Chapter Eight
Slider was already waiting for me when I finally dragged myself to my bedroom.
He sat on the bed, staring at the floor. He didn’t even look up when I came in, jumping slightly when he heard the door shut behind me. I broke whatever trance he was in and he rushed to stand.
“I wanted to say, sorry,” he hurried out. He wiped his hands on his jeans and adjusted his cut like he was ridiculously nervous. “Sometimes I drink too much… that must have been why… you know?”
I stood quietly by the door. Letting him say what he needed to say to feel better about the situation.
“It wasn’t you. You’re great.” He droned on looking everywhere around the room but at me. “Like sexy as fuck, and no doubt amazing in bed. I was just having a bad day and—”
“Slider?” he stopped. Finally meeting my eyes. “How long have you been on the hormone therapy?”
I could tell my question took him by surprise. His eyes widened, and he stammered out an awkward laugh. “The what?”
I sighed, moving closer to him and holding out my finger, pointing to where the mark was on his stomach. “How long have you been getting hormone therapy injections?”
The second I’d seen it everything made sense. Him not becoming hard during our make out session was surprising. I’d moved on to shocked when my mouth and my hand hadn’t done the job either. But the moment I’d seen that mark, everything fell into place.
“I…” he started. I could see his brain working overtime, attempting to come up with some kind of excuse or reasoning. But there wasn’t one. After about thirty seconds of silence, I watched him cave. He dropped onto the bed, the tension falling from his body like a weight had suddenly been lifted. “‘Bout four weeks.”
I hefted myself onto the bed next to him, our legs touching. “How are you feeling?”
“Like fucking shit,” he sighed.
“What kind of cancer is it?”
His body tightened again, and his fists clenched as he rested them on his knees. “Prostate.”
I lay my hand over his fist and squeezed it, but he was quickly off the bed and stepping away from me. “Don’t.”
“It’s okay. I get it.”
Slider laughed, but it was void of any kind of humor. “And how would youget it,Hadley?”
I didn’t appreciate his condescending tone. I sat a little straighter. “Because I watched my dad go through it for over a year before he died.”
His face paled. “I’m gonna die.”
I leaped off the bed and stormed right up to him. “No. You’re going to fight. And you’re going to win because your family will be at your side.”
He shook his head. “No, they won’t. Because I’m not telling them.”
My eyebrows raised in question. “What do you mean you aren’t going to tell them? They don’t know?”
He stepped away from me, rounding the bed. He was running. From me, from his brothers, his friends, and the problem.
“No, and they aren’t going to know,” he said sternly, holding my gaze.
“Slider…” I spoke slowly and cautiously. It was like trying to coax a wild animal into believing it could trust you. “You need to tell them. They can support you. They will help you to be strong.”
I remembered when my dad had found out about the cancer. He and my mom sat me down and explained what was going on. He told me that he was going to get weak and that I would need to be strong for him so that he could let his body heal. I remember always thinking he was so big, so tough.
He worked in construction his whole life so he was athletic and muscular. But once the cancer came, he wilted. It happened slowly over time, but soon he wasn’t the man he was before. He was weak, barely even able to climb out of bed some days. And every time I saw him stumble, or his hands shake, I would hold him up. I had to be strong for him when his strength withered. I needed to help his body heal by taking some of the stress from his hands.
“Let them in,” I pleaded. “Let them help.”
“No,” he snapped. “The second Op finds out I’m sick, he’ll stand me down. He won’t let me help, and he’ll take away my duties.”