Endurance - Jack Kilborn [20]
“Would you like some privacy?” he asked.
Deb loosened the drawstring on her sweatpants. “I wear a bikini when I compete. There’s nothing you’ll see here that you won’t see there.”
She rested her butt against the bumper, then tugged down her pants. Removing them from her legs was awkward, but Deb favored flared cuffs, making the process easier. When she was finished, she stood in her bra and panties, expecting Mal to be staring at her prosthetic legs.
Instead, Deb caught him staring at her breasts, which made her feel wonderfully normal. She tried not to smirk, reaching into the trunk for a water bottle and a towel as he began to unbutton his shirt. Deb cleaned herself off as best she could. When she glanced at Mal again, he was in his boxer briefs. It was obvious he worked out.
“Can you toss me a water bottle?”
Deb thought, staring at his chiseled abs, about asking him if he needed help. But that was totally inappropriate, especially after what they’d just been through. Instead, she went with something banal.
“Do you run?”
“Yeah. Not like you, though. Never competed in anything. After five miles I feel like puking.”
“Everyone feels like puking after five miles. It’s called hitting the wall. You have to run through it.”
“That’s why you’re the athlete, and I’m the reporter. Once I hit the wall, I curl up and start crying.”
“I do that too. But only after the race.”
Deb took a long pull from the water bottle, then dumped the remainder on her prosthetics. Her cosmetic legs, as opposed to her sports legs, were flesh-colored and shaped like real calves, the outer skin latex. Inside each was a titanium bar, which attached to a complicated spring/joint mechanism that functioned as ankles. Her high-top Nikes were specially made to snap onto the ends. Every so often, Deb toyed with the idea of getting a custom pair of stiletto boots. She missed high heels. But walking was enough of a challenge without an extra three inches.
Except for the flesh-colored Velcro straps just below her knees where the prosthetics began, the legs looked real, even close up. But they got dirty very easily, and were a pain to clean. The dried-on blood was proving especially tough, and Deb was worried if she rubbed too hard, she’d rip the latex.
“Maybe this will help.” Mal tugged a bottle out of his suitcase and held it up. Grey Goose vodka.
“Apparently you come equipped, too.”
“I travel a lot, and hate paying twelve dollars for martinis at the hotel bar.”
“I’m not sure getting drunk will help get the blood stains out.”
He shook his head and walked over, kneeling down between Deb’s legs. “Do you mind?” he asked.
Deb didn’t mind at all. She watched as he poured some alcohol onto a clean part of his towel, and then rubbed her prosthetics with it. For the briefest of moments, Deb could almost feel his touch on her missing legs, her brain linking his actions with remembered sensations. She shivered, and told herself it was because of the night breeze and not anything else.
“I think I can take it from here,” she said, holding her hand out for the vodka.
He looked up like a guy ready to propose marriage, which was something Deb knew she’d never see. The tiny flirtatious spark she’d felt a moment ago became resentment. At herself. At her legs. And at Mal, for daring to treat her like a normal person.
Scott, her boyfriend once-upon-a-time, didn’t react well to the loss of her legs. It freaked him out, and he didn’t act the same after the amputations. He alternated between treating her like a fragile China doll that might break, and acting like she was deformed. The one time they tried to have sex, and the comments he made, was so upsetting she dumped him right there, and hadn’t been with a man since.
She’d dated again, eventually, after getting through rehab on her own. But in Deb’s experience, all men were in one of two groups. Those that wished