Broken 30

In and out of consciousness, I caught glimpses of his face. He was barely familiar to me, like someone out of a dream and with time bending over and through itself under a haze of narcotics, I couldn't be sure if I remembered him from two hours ago or two years. Just as I began to focus in the bright afternoon light streaming through my bedroom window, a sharp volt tore through my back and I was out again.

"She hasn't been awake for more than five minutes or so since she got home from the hospital yesterday." A man's voice floated above me, hushed and serious, barely audible. "If she doesn't wake up soon to eat, I'm afraid she'll need an IV."

"Damn the health care system in this country. She should probably still be in the hospital. I'm worried sick about her. Thank God I found you Paul. I know you weren't looking for a live in position, but as you can see, she needs you." I recognized this voice. It was Martha, my agent.

Martha had been representing me for eight years and with no family of my own to speak of, she was my rock. We were really more like sisters, laughing and crying together at whatever life brought. Thanks to her, I didn't hang up my racket after that embarrassing fourth round elimination at Wimbledon. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride; I was beginning to feel like the laughing stock of women's professional tennis and at thirty it seemed doubtful that I would ever reach my goal of winning a Grand Slam tournament. But, this year I decided to give it one last shot and worked hard to get into the best shape of my life. Martha was my cheerleader, telling me to show them what I was made of and prove all those assholes wrong. The struggle back had brought me to the semi-final at the US open. When was that? Last week? Last month? I couldn't remember. It was all foggy.

"Did they find the guy who was driving the car?" The man was speaking again.

Martha answered, "No. What kind of person can just run someone over in the street and not stop? The whole thing is just unbelievable. Oh good, I think she's waking up." I inhaled deeply and looked over in their direction. "Lila, sweetie. I'm here with Paul, your nurse. He's going to be staying here and taking good care of you." Martha had taken my hand in hers and was sitting next to my two casted legs on the bed.

The man crouched over me and placed his hand gently on my shoulder. "I'm so glad to see you awake." His smile was warm and genuine, leaving soft creases at the corners of his water blue eyes. "Do you think you would like something to eat?"

I wrinkled my nose, about to cry. It hit me all over again, The accident. In the full length mirror across the room I surveyed the reality of my condition with disgust. The legs I'd been cultivating for greatness since I was ten were useless to me now, and my long brown hair was shaved on the side that featured a bandage instead. My body was a mass of bruises, swollen, ugly. The words came in a sudden burst, "Get out! Both of you, please just get out!" I was bawling now and just wanting to be alone.

Martha kissed my hand and got up. "Lila, I'm so sorry this happened to you honey. I'll be just a phone call away if you need me." She was tearing up too and blew me another kiss before leaving.

I locked my eyes onto Paul and waited for him to obey my request as well. He neatened my covers and told me that he would give me a few minutes before returning with some dinner. "You'll need your strength if you're going to be ready for your 2nd comeback," he said with a wink and walked out.

"Yeah right," I tried to yell after him, but I was too weak. What the hell was Martha thinking - getting me a male nurse? Not to mention how freaking gorgeous he was. I looked like shit and felt even worse. The last thing I needed was to feel self-conscious on top of everything else. It wasn't a secret that I was more famous for how I looked on the court than how I performed, and I loved that guys everywhere drooled over my shots in Maxim and Sports Illustrated. There was no way I was going to be reminded that I had lost that too. He would have to go.

- Paul

As I closed the door after me, Lila's chilly stare raked on my back. Martha and I met up in the kitchen while I pulled together a small dinner for my reluctant new patient. It was a good thing that I'd thought to have some groceries delivered. There wasn't much more than a few diet cokes in the fridge.

Martha leaned on the island and tried to apologize for Lila's attitude, "Don't let her get to you Paul. It's just that ... the accident --"

"It's Okay," I interrupted, "I don't blame her for being angry, and I know that it's not me she's angry with. I'd probably react the same way if I were lying up there all mangled."

She tucked a red wavy lock behind her ear, "Well, you really are a godsend Paul. Twenty-four hour care will do wonders for her."

