Recovering

Recovering

A Gabe Fox Novella

Girl with Broken Wings, 3.5

J Bennett

Copyright © 2014 by J
Bennett

All rights reserved

ISBN:
978-0-9910566-8-2

This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any
control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or
their content

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for your
interest in
Recovering,
a novella written from the point of view of Gabe
Fox. After I completed
RISING
,
book three in the GIRL WITH BROKEN WINGS
series, I
realized something was missing.

Not enough Gabe (or
cowbell).

Gabe’s personality was
just too big, too important to be silenced for so long. As I wrote RISING
,
a
second story started forming in the back of my mind. Gabe’s story. This story. RECOVERING
takes place after
LANDING
,
book two in the GIRL WITH BROKEN WINGS
series, and
the events in the novella run parallel to the first half of RISING
.

While you
can
read
this novella directly after LANDING
,
I strongly suggest that you read RISING
first to get a greater sense of the events that motivated Gabe to act. If
this is your first selection in the
GIRL WITH BROKEN WINGS series, I
encourage you to start from the beginning with
FALLING
(FREE on Amazon) before
reading this. Gabe’s situation and mindset are directly related to events that
have occurred in the previous books in the series.

One last little note. Gabe
is a passionate person. He likes to cuss, and he likes to tell you exactly what
he thinks about…pretty much everything. The previous books in this series have
included strong language, but Gabe’s novella pushes the line a little further.
I considered cleaning him up…but I couldn’t. Gabe is Gabe, and that’s exactly
why I love him. I hope you do too!

Enjoy,

J Bennett 

One pushup.
Just one fucking pushup.

I get down
into position. Even this is hard. Everything is hard now. Every last thing. I
plant my hands wide, center my body between my palms and toes and lower myself
down.

Sweat beads
across my brow. Keira Knightley gives me a broody stare. My muscles tremble,
and I pant like a dog in heat.

There was a
time not too long ago when I could do fifty pushups without stopping. Easy peasy.
When I could deadlift 325 and spar with Tarren for an hour without breaking a
sweat. Okay, maybe a little sweat, but I could duck and dodge like Quicksilver
and even take Tarren’s hits when I had to.

And now? A
gust of wind could blow me over.

My elbows
bend to 90 degrees, and my stomach brushes the floor. Halfway there. Now I just
have to push up. How hard can it be? I only just broke 100 pounds on the scale
last week.

I try. I
really fucking try. I push and use all the good curses I know. Then the not so
good ones. I even cuss out farm animals though I gave that trick away to Maya. But
I’m not going anywhere. My arms collapse, and I’m a puddle of pathetic,
wheezing on the floor of the basement, trying to stop my vision from spinning.
Aches wake up in just about every joint in my body.

And Kiera’s
still watching. Judging.

Her sultry
eyes bring me to my knees. I can’t stand that stare, the complete disaster
she’s looking at. I turn the cardboard figure to the wall. The anger bubbles
up, and I kick the big rubber ball we keep down here with the other exercise
equipment, sending it skidding into the wall.

Strip clubs.
Maya and Tarren are actually going undercover in skank-tastic strip clubs right
now! How many times have I gotten on my knees and prayed to God for a mission
that actually legit required us to visit dozens of strip clubs and perhaps
rescue some extra jiggly damsels in distress? Okay, maybe not on my knees, but
that prayer was always in my heart. And here it is, titties served up on a
platter, and Tarren’s the one getting all the exposure. And the big dolt won’t
enjoy a second of it. I guarantee you.

I drag my ass
to the brown, patched couch we have down here and sink into its lumpy cushions.
Tammy fell in love with this dumpster treasure the moment she saw it hanging on
some curb in La Junta. When Mom refused to pick it up, Tammy dragged me out
with her that night to load it in my truck and sneak it in the house. An hour’s
drive each way for a couch so ugly the
Pawn Star
guys would probably pay
me a $1,000 to keep it. That was Tammy, all heart and stubbornness and a dash
of crazy.

I lean back
on the couch and do that thing I really, really hate doing.

I think about
what happened.

Drained. In a
single word, that’s the gist of it. Touched by an angel in a very bad way.

My energy was
literally pulled out of my body by a sicko fuck named Grand. Five years ago
that bastard killed Tammy. Maya and Tarren won’t tell me shit about what
happened when he drained me three months ago back in October, but I know it was
close.

