Page 45

I lean against the porch railing, watching Sunday as she walks to the end of the driveway, my mom by her side. They’re both in sundresses, Sunday’s is yellow, my mom’s is blue, and they’re laughing.

“Yeah,” I say, grinning. “I am.”

My dad chuckles from beside me, flicking his lighter open and closed. “I knew you had it bad the moment that girl smiled at you, but I never imagined you’d marry her.”

“Why?” I tear my attention away from the two women I love the most to the man I admire.

“Kid, you have an issue with being happy. You get that from me.” My dad crosses his arms as he watches my mother. “I dunno, I guess I haven’t exactly given you the best upbringing. I’ve done something that makes you think you deserve a little less. But it isn’t true, y’know? You’re a good kid.”

Is that what I think? That I deserve less? I just put it down as wanting Sunday to have more than what I could give her, because it’ll never be much.

I must say that out loud, because my dad grips my shoulder gently.

“A relationship isn’t about shielding each other from the shit storm of life. It’s about facing it together. Both of you against the problem.” He smiles. “Let her decide what’s enough for her, Cole. And buckle up, kid.”

“What for?”

My mom waves at us, and he grins. “Life. Sometimes it really fucking hurts.”

I’m choking.

The air won’t come. My chest jerks as I fight for breath, but I’m drowning, I must be. Blinking fast, I stare at the white painted ceiling as I tense, panic flooding me.

“Doctor!” A familiar voice booms. My head throbs from the sudden noise, but I’m more focused on the lack of fucking oxygen.

“Try to relax, Cole. Breathe out for me.”

How? There’s nothing left in my lungs. My throat scrapes, burns, and suddenly there’s air. I gasp, coughing and rasping before someone guides a straw to my mouth. I drink, water washing and cooling my throat.

The straw is taken away and I wet my lips, breathing through the need to cough again. My surroundings are bleak. White walls, scratchy bedding, but a familiar face is welcome.

“Hey C.” Tracker grins at me. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

I close my eyes again, trying to process what day it is. Time blurs together, a mess of moments and emotions, and I don’t know which matches to which. I don’t remember coming here, I don’t even remember seeing Tracker.

My body is shattered. I’m always sore after a mission, especially since passing thirty, but this is something else.

What the fuck happened?

Did we complete the mission?

“Did we get him out?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Tracker frowns. “Who?”

“That kid, the …” His name escapes me. Everything escapes me. My head feels fucking empty. “The diplomat’s kid.”

Tracker laughs. “Dude, that was like three years ago. Is this normal?” He glances at a person to my left, lab coat, stethoscope, but I don’t have the energy to look at their face. I didn’t even hear them come in.

“He’s just confused. There was no head trauma, he likely just needs a minute.”

Confused. Head trauma.

“He is in the room and can be spoken to,” I grunt, pressing the heel of my hand into the bridge of my nose in a vain attempt to ease the ache. “Head trauma from what?”

Tracker places a chair at the side of my bed and sits. “You got shot three times. Two in the chest, one right through your liver. Nasty fucking work. This is why I don’t work with feds.”

“Feds…” I bat the doctor away. “I’m fucking fine.”