Chapter One
United Kingdom
2011
“HE SHOULD never ride again.”
The disembodied voice with its dire pronouncement shook me out of my drug-induced stupor, prompting a raspy croak of protest. No one paid attention, of course, since no sound got past the slim tube up my nose and down my throat. I lifted my hand instead and caught the eye of the nurse.
“Doctor,” she said, addressing the figure close by. “Mr. Fawkes is stirring.”
A man bent down and flashed a light into my eyeballs, apparently looking for some sign that would tell him I was back in the land of the living. “Don’t try to talk until I pull the tube out,” he said unnecessarily. “It won’t take but a minute, sir.”
I blinked my acknowledgement, hoping to see a reaction in his amber-flecked gaze.
“Right,” he finally replied. Straightening up, he turned to the nurse. “Prepare to remove the cannula.”
I closed my eyes, assuming that if I couldn’t see what they were about to do, I’d avoid the anxiety of anticipation. It was over in a few seconds, but the coughing fit that ensued took a while longer. A few sips of water helped to calm my abused tissue.
“Thank you,” I gasped.
“You’re a lucky man,” the doctor said. “If the horse had landed on you a few inches higher, it could have resulted in a hopeless spinal-cord injury.”
I glanced at my sheet-covered legs and wiggled my toes. They moved, albeit very slowly. “What happened?”
“A botched ride-off from what I understand. Somehow you ended up with nine hundred pounds of whinnying horseflesh pressed on your back.”
“Christ, is Storm okay?”
“He’s fine,” the doctor said. “You, however, are not.”
“Indeed.” I heard a familiar voice near the bed. “You’re lucky to be alive, old chap.”
I sighed in relief when I saw the friendly face looking down at me with concern. “Where am I, Ned?”
“You’re at Epsom General.”
“Which one of the Argentinean bastards caused the foul?”
“Really, Preston,” Ned reproved. “Don’t you think the more important question is whether you’ll ever ride again?”
“I can feel,” I said, wiggling my toes once more for good measure, “ergo, I can walk and, eventually, ride.”
“What a pity the doctor didn’t knock some sense into your thick skull while he had you under the knife.”
“Why did you have to operate?” I asked the doctor, turning away from Ned, who continued to frown at me.
“The MRI revealed a spinal compression,” he said, “and there was a small hematoma. We had to drain it before there was any disruption to the nerve impulses. Quick action is essential to prevent permanent damage.”
“Does everything look okay?”
“I believe we caught it in time, but it’s difficult to give an accurate diagnosis while you’re in spinal shock. Most of the trauma appears to be in the lower lumbar region, but there’s too much swelling to give you an honest evaluation.”
“Isn’t the fact that I can feel my legs, and, more importantly, move them, a good sign?”
“Most definitely, but time will reveal the true extent of the damage.”
“And yet you made a statement earlier that I shouldn’t ride again, automatically assuming there’s something major going on,” I said with a good degree of vehemence. “Do you have any idea how many times this has happened?”
“That’s precisely why we want to be extra cautious, sir. Your X-rays showed a number of old injuries. Is there any bone in your body you haven’t broken?”
“I’m a professional polo player, Doctor, not an accountant. It’s the nature of my business.”
“Nonetheless,” the doctor lectured, “your body can only take so much abuse. One more injury might be your undoing. I suggest you use this time to reevaluate your career. Surely a man your age is allowed to retire while you’re still able to walk, or would you rather expire on the turf in a more dramatic fashion?”
“You talk like I’m in my sixties,” I protested, hating to be reminded of my age. “I just turned forty-five.”
The doctor looked down at my chart and then back at me with a slight quirk to his lip. “I don’t know what the shelf life is for polo players, but even the great Cambiaso talks about retirement.”
I lifted an eyebrow, impressed with his knowledge of the sport and its number one player.
“You might consider this incident as your wake-up call, Mr. Fawkes,” he added. “I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow.”
“When can I get out of here?” I called out as he exited the room.
“Preston,” Ned said, frowning in exasperation.
“What? If you think I’m going to go home and hang up my sticks, you have another thought coming to you.”
“I don’t want to see you ending up like Christopher Reeve,” Ned said softly. “Need I remind you of everything he went through?”
“No,” I said emphatically, “but I’m not living the rest of my life in fear. People get thrown routinely and walk away unscathed.”
Before Ned could fling out an angry rebuttal, there was a knock on the door and I barked, “Come in.” I was astounded by the number of nurses who marched in with an array of colorful flowers in matching vases. “Does everyone think I died?”
