"You got this, Char. Come on, girl. Move."

"I'm...moving!" 

I grimaced, then gripped the steel bars on either side of me and dragged one foot and then the other forward. My legs felt like lead... if lead had been set on fire. My atrophied muscles burned with the exertion, but the elation at finally moving under my own power dwarfed the pain. 

I did it again. And again, and again until I had stomp-slid to the other side of the room where JC stood behind my wheelchair. "You can stop harassing me now, asshole."

My PT- physical therapist officially, but I called him the PrinceofTorture- laughed at me. It was that loud, impassioned, chesty guffaw, like it was the funniest joke he ever heard. I loved the sound, but he was still laughing at me. 

"Why am I an asshole? Have a seat, missy." He rolled my chair closer to me and I collapsed onto the molded foam seat. I was exhausted from just those few steps. "Because I told you that you could do it, and you said you couldn't do it, but then, guess what? You did it!" 

"Yes. Exactly that." I grabbed my water bottle and sucked down a few long gulps before I ranted on. "You made me do it. Asshole."

"Good job." He held up a hand for a high five. I slapped his palm out of my face, trying to stay pissed, but it was impossible to gaze into those piercing blue eyes and look at that face with the growth of a few days of dark hair and stay mad. "Whatever. You love me. I'm just glad I saw you take steps before I was out of here."

He had to remind me. He'd been telling me for the past six weeks of therapy appointments that he was leaving West LA Rehab Facilities. I hadn't responded because even thinking about physical therapy without the PrinceofTorture made me sad. He was just the right mix of rude with a dash of caring. Derisive and disrespectful while still being sweet and completely sure of my abilities, even when I wasn't. 

A year ago, I was just a girl on my way to an audition, crossing the street while checking my text messages. The driver that barreled into me wasn't paying attention, either. The accident, I hear, was horrific. I don't remember it. 

I can remember quotes from tv shows but I can't tell you where I was going when I got hit.  I remember waking up from a long, heavy sleep and not being able to move. They told me that I'd been in a coma for over a month, and it had been touch and go for a while. I remember tears in my mother's eyes when I could finally focus on her face. 

And I remember the day I met my irreverent physical therapist, who told me he'd ‘get me off my ass in three months.' 

The doctors say my memories could come back eventually. Or not at all. 

JC had been my physical therapist since I'd been discharged from the hospital, finally. I came to the rehab center to work with him twice a week, and my parents hired someone to come to my place three times a week. I hate it every day. I hate it less with JC. 

I watched him pick up the backpack full of books and my Macbook that I dragged everywhere. Since I was dependent upon my parents for transportation, my life was a lot of waiting around for people. I needed distraction and entertainment. And snacks. 

"You know, every week I pick this thing up for you, and every week I want to ask you what the hell is in here?"

"Bricks," I quipped, watching him sling it around the back of the custom, motorized wheelchair that I'd been using. I'd been slowly regaining strength in my legs but I was nowhere near being able to walk on my own.  Until today. "I'm glad you got to see my steps. Honestly, I've been working hard with my other therapist just so I could push today." 

I twisted in the chair so I could see the smile that I knew would appear on his lips. His... beautifully formed, plump lips. I wondered, as I did every session, what it would be like to grab his face and kiss him. 

Chill, Char. Clearly your pussy is not disabled. Working as designed.

I sighed, putting away that fantasy. Every week I made some sort of sexual, suggestive comment about a stretch or a position. He'd laugh, shake his head and change the subject. Either he was uninterested or... gay. Either way, I was just embarrassing myself by this point. This man doesn't want to date a woman in a wheelchair.

"So, this gig is almost over, huh? What now?"

"Nooooow..." he said, dragging out the ‘o', shaking his head a little. "Well, I make my part time gig my full time gig."

If I remembered right, his part time gig was singing, playing piano and guitar. "Music? Really?"

"Yes, really." He walked around the chair and sat on one of the weight benches. My favorite part of these sessions was our chats while waiting for my dad to pick me up. "You sound skeptical."

"No, no!" I rushed to correct myself. "I don't mean to. I'm sure you're good. You sound good, anyway, when you're singing while I do stretches." 

It's one of the things he does that makes therapy bearable- singing to me while I stretch. His voice is... amazing. Once, I managed to record him and I play it every night when I'm at home to stretch to. 

Despite the loose tank top and sports bra I wore, a fierce heat and deep blush overtook me, creeping from my arms and chest to my face, up into my hairline, where beads of sweat gathered. 

