Page 71 of Hook Up

Silence echoes from the other end of the line before Colton releases an audible sigh. “I’ll do my best. I understand your perspective and you’re right, he doesn’t need more stress.”

“If he gets mad when you tell him, just blame me. He can’t hate me forever. I won’t let him.”

Colton chuckles. “Now you sound likemywife. I’ll be by tomorrow to check on him. Any changes, you can reach me at this number.”

I collapse into the chair, my mind reeling from the news. This accident was likely preventable if Ryder’s staff had only taken their damn jobs seriously. My thoughts flicker over to Greg and his earlier statements. He was certain Ryder would hate him.

What if Greg was one of the people who imbibed before the race? What if the alcohol clouded his brain, even for a second, resulting in Ryder’s injury?

If my brother was involved, I’ll never forgive him.

Worse, he’ll never forgive himself.

Chapter 12

Ryder

Iawaken with a scream stuck in my throat as I try in vain to claw my way out of the darkness enveloping me. But despite every effort, the blackness remains, even when I pat my eyes to ensure they’re actually open.

When I realize they are, the memory of the crash floods back into my brain—the sudden jerk of the vehicle, followed by a sickening crack as my car tumbled end over end.

Then it all went black.

Permanently, it seems.

Voices edge closer, some of the medical staff reassuring me I’m safe, but I know that’s a load of garbage.

I’m not safe. I’m blind. For how long, I don’t know.

When I turn my head, I notice a slight demarcation between light and dark. That must be the window—another sunny Charlotte day. Beyond that graduated blur, there’s nothing.

I’m no quitter, but this is one hell of a daunting challenge. This dark reality makes the Monaco Grand Prix look like a walk in the park.

A hand squeezes my shoulder, making me jump. “Sorry to startle you, Mr. Gray. My name is Nicole and I’ll be your nurse today. Are you hungry? I have a breakfast tray for you.”

I manage a nod, although I learned from the many meals eaten by my father’s bedside that hospital food isn’t winning any gourmet awards. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and for the first time since I can remember, I’m very much a beggar.

The nurse raises the head of my bed as I shift on the mattress, attempting to locate a comfortable spot.

No such luck.

With a sigh, I squint, struggling to identify anything when she places the food on my bedside table. But it’s no use. I’m staring into a void, an endless black sea. Doesn’t help that the aroma wafting off the tray is none too appetizing.

“I’ll send in someone to help you,” she offers, shattering my last vestiges of confidence with her words.

Twenty-four hours ago, I was Ryder Gray, king of F1 racing, with legions of fans clamoring for a moment of my time. Now, I’m being treated like a toddler who can’t feed myself.

“I’ll manage,” I grit out.

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.”

“I said, I’ll manage.” I sense her hesitation about leaving me, certain I’m incapable of performing this mundane task. My temper flares at the knowledge. “Can you leave me alone?”

“Here’s the call bell, should you need us.” She presses the cord into my hand before leaving me with my first task of the day.

I’ve been feeding myself for decades.

How hard can it be?

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