Ned laughed, plucking out a white card from an exotic arrangement featuring birds-of-paradise and tropical ferns. Positioning his reading glasses on the end of his nose, he eyed the handwritten note. “Well, well,” he said, sounding suitably impressed. “Best wishes for a speedy recovery,” he intoned. “It’s signed ‘W’.”
“Is that right?” I said, snatching the card from his hand and looking it over. “Not everyone merits a get well-card from the Duke of Cambridge.”
“You’re a blue-blood groupie, Preston.”
“Blame it on my social-climbing mother,” I joked. She’d sent me off to Eton at the tender age of thirteen because she was convinced that I would never turn into a proper gentleman unless I was educated in the United Kingdom. Mother was born and raised in London and dreamed of seeing me hobnobbing with the royals and the other toffs who mingled in the right circles. “Brits are far more civilized,” she’d say in her clipped accent. It was no wonder I was an Anglophile.
“And yet you’re as American as they come.”
“Because…?”
“You can’t filter your thoughts and usually come up with the most damning statements.”
“What did I do now?”
“The litany of curses you volleyed at the opposing team on your way to the hospital was embarrassing and quite unsportsmanlike.”
“Really, Ned? Really? I’m the victim here, not the asshole who caused the fracas in the first place. Besides, it’s rather difficult to retain a stiff upper lip when you’re in pain.”
“A true Brit would have gritted his teeth and sought revenge at a later time.”
I looked at the benevolent face of my longtime friend and knew he was teasing; still, it rankled to be found uncouth, as usual. I never seemed to measure up to his idea of a true gentleman. “I’m half cowboy, after all. Texans don’t mind their speech, especially if we’re in the right.”
“Nonetheless,” Ned scolded. “We’re not in San Antonio, old chap, and you know it.”
“When can I go home?” I asked, ignoring him.
“As soon as the doctor says it’s okay.”
“I’ve got to get ready for the next tournament, and more importantly, I have commitments to my sponsors. The last thing I need is for the Ralph Lauren people to wonder if I’ll ever ride again. They’ll tear up my contracts, and I’ll never be able to keep up with my alimony and child support.”
“You’re a slave to your ex-wives and children.”
“Be quiet, Ned.”
“This is a perfect example of your Americanism,” he said, shaking his head. “Each one of your divorces has cost you dearly, and dare I mention the subsequent scandals that kept the tabloids in business for a year? Why couldn’t you just do what everyone else does? Lead a double life and put on a good show.”
“And be miserable?”
“The lack of funds has made you unhappier than your controlling women.”
“I’m not poor, Ned.”
“You’re acting like a man on the brink of bankruptcy. Surely you must have a little nest egg for eventualities such as this?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“Preston,” Ned said softly, bending down to kiss me gently on the lips. “You know I’m a nag because I care.”
“I know,” I admitted morosely. “If I had fallen in love with you in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
“As much as I find your face and body to die for, your personality grates on my last nerve. We would have lasted six weeks, tops.”
I choked on a laugh but stopped midway when the hot poker in my back reminded me that I was injured. The pain was so intense I couldn’t breathe without wincing. “Holy mother of… I need some drugs.”
Ned reached for a gadget close to the bed and pressed a button that released something into my bloodstream almost as good as sex. The relief was immediate, and I closed my eyes and sighed. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, try and get some sleep.”
“Bail me out of here,” I slurred before passing out.
When I woke up, the room was dark and I was a little disoriented. I had the urge to pee but realized my prick was attached to some sort of tubing that took care of the immediate problem. I wished the rest of my issues were as simple. I closed my eyes again and took stock of my current situation.
I felt powerless, hooked up to machines that monitored every one of my bodily functions; although the quiet beeping was reassuring. It meant I was alive, amazing considering what might have happened. I could only imagine the terror one might experience upon waking up completely paralyzed. Fate continued to look kindly on me even as I thumbed my nose.
The nametag on my wrist spelled out every syllable of the pretentious moniker my mother had foisted on me, hoping I’d grow into the type of man who’d merit the name. Preston Alexander Fawkes was the official version, but in reality, my friends called me Pres or Foxy, and I was as classy as a rack of ribs. The Texas half of my gene pool obliterated the proper English side; nonetheless, I had succeeded, despite my lack of good breeding. I was a 10 goal polo player, invariably chasing the damned Argentineans to retain my ranking while trying to keep my looks and hang on to my position as number-two guy in the Ralph Lauren stable of manly faces. Who was I kidding, though? After this incident, I’d be lucky if they let me peddle their cologne.