"A godsend?" I chuckled to myself. "I don't know that I'd go that far. But, I'm happy that I can help."

"She's going to be a handful, you know that," the warning came with a salty chuff.

"I hope so." I turned the chicken and added a few more pieces of oregano. "It's the only way she's going to get back on her feet."

"Paul, do you really think that she will play again ... I mean play well?" she leaned forward, her voice turning serious.

Looking her dead in those piercing green eyes I replied, "Martha, I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

She thanked me again, and said goodbye. So, I left dinner to simmer while I took a stroll around the house. My past few days had been mostly spent at Lila's side, managing the necessities, like bandage changes and bed pan duty. There wasn't any harm in exploring my new digs. I mean it was the private domain of the famous Lila Stevens -- tennis player, spokesperson, model extraordinaire. Who could resist?

I had been following Lila's career almost since she first stepped onto the scene. She was known for always attacking the court like a lion, but with the grace of a gazelle. She was also known for her smoking body. Once I started watching a match I just couldn't keep my eyes off her. Her legs seemed to be carved from perfect granite, with dark brown eyes, and gorgeous long brown hair that she wore tousled about her head like the rebel she's known to be. Top that off with a rack that was just the right mix of soft and round, and you have the only woman who ever completely sold out an issue of Sports Illustrated. I can't count how many times I lied awake in bed, thinking about that cover, wondering what further treats might be found under that short tennis skirt of hers. I watched Lila whenever I could - on TV, when I could get to a tournament. There weren't many matches that I missed.

Her record a few years back wasn't that great. In fact, it was so bad that the critics called her "The Ball Girl"; a stinging commentary on her great body, but apparent lack of tennis skills. In their estimation she wasn't any better than the girls who would shag the balls down at tournaments. Then Wimbledon came along. Lila outright sucked. She was ousted in straight sets by some nobody who was ranked 200th in the world and the critics were not kind. Lila walked away for a year. No one heard anything from her. She did no interviews, no photo shoots, nothing. Then a couple of months ago, without warning, she started to fight her way back to the top. It was a long haul but she earned a chance to compete at the US Open and she didn't disappoint. Her body was still amazing, and her tennis was even better. She would have won, I'm sure, had she not been run over the night after her quarterfinal.

There, matted and framed on the wall next to the front door was that first Sports Illustrated cover that helped Lila Stevens to become a household name. Looking at that picture, it was hard to believe that the woman immortalized in mid flight, muscles contoured from calf to ass and her wildly sexy, full lips apart in exertion was the same woman lying upstairs, broken and bandaged. As I studied the shot once more, a loud, shrieking sound came from above.

"Hello??" Lila called out, quite loudly. "I need help damn it! Where are you? HELLO?!!!"

I rolled my eyes and started up the stairs. "It's going to be a long couple of months."

- Lila

I wasn't even sure he could hear me calling him. God, I hated being so weak and helpless. I've always had pride in my sense of independence. Growing up without a mom had taught me to be pretty self-sufficient. She died of breast cancer at a young age when I was only ten. Dad was never really able to fill that void, though he tried in his own way. We shared Tennis, and as my coach that special bond helped to focus our energy on something we could both control. When he suffered a fatal heart attack during one of his morning jogs, I lost the desire to ever truly rely on anyone ever again. In my room, lying in my bed with the bitter taste of irony in my mouth, I was begrudgingly at the mercy of this perfect stranger.

"Oh, there you are," I said, as he slipped into my room. I was completely lucid now and able to see him clearly. He was about six feet tall and very fit. His tanned biceps looked well maintained and his hands, gripping a tray in front of him, were large and strong. Those pale blue eyes presented a stark contrast to his dark hair. He was striking; the kind of man that you would definitely take second look at if you saw him on the street.

"I brought you something light, just poached chicken breast and some veggies," he offered, coming closer.

I wanted to say that I wasn't hungry just to spite him, but my growling stomach would have none of it. "Thanks. I was trying to sit up anyway and just couldn't do it by myself."

He put down the tray and gently maneuvered his hands behind my back. Delicately, he repositioned me against my propped pillows. When he was finished, he took a few more minutes inspecting my bandaged head before letting his eyes slowly trail over my face. It made me uncomfortable and I turned away.

