Read Breaking (Fall or Break #2) for Free Online Page B

left. Mrs. She-who-must-be-obeyed had already gone. When he heard the sound of Mark’s car pulling off the gravel drive, Conrad struggled out of his T-shirt and shorts and waited for the water to warm up. He missed his power shower, his travertine tiled wet room, his tub, his life. He swallowed hard. If he started down the route of thinking about what he missed, he’d slide so fast he’d run out of control, crash and burn.
    He’d rented this place on a long-term lease so that he could get back onto his feet well away from London, out of sight of everyone he knew. As far as Chambers was concerned, he’d only be absent for six months, but Conrad had no idea how long it would take before he was back to normal. And what the fuck was normal? Plus he wasn’t sure he wanted his old world anymore which was rather worrying. What else could he do? What else did he want to do?
    From a life that was full-on 24/7 not so long ago, he’d been reduced to a stumbling shadow who did little more than eat, sleep and suffer. Oh yeah, and whine. He’d lost interest in everything. A whole pile of stuff he’d ordered online to occupy himself lay unused in the cupboard. Depression had sunk its claws into him, dug deep and wouldn’t let go. He suspected Mark had only suggested he walk without crutches to improve his mood.
    Conrad clung onto the handrail as he stepped under the flow. He let out a loud groan as hot water poured over him. He soaped his body, and when his fingers wrapped around his cock he couldn’t help playing with it a little, just in case, but it remained limp. God-fucking-damn. Is it too much to ask that I could at least still have that pleasure in my fucking life? The chance to wank my way to oblivion?
    Google supplied the answer to a question he couldn’t bring himself to ask the doctors. There was no reason why he couldn’t get hard. Even if the damage to his spine had been more severe, erections were possible. So what’s fucking wrong with me? He washed his hair and still clinging to the handrail stood with his forehead pressed against the wall until the water running down the plughole was clear and not soapy.
    He might be depressed but he wasn’t going to start taking tablets. Who wouldn’t be depressed if they’d had their life interrupted by some homicidal maniac lunatic driver who hadn’t even fucking stopped to see if he was okay? Rage flared, his heart thumped harder and he forced himself to take several deep breaths. Depression was pointless. So was rage. And whining. Getting better was all that mattered. Except what did he have to look forward to when he did go back to London? An empty flat, a heavy caseload that would eat up his evenings and no Malachi to distract him.
    By the time Conrad was dressed in chinos and a pale blue shirt with trainers on his feet because Mark said they were better for him to walk in, it was one o’clock in the afternoon and he was exhausted. He squashed the temptation to lie on the bed even for a few minutes because he knew he’d fall asleep and then he wouldn’t sleep that night. Instead, he headed on his crutches to the kitchen. Everything took so fucking long.
    He was lonely, but he didn’t want to see anyone he knew. Or anyone he didn’t know. He wanted to walk back into his London home the way he’d left it when he went for a run that morning. It would happen.
    A plate of ham sandwiches covered in cling film sat on the kitchen table. He hated ham. He’d repeatedly told them he hated ham. It was almost as though they were deliberately trying to piss him off. He threw the food in the trash and called WE DO 4 U. A few moments later, they were no longer doing for him and he felt a rush of relief that he’d taken charge of at least one aspect of his life.
    He stood in front of the kitchen sink and stared out of the window. The sky was cloudless, the waves huge, the sun glinting off distant breakers. He spotted a solitary surfer in a black wetsuit. Conrad waited for the