I can’t fucking die.
It’s too soon.
And just as this thought sinks, I hear the deafening sound of my Challenger colliding head-on with the RAM.
Metal twists.
Glass shatters.
The pungent smell of gasoline fills my nose. My head jerks back and the seat belt cuts into my chest as the exploding airbag almost gives me a heart attack.
For a moment, the ringing in my ears overpowers everything. Then, slowly, muffled gasps, shouts, and cries filter in. It’s blurry around, like I’m looking through a dense fog. I think it’s my eyes before I realize clouds of smoke are hissing from the hood. Or what’s left of it.
Blood fills my mouth as I shake uncontrollably, crushed between the bent steering wheel and the seat.
Distant shouts, thumping of feet against the tarmac, panicked cries... it all comes and goes as if someone’s tapping the mute button again and again and again.
My mind’s swimming. Every breath is a chore as my lungs struggle against the weight pressing down on my chest.
A voice breaks through, muffled but familiar.
Cody?
No.
He’s miles away. Or maybe he’s right here, pulling me out of this twisted metal coffin.
No... it’s not him. It can’t be. My mind’s playing tricks on me as it slowly switches off.
Darkness threatens to pull me under, the weight of regrets even heavier. It’s fucking painful... maddening, excruciating. A mental anguish rivaling the pain that floods every inch of my body.
And so when the darkness comes, I don’t fight.
ONE
Colt
THREE YEARS LATER
“IT’S TIME!” Conor booms, storming into my house without so much as a courtesy knock. He’d bite my head off if I did the same. “You ready?”
I cock an eyebrow over the screen of my laptop, surveying him with Cody in tow. Dressed to paint the town red, they’re an unfamiliar sight. I can’t recall the last time we went out together. It must’ve been before Conor’s twins were born.
“I’m missing some information,” I say, my eyes darting to the family birthday list on the fridge. The Hayes clan now totals twenty-seven. While my memory’s great, remembering that many birthdays is a struggle.
A quick scan confirms I haven’t forgotten any looming celebrations. There’s nothing till the twins’ fourth birthday next month—a party I’m already prepared for. My assistant bought the gifts and cleared three hours in my schedule.
“Nothing in my calendar includes you two today,” I add, my attention snapping back to the screen.
Undeterred, Cody rolls up the sleeves of his jersey, perching his butt against my kitchen island. “We offer our sincerest apologies for failing to arrange a beer-drinking session in advance. Would you beoh sokind and fit us in for an emergency meeting this fine Friday evening?”
Asshole.
He’s close enough for a well-aimed punch to his bicep that wipes the smartass smirk off his face.
“To the point, Cody. What’s up? Trouble in paradise? You need a shoulder to cry on?” My eyes flick to Conor. “Or is it your paradise that’s in trouble?”
“Actually, it’s yours,” Conor chirps, making himself at home as he rummages through my fridge, probably searching for beer. “We’re staging an intervention.”
