Chapter 2 - The Art of Friction
By the second morning, Riley understood with crystalline clarity why six professional nurses had either walked out in tears or been escorted off the property by Frank Dorsey.
Caring for someone with a high-level spinal cord injury was not graceful, neat, or polite. It was intimate, frustrating, endlessly repetitive, and completely devoid of personal dignity during the worst moments.
Jonah needed assistance transferring from his custom bed to his wheelchair. He needed help dressing, managing autonomic dysreflexia triggers, monitoring skin integrity, and maintaining routines that prevented dangerous spasms and pressure sores.
He hated every single second of it with a passion that burned like white-hot phosphorus.
On Thursday morning, when Riley attempted to operate the ceiling-mounted mechanical patient lift above his bed to transfer him into his chair, Jonah’s entire body went rigid. His muscles locked up in a violent spastic reflex, his back arching off the mattress.
“Relax,” Riley said, her voice calm and steady as she adjusted the padded nylon sling beneath his hips.
“I am paralyzed from the chest down, Riley,” Jonah hissed through clenched teeth, his face pale with exertion and frustration. “My nervous system does not understand the concept of relaxing just because you told it to.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” she replied smoothly, reaching for the hand-control pendant. “Your legs are remarkably uncooperative.”
“Then stop telling me to relax.”
“You’re making the sling harder to position by turning your torso into a concrete block.”
“I am literally incapable of controlling my lower body!”
“Well, you are somehow still managing to be profoundly unhelpful from the waist up.”
Jonah’s dark eyes flashed with pure murder.
As she leaned in to smooth a fold of the fabric beneath his shoulder, her elbow caught the edge of the metal frame, causing her hand to slip and accidentally pinch the sensitive skin near his ribs.
Jonah’s breath hissed sharply between his teeth, a harsh, involuntary gasp.
“Careful,” he warned, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl.
“Sorry,” Riley muttered, immediately adjusting her grip.
“Competence,” Jonah snapped, his fists clenching against the sheets until his knuckles turned white, “would be vastly preferable to your casual apologies.”
Riley straightened up, dropping the hand pendant onto the mattress. She put her hands on her hips, looking down at him with an expression that combined clinical exhaustion with absolute defiance.
“Fine,” she said, her voice ringing clear in the expansive bedroom. “Then stop turning yourself into a two-hundred-pound iron girder every time I try to help you. We are a team, Mr. Mercer, whether you like it or not. And right now, your team member is trying to get you into a chair without dropping you on your very expensive head.”
His expression became so dark it looked carved from obsidian.
She stared right back down at him, refusing to look away, refusing to shrink.
May you like
Finally, Jonah exhaled a long, ragged breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. He muttered under his breath, “You are the most infuriating human being God ever put on this earth.”
“And yet,” Riley smiled faintly, adjusting the sling once more, “here we are.”
