oh, that’s bad,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I take in Regan’s posture, still leaning casually with one arm planted into the mattress, her legs curled to the side. Her expression gives nothing away as to how she feels waking up naked next to me after we fucked last night. “You feel okay?”

  She grimaces slightly. “Actually… I’ve got a bit of a headache, which I’m assuming is the bourbon, or maybe I’m a bit dehydrated.”

  “Could it be the PNH?” I ask, immediately throwing my legs over the side of the bed to exit. I pad into the bathroom, then grab a Dixie cup of water and some headache medicine.

  When I return, she continues, “Probably not. This feels alcohol induced.”

  “Were you drunk last night?” I hand her the water and painkillers.

  She accepts both but before taking them, she asks a question of her own, “Is that what you think? That I didn’t know what I was doing?”

  “Well, did you?” I can’t help the defensiveness in my tone. I feel like I have the right to wonder about these things. There’s no offense to her, but I’m probably on edge because I’m going to feel fucking wretched if it was a mistake on her part.

  Regan rolls her eyes. “Of course I knew what I was doing. I mean… I think I did.”

  Fuck, she has doubts. “You either did or didn’t. If you weren’t in control of—”

  “I was in control,” she snaps. “I made my choice. Perhaps with some bolstering by the alcohol, but it was still a valid choice.”

  “But you just said you ‘thought’ you knew what you were doing,” I point out, crossing my arms over my chest. “Not that you ‘absolutely’ knew what you were doing.”

  Regan blushes so much the redness creeps from her cheeks to her neck and chest. She blinks for a moment and then rolls off the bed, searching for her clothing.

  She thinks she’s going to avoid me, but that’s not going to happen. Rounding the bed, I step into her path. “Did you or did you not know what you were doing?”

  With a resounding growl of frustration, Regan snaps, “I’m not sure. We did things I’d never done before, so I don’t know if I was any good at it.”

  “What?” I ask, taking a slightly stumbling step back as if she’d just punched me in the chest. She doesn’t know if she was any good at it? It was only the best sex of my life, and she—

  A thought strikes, horrifying me. “Were you a virgin?”

  “God no,” she exclaims, equally in horror. “But… I’m just not that experienced. And, well, when you… um… went down… Um. What I mean is—”

  “I get it, Regan,” I murmur, moving closer to her. She tries to lower her gaze, but my fingers go under her chin and I force her to look at me. “Just how much experience have you had?”

  She shrugs, but doesn’t say a word.

  “Regan… you and I did some really intimate things last night. I think we’re beyond the shy shit, okay?”

  “One guy,” she blurts out. “My first and only boyfriend. We met our freshman year in college, and we were eighteen when we first had sex. Neither of us knew what we were doing apparently. And then, well… after I got sick, I mean… who had time for boyfriends or sex?”

  “Did he leave you because you were sick?” The anger in my tone comes across with bite.

  “Yes, but that’s in the past and I don’t dwell on it, so don’t go thinking I need some therapy for it. The whole point to this is it’s been a while since I had sex, my boyfriend never put his mouth between my legs, and I’m not even sure if there was something else I should have been doing last night to make it good for you.”

  My entire world about collapses in on itself as my chest constricts over the uncertainty in her voice. This beautiful creature who has struggled against so much should never have a single doubt. “Regan,” I murmur as I scoop her up and crawl onto the bed with her. I settle her on my lap, then twist her so she can see me. “You were perfect last night. I just hope I didn’t freak you out.”

  “No, not at all. Okay… maybe a little. I mean… it was, well… I don’t know what it was.”

  “Did you like it?” I ask, and her cheeks flame red again.

  “Yes,” she whispers, dropping her gaze.

  “Regan,” I say to get her attention. When she raises her head, I force her to confront it. “Tell me you liked my mouth between your legs last night. Tell me you liked how it felt and the way it made you come.”

  I get a groan filled with embarrassment in response. She flops forward, then presses her face into my neck. “I said I liked it. That should be good enough.”

  My arms go around her naturally, and it would be the perfect time to chuckle in amusement over her lack of experience and shyness. But the truth is… it’s now causing me to have regrets.

  I brought Regan into my home—my life—with the sole intention of helping her get the medical treatment she needed to save her life. The marriage was simply a means to an end, and it conveyed to me no special privileges. I was weak last night, and I took something I wanted.