Then again, I was still a good-looking guy, premature gray notwithstanding. It covered my stubborn head in thick waves. I was also a legend in bed and as versatile under the sheets as I was out on the polo field. I’d played every position from one to four, belonged to a perfect team of men who trotted across the globe in search of the next win, and bedded my way across at least five continents, hoping to find a partner who could sustain my interest for longer than a week. Any gender would do, depending on my mood, and that had been my downfall. I couldn’t keep it zipped and was paying the price.
I had a son attending college at NYU, a beautiful daughter who was still hemming and hawing about her career choice, and two ex-wives from hell who were draining me because they hadn’t remarried. So long as the nagging bitches remained single, I had to pay. And oh, did I forget to mention my string of polo ponies and their demanding upkeep? I was inundated with bills from grooms, stables, farriers, veterinarians, and lest we forget, my own equipment, which included an extensive wardrobe. Shit… I had to get out of bed and go to work.
Unfortunately, my body refused to cooperate. I was moving like a ninety-year-old. Everything hurt, including my teeth; I’d been clenching my jaw for the past twenty-four hours and not using my night guard. I made a mental note to mention this problem to Ned the next time he showed up. Where was he, anyway? I needed his expert advice.
Ned Temple and I had begun our friendship when he walked into my room at Eton and asked me if I was gay. I demurred, but his bold query had broken the ice. A little homesick, and intimidated by new rules and upperclassmen, I latched onto Ned as if he were my conjoined twin. Despite the disparity in our upbringing?he was British to the core and I was the rowdy American kid?we clicked. Somehow, we’d managed to overcome our differences and became fast friends. He taught me how to speak without disgracing myself, and I showed him the fine art of hawking up loogies and using spit for lube. We masturbated on a fairly regular basis, alone or in tandem, and shared our secret desires. He was unabashedly gay, and at that time, I was unequivocally in the closet. We made quite the team.
The glue that kept our friendship alive was our love for horses and riding. I had dreamed of playing polo from an early age, and because my mother was English, I was shipped off to boarding school to learn the proper way. Texans weren’t big on rules, and if I had any hope of joining the international set, I had to mind the Ps and Qs of the sport of kings, and what better place to learn than merry old England?
The door opened and my tyrannical doctor walked in. After doing a cursory exam and commiserating on the pain, he agreed to amp up the joy juice. “I’m cutting you off in a few days; I don’t want you getting addicted.”
“Will the pain be gone by then?”
He shrugged. “Surely you must be used to some level of pain, after the broken bones you’ve sustained.”
“Endurance isn’t my forte, Doctor. Why suffer if I can prevent it?”
“We’ll evaluate once the swelling goes down.”
“When can I get back on a horse?”
“Never.”
“You’re daft.”
“Am I? From where I’m standing, the only crazy person is you. You risk complete paralysis if you ride again.”
“Fuck….”
“Well, as far as I can tell, that’s still a possibility. I’ll check your bulbocavernosus reflex tomorrow.”
“What in hell is that and how do you do it?”
“It’s an important reflex that will tell me if you’re out of spinal shock or not. It’s also a good indicator of the extent of damage. All reflexes below the injury become hyperpolarized and less responsive for about twenty-four hours. The second phase of healing occurs within forty-eight hours and is characterized by the return of some, but not all, reflexes. The first to reappear are polysynaptic in nature, such as the bulbocavernosus reflex.”
“You still haven’t explained what it means? The B word.”
“It’s also called the Osinski reflex.”
“What’s involved?” I demanded in a strident voice, trying not to lose it completely.
“It refers to anal sphincter contraction in response to squeezing the glans penis or tugging on the Foley. It involves the S1, S2, S3 nerve roots and is a spinal cord mediated reflex. Its presence signals the end of spinal shock.”
“So we want a reflex, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do it now.”
“It’s too soon. We have to wait twenty-four hours.”
“I don’t do waiting very well.”
“That’s unfortunate,” the doctor said, looking completely unperturbed. “You’ll have to get used to waiting and being waited on for the next few months. Recovery from this type of injury is not instant, Mr. Fawkes. There is no magic pill, and I’m all out of fairy dust.”
“Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired, Doctor.”
“I’m not here to win you over as a friend,” he pronounced. “My goal is to have you walking out of this room, and the sooner the better.”
“Hear, hear,” I muttered.