Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I could have gone to the office and started work early, dealing with yesterday’s problems that I didn’t attend to because I was busy with Everleigh and her family. And I will be busy again today. But instead, I chose to roll into the nearly empty garage at half past five.
I flick on the lights and stare down at a sea of empty bays and endless concrete. It’s pretty much immaculate in here because I own zero vehicles. I’ve been meaning to get Hans something to drive, but he keeps telling me he doesn’t need anything. There isn’t anything that can’t be delivered here for an extra cost. I assumed he’d want to do some shopping or something in the city, but he always said he had everything here that he needed. So it’s just me, two huge empty bays, and the third one containing one cherry red convertible.
My feet take me there slowly, my leather shoes scuffling over the concrete until I’m there, standing right to the side of the beast. My breathing is already hitched up, and I try to push it out, but it comes out in spurts like a faulty sprinkler system.
Shh. Shh. Shhhhhhh. Shhhhhhhh. Shh-shhhh-hhhhhhhhhh.
Instead of panting here like I need one of those barf bags that Hans carries around, which, for the record, I don’t actually freaking use that often, I open the door, my hands vibrating like a tuning fork while the rest of me is the messed up music. I leave slippery fingerprints on the door handle because my palms are soaked. Then, I force my ass into the passenger seat and just sit with the door cracked open and one foot on the ground outside. This is okay. I can deal with this. It’s when I swing my foot in and shut the door with a dull bang that things get squirrelly. My lungs lock up and draw themselves up, shriveling to the size of one of those nasty nuts at the bottom of the container that doesn’t look like the others and sure as hell doesn’t taste like them either.
I drop my head in my hands and don’t even attempt reaching for the seatbelt. I didn’t bring my phone to serve as a timer or Hans to rescue me from here if shit gets bad. I just brought myself and my determination to do this.
Because…because I want to.
Because of what happened last night.
Because what the hell could I ever hope to actually offer Eveleigh? There’s a reason I never dated after the accident. I always figured no one would want some scarred-up guy who can’t even cut his own steak, who has to keep going for surgeries, and is never going to be at the top of his physical game again. Hans once told me that anyone would have me for my money. He was serious and sarcastic all at the same time. I could get a girlfriend or a wife in a second if I truly wanted one. I flipped him off at the time, and he rolled his eyes because he was far too honest, and he knew I knew, deep down, that the arm wasn’t the real issue. It was the thing with my brain. Even still, even if I never left the house, I knew I could buy someone’s time and partnership, but that was never what I wanted.
My parents came from old money, both of them, and despite that, they married for love, and they kept that love strong over the years, even after the accident. Even after things became bad for my dad.
“Fuck.” I drop my head into my hands and think about something else. Not my dad. That’s too sad. I hate thinking about how he was at the end. My mom was so strong and so determined to hold us together as a family. Disease is a cruel thing. But diseases of the mind are even worse.
I close my eyes, trying to catch my breath, but that’s a mistake because suddenly, I’m not in my garage anymore. I’m there on the road with my dad that night, saying something. Muffled words. Right, Dad, not left. It’s a right. Then, the world spinning and tilting out of control, the screaming and shredding of metal, the hot, burning pain ripping through my body, the car crumpling, crumpling, crumpling, the glass shattering into countless pieces, the sensation of my own body being torn apart, my flesh being flayed off my arm, the smell of burning rubber and burning skin and the hot metallic, salty taste of blood.
“Fuck, fuck!” I bail fast, my hand shooting out for the door handle. But it won’t give. It won’t open. It’s crushed. This car is crushed, and I’m trapped. “No!” No, no, no, no, no. I’m not trapped. My eyes are unfocused, but I’m not trapped. I can taste copper and salt, but I’m not trapped. Not trapped, not trapped, not trapped.