His hand tingled. It fucking shook and he couldn’t stop it. And it hurt. His fingers didn’t want to work the way they should to hold onto the tool he previously wielded so well. Not without pain darting through his hand and wrist.

“Fuck!” Simon threw the instrument on the table. He was pissed at himself for getting hurt. For not healing the way he should, or realizing the pressure being put on his nerves right after the injury. At the construction worker for making such a stupid, fucking mistake.

How good could his skill level be if he couldn’t even walk through a house without ripping his hand open?

It was his fault Simon had to step foot in that hospital today. To smell the antiseptics, instead of just remembering them. For taking him to the place he had no business being at because he couldn’t do what he wanted there.

Suddenly he felt like he’d taken the bat to his hand just recently, the wounds and the news of mononeuropathy damage still fresh in his ears.

The phone rang, and without looking at it, Simon knew who it was. He didn’t feel like talking to her, but he also knew Heather. If he didn’t answer, she wouldn’t stop calling. She may even jump in her car and make the drive from San Francisco to Rockford Falls. Maybe he needed that. Maybe he needed to see her.

He’d loved Heather one way or another for many years. If anyone could pull him out of his funk, it would be her. But she couldn’t. She’d already tried.

“Hey you,” she said when Simon picked up, before he even had the chance to say hello.

“Hello.”

“What are you doing?” Heather asked.

“Throwing a temper tantrum.”

She chuckled. “No surprise there. How’d it go today? I think you’ll feel better once work on the house starts.”

No, he wanted to tell her. He would feel better if his fucking hand worked right.

“It was a disaster. The man cut his hand open and I had to drive him to the hospital to get it stitched up.”

“Oh...” was all Heather said. She knew he avoided hospitals like the plague.

“Exactly.”

She obviously decided it was a good idea to change the subject because she asked, “Alan and I wanted to see if you had plans this weekend.”

She knew he didn’t.

“We thought you might want to come and meet us for dinner.” Alan was her boyfriend, and one of Simon’s ex-colleagues. She’d started dating him a little over two months after Simon’s accident—accident, ha; the day someone accidentally broke into his house and accidentally took a bat to his hand—and they’d been together ever since.

Simon was happy for her. As much as he loved her, he’d never been able to give her what she needed. Surgery had been his mistress. It was his first and only love.

“No, thanks. I appreciate the offer.”

“Hey...you can talk to me, Simon. I know you never did before, but I always thought that was because you were too busy for words.”

Really, it was just that he sucked at them. He did better with unconscious people than he did everyone else. “I’m fine, Heather. Tell Alan I said hello.”

Right after he ended the call, Simon made another one.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was Saturday, but Trevor couldn’t sleep past seven. If he was being honest, he’d admit he missed sleeping half the day away and being up until all hours of the night. He felt sixty instead of twenty-five now. He rarely stayed up past ten, and he was up by seven every weekend, and earlier for work during the week.

Being idle was hard on him now. When he sat around, he thought. When he thought, he remembered. When he remembered, he craved.

“Want to go on a jog with me?” Trevor wore sweats and a T-shirt, the little metal chip in his pocket that he always kept with him. Evidence of his sobriety.

Blake sat at the kitchen table in his boxers, nursing a cup of coffee. “It’s seven.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Get your lazy ass dressed and come run with me.” Trevor picked up a hand towel from the counter and threw it at Blake.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to run with your hand?”

Trevor grinned at him. “Don’t usually run with my hand.”

Blake rolled his eyes.

“Come on, little brother. Let’s go. I’ll beat your ass in a run and then we’ll come home and talk about that job.”

His brother’s eyes darted away at that, and Trevor knew. He fucking knew what that meant. “He called you, didn’t he? He called and said we didn’t get the job.”

“Last night.”