Page 12 of Downpour

“She talked too much.”

“That’s what you said about Brian. You know—the one you fired three days ago?”

“He talked too much,andhe ate an egg salad sandwich in the car. It was ninety degrees out and he left the windows up.”

Christian pinched the bridge of his nose. “And what about Mary-Beth last week?”

“She read to me. Out loud. Like it was elementary school story time or some shit.”

He sighed. “We’ve gone through two agencies. You’ve cleared the roster for both.”

“Good. Maybe now you’ll stop sending people out here.”

Christian didn’t have a temper. Not like me, Nate, and CJ. Part of me wanted him to get pissed off just to see what would happen. If I could make him crack, it would be the most entertaining part of my day.

“I love you, man, but you’ve gotta stop firing people. Either you learn to get along with whoever we can find to come out here, or it’s gonna be me and momma checking on you every hour.”

“Or maybe you’ll finally listen to me and just fucking leave me be.” It was only ten in the morning, but I was done with this bullshit. I wanted to go back to bed.

Christian sighed. “We both know that’s not an option right now.”

As if I wasn’t fucking aware of it.

The x-rays were seared in my mind. The medical team showed them when I woke up, unable to move. Those images were the only thing that forced me to accept the reality of the accident.

My spine snapped when I was flung off that bull and hit the ground.

For nine months, I was at the mercy of whoever was around to keep me alive. Apparently, Cassandra had been the one to pull strings and get me into an SCI clinical trial. The epidural electrical stimulation for my spinal cord injury would have cost millions if they hadn’t been looking for human lab rats.

I had put away a decent amount of money from my winnings on the professional circuit, but millions every year over my lifetime—or what was left of it—wasn’t in the cards.

But it worked. Well, it worked better on the actual rats. But apparently beggars couldn’t be choosers.

But it did make me downgrade from quadriplegia to paraplegia.

Now, I had a rod in the back of my neck, electrodes in my spine, and storm clouds in my head.

Some days, the only reason I forced myself to go through physical therapy was to get my upper body mobility back enough to be left the hell alone.

Spite was a decent motivator.

I knew Christian meant well. All of them did. The doctors said I was lucky to have such a supportive family.

Maybe I was.

But that didn’t make it better.

“I can hire help. I can have someone cart me around and do my bidding like I’m a fucking princess. But that doesn’t give me my life back,” I snapped. “So, stop being delusional and acting like if someone’s here to put me on the goddamn toilet, that it’s all sunshine and fucking roses.”

Christian’s face was passive behind his beard, but a quiet sigh slipped. “Grief is hard. When Gretchen died, I?—”

“Just leave,” I growled, wheeling past him. He could let himself out.

3

BROOKE

“Shit!” I squeaked as my foot caught on the uneven sidewalk outside Mr. Wilson’s house, sending me sprawling. My palms slammed against the cement and my knee followed. The concrete’s jagged edge bit into my skin and blood trickled down my shin.

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