concerned. âWe, ah, called a car service. Theyâll be here in a minute. Are you riding with us, Kennedy?â
She brushes back her hair, composing herself. âYes, thanks, Tom. Iâll ride with you.â Her expression is chilly when she turns to me. âIâll see you in court tomorrow, Brent.â
I tap the top of the taxi hard, frustrated because this isnât a battle I can win tonight. âYep. See you tomorrow, Kennedy.â
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
Only later that night, around 2 a.m., Iâm awakened by the sensation of electricity shooting from the end of my stump up my thigh. I break out in a cold sweat, my entire body locked up, every muscle contracted in agony. It happens occasionally.
In the beginning it was phantom limb pain, the feeling of an ache in a limb that no longer exists. Back then, it was just a cramping in my foot. I wanted to rub it, wiggle and twist it until I got comfortable, but of course that wasnât possible.
Nowadays itâs different. Nerve pain.
Itâs the reason your uncleâs knee aches when it rains, even years after the replacement surgery from that old football injury. Some nerves just donât know when to quitâthey want to fire, and theyâre fucking pissed off that they canât.
My thigh spasms when another jolt comesâthis one burning and sharp. I grunt and call for Harrison to get my wheelchair. Wearing my prosthetic is out of the question, and so is going back to sleep.
Iâve been to many specialists and they all have explanationsâweather, stressâbut no definitive answers. One wanted me to go back under the knife, but he couldnât guarantee it would cure the flare-ups, so I declined. Instead, I try medical massage, acupuncture, and just plain old sucking it up.
After I wheel myself out to the living room and tell Harrison to go back to bed, I send a text to Sofia, telling her to count me out at the office tomorrow. And at court.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
In the morning, my masseuse comes to the houseâan aging Asian woman with sure, strong hands who curses like a sailor. The pain is less after she leaves, but only slightly. I spend the day in my wheelchair, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants.
Later in the day, I get a surprise. Thereâs a loud knock on the door and Harrison goes to answer it. He comes back into the living room with Kennedy right behind him, looking fantastic in a white skirt, fitted black blazer, and shiny high heels, her hair down, thick and wavy.
She also looks mighty ticked off.
âMiss Kennedy Randolph,â Harrison announces.
She pulls up short. âYou have a butler?â
I shrug. âMy mother worries. To what do I owe the pleasure?â
Kennedy unleashes her pointed finger. âIf you think youâre going to pass this case off to your partner like a chickenshit, youâre out of your mind!â
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
âIâm talking about the fact that you werenât in court today. But your barracuda of a partner was!â
I chuckle, even as razor-sharp pain slices across my leg. âBarracudaâSofia will like that. Iâll be sure to pass along your compliment.â
âDonât even try to bait and switch this, Brent. Iâll file a complaint with the court, Iâll contact the bar association, Iâllââ
As entertaining as her tirade is to watch, I cut her off. âThe case is mine, Kennedyâthe client is mine. I wasnât up to making it into court today and Sofia was free. Thatâs all.â My eyes drag over her and I force a wink. âThough itâs good to know you missed me.â
Her mouth snaps shut, and her brows draw together as she regards me. âYou donât look sick.â
âIâm not sick,â I counter.
She glances at the wheels of my chair, then my faceâand I know sheâs noting
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