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“Stand down.”
“Now.”
Neither of those come from the woman across the table from me.
Pop is at my side, an arm around my chest, forcefully holding me back. Braxton stands straight in front of Emberleigh, arms across his chest, eyes shooting daggers at me. “Don’t you dare, Layton. Or you can take it up with me.”
“Stop.” Emberleigh’s voice is clear and strong, as she pushes Braxton aside with a hand at his hip. “Braxton, move.”
He looks at me and back to her. “He won’t speak to you that way. I won’t stand for it. And he—”
“Enough.” Emberleigh stands, pushing back her chair and moving from behind Braxton to come to my side. Speaking to Pop, she says, “Let him go. Please.” Pop’s hold loosens on my body, but he doesn’t release me.
To me, she says, “He’s an ass, and we’ll find a way to make this go away. I have calls in to a friend who specializes in this kind of litigation. But it will go a long way if you’ll go on record about the accident. You should know by now that he won’t win. I won’t stand for it.” She looks from me to Pop to Braxton. “Your family won’t stand for it. But we won’t keep you in the dark either.”
Her eyes flit to the hand still wrapped across my arm and pecs. “Please, Pop. I’m not in danger.”
Pop looks between me and his soon-to-be daughter-in-law and takes a deep breath before letting go of me. “What are you two talking about?”
“The fuckwad who hit me—the one who did this to me.” I gesture with my hand down my body. “Is suing me for… For. I don’t know. What is he suing me for?”
“Emotional distress and mental anguish.”
I bark a laugh. “Well, that’s rich.” I tap my pocket where I keep a pill or two at all times and clench my fists. “I’ll show him anguish and distress. I’ll— Fuck him.” My comment is to the room.
I turn to Emberleigh and add, “I’m tapped out. Can we continue tomorrow or the next day? And thank you. For so much more than that list.” I nod at her paper. I turn and walk away, leaving the three of them in my wake to discuss whatever the hell they want to yell about.
At the mouth of the hall, I grab a tablet from my pocket and chew it to powder before I hit my room. It’s only when I sit on the bed that I realize my walker is still in the kitchen.
TWENTY-EIGHT
INEXTRICABLY LINKED
LAYTON
The nightmares have never gone away. The flying cars. The sound of steel and aluminum colliding and my own scream drowning into them. The smell of mangled metal and the rain of cold glass embedding in my flesh.
The sulphury smell of deployed airbag powder and the heat of spotlights as men shouted and worked. The stickiness of blood and the crane with the jaws of life positioned close to my head. The smell of urine and feces and oil and coolant. The pinch inside my hip and the nothingness of numb legs.
The feeling I could see my mom again, or I’d have to fight to push away from her welcome to stay on this side of that line.
The nightly images and sounds assault me and I wake, yet again, in a cold sweat, with my pulse racing and my lungs furiously sucking in air. Some nights are worse than others. Tonight is the worst in months.
That fucker in the electric-blue sports car is suing me. He wants me to pay him because his mistake was against someone who was famous and rich.
Was.
Since then, my ability to make a name for myself has been stolen, and the money I was building for my future has been dammed at the source.
My heart is pounding and going back to sleep will take some time. I do what I haven’t done in forever and grab my phone. NoAngry Birdsfor me right now, though.
I lift the phone seeing the email icon is down to one unread message. No unread texts. No waiting voicemails.
I open the email app and am shocked to see a read message from a name I don’t want in my inbox – Charlie Schmidt.
I’m in a foul mood already. What’s the worst that could happen? I shouldn’t have asked that question, because the simple two-sentence message taunts me:
Layton,
