The Chartreuse Door

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Riley Quinn frowned at the collection of boxes stacked in his new living room, waiting to be emptied. s**t. Compared to what normal people owned, it was a light load. But for him, they were dead weights around his neck, choking him. When had he accumulated so much crap? Not in the deserts of Afghanistan. Nor in the mountains of Nepal or during the uprising in Uganda. His whole life used to fit into a backpack. And most of that space had been taken up by his camera gear.

Disgusted at how ordinary he’d become, he couldn’t stop himself from heaving a solid kick at the biggest of the boxes. Cringing as scorching pain shot up his right leg, he clutched his throbbing knee and cursed himself for being so damned stupid. If he wasn’t careful, he’d undo whatever small improvement the latest surgery had made. Then he’d be shunted back to the hospital, suffering every day under the hands of that unrelenting perky physical therapist. That would finally drive him over the edge.

He leaned over, tore off the tape, and opened the flaps to see what was so heavy the box hadn’t budged an inch.

Framed photos.

Six months of portraits of bland, pretty boy clones. Six months of babying his leg and accomplishing nothing except to immortalize idiots whose biggest fear in life was a pimple. God save him from tiny minds with no clue the world needed more than sultry side glances and gleaming white teeth.

He glared into the overstuffed box. Why in the world had Lucy bothered framing these? And in heavy glass and metal, no less. If she’d gone cheap, his leg wouldn’t hurt so much, and he wouldn’t be standing here wondering where to put this collection of crap, and he wouldn’t be—

He broke off the thought and smacked himself on the forehead. Was he really that pathetic? And whiny? He considered kicking the box again as punishment for trying to pass off his bad temper on his eighty-year-old former teacher and current self-appointed cheerleader and boss. Of course, Lucy had gone all out in her crusade to help him embrace this new life. The woman was determined to see him adjust, and she never did anything half-assed.

Resigned to dealing with the clutter, he grabbed the box and hoisted it, taking a moment to center himself and find balance on his bad leg. Peering around the bulky box, he headed for the staircase. This load of garbage could go in the second bedroom. The window in there was small, so with some minor remodeling and good blackout curtains, the room would make a fine combination darkroom and studio. Digital was way easier, but he’d been bought up with old-school photography and was toying with the idea of developing his own film.

The box shifted in his arms, threatening to upend them both, and he huffed in momentary fright. He’d better stop daydreaming and get his ass up the damned stairs. He should have bought a ranch-style condo, but his battered ego had reared its head and insisted, at age thirty-two, he wasn’t an old cripple who couldn’t deal with a few stairs.

Halfway up the staircase, he reached the landing and congratulated himself. Not bad for a gimp. Feeling cocky, he grinned as he pivoted and took a step, intending to tackle the remaining stairs.

The next moment, the box of photos went flying out of his hands as he tumbled back down, crying out in alarm. The picture frames shattered around him, shooting glass shrapnel through the air. Coming to rest at the base of the staircase, he panted, floating on the shock, scared to even speculate on just how much damage he’d done to his leg. Or his head, which ached like a son of a b***h and seemed to be resting on—what the hell? He slowly eased his head to one side and saw he was splayed out on top of a hand truck. The moving company had left a f*****g hand truck on his landing? Unbelievable!

He did a quick inventory of his limbs. All seemed to be working. That was damned lucky, despite the roaring tide of pain rushing over him. He managed to fish the pill bottle out of his pocket, pop the top, and roll two—no, three tablets—into his palm. Choking them down, his suddenly dry throat reminded him just how thirsty he was now there was no access to water.

He lay still for the next twenty minutes or so, waiting for the pills to kick in. Dust motes dancing in the sunlight from the open door were his sole entertainment. God, he hated the drugs. They always knocked him on his ass. But right then he needed that velvety cloud of relief to envelop him. Little by little, his heart rate slowed, his tense muscles loosened, and the edge of the pain softened. He reached behind his head to check for blood. The reawakened nerves had him hissing when he touched the lump on his skull. But at least there was no blood on his hand.

So, now for the big test. He held his breath and boosted his bad leg into the air. Swallowing a scream, he lay still and waited for the agony to fade. Lesson learned: no quick movements. But getting off the hand truck strip-mining his lower back was top priority.

As slow as he could, he wiggled his way off the thing and sat up. His head stayed on, although it was touch and go for a moment as he waited for his eyes to focus. Now, where had he left the damned cane? He didn’t dare put weight on the leg unsupported just yet. Glancing around, he saw it in the corner where he’d tossed it, certain he wouldn’t need it. Arrogant asshole that he was.

Taking care to flick the worst of the broken glass out of his path, he inched his butt over to retrieve the cane, then retraced the same path back to the stairs. With exaggerated care, he used the cane to ease himself onto the second step, then rested again, breathing deep and long, ignoring the tears stinging his eyes.

Fucking incompetent idiots! Months of hard-fought physical therapy wiped out with one careless oversight. Ignoring the shaking of his hand, he pulled out his phone and dialed the moving van company.

After a few rings, a bored-sounding female voice answered. “JC’s Classic Moves. Tiffany speaking.”

“This is Riley Quinn. I want to speak with the owner. Now.”

“Jake’s not in the office. And trust me, dude, you don’t want to tangle with him today.”

“Trust me, I do. Tell Jake he needs to come to my home now with the company insurance contact information and a claim form. And then he can apologize for leaving a hand truck hiding in the shadows on the landing of my stairs. I damn near killed myself on it.”

“Oh, that could be a problem.”

Riley bit his tongue to suppress the snarky question, you think? At least the woman was showing a hint of decency.

But just to prove him wrong, Tiffany finished her thought with, “If you broke the hand truck, you’re gonna have to pay for it. Jake gets real bent out of shape about people tryin’ to rip him off.”

Feeling the heat of anger creeping up his neck, he forced his voice to be calm. Arguing with idiots was a waste of time. “Look, Tiffany, I tripped over the hand truck and fell down my stairs because your employees were negligent. I want the owner to get his ass over here now with the insurance paperwork. Then he can get his damned hand truck out of my house.”

“Well, okay, hon, I’ll tell him. But I gotta warn you, he’s in a wicked mean mood.” She hung up.

No goodbye.

No apology.

No expression of concern for Riley’s injuries.

He scowled at the silent phone, plotting what mayhem he could inflict on JC’s Classic Moves if they had the nerve to bill him for the hand truck that almost killed him. Mean? Jake didn’t know what “mean” was. And if this incident meant another round of physical therapy, Jake would be the one paying the perky therapist. Every damned penny.

Glancing at the open front door every minute or so, he fervently wished the bastard would get there quick, while Riley was still powered by his outrage—and still upright. Those pain pills had kicked in big-time, and everything was getting more than a little wavy around the edges.

Trying to focus, he squinted hard at the photos scattered on the floor. Vapid young men with cookie-cutter looks, each one believing himself a unique star in the making. Riley snorted. He’d seen unique, and it wasn’t any of these self-absorbed twits. Unique was a face with real life written on it, vibrant with depth and courage. All over the globe, he’d seen faces like that. And what always showed, underneath the skin color or the bone structure or the eye shape, was the light of character. That’s what he wanted to photograph. That’s what those awards he’d won were for, not the newest fashion plate.

God, he missed doing work that mattered.

He leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes, not even trying to fight the bitter helplessness sinking over him. He’d just let himself drift until Mean Jake rolled in. Then he’d heave himself to his feet and vent his frustrations by tearing a strip off the man. Maybe afterward, he’d feel good enough to drag himself up the stairs to soak his aching leg in the tub before he couldn’t walk at all.