  A woman who doesn’t have much experience at all, and certainly shouldn’t be cast under the shadow of a man who isn’t looking for anything serious but sure does like a whole lot of dirty fucking. Regan is way too good for a man like me. In a way, I feel like I’ve just tainted her. She’s nowhere near ready for someone like me.

  And I really don’t think I’m ready for someone like her.


  I choose my words very carefully. “Look… last night, we both succumbed to loosened inhibitions because of the alcohol, and the last thing in the world I want is for you to be in an environment where things are confusing or awkward for you. Our primary responsibility has got to be your health. I shouldn’t have ever gone there with you last night, Regan, and I’m really sorry.”

  They’re the wrong fucking words. I can see it on her face. Pure rejection and hurt reflected in her eyes, even though she puts on an overly bright smile. “Yes. Of course, you’re right. I think we got a little crazy last night. We’re adults so let’s just chalk it up to ‘oops, probably shouldn’t do that again’. Right?”

  “Right,” I drawl with a fair amount of uncertainty, torn between wanting to reassure her this has nothing to do with her and needing to be strong enough to put a break between us.

  Regan scrambles off my lap, rolls off the bed, and starts grabbing her clothes as she talks. “Last night was great and all. Thank you for having patience with me. But we both have more important things to focus on. You’ve got hockey, and Tacker is really important. I’ve got to concentrate on my illness, and I want to get out and find a job. If I’m going to be here a while, I need to assimilate. So yeah—”

  And here, she pauses to study me, holding her pile of clothing in front of her chest. Her chin lifts in confidence. “Maybe we should just forget this ever happened and move forward with our original plan. Let’s stick to being friends, which we know we’re great at. Sound good?”

  “Yeah,” I reply sort of stupidly.

  “Perfect.” Her smile is bright, and I don’t detect any uncertainty in her now. I do think she’s decided to move on. For a brief moment, I marvel at her strength and determination. I respect the fuck out of it particularly because I’m not feeling as positive about all this the way she seemingly is.

  I can’t even enjoy her perfect ass as she turns on her heel and heads out of my bedroom, too intent on my own internal feelings.

  I think I just gave up something really fucking good.

  CHAPTER 10

  Regan

  I walk out of Dax’s bedroom with my clothes clutched loosely in my hands and my chin lifted proudly. I know he’s watching my naked backside, so I put an extra sway to my hips as I disappear from his sight. The minute I’m out in the hallway, I quickly dash to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. Once I’m safely away from Dax’s pitying eyes, I lean against my bedroom door and sink onto the carpet. My chest is constricted, and my heart is pounding like a runaway train.

  Damn it, that hurt.

  I didn’t think anything could hurt worse than when my ex-boyfriend, Paul, broke up with me because of me having PNH.

  “I’m sorry, Regan,” he had told me in a sad, almost whiny voice. “But this is too much for me to handle. I can’t just sit around and wait for you to die.”

  I had thought the words were incredibly harsh. They had broken my heart, even though I know he hadn’t intended to. I thought when people loved someone, they stayed with them through thick and thin. Their problems and pain became their partner’s problems, too.

  Paul just couldn’t handle it, and I suffered my first major crushing heartbreak of my life. I had immediately called Lance, and he sat patiently while I sobbed on the phone. He was actually in the locker room getting ready for a game, but he never pressed me to hurry. He just let me vent and pour my heart out to him.

  Yes, Lance was older and supposedly wiser than me. But he had never had a real relationship with a woman, so I hadn’t known if his advice was accurate. He had told me, “Regan… I’m going to propose to you that it wasn’t really love with Paul. If it was, he never would have done that to you.”

  I eventually accepted that advice because I had no other rational explanation for how someone who supposedly loved me could hurt me so badly.

  And while Dax and I are nothing but friends, and we were only intimate once, the pain I’m feeling in the center of my chest seems a million times more debilitating. And I don’t understand that. Dax and I are not in love. We love and care for each other as friends, but we’ve never said those words to each other. He’s helping me out of the kindness of his heart and a duty he feels he owes to Lance. It’s not even actually a duty or an obligation to me. In fact, I think this is his way to keep Lance’s memory strong and alive purely for himself.

  When I inhale a shuddering breath, it comes out staccato like.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Why does it hurt so much?

  Dax rejected me for reasons that have to do with me being me. Same as Paul.

