Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
“Okay, okay,” Koda says, throwing his hands up. “I’m going to find the lucky victim to go undercover for us. You two can continue your dramatic little fight on your own.”
He turns and leaves the room. I dig out a cigarette and bring it to my lips, lighting it.
“How’s Scarlett?”
Maverick glares at me. He needs to loosen the fuck up.
“She’s fine. How’s Amalie?”
I grin at him. “Right in the tender spot, good work.”
He chuckles. “Seriously, bro, you gotta stop starin’ at her.”
“Can’t,” I deadpan.
“Well try. It’s fuckin’ creepy.”
“If you saw a fuckin’ angel I’d guarantee you couldn’t look away, either.”
“See one every day. Speakin’ of, I’m goin’ to see her. Any message you want me to pass on? Maybe that you’ll be peekin’ through Amalie’s window later, since you’re too fuckin’ chicken shit to make a move on her?”
“Eat a fuckin’ dick, Maverick.”
He grins.
I inhale and glare at him.
“Catch you later, brother.”
With that, he’s gone.
And Amalie is back, fresh in my mind.
For the hundredth fucking time today.
She’s like a drug I know I shouldn’t touch, yet I find myself wondering what it’ll feel like if I do.
I gotta stay away.
~*~*~*~
THEN – AMALIE
I can’t hear.
It’s all I notice.
All that is happening inside my ears is a faint humming, a buzzing, a high-pitched screech every now and then, but nothing else. I have opened and closed my eyes, over and over, but the nightmare won’t leave. I’m in a hospital bed, bandages around my waist, my arm in a cast, my head pounding, but none of that matters.
I can’t hear.
A hand touches mine, and I flinch, screaming out, only my voice doesn’t penetrate. I see a nurse standing next to me, looking down at me. She’s saying something. What the hell is she saying? I can hear her voice, as if it’s off in the distance, like she’s slowly fading away and calling to me as she does. I can’t make out any words. I can’t even make out the pitch. Just a hum.
Oh, God.
What is happening?
Help.
Someone help.
Her lips keep moving, and her brows knit together and concern washes over her face. She waves a hand, probably thinking I’m blind, so I raise my hand, and wave it weakly back. Then I point to my ears and shake my head. She looks puzzled and uses a little flashlight to look into them, then she steps back and holds up a finger, indicating one moment. I think that’s what she means, anyway. She leaves the room in somewhat of a hurry.
Is she coming back?
What is happening?
Where is Caiden?
Oh. God. Caiden.
Is he dead?
My throat clogs up as memories of the terrible accident fill my headspace. I start to cry and shake my head from side to side. My heart hurts. My stomach is sick. My chest is heavy. Is he dead? Did I kill him? Is he gone? Where is he? Oh God. Where is he?
The nurse comes back in with an old, friendly looking doctor who immediately comes over to me and starts speaking. I stare at him too. His pitch is a little deeper, so I know it’s a man speaking, but I still can’t make out any words. Just that awful, faint humming. I clench my eyes shut and shake my head from side to side. A tap on my shoulder a few minutes later, and I open my eyes to see him holding a notepad in front of me.
It says, “Are you having trouble hearing?”
I nod, and more tears roll down my cheeks.
He writes something else on the paper.
“Can you explain it to me?”
He hands me the notepad and I write down what is happening. The odd sounds, the buzzing, the occasional high pitch, the pain, and the way I can hear their voices, but I can’t hear their words. I hand him back the notepad and he reads it, then he turns to the nurse and orders her to do something, at least, it looks like he’s ordering her to.
I snatch the notepad back and he turns, looking at me, puzzled.
“Caiden. Is he alive. Tell me? Please.”
He reads the words, and it feels like it takes forever for him to write down whatever it is he’s about to break to me. He hands the notepad back.
“Yes, he’s alive. He suffered burns to his body, and is struggling with movement of his legs. He’s been into surgery. He’s in ICU. We will keep you updated.”
Oh, God.
No.
I start crying again, pressing my hands over my face. It’s all my fault. I should have waited until I got home to end it with him. What was I thinking trying to do it in the car ride? Of course he was going to get angry. Of course he was going to overreact. Now he’s burned? And has lost use of his legs? All because of me.