onto the mattress and set the crutches to the side. He groaned and flopped back on the bed. “Damn it,” he snarled to himself. He hated being injured. Damn Petre Romanov. As soon as he thought it, he felt bad. It hadn’t been the other man’s fault. It was just a bad twist of fate. He grimaced, thinking about twisting . That’s what’d happened to his ankle.
Rueben and Petre had both been going after the hockey puck. Closing in on the corner of the rink, he’d been ahead. At the last second, he’d readied his stick, turned his skates, and used his blades to come to a sliding stop. Unfortunately, Petre had gone after the puck at that same second, checking him into the boards. Rueben’s left skate twisted, and he’d felt it pop right before flames of pain erupted through his foot and up his leg.
It’d been kind of embarrassing how he’d dropped like a sack of potatoes. Once he’d found out how long the breaks took to heal, he didn’t feel so bad about it.
With a sigh, Rueben heaved himself back into a sitting position. He maneuvered around to the side of the bed and grabbed the information book beside the phone. Flipping through it, he found the number for the local police, picked up the phone, and dialed.
Rueben told the receptionist who he was, then requested to speak with whoever was handling his brother’s missing person’s case. After being stuck on hold for nearly ten minutes, he learned that the man in charge was out on a call, so he left a message, albeit a disgruntled one. At least, he hadn’t hauled his ass down there.
Once he hung up the phone, he grabbed his bag and pulled out a pair of gray track shorts and a black tank top. He stripped down to his briefs before wriggling into his workout clothes. Rueben limped to the bathroom, took a piss, washed up, then retrieved his crutches and room key.
Ten minutes later, he reclined on a weight bench, feeling the burn of his muscles. He zoned out and enjoyed the stretch and pull as he worked his way slowly, awkwardly around the machine, changing positions and targeting different muscle groups in his upper body. Rueben found the flood of released endorphins from working out reassuring.
He knew what to do to get the results he wanted.
Putting down the handle at the end of the cable attached to the weights for the last time, he picked up his towel and mopped his brow. Sweat gleamed on his pale skin and his chest heaved from exerting himself. Even though he couldn’t work his legs, he still felt good.
Rueben stretched his arms over his head, twisting this way and that. He peered out the window into the pool yard. Movement near the end of the terrace caught his attention. He spotted several men coming in through the back gate and heading around the pool toward the motel entrance.
Brows shooting up, Rueben realized he recognized one of the men. Whipcord lean and pale, the trench coat-clad guy strode purposefully across the space. “Draven,” he whispered. That was his brother’s ex-partner on the force. Maybe he had information about Ricky. Heaving himself to his feet, he hustled as fast as his busted limb would allow.
He’d just managed to yank open the weight room door when one of the man’s companions opened the motel lobby entrance. “Draven,” Rueben yelled.
Draven paused and turned toward him. Rueben found himself the recipient of three men’s stares. He fought back his sudden urge to duck back into the weight room and escape. Geez, why do I feel intimidated?
“Rueben?” Draven asked, his brows shooting up. A slight smile curved his thin lips and he started toward him. The huge, goateed guy next to Draven murmured something to the ex-detective as he followed, and Draven whispered something back.
Relieved the guy remembered him—they’d only met a few times—Rueben nodded. “Are you here looking for my brother, too?”
Draven grimaced. “I guess I don’t have to ask why you’re in town.”
Rueben leaned against the doorframe,
Rueben and Petre had both been going after the hockey puck. Closing in on the corner of the rink, he’d been ahead. At the last second, he’d readied his stick, turned his skates, and used his blades to come to a sliding stop. Unfortunately, Petre had gone after the puck at that same second, checking him into the boards. Rueben’s left skate twisted, and he’d felt it pop right before flames of pain erupted through his foot and up his leg.
It’d been kind of embarrassing how he’d dropped like a sack of potatoes. Once he’d found out how long the breaks took to heal, he didn’t feel so bad about it.
With a sigh, Rueben heaved himself back into a sitting position. He maneuvered around to the side of the bed and grabbed the information book beside the phone. Flipping through it, he found the number for the local police, picked up the phone, and dialed.
Rueben told the receptionist who he was, then requested to speak with whoever was handling his brother’s missing person’s case. After being stuck on hold for nearly ten minutes, he learned that the man in charge was out on a call, so he left a message, albeit a disgruntled one. At least, he hadn’t hauled his ass down there.
Once he hung up the phone, he grabbed his bag and pulled out a pair of gray track shorts and a black tank top. He stripped down to his briefs before wriggling into his workout clothes. Rueben limped to the bathroom, took a piss, washed up, then retrieved his crutches and room key.
Ten minutes later, he reclined on a weight bench, feeling the burn of his muscles. He zoned out and enjoyed the stretch and pull as he worked his way slowly, awkwardly around the machine, changing positions and targeting different muscle groups in his upper body. Rueben found the flood of released endorphins from working out reassuring.
He knew what to do to get the results he wanted.
Putting down the handle at the end of the cable attached to the weights for the last time, he picked up his towel and mopped his brow. Sweat gleamed on his pale skin and his chest heaved from exerting himself. Even though he couldn’t work his legs, he still felt good.
Rueben stretched his arms over his head, twisting this way and that. He peered out the window into the pool yard. Movement near the end of the terrace caught his attention. He spotted several men coming in through the back gate and heading around the pool toward the motel entrance.
Brows shooting up, Rueben realized he recognized one of the men. Whipcord lean and pale, the trench coat-clad guy strode purposefully across the space. “Draven,” he whispered. That was his brother’s ex-partner on the force. Maybe he had information about Ricky. Heaving himself to his feet, he hustled as fast as his busted limb would allow.
He’d just managed to yank open the weight room door when one of the man’s companions opened the motel lobby entrance. “Draven,” Rueben yelled.
Draven paused and turned toward him. Rueben found himself the recipient of three men’s stares. He fought back his sudden urge to duck back into the weight room and escape. Geez, why do I feel intimidated?
“Rueben?” Draven asked, his brows shooting up. A slight smile curved his thin lips and he started toward him. The huge, goateed guy next to Draven murmured something to the ex-detective as he followed, and Draven whispered something back.
Relieved the guy remembered him—they’d only met a few times—Rueben nodded. “Are you here looking for my brother, too?”
Draven grimaced. “I guess I don’t have to ask why you’re in town.”
Rueben leaned against the doorframe,
Similar Books
