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"No worries. Now I know it really was good." Erin winked.
He snort-laughed and took another drink while gazing at the pines behind the house, letting his cheeks cool.
A muffled, tinny version of Darth Vader's theme came from the house. It must be Erin's cell phone. Erin scowled and went inside. She wasn't happy to hear from whoever she pinned with that ring tone. It better not be Chaz Cust.
She didn't quite close the sliding glass door. "Mom..."
Family drama. He rolled his eyes and lifted his beer.
"Mom—" She paced across the patio. "Mom! Did he tell you he tried to rape me? Well, he did."
Suddenly, he understood the ring tone.
"So, because he has money, you believe him and not me?" Pained disbelief rang through her words. Then her tone changed, becoming calm, slow, and sharp, like thick ice cracking under a car tire. "I cannot believe this. I can't talk to you." The phone clicked on the table, like she'd placed it carefully, probably so she wouldn't throw it. The phone went off again, but she silenced it immediately. Three times. Erin stomped back out to the patio and dropped into the lounger. Flags of color slashed her cheeks, and her eyebrows practically met above her nose, her mouth clamped tight.
He couldn't blame her. He probably couldn’t make her feel better, but he could try. "Family."
"Yeah." She shook her head. "Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em."
"Yeah." His drove him crazy sometimes, but hers was horrific. He truly hoped her mother's disbelief was a recent development, not a long-term issue.
They sat in silence again. Erin poured the last of the beer into their glasses. She said, "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Does it hurt?" She nodded at his residual arm.
Shoot. He hated talking about it, but she'd fed him and been cool and hadn't run away screaming, and she clearly needed something else to think about, so he'd talk. "Sometimes. When I wear the prosthetic too long, it aches, and I can get blisters, although I don't much anymore. Sometimes I get phantom pain, but not very often." He took a drink.
"That sucks."
He shrugged. "I suppose, but it's like overdoing it on a normal arm. Too much work and pressure makes you ache. It's a slightly different ache." He snorted. "It's better than the alternative, that's for sure." Early in his recovery, he'd wished he was dead, but with the mandatory counseling, he'd recovered. Plus, so many of the guys and gals with him in the hospital had much worse injuries. A forearm and hand were nothing in comparison.
"True." Erin looked at it again. "Do you have full feeling?"
"Yeah. Sometimes too much. That's what causes the phantom pain." Something he was fortunate to rarely experience.
She winced. "Oh, that does suck. They can't get rid of the nerves?"
"No. They grow back. Some of the research they're doing right now takes those nerves and implants them into the chest wall, and then they hook up the controls for a bionic arm to the nerves on the chest wall to control the arm."
"Really? That's so cool!"
He smiled at her, amazed she could even talk about it, let alone think it was cool. "Yeah, it is. That's cutting-edge stuff, and they've only done it on a few people who have lost arms from the shoulder."
Erin jolted. "The shoulder? Wow, that would really suck."
"I could have it so much worse. I feel pretty darn lucky, most of the time." He should always feel lucky—he had it so much better than so many.
"But not always. I think it would be way too easy to get depressed. Does that happen often?" Compassion shone on her face and in her voice.
Should have known she'd want to talk about his feelings. Women always did. "Not as much as it used to, but probably more than it should."
"Are you in therapy?"
He winced. Stupid. After that give-away move, she'd never believe a yes. "Uh, sort of." He was fine. The docs needed to concentrate on the people who really needed them.
She raised and wrinkled her brows. "So, no."
