“I’m sure the instruction videos you’ll find will know a hell of a lot more about self-defense than me. Good luck.” I backed toward the stairs.
Lily looked up from her phone long enough to grin at me and mouth, “Thank you.”
I gave her a nod. Bull’s brow furrowed as he glanced down at her. I could almost see the wheels spinning in his brain when he realized how close she’d gotten to him. Hell, the girl was practically sitting in his lap. Trying not to laugh, I turned and took the stairs two at a time.
Monica
YOU’RE LUCKY TO be alive.
That’s what everyone kept telling me. I’d been hit by a twenty-thousand-pound delivery truck doing about sixty miles per hour down the highway. In my little car, I shouldn’t have survived. To hear the doctors and nurses talk about the accident, I’m a fucking miracle.
But I didn’t feel like a miracle.
Hell, I didn’t feel lucky at all.
It took four days of surgeries for doctors to undo the damage: fractured clavicle, broken humerus, internal bleeding, twenty-seven stitches up my neck to the center of my cheek, four shattered vertebrae, dislocated hip, something the doctor had described as “dashboard knee,” and a few other notable injuries in addition to dozens of cuts and bruises. It felt like I’d been in the hospital forever and judging by the machines I was still hooked to, my status wouldn’t be changing anytime soon.
And then, there was the big injury… the one that would never heal.
My left arm felt strangely light. Holding it up, I forced myself to finally take a good look at it.
It’s gone, Monica. No doctor can fix this.
My arm now ended in a bandage covered stump just below my elbow. My forearm and hand were gone. Only, they didn’tfeelgone. Over the past week, they’d been itching, tingling, and genuinely driving me crazy. I needed to find a way to convince my brain that I couldn’t scratch what no longer existed.
My arm was shattered in the accident. I’d seen pictures, and the doctor explained that the damage had narrowed the arteries and restricted blood flow. If left alone, the tissue would eventually die off and become infected. There was nothing they could have done to save it.
But his explanation didn’t mean shit to me, because I needed both hands to fly.
There has never been a one-handed fighter pilot.
Until now. I’ll figure this out. I have to.
I couldn’t be grounded. I couldn’t exist in a world where I wasn’t a pilot. No God, no higher power, no universe or fate would do that to me. There had to be a way to fix this and get back in the cockpit. I just needed the rest of my mind and the rest of my body to heal so I could focus on researching options. Science was always advancing, and maybe I’d be the first pilot to fly with a prosthetic.
They’ll never even let you back in the hangar. Your career is over.
Reality and morphine were making me nauseous. Knowing I was about to blow chunks again, I reached for the bedpan and started heaving. Someone knocked on my door. Frustrated that I couldn’t even vomit in peace anymore, I looked at the clock and swore. Visiting hours had started.
I can’t do this.
But I had to. I wasn’t the only one hurting. The people who cared about me and knew about the accident had to be allowed to see me and reassure themselves I’d be okay. I had to put on a brave front and pretend for them.
The knock came again.
Everything itched. Chalking it up to the pain medicine, I took a deep breath and tried not to imagine how good it would feel to scratch. Especially my fucking non-existent arm. Skin still crawling, I bit back a curse and set the bedpan back on the roll cart before filling my mouth with water to swish around and spit.
Another knock.
My visitor was persistent as hell. Knowing they probably wouldn’t give up, I tried to wheel the cart with the vomit-filled bedpan away so nobody would notice, but only got it a couple of inches away before the pain from moving caused my vision to swim. Giving up, I made sure none of my business was peeking out through the thin gown and blankets and called out, “Come in.”
A tall man in his mid-forties stood in the doorway holding flowers and a balloon, just like he’d done every day that I’d been awake and able to receive visitors. Ken Rucksburg was his name, and he shouldn’t be here. I’m sure his employer’s attorney had advised him against it, but not even the threat of a lawsuit could drag him away. Bound and determined to somehow make amends, he just kept coming. And every time I had to look at him, I wanted to scream at him for what he’d done.
With red eyes and an apologetic smile, he inched his way into my room. “How you feelin’ today?”
“Better,” I replied, hitting the button to send more numbing morphine into my veins. Maybe it could dull the frustration caused by the necessity of this conversation. Ken wasn’t my enemy. He wasn’t ISIS or Al-Qaeda. He wasn’t a terrorist bomber or a bandit trying to get a lock on my bird so he could send missiles up my ass. I’d been trained to fight bad guys. But this hardworking husband and father who’d fallen asleep at the wheel during a double shift and almost killed me…. I didn’t know how to face him.
Nodding, he marched to the shelf that held the collection of gifts I’d received over the past week and squeezed in his latest offering. A few balloons had deflated and were now dangling from their weights. Rolling hills of fallen petals along the shelf testified to the fact I’d been in this room for far too long.
