J. Ward - Lover Unbound

He tossed the phone onto the comforter, even though the thing was beeping that there were texts waiting for him. Rubbing his strangely broad chest with his new Shaquille O'Neal hand, he felt like hell. He should apologize to Layla, but for what? Being a lame-ass who went soft? Yeah, that was a conversation he was dying to have, as she was no doubt totally unimpressed with him and his performance.

Was it better to let it go? Probably. She was so beautiful and sensual and perfect in every way, there was no chance she'd ever think it was her fault. All he'd do would be embarrass himself into an aneurism as he wrote what he'd say if he'd had a voice box.

He still felt like hell, though.

His alarm clock went off, and it was just too fricking weird to reach over with this man arm and silence the thing. When he stood up it was even more freaky. His vantage point was totally different, and everything seemed smaller; the furniture, the doors, the room. Even the ceiling was shorter.

Just how big was he?

As he tried to take a few steps, he felt like one of those circus stilt-walkers; gangly, loose, in danger of falling. Yeah… a circus walker who had had a stroke, because the commands his brain gave weren't received properly by his muscles and bones. On his way to the bathroom he lurched all over the place, hanging onto drapes, the molding around windows, a dresser, the doorjamb.

For no particular reason he thought about crossing the river on his walks with Zsadist. As he went along now, the stationary objects he used as crutches were like the stones he jumped one to another to stay out of rushing water, little aids of big importance.

The bathroom was pitch dark, as the shutters were still down for the day and he'd turned all the lights off after Layla left. With his hand on the switch he took a deep breath, then flipped on the recessed lights.

He blinked hard, his eyes supersensitive and way more acute than they'd been before. After a moment, his reflection came into focus like an apparition, emerging from the glare, like a ghost of himself. He was…

He didn't want to know. Not yet.

John shut the lights off and went to the shower. As he waited for the hot water to get running, he settled back against the cold marble, wrapping his arms around himself. He had this absurd need to be held at the moment, so it was a good thing he was alone. Although he'd hoped the change would make him stronger, it appeared to have nancied him out even more.

He thought back to killing those lessers . Right after he'd stabbed them he'd gotten such clarity as to who he was and what kind of power he had. But that had all faded, so much so that he wasn't sure he'd ever really felt that way.

He pushed open the shower door and stepped inside.

Christ, ow . The fine spray was like needles going into his skin, and when he tried to soap up his arm that French-milled stuff Fritz bought stung like battery acid. He had to forced himself to wash his face, and though it was cool to have stubble on his jaw for the first time in recorded history, the idea of taking a razor to his puss was utterly repellent. Like drawing a cheese grater down his cheeks.

He was washing his body off, being as gentle as he could, when he got to his privates. Without thinking much of it he did what he had done all of his life, a quick sweep under his sac then down himself-

This time the effect was different. He got hard. His… cock got hard.

God, that word seemed weird to use, but… well, that thing was definitely a cock now, something a man had, something a man used-

The erection came to a halt. Just stopped swelling and lengthening. The curling ache in his lower belly went away, too.

He rinsed the soap off himself, determined not to open the can of worms about him and sex. He had enough problems. His body was a remote-controlled car whose antenna was broken; he was going to class, where everyone was going to stare at him; and it dawned on him that Wrath must know about the gun he'd had on him downtown. After all, he'd been brought back here somehow, and Blay and Qhuinn would have had to explain what was doing with the scene. Knowing Blay, the guy would try to protect John about the nine and cop to its being his, but what if that got the guy kicked out of the program? No one was supposed to have weapons when they were out and about. No one.

When John got out of the shower, toweling off wasn't an option. Even though it was cold as hell he let himself air-dry as he brushed his teeth and clipped his nails. His eyes were superacute in the dark, so finding what he wanted in the drawers wasn't a problem. Avoiding the mirror was, though, so he went into his bedroom.

Opening up his closet, he took out a bag from Abercrombie amp; Fitch. Fritz had turned up at his door with the thing weeks ago, and when John had taken a gander at the clothes he'd figured the butler had lost his mind. Inside were a pair of brand-new distressed jeans, a fleece the size of a sleeping bag, an XXXL T-shirt, and a pair of size-fourteen Nike Air Shox in a shiny new box.

Turned out Fritz, as usual, had been right. All of it fit. Even the boat-sized shoes.

As John stared down at his feet, he thought, man, those Nikes needed to come with PFDs and a frickin' anchor, they were so big.

He left his room, his legs working in a gawky gait, his arms swinging loose, his balance off.

As he got to the head of the grand staircase he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, with its depictions of great warriors.

He prayed he would be one. But he just couldn't see how in the hell he'd pull that off.

Phury woke up to the sight of the female of his dreams. Or maybe he was dreaming?

"Hi," Bella said.

He cleared his throat, and still his voice was reedy as he replied, "Are you really here?"

"Yes." She took his hand and sat on the edge of his bed. "Right here. How are you feeling?"

Shit, he'd worried her, and that was not good for the young.

With what little energy he had he did a fast mental mop-up, an OxyClean of his brain, sweeping out the dredges of the red smokes he'd fired up, as well as the lethargy of injury and sleep.

"I'm fine," he said, bringing his hand up so he could rub his good eye. Not a great idea. In his fist was his drawing of her, crumpled up like he'd been hugging it in his sleep. He shoved the piece of paper under the covers before she could ask what it was. "You should be in bed."

"I get to be up a little each day."

"Still, you should-"

"When do the bandages come off?"

"Ah, now, I suppose."

"Would you like me to help?"

"No." The last thing they needed was for her to find out he'd been blinded at the same moment he did. "But thank you."

"Can I bring you something to eat?"

Kindness from her hit harder than a tire iron to the ribs. "Thank you, but I'll call Fritz in a little bit. You should go back and lie down."

"I have forty-four minutes left." She checked her watch. "Forty-three."

He pushed himself up on his arms, tugging the sheets higher so less of his chest showed. "How do you feel?"

"Good. Scared but good-"

The door swung open without a knock. As Zsadist walked in, his eyes locked on Bella as if he were trying to gauge her vital signs in her face.

"I thought I'd find you here." He bent down and kissed her on the mouth, then on both sides of the neck over her veins.

Phury looked away during the greeting-and realized that his hand had burrowed under the covers and found his drawing. He forced himself to let it go.

Z's whole attitude was much more relaxed. "So how are you, my brother?"

"Good." Although if he heard that question one more time from either of them, he was going to pull a Scanners , because his head would explode. "Good enough to come out tonight."