Free After the Fall by L.A. Witt Page A

scrolled through my contacts.
    He’s at work. She’s an hour away. He’d never let me hear the end of it. She’s got the kids this week. What the hell is this dickhole still doing in my phone?
    And then, like a contact straight from the man upstairs Himself: Owen.
    I speed-dialed him and hoped he hadn’t left it on silent like he sometimes did when he was working. Or left it in his car or someplace where he wouldn’t hear it.
    “Hey, Nathan,” he said. “What’s up?”
    “Hey. Um, are you busy right now?”
    A chair creaked. Probably his desk chair. Shit, that meant he was busy. “I’ve got a lot of work today. Why?”
    “Uh. I . . .” I sighed. “Don’t worry about it. I can—”
    “Nathan. Do you need something?”
    I chewed the inside of my cheek. I reached up to rub my eyes, but the cast on my hand stopped me, and also reminded me why I was calling Owen in the first place. “I, um, I hate to ask, but I could really use a hand right now.”
    He was silent for a moment. “A hand? Really?”
    I winced. Of all the people I could have used that expression on . . . “Sorry. That’s . . . fuck. I’m sorry.”
    Owen laughed. “It’s all right.” The chair creaked again, and a set of keys jingled. “Where are you?”
    “At my apartment.” Well, sort of.
    “I’ll be right there.”
    After we’d hung up, I set the phone on the step beside me and tried to get comfortable. I was starting to realize why the good doctor had suggested keeping my leg elevated as much as possible. Maybe it was the debacle of getting down the stairs, or the fact that I’d overdone it yesterday, but my leg was starting to throb like a motherfucker. I kneaded my thigh above the cast, hoping it would relieve at least some of the fatigue.
    Sitting up here, I must have looked like a complete jackass.
    This will be fun to explain to Owen.
    It occurred to me right then that he had no idea what was going on. All the information he had was that I needed help—a hand, because I was so damned tactful—and was at my apartment. He hadn’t asked for anything further, just said he’d be right over. Good guy, that one. In fact, his boyfriend and I had decided one night that since Owen didn’t seem to have a jerk bone in his body, the jerk bone in the rest of us must have been located somewhere in the lower left arm, which Owen was missing.
    The thought made me chuckle. It was true, though. He was a great guy, and thank God he didn’t live far from here.
    Maybe ten minutes after I’d made the call, the stairwell door opened a floor and a half below me. Must’ve been one of my neighbors. I cringed, hoping they lived on the second floor and wouldn’t make it far enough to see me sitting here like an idiot. Judging by the rapid, almost jogging steps, they were in a hurry, so maybe there wouldn’t be time for the otherwise inevitable awkward questions.
    I braced myself as the person came around the corner below me, and—
    “Wow.” My jaw dropped. “How fast did you drive?”
    Owen shrugged. “Hey, when Mr. Independence says he needs help, it’s worth risking a speeding ticket or two.” He leaned down to pick up my crutch, then eyed me. “So, what in the world . . .?”
    “It’s a long story.” I held out my hand. Owen came up the stairs and gave me the crutch. Using it as, well, a crutch, I started to ease myself upward.
    Owen took my arm and helped me the rest of the way to my feet. “So were you on your way up or down?”
    “Down.” I scowled. “I’m supposed to be heading back to work today.”
    His forehead creased. “You sure you should be going to work instead of resting?”
    “Not really, but I need to.” I pointed at the ceiling. “Gotta pay rent on the castle in the clouds.”
    “Yeah, but if you hurt yourself again, you’re going to have to take more time off.”
    “Hey.” I made a not-very-menacing gesture with my cast. “You keep your logic to yourself, buster.”
    Owen laughed. “All right, all