Randall frowned, relieved when Jack succeeded in adjusting the room temperature. He didn't like watching his brother struggle to accomplish the little things most people took for granted. But having lived with him for the past four months, he knew better than to offer assistance.
It was Randall who had needed his brother after the crumbling of his career at the National Transportation Safety Board. For the first time in his life he'd needed family, someone to fall back on, someone he could count on.
Four months earlier, he'd gotten his walking papers. He'd been officially diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder—which meant a mandatory six-month leave of absence. Shaken and angry, uncertain about his future and the state of his health, he'd sublet his town house in D.C., packed all of his worldly possessions into his Jeep, and headed back to the only home he'd ever known.
"It's not like we've got clients to spare. What the hell did you do to her?" Jack demanded.
Randall wished he hadn't come down so hard on the lady. He'd awakened feeling mean and itching for a fight. She'd merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. What the hell had gotten into him? Jack couldn't afford to have him scaring off clients.
"I guess my customer service is a little rusty." It galled the hell out of him that he could still feel the hard knot of arousal in his groin.
"You always were a charmer." Shaking his head, Jack rolled the chair over to his desk and reached for his cigarettes.
"I thought the doctor told you to stop smoking," Randall said.
"A man in a wheelchair's got to have some vice. I sure as hell can't womanize anymore."
There was bitterness there, too, and Randall moved to quickly stanch it. "You've always had an infatuation with your dick."
Jack laughed heartily and, for a moment, looked much like the man he'd been before the motorcycle accident that had severed his spinal cord five years earlier. "Don't we all, little brother.”
Randall spooned coffee into the filter basket and flipped the switch. "What's on the agenda for today?"
“I was hoping you'd start that ramp you promised me four months ago."
In an effort to earn his keep, Randall had offered to build a wheelchair ramp off the rear deck of Jack's home. He'd bought the lumber and power tools six weeks ago. But time had gotten away from him, and he had yet to haul the supplies out of his Jeep. So much for good intentions.
"I'll start this morning," he said.
Jack only shook his head. "Don't worry, little brother, I won't hold you to it." He wheeled over to the computer. "I'm going to work on the Allen divorce case. I've got to hack into the wife's bank account to check the balances. See if she's holding out on her old man."
"Doesn't the IRS do that?"
"Not in the Cayman Islands."
Randall nodded, never ceasing to be impressed by his brother's computer-related talents. A programmer before the accident, Jack had spent much of the last five years playing computer games. When he became bored with playing, he immersed himself in writing them. When he'd conquered both, he began hacking. At first, it had been a way to pass the time and alleviate the boredom and depression that had come with the wheelchair. Today, he was a master and put his uncanny abilities to use in the private investigation firm he'd founded two years earlier.
Jack switched on the computer. "I'll make a deal with you, Randall. I'll cut out the cigarettes if you cut out the liquid diet."
Rather than make a promise he probably wouldn't keep, Randall remained silent, hoping his brother would let it pass. As far as he was concerned, his jaunt down the superhighway of self-destruction was his business. He'd get his shit together when he was ready.
After pouring two cups of coffee, Randall set one on the desk in front of Jack and watched as he played the keyboard like a finely tuned musical instrument.
"When are you going back to D.C.?" Jack asked, skimming deft fingers over the keys.
Because he hadn't been sure how long he would be staying in Denver, because he hadn't been too sure about anything at the time, Randall had moved in with Jack, but soon found that a roommate was the last thing his independent-minded older brother wanted. Self-reliance was too important to Jack, especially since he'd been confined to the wheelchair. He made no bones about giving Randall a six-month limit on his tenancy.
"My leave is up in a few weeks. I'll be going back to work then." If I'm deemed competent, a little voice chimed in.
Jack spoke without looking away from the monitor. "You're welcome to stay on here a little longer if you want. You became a resident. Got your P.I. license. If you weren't sleeping with your bottle every night, I might have offered you a partnership."
"Next time I need a lecture, I'll let you know," Randall said tightly, wishing his brother would stop treating him as if he were some kind of alcoholic. Admittedly, he drank too much, but he didn't think he was in over his head. At least not yet.