"I look terrible I know," I mumbled.

"No, not terrible. You just look like you need a little TLC." He tilted his head with raised eyebrows. "Besides Lila, you are just as beautiful today as you have ever been."

I wrinkled my nose at him, utterly unconvinced. "Cut the shit Paul. Isn't that your name? I look like hell, and I don't need you to try and smooth it over. Just leave me the food, give me my meds and get the hell out."

"Look, I am here to help you, whether you like it or not. I'm going to give you your meds, and feed you your meals and do whatever else it takes to get you back on your feet, including making you feel good. So, Lila, I'm not going to be scared off that easily." His arms were folded and his tone was just firm enough to make it seem pointless to argue.

Then he sat down next to me and began to cut the chicken. As he placed the fork in front of my mouth I begrudgingly opened it. The chicken was delicious, as if I had never had something so tasty before in my life. Surely, this was because I had not eaten a thing in so many days, but nonetheless it was delightful. I couldn't restrain the savoring "mmmms" escaping my lips as he continued to feed me. Though my arms were not broken, I was unbelievably sore and allowed him to feed me every morsel.

"You see, I know what you need," he said in a more raspy tone than I had heard before.

I tingled slightly at the statement and surprised myself with the sensation. For a split second it seemed that he wasn't speaking of my dinner. But, the thought was quickly dismissed as he offered to turn on the TV. "Leave it there," I said, referring to one of my favorite episodes of Seinfeld.

He was grinning. "I love this one," Paul said returning to my side and offering me some tea to sip. Together we laughed as the ridiculous plot unfolded once again through the miracle of syndication. By the time it was over I had a wide smile spread across my face and so did he. I had also finished eating and Paul readied me for the evening, fixing my covers and lowering the shades. We chatted some more about other episodes that had entertained us over the years, trying to rank them in order of funniest.

As he brushed what was left of my hair, I was actually very relaxed. His fingers carefully attempted to challenge my tangles and with slow, soft strokes he dragged the bristles of my brush from my crown to my shoulders. His strong hands worked with incredible patience as they moved like fluid over my head. I was drifting off again, giggling a little still at the images we had conjured. My meds were taking effect and whisking me off into dream land. He brushed my hair and I wasn't thinking about what I must look like. I simply let myself enjoy the sweet feeling sweeping over me with those strokes. "Maybe," I thought with my eyes closed and my lips slightly pursed, "Maybe I am glad that he's here." As I floated on this thought into a deeper sleep, I imagined that he kissed me softly on the forehead and whispered "sweet dreams" in my ear before leaving.

Surprisingly, my dreams were more sinful than sweet. I envisioned that I was perfectly healed and walked over to the guest room where he slept. My lips curled into a smile as I played out the scenario in my subconscious mind. First slipping under the covers and then gripping his noticeably large cock. "Now it's my turn to take care of you," I said to him in my sleep, squirming in bed a little as I imagined taking him into my mouth. The thought was as comforting as it was arousing. I wanted to be back in control and in my dream I was again able to take matters into my own hands.

The night passed quickly with one dream after the next playing out different sexual scenarios starring Paul and me. It was a wild collection of thoughts that sent much needed endorphins through my aching body. In the morning I felt refreshed, with a clear and vivid memory of the picture show my mind had delivered. Those thoughts were dangerous, for sure. I wasn't so naïve to think that harboring a crush on my caretaker wouldn't make things complicated, but it was a hell of a lot better than the nightmares that plagued me the previous nights. It seemed that I had found a welcome distraction, one that was harmless enough if kept to myself.

- Paul

I knew very well how traumatic the accident had been for Lila and I wanted to help her do the little things that she couldn't do for herself. It was the way back to normalcy; the beginning of the healing process. I'd been enjoying her company and the chance to make her laugh a little. Brushing Lila's hair, she might have thought that I was taking the caretaker role a little too far. But no doubt the feel of the brush, along with her meds, would melt away any misgivings as she drifted off to sleep.

