Page 14 of The Curveball

Also, one of the top investors for the Vegas Kings since he ran in the same circles as Dallas Anderson when they were teens. The elite boys, as my mom used to describe the children of the titans of Las Vegas.

One of those boys turned into a loving father who gives a low-list author season tickets and treats her like part of the Kings family.

The other views his offspring as assets. Commodities to make him look human, I guess. The trouble with dear old dad is once the man has an idea of what is best for one of his kids, he doesn’t let it go, then he finds a way to keep us in line by making our dreams come true, but always with stipulations in place.

Like doing as he asks when he demands.

I hope Ruby keeps her sweet disposition living with two people who rarely tap into emotions.

In her defense, my stepmother Angelica does try to have conversations with us, but they’re stiff and a little shallow. She tires easily of our regular lives and usually excuses herself ten minutes in.

I toss my cell phone onto the passenger seat and flip on the radio, scanning stations until I find a song I like, and make a swift left onto the main road.

The fact that I hardly checked for headlights is on me. I wasn’t exactly distracted, more lost in a thought and on autopilot.

My brain is quickly doused in the adrenaline of the flight response when I’m slammed by a freight train. My wrist smacks against the steering wheel at a strange angle, and the thrashing sound of my door being crumpled puts my body on high alert.

I hadn’t even secured my seatbelt, and my body practically bends in half over the center console as my airbag deployed. The brunt of the hot burst of air strikes my shoulder like a bag of hardback books.

When it settles, I cough against the dust of the explosion. Ribs ache, my head screams: Accident! Accident! Accident! And there is a high-pitched ringing in my skull for what feels like twenty minutes.

In truth it was likely a few seconds, but when a voice calls out to me, it’s muddy. Like someone is shouting at me underwater.

I blink through the haze. Someone is bolting around to the passenger side of my car, he flicks at the handle for a few seconds before the door flies open. I groan. From pain or my new reality, I’m not sure, but Griffin Marks dips his addicting face inside my car.

He’s cussing under his breath, folds his big body like wet paper, and slides across my car to me. One of those warm, callused palms cups the side of my face.

“Wren! Wren,” he’s a little frantic. “Hey, look at me. Are you okay? Wren!”

I’m not sure why my stupid heart flutters over the panic in his voice. He’s so genuinely concerned for me, it’s causing a reaction, and I don’t speak for a few seconds.

“Griffin,” I say, nudging my chin out of his grip. “I’m okay.”

I try to shift, and all at once my words are swallowed up by a loud cry of pain. My head is starting a world war against my brain.

“You are not okay,” he snaps, and tries to force his body closer. “Where does it hurt? I’ve already got a lady calling the cops. Can you move your legs? Wren, I need you to talk to me.”

I’m breathing, focused and alert, and he acts like I’m about to breathe my last breath. I almost smile. “My head,” I finally say.

Griffin curses loudly, then ushers a quick apology to a group of people surrounding the car. “Okay, don’t move. Anywhere else? What day is it? The month? Who is president?”

“Griffin,” I say, chuckling. “I promise I’m fine. I might have a goose egg tomorrow.”

“Or a brain bleed.” He lets out a shaky breath. “We don’t mess around with brain injuries, Wren. Where is Skye? She’d know the signs. Right? She’d know because . . . well, because she has one. Is it offensive if I ask her?”

He’s starting to panic, and I have an overwhelming desire to touch his face. He’s practically trembling with nerves, and it’s . . . probably the nicest thing a guy has done for me. I must be a little delirious, but the heart flutters fade when I take in the state of my hissing car.

“Oh, no.” I taste bile. “No, no, no. My car. Is it totaled? I need my car.”

“Hey, don’t worry about the car right now.” Griffin scans my backseat. “I mean, geez, Wren, you’re lucky all this crap didn’t fly up and hit your head too.”

“Do not insult me right now.”

He holds up a hand in apology. His strong jaw is highlighted by the gleam of flashing lights as sirens come closer. “I’m so sorry, Wren. I didn’t . . . I didn’t even see you.”

My breath stills. “You hit me?”

His jaw pulses. He gives me a stiff nod. With a groan, I let my head fall back against my headrest, which is a mistake because it sends a burning spark of pain down my shoulder. Of all people, Griffin Marks had to hit me, had to see me like this. Of all people, whyhim?

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