The problem was solved when Dale slammed his hand down on the red button of workout death—the emergency stop. I only just remembered to grab the bars on either side of me to stop my body from lurching forward and hitting the control panel.
“What did you do that for?” I shouted, jumping off and nabbed a towel to wipe my face.
Looking at me carefully, he weighed up what he was going to say. Instead of answering my question, he walked up to me with one arm out like he was going to pat me on the shoulder with some words of wisdom. But, when he got to me, he swung the other arm back and brought it forward into my crotch as hard as he could.
As the pain ricocheted through every part of my body and my reflexes bent me forward, he yelled, “Bow to your master!”
The next thing, I was on my knees, still feeling like someone had shoved a samurai sword from my nuts up to my throat. Unable to hold my body up with the amount of pain I was in, I tipped forward until my head was resting on the ground, right next to his feet.
“When it’s settled, I’ll be in the kitchen waiting to talk some sense into you, Parky Park.”
When I could think and had full control of my limbs again, I was going to kill him.
Painfully.
Starting with his nuts.The walk I made to where the asshole was waiting for me was painful and felt like miles instead of yards. Each step made a residual spike of pain stab my gut, and for the first time in my life, I wished I could hold my nuts apart, so they didn’t touch each other.
And the fact Dale was sitting on my couch eating the muffin I was saving just made the anger grow even more.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Turning his head slowly to look at me with a mouthful of the apple and cinnamon awesomeness, he mumbled around it, “Wid you bawz or dis?”
If it wouldn’t have caused me more pain to do, I’d have jumped on him. Instead, I gingerly sat down beside him on the couch and snatched the half he had left out of his hand. “Both, fucker!”
Then, because I was a mature guy, I shoved the remainder of it in my mouth and chewed it quickly so he couldn’t ruin that for me, too.
With a smirk, he bounced up and down a couple of times on the cushion his ass was on, deliberately knocking me on the last one and almost making me bring the muffin back up.
“Well, you’ve been moping and working yourself into Terminator shape for three weeks now. When you’re not doing that, you’re stressing about Ariana or working so hard that you’re going to put the other Doc McHotStuffins—as the girls call him—out of a job. Now, as you’re a doctor, I don’t need to explain the detrimental side effects that can have on you, nor do I need to mention that you need to make an appointment with your therapist. But I’m going to.”
He leaned back in the corner of the couch, lifting his feet up and dropping them on my lap, only narrowly missing my nuts. “Too much stress and anxiety can have bad effects on multiple parts of your body, including your stomach and heart. Not getting enough sleep because of it, while at the same time working and exercising like you are, will just add to that. If we’re lucky, you collapse with exhaustion. If we’re unlucky, you collapse because your heart says fuck this.”
I sighed, hating that he was right.
“I’m not trying to minimize what you went through and what happened, but here are some facts for you: Chantal, the bitch, is dead. She’s been cremated, two people turned up to the funeral, and she’s gone. Moodie’s in prison and won’t be allowed out on bail. I’ve seen the charges against him, and he fucked up so badly, he’s unlikely ever to be released. He’s also going to have issues after the damage Connor’s bullet did to his shoulder. Dad, well, he’s got a long and lonely life ahead of him because we’ll never see him again, either. Sadly they couldn’t change him for being an incompetent and oblivious asshole, but the rest of his life’s going to be suffering enough. It doesn’t eradicate the memories and trauma from your mind, but it sure as shit means you won’t get any more from them and that you’re fully in control of the situation now. Are you following?”
“Yes, I’m following,” I ground out through gritted teeth. He was right. I knew he was fucking right.
“Good,” he clapped his hands together like I was fucking two. “You need to make an appointment to speak to your therapist, and you need to reassess what you’re doing. Still exercise, but a healthy amount is a third of what you’re currently doing.”