I’d had the proverbial rug yanked out from under me more than once in my twenty-five years. The first time had been when my father’s partner showed up at our front door sobbing uncontrollably. Dad had taken a bullet during a routine traffic stop and in the blink of an eye I went from little boy to the man of the house. It was my job to take care of my mom and two younger sisters, so that’s what I did.
The second time was when my very best friend in the entire world tapped me to teach her how to kiss when were just about to enter high school. Royal Hastings was everything a teenage boy should want, beautiful, funny, and sweet as could be with a rack that wouldn’t quit. Kissing her should have been a treat and not a chore. I loved her something fierce, so when our lips touched and I was left wholly unaffected and completely unmoved, it forced me to stop and really consider why. That summer when I went away to a very exclusive baseball camp and met a boy named Riley who also wanted to practice kissing it became crystal clear why touching Royal did nothing for me. I liked boys, really liked them, in a much more than friendly way. Initially, the revelation had freaked me out, sent me scrambling and into denial, but I was too close to my family, too tight with Royal to keep the revelations quiet for long. And like everything else I eventually just accepted it was who I was along with being my family’s protector and Royal’s bff. Being gay was simply another facet of the man I would ultimately become. So it took a backseat, to getting out of high school and doing my late father proud and becoming a cop just like he was.
I managed to reach every goal I set out for myself. I was focused and diligent, often working harder than the next guy because I felt like I had not only a legacy to live up to but also more to prove. When I got shot in the line of duty, which led me to taking a header off of a building, which, of course, did a brutal number on my body, the uncertainty of what my future held as I healed nearly paralyzed me. Lately, I was surly, argumentative, and a general pain in the ass to be around. My family was sick of me, and it had killed me to watch Royal, who was now my partner on the force as well as still being my best friend, nose-dive into a downward spiral of guilt because she felt like my getting hurt was her fault. It was a mess. I was a mess, both physically and mentally.
I always considered my typical recovery time pretty quick when things shifted and tilted around me. I was a man that rallied and adapted to my changing circumstances with a stiff upper lip and practical sensibility. This go-around, I was scrambling. Everything was off-balance, and I couldn’t seem to find my footing, no matter how much I fought to remain sturdy and upright. It pissed me off even more that my current disorientation had little to do with the limp left over from my recently shattered leg, and my questionable future with the Denver Police Department and everything to do with the somber-faced man sitting across from me.
It had taken months to get an appointment with him, and that was with Royal pulling strings because she shared mutual friends with the man. I had to wait for an opening in his schedule that was packed because the guy was in demand across the board when it came to complicated athletic injuries. The guy was no joke when it came to fixing broken bodies and he didn’t take on just anyone as a client.
He was supposed to be a miracle worker, with magic hands and the perfect touch. He was my last hope that I could get not only my body back in working order but also my place on the force.