My memory of
that month is Swiss cheese. Ghostly images flicker in my mind – a big circus
tent, a breath mint tangled in my hair, mopping a floor – but they tell only
pieces of a story that leads to a big, black empty hole. Somewhere in that hole
Grand kidnapped Tarren. Maya and I went after him. He drained me. He died.

I wish I
could remember. I wish I could have looked into Grand’s eyes and watched the
light fade. Maybe it would help me be at peace with Tammy. Probably not,
though.

Dr. Lee says this
whole memory gap thing is normal with traumatic incidents. Something about how
memories take time to settle and become permanent. If something interrupts that
process, like, say, a skull fracture and then a five-day coma on top of it, the
memories just evaporate.

Poof. Gone.
Just me waking up with a feeding tube down my throat and a horrifying skeletal
body tucked under the covers. Apparently my body tried to compensate for the
energy drain by feeding on itself like it was Shark Week. It’s not like I was
all muscular and brawny like Tarren in the first place. He can swing a 5-pound kettlebell
once and come away with bulging biceps and a six pack. Me, I had to work for
what little I had, and now…yeah, now even a cardboard cutout is laughing at me.

Even though Maya
and Tarren won’t tell me what happened the night I got drained, I have a pretty
good idea of what went down. I see the way Maya looks at me. The guilt. I must
have screwed up. Big time. Grand took Tarren, and I probably went bat shit all
over the place. I can see myself storming in, guns blazing, and got drained on
the spot. Maya saved me. Saved Tarren. Still won’t tell me how she went all
Wonder Woman and killed the most powerful, most evil, biggest boss villain in
the world. If I flamed out the way I suspect, she probably thinks she’s doing
me the mother of all favors by not pulling the curtain up on my epic fail.

Okay, this pity
party is officially over. I’m taking the stairs by storm.

By storm, I
mean one at a time. Each foot comes down with purpose and up I go. I don’t stop
until I reach the top and then I pause for a couple of seconds to breathe.

“Tomorrow,” I
say to myself. “Tomorrow I will do a pushup.”

Tomorrow
Keira will be proud of me. Until then, I need to chill.

 The house is
too big, too empty without Tarren and Maya. Filled with too many ghosts. Every
slow second is a reminder that I’ve been left behind. Too much of a burden to
go on the mission, though I was the one who discovered the trail of dead
strippers, like hot, murdered breadcrumbs scattered across the country. Lot of
thanks I got for it too. Just Maya’s constant harping over calories and
hydration. She means well. I know this, but it would almost be better if she
completely ignored me like Tarren does. I’d rather be treated like a leper than
like a 5-year-old with a high temperature.

 I hear a knock
on the front door, and for a full two seconds I fritz out like a 1990’s PC
trying to load the latest WOW expansion pack. No one comes to our house. Ever.
Not even the mail guy. I have everything routed to a P.O. box.

 
Angels.

 
After that epic pause I scramble for
a gun. Mom taught us to stay armed at all times, even in the house, especially
in the house. If they ever found us the attack would come quickly, and we’d
need to react immediately. When Tarren is here, I’m usually good about Mom’s
rules, which are now his rules.

But Tarren
hasn’t been around, and the only thing I’m currently packing is crumbs from the
Doritos I had for breakfast. Or was that lunch? I know I had one of my Beretta
PX4s in the waistband of my jeans at one point, but that was, how long ago?
Hell, I don’t even know what day it is. They all run together like someone put
on a record called “Gabe does nothing while Maya and Tarren go to strip clubs”
and left it on constant repeat.

I spin around
in a little circle in the kitchen hoping to spot a gun on the counter or the
table. Whew, I think every single plate and cup we own is fermenting in the
sink. Should probably clean those if the angels don’t bust through the windows
and pop my head off like a Ken doll.

 Then it hits
me. Angels wouldn’t knock.

 Unless they
were really, really stupid angels…or it was some kind of diversion.  One guy
knocks at the front, and the rest swarm the back. Now I’m kind of curious. I
still don’t have a gun, but I make my way to the front door anyway. I bet they
take one look at me and think they have the wrong house. If they expect a mean,
lean, angel-killing vigilante, they are in for a big helping of disappointment.

 I have my
hand on the knob when the knock repeats.

 Soft knock.
Small hands.

 “Shiiiiiiiit,”
I groan as I swing open the door – brain too slow to react.