  I sit there a moment with my head against the door, wondering how I’m going to face Dax again. The way he managed to break things off before they even really got started was humiliating. He tried to play it off as if he were doing what was best for me. Telling me he didn’t want things to be confusing or awkward for me when I should really be concentrating on my health. But I also saw other things on his face. When I admitted to him how inexperienced I had been, I’d seen what I was fairly sure was pity. Particularly when I told him my boyfriend had dumped me because I was sick. I felt like such a loser admitting those things.

  But I have to give myself a slight pat on the back. I recovered, pulled myself together, and gave him the brightest, most unaffected smile I believe I’ve ever given in my entire life, then told him that we should just forget it ever happened. But I know I won’t. I’ll dwell on it for quite some time. There’s no doubt I will always wonder what could have been.

  But one thing I’ve gotten incredibly good at over the last few years since being diagnosed with PNH is learning how to put on a façade so the people around me would never guess my inner turmoil. I’ve learned how to keep my pain and vulnerability internally squirreled away from the rest of the world, not because I’m afraid to share it.

  But because I don’t want to burden others.

  So I’m going to do the same thing right now with Dax. I’m going to continue to accept his gracious help, I’m going to find a job, and then I’m going to start school in the fall. Once I complete my masters, I’m going to move back to California. I vow to myself I’m not going to regret a single thing I have been through.

  Because when it boils down to it, it doesn’t seem like Dax is any different than Paul. I am just too much of a complicated mess for most people. Which means I need to continue to learn how to do things on my own without relying on anyone else.

  I take another deep breath. The air flows into my lungs smoothly and comes out just the same. Feeling somewhat fortified and a whole lot determined, I push myself off the floor. Over the next forty-five minutes, I take a shower. To make myself feel better, I even do my hair and makeup. By the time I make it into the kitchen, I’m relieved to see Dax has already left for the gym. He left me a note on the kitchen counter that said he would be back later in the afternoon and would be glad to take me out to dinner. I make a mental note not to be here this afternoon when he comes back. Maybe I’ll go out and see a movie. Treat myself to a nice dinner and some ice cream after.

  I fix breakfast—granola, yogurt, and a fresh banana—and settle in at my laptop to continue my job search. It can be somewhat difficult to find work since I can only commit part-time hours and have no intention of staying permanently. I know there are many people who would never reveal those intentions to a prospective employer, but I don’t feel that is fair. So I’ve been upfront to every place I’ve applied. In the handful of interviews I’ve done over the phone, I was transparent in my future plans about moving back to California and my disease. I need to make sure that whoever hires me does so with the knowledge I come with baggage.

  My phone rings. I glance at my phone, recognizing the familiar phone number. The name brings a smile to my face. Dr. Timothy Marino.

  I don’t know if it’s actually Dr. Marino or his nurse, but I answer with a cheery smile on my face that comes naturally because of who is on the other end. “Hello.”

&nb
sp; “Hey, Regan. It’s Mary.”

  My smile gets bigger. While I adore and have the utmost respect for Dr. Marino, his nurse has become a little bit like a sort of mom to me over the past year since I’ve become a patient.

  When I was first diagnosed with PNH, there was great relief in knowing the name to my problem. But because the disease is so rare, there are few doctors who actually have enough education and training to be able to properly treat it. Lance immediately stepped in and started using his pull as a professional hockey player. In the end, we ultimately decided to have my treatment handled by Dr. Marino at Duke University Medical Center in Durham, North Carolina.

  He was highly recommended. When we first contacted him by phone, he didn’t talk down to us or over our heads. There was just a natural chemistry, and Lance and I flew to Durham to meet him.

  It wasn’t a hardship living in California and having my doctor clear across the country. I only had to see him twice a year. My lab work could be handled by my primary care doctor in California. My treatments could also be completed in California. Because of the distance between us, Dr. Marino and his nurse Mary did a lot of communicating with me via phone and FaceTime. Perhaps because of the distance, they put in extra effort, time, and care with me. Over the last year, we’ve grown remarkably close. Dr. Marino even came to Lance’s funeral in New York, which is a testament to that fact.

  “So I heard through the grapevine you’ve moved from Encinitas to Phoenix,” Mary drawls.

  I laugh, having expected this call eventually. The first person I had to contact with my move was my case manager with the pharmaceutical company that administers the Salvistis. They would have had to get a new referral from Dr. Marino, which they would submit to my insurance company. With the new insurance I was on, I hoped things would happen quickly this week.