Unwound (Mastered 2)

“You didn’t leave a single message in all the times you called.”

“And it never occurred to you to pick up the damn phone when it was ringing to see what I wanted?”

“I didn’t know you’d called. After I left the dojo that day, I was in a daze. I charged my phone in my office while I finished up a few things. I didn’t realize I didn’t have it until three hours later, when I was on the road headed to North Dakota.”

“You didn’t have your phone for a week?” he asked skeptically.

“Evidently I didn’t need it. I checked in with Molly once a day on the office line. When I called my cell voice mail, I didn’t have a single message from you. In seven days.”

His eyes searched hers. “If I would’ve left a message?”

“I would’ve returned your call.”

“Instead you got pissed off and returned my ropes.”

“Not even that garnered me an enraged visit from Master Black. Anytime before when I’d pissed you off, you showed up loaded for bear.”

“Baby.” He unwrapped her fingers from the metal side rail and kissed her knuckles. “We’ve both got a lot to learn when it comes to communication.”

“Agreed.”

“But thank you for reaching out to me.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The package you sent.”

“I sent the ropes weeks ago.”

“No. The box I got yesterday. With a peace lily and an invite to come by so we could talk. I’m pretty sure that’s how I got it in my head to show up at your place last night.”

“Ronin . . . I didn’t send you anything like that.”

They stared at each other. “Somebody wanted to get us talking again.”

“Now you babbling about a peace offering makes sense. But that wasn’t—”

Three knocks sounded on the door, and a guy in a white coat walked in.

“Mr. Black, I’m Dr. Dainsworth. Your neurologist.”

“I hope you’re here with good news.”

“I guess that depends on your idea of good.” He glanced around the dark room. “Still having light-sensitivity issues?”

“Yes.”

“It might take as long as a week before you’re back to normal. If it takes any longer than that, you’ll need to contact my office so I can coordinate with an ophthalmologist for additional testing.” The doctor gave Amery a once-over, and Ronin bristled. Mostly because the young blond doc was the type of man Amery found attractive.

But her eyes were firmly focused on him.

“Can I speak freely? Or would you prefer we discuss my concerns in private?”

Amery released his hand. “I’ll wait outside.”

Ronin snatched her wrist before she’d even moved. “I want you to stay.”

That shocked her.

“Why don’t you both have a seat.” The doctor pointed to the small table and chairs in the corner. “I’ll be right back.”

Ronin gritted his teeth from the sharp sting zipping down his spine when he simply rotated his body to set his bare feet on the cold tile.

“Do you need help?”

He tamped down his automatic response that he wasn’t a f**king invalid. “No.” As soon as he put pressure on his bruised knee, he nearly stumbled.

She said, “Careful,” but didn’t touch him.

Goddammit, he hated—fucking hated—how he shuffled the twenty feet between the bed and the chair like an old cripple. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t hurt.

Suck it up and be a man.

Ronin caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. His right eye was discolored red and purple. He had a bandage above his left eyebrow covering stitches. Bruises dotted his jaw. His bottom lip was busted up and also sported stitches. In his younger years, he would’ve shown pride in his injuries. Now? He was disturbed Amery had seen him this way.

Easing himself into the chair caused the hospital gown to ride up. To make his humiliation complete, Amery draped a blanket across his lap.

Dr. Dainsworth returned and sat on the rolling stool, getting in Ronin’s face. “I did my homework on you, Sensei Black. Impressive that you’ve achieved the eighth-degree black belt level at your age. Aren’t most jujitsu practitioners who reach Hachidan status in their fifties?”

“Yes. But my sensei in Japan factors other things besides mastering techniques into advancement. The belt system in Japan is different from the U.S.”

“Understood.”

“I imagine my sister contacted you because you’re . . . ?” Ronin purposely left that vague to see how this doctor would fill in the blanks.

“A neurologist specializing in treating sports-related brain trauma for athletes who have a documented history of repetitive cranial injuries.” He raised an eyebrow. “Need my other qualifications? Medical degrees? Internships? I can have my secretary send you a copy of my latest article in the New England Journal of Medicine on the four years of research I compiled on potential long-term effects of brain injuries in mixed martial arts fighters as compared to boxers.”

“So you’re the best of the best.”

“Yes. And like you, I reached that level at a relatively young age, also due to dedicating my life to my studies.”

Ronin respected warranted cockiness. “Hit me with the questions.”

“If you had to guess, how many times would you say you’ve been knocked unconscious either during a match or in practice?”