Sexy, Char. Every guy loves a girl who sweats when she compliments him.   

"I just uhm... I didn't know that music could be a full time thing unless you like... had a record contract. Did you get one?"

"Nah." He chuckled. "Not yet, anyway. It can be full time though, if you work at it. And I have been. You know the Belden Theater downtown, off of-you don't remember. But anyway, they do midnight shows. Hugely popular, all the artsy kids come out. They've been putting me on as a warm up gig. Their regular guy got a better job, so I got his old crappy job. Pays less than here, but I can't do both. It pays the rent, and it's what I really want to do, so...." 

He lifted, then lowered his shoulders. Then glanced up at me with that shy smile he gets when he feels like he's been talking about himself a lot. 

"That's cool though. You leveled up. It just sucks to lose you as my therapist."

"I bet. Nobody else is going to let you call him an asshole."

"I'm thinking nobody else is going to tell me to get my ass out of the chair. But you'll still be a therapist though right? Like, you have a license?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I'll do some fill-ins, some part time work here and there. Gotta put gas in the car."

"Right. I was just thinking that maybe I could hire you to be my therapist. My insurance would pay and -"

"Char, you have a therapist."

"That I hate. He's not funny. He doesn't push me like you do. You wanted to see me walk before you quit. I don't think he gives a fuck if I walk or not."

JC shook his head. "You just said you worked hard with him."

"I had to talk him into doing extra work with me. "

"Uhmmm..." 

The way he hesitated, then lifted his hand to scratch just under his ear and averted his gaze, I knew the answer was going to be no. 

"I- you know what? That was... that was weird, right? I'm gonna wait outside for my dad." I fumbled for the switch to move the chair backward.  What part of my fucked up brain thought that was a good idea? "Good luck with the new gig. We'll miss you around here."

"Char... Charlene. Wait a second." 

JC hopped up, then moved in front of me. He squatted so we were at eye level and reached for my hands, which prevented me from maneuvering around him. 

"It's not that I don't want to. It's not that at all. I just uh... " He bit out a short laugh, then leaned in. "I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to come out to the club sometime."

My eyes narrowed. Was I hearing him right? "To the club? Where you play?"

"Yeah. To like, see me perform. But I was waiting until I wasn't an employee of LA Rehab. If I take a job as your therapist, I'm in the same situation, and as much as I like it when you call me an asshole because I told you get off your ass and on your feet..." 

He paused to smile. "I'd rather date you. And I think you'd rather date me than pay me to bring you pain. Unless..." His eyes narrowed, and he tipped his head to the side. "Unless you're into that."

I almost choked on my own tongue. This...man.  This beautiful man that I'd been lowkey flirting with for months, who'd been politely rebuffing my obvious advances, who was simultaneously sweet and evil said he'd rather date me than be employed by me. 

I wasn't mad at it. 

"That was a joke, Char. You're not supposed to think about it." 

A few blinks brought me back to life. And then what started as a quiet chuckle built into a long, loud gust of laughter. Amusement on his end, probably. Nervousness on mine. 

"I.. I uhm... I don't know what to say, JC. I didn't think you were interested."

"Good. You were supposed to think that. The past few months working with you has been the most fun I've had with a client. I like seeing you get stronger, get better. Fight. The bitchier you are, the more I like you, because I know it means you're pushing yourself further than you thought you could go. And uh..." 

He glanced down at my hands, still wrapped in his. "I've realized over the last couple of years that I stay here because my folks spent a lot of money on sending me to school to become a PT. It's not my dream job, but I get to help people and do music at night. Then I met a patient that flirted with me nonstop."

His brows rose. And then fell. "And that started my mind on this path where I realize that all I want is to do music and get to know you better. I can't date my clients, so I quit."

"Well, okay. I'll keep my current therapist. Or at least try to find one that abuses me like you do-"

"Hey now-"

"Okay, cares about me like you do. And uh... I'd love to come out to the club sometime." 

I smiled, still feeling that flush, but not caring. He made me all gooey inside, which was ridiculous but also exactly what I wanted.  

"Hey, it's wheelchair accessible, right?'

He nodded. "I made sure of it the other night. I've got a seat and a song picked out just for you."

"I can't wait. But JC... the chair... it doesn't bug you?"

"Nah," he said softly, rising to his feet. Then he leaned over and swiped his lips across my forehead. "You are a beautiful, funny person that appreciates art. You are someone that I want to know. You are not the chair.  The chair isn't you. My last day here is tomorrow. I'll call you the day after that, aso we can start our new relationship."