 On the other
end stands an angel, but not the genetically mutated freaks that I kill.
Francesca is the real kind of angel, the kind that God spent a little extra
time on. That face. Those big brown eyes and sensual mouth. A river of black
hair runs down her back. I’d drown in that river if she’d let me. Oh God, I’ve
lavished hours imaging those eyes full of lust and love, those lips pursed
waiting to lock onto mine.

 
I could
make you laugh, Francesca,
I think stupidly.
You’d never stop.

 
Her eyes are filled with kindness and
warmth…and pity. I imagine her giving that same gentle look to a kid with brain
cancer or a poodle with one of those cones around its head that keeps it from licking
its stiches.

 I almost
say, “Bongiorno,” but catch my tongue. Instead, I lean against the door and
stare at her.
Beautiful.
In the back of my head, I try to remember the
last time I took a shower.

 “Bongiorno,”
Francesca says. Her mouth turns up into a hesitant smile.

 My heart actually
hurts. When I got drained, Maya and Tarren took my mostly-dead carcass to Dr.
Lee’s cabin, two miles away from our house. It was an understandable decision.
My dad saved Dr. Lee from the angels way back, so he knows the whole story and
was probably the only person on the planet capable of saving my life. Fact is,
he’d been preparing for this sort of thing for a long time and was prepped and
ready to drag my ass from the gates of Hell.

That would
have been fine. Dr. Lee is like my second father. He’s set my bones, brought
down my fevers, and stitched up that one minor gunshot wound. But Francesca is
Dr. Lee’s housekeeper, and she’s going to nursing school on top of that. When
they brought me in, Dr. Lee wasn’t the only who treated me…the only one who…God,
it still makes me want to throw up.

 I realize I
haven’t said anything.

 “Yeah?”

 The hesitant
smile disappears. “I just wanted to see how…”

“I’m fine.”

 I want this
to be over. I want to stop thinking about Francesca sponge bathing my sunken
chest and limp dick while I was in the coma the way she would any other
drooling vegetable. More than anything, I want those warm, platonically caring
eyes to just go away.

 “Your hair
is shorter,” she says, her Italian accent turning even common words into
something special, sexy.
Those lips.

 
“I cut it.” My hand does a quick tour
of my bristled scalp. Dr. Lee shaved me quite the bald spot when he put in the
staples for the skull fracture. I figured I would look at least marginally less
pathetic if I buzzed the rest of my hair off to keep it even. It hasn’t really
grown back much.

 “Have you
been…,” Francesca starts.

 “I’m fine,”
I say again. I sound angry. I am angry. Not at her, but it comes off that way,
and I don’t take it back. Let me be the asshole if she will just take that
hesitant smile back home with her.

 
I love
you. Go away. Please go away

 
“Tarren and Maya are…gone?”

 I almost
say, “Strip club,” but manage to cough out, “Business.”

I’m still
leaning in the doorway, blocking it actually. God, I have all these stupid
visions of us married. Not even the wedding or the honeymoon. Just the two of us
in our own little cabin in the woods sitting on a porch swing together. She’ll
be lying on her back, her head in my lap, and I’ll lean down knowing those lips
are mine. My heart feels like it’s going to explode right here. Not so nice
after all the work Francesca did to keep me alive.

 Francesca’s
talking. Reminding me about protein shakes and resting whenever I’m tired, and
all the crap that Maya won’t let up about on the few occasions she’s been
around. My face must tell Francesca how much I am absolutely hating this,
because her words sputter to a stop.

“Thanks, I’ll
remember that,” I say in a flat tone.

“Gabe,” she
says, “I just want…

“To help. I
know. We’ll you’ve helped. I’m still breathing.”
 

 
Francesca is uncertain. I could close
the door right now and make it epically clear, but I won’t do that. Not even
now when I’d probably saw off my own foot if it would get her to stop looking
at me with so much pity.

 “Okay,”
Francesca sighs.

Something
stirs below, and honestly it’s a relief. Not a lot of activity down there
recently. I’d begun to wonder if not all of me woke up from the coma.

 “Bye,” I choke
out and close the door.

 Francesca
doesn’t say anything, just bows her head a little as the door swings. When it
closes, I just go down, sliding to the floor. She’s out there, mere inches of
wooden door away. And yet I couldn’t find the love I want in her eyes if I
hijacked the Starship Enterprise and went through a thousand wormholes.

 It’s better
this way. She’s safer. That’s what matters.

 Damn, I need
to get high. Like right now. And I need to shoot at something.