Attitude on Wheels, a Velvet Glove story
by Sean Michael
||Erotic Contemporary Romance
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Carson arrives at the Velvet Glove in a wheelchair, full of anger and snarls, ready to take out his frustration on everyone around him. Harrison, the physiotherapist assigned to help him, is maddeningly Zen, even in the face of Carson’s worst tantrums. Carson takes to calling Harrison Pollyanna, but even that doesn't seem to faze the man. Harrison maintains that Carson just needs to turn all that passion toward getting better.
Something more than just healing is starting, though. Can Carson and Harrison see past their roles as therapist and patient and find what they need in each other?
Originally published on the Turn of the Screw serial service.
Carson glared at the medvan's driver as he was wheeled into the Velvet Glove's lobby. Asshole had taken the curb hard and Carson knew it had been done on purpose. He'd have the bastard's job.
"Carson Mercer. You're expecting him," the driver told the doorman cheerfully. And when the man nodded, the driver thumped Carson on the shoulder and took off, leaving him there like a sack of fucking potatoes.
He fucking hated this.
Hated the stupid wheelchair.
Hated his stupid legs that wouldn't work.
Hated being at the fucking whim of every single other person out there because they could walk and he couldn't.
"Welcome to the Velvet Glove, Mr. Mercer."
He aimed his glare at the doorman. Thanks for fucking nothing.
"Is this my new man?" A low, pleasant voice sounded and he looked up and up and up into a wide grin and blue eyes and blond-blond shaggy hair. "Hey man, I'm Harrison. Going to be your right hand man for a while."
"It's my legs that're useless. Maybe you can find me someone who knows what the fuck they're doing."
"Your file says your legs have hope and I'm the best there is, here at the Glove or anywhere, really. Kes has you on the eighteenth floor. Nice view. Pool, too. Hope you like to swim." The man started moving away, motioning to him.
Oh, just fucking great. A Pollyanna. There'd been a whole crew of those at the hospital, telling him that a small chance was still a chance. He'd like to see them being happy with his odds.
He folded his arms across his chest and glared. At least now he knew where to aim it for maximum effectiveness.
Harrison turned and those blue eyes met his, a streak of sheer strength in them. "You need pushing, beauty? Your arms look strong enough."
"You think you can order me around? I don't have to do jack shit I don't want to do."
"Oh, you're a charmer." The sorry jackass came around started pushing him through the room. "Well, tell you what, beauty. You manage to stop me, you can do what you want to."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Me making a scene here in the lobby. I'm the one in the fucking chair." He glared some more, but it wasn't nearly as effective when he had to crane his neck back and look way up to do it.
Damn it all to hell and back, he fucking hated this.
"Yep. You are, and you're pissed, and I hear you. But I can't help you down here." The man didn't sound even the slightest bit angry.
Which just pissed Carson off all the more, but there wasn't a damn fucking thing he could do about it and he wanted out of this public lobby in the worst way. So he just sat there, glaring at anyone who dared look in his general direction.
They made the lift and headed up, the asshole behind him whistling. "Mr. Bronze sent your file up, so we've got your likes and dislikes, allergies, all that."
"Bully for you, I won't up and die from anaphylactic shock on you." So at least the latest jail was more efficient than the last one.
"Well, not for a day or two. I like to kill my patients slowly."
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