Right before she lost consciousness, I kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear, "Sweet dreams Lila." She mumbled something incoherent and descended into dreamland. At least an hour must have passed as I leaned against the wall, mesmerized by the sight of her -- just watching her sleep, watching her chest rise and fall. As broken and bruised her body was, I could still see the beautiful, sexy woman underneath. That was the woman I determined to bring back. When I turned to leave, I heard her mumble something again and listened as a low moan eased from her lips; which got me wondering just what kind of dream she was having -- and who she might be dreaming of.

In the morning, Lila awoke rested and in a better state of mind. She was nicer, friendlier; with a twisted little grin on her pouty mouth. And, although it's possible I was mistaken, I'd have sworn that I caught her staring at me few times. Though, I didn't mention it and instead got down to business with the first order of the day. I needed to give Lila a sponge bath. It had been a while since she had been really cleaned up, and the two casts on her legs made putting her in the shower out of the question. Of course, this was met with a fair amount of reluctance from Lila.

"What?" she protested as she looked at me incredulously, "You've got to be kidding, right?"

"Now Lila, you know that I can't just let you lie in this bed as filthy as you are. I'll need to wash you up. It's for your own -"

She cut me off, "Don't tell me that it's for my own good. I hate that. Besides, you seem to be forgetting something very important."

"What?" I asked from the linen closet in the hall.

"You're a male," she said, "I thought that there were rules about males bathing females in the hospital or something like that."

"Generally," I said, with a hand full of towels, "there are. But this isn't a hospital. And, I can assure you that I'll handle the job with strict professionalism."

She looked at me for a few moments. It was obvious that she wasn't going for it. But after a deep sigh, she finally relented, "Fine. Just get it over with, will you?"

"I'll go as fast as I can." Lila started to take off her top, but, I quickly said, "No, you don't have to do that now, wait until I get the water prepared and a sponge. I'll be back." I was surprised that she had agreed to it. But there was no denying that she needed my help cleaning up. And I knew that I would have to use every ounce of restraint not to let on that I found it more than a little intriguing; the chance to get a closer look at what I'd been fantasizing about all these years. I finally got everything together, and went back to Lila's room. She was slouched against her pillow, waiting for me and she didn't look very happy. So, I knew that I had just better get to it. "Okay, let's get started. Put your arms up," I said.

She did, and I slid the pajama top off of her. Discreetly, or at least I hope, I glanced at her breasts which were round and firm; the areolas a deep shade of brown. In the chill of the air her nipples were pert and pink, just hard enough to beg to be sucked. Taking it slow, I started with her back, getting the sponge wet in the warm water and applying a bit of the liquid soap to it. I squeezed it repeatedly, making sure to get it nice and soapy. She shivered a little at the feel of the suds dripping down her skin to the towels beneath her. Meticulously I covered every inch and made sure to be as gentle as I could, while secretly I prayed she didn't think I was getting anything out of the whole episode. Still as I was washing her, I let myself appreciate the way her muscles were defined, and I unconsciously started to follow the lines of them with the sponge. Then snapping out of it, I took a deep breath and turned to her front.

Trying not to seem nervous, I mechanically went about the task, beginning with her neck and working my way down. Gently over of her shoulders, I washed down each arm to her wrists, and then back up and across her chest. As I started to work around her breasts, her nipples peaked again and it wasn't easy to tear my attention away from them. Next I did her stomach, working the sponge across it slowly, taking care not to tickle her. Then finally, I was done. Another towel made sure that she was completely dry, and I had her slip a fresh top on.

"There," I said, "that wasn't that bad, was it?"

Her cheeks flushed red and she couldn't even look at me, "No, I guess it wasn't ..."

"Well, if you need anything else, just let me know. I'm going to get breakfast started." With that, I quickly left the room, making very sure to keep the basin in front of me so that Lila couldn't see my hard-on.

- Lila

As each day passed I felt a little stronger and more alert. Paul had begun to make a habit of playing Gin Rummy with me after lunch which helped a little to pass the hours. Things were becoming less awkward between us as we spent more and more time together. He had an uncanny way of caring for me intuitively, more like a friend.