Page 8 of Eluding the Billionaire
“Isolation is exactly what I want. If I could be embedded behind enemy lines for weeks on end and survive, then I think I can look after myself in a tiny self-contained cottage in Cornwall.” No more words are needed. Aaron nods, understanding, because he enlisted with me at the stupidly young age of eighteen.
We both thought running away to join the military straight after finishing school would give us something better than our shit lives in Bilston. All it did was replace one set of crap circumstances with a whole different world of fucked-up. Initially, it was fun—the training for the Royal Marines, the teamwork, and having my best friend beside me for all of it. But when barbaric bastards start shooting at you, it soon loses the appeal. And when your friends are killed by those same bastards, then it’s hell on earth. Aaron got out sooner than me. After four years, he took his big brain off to university to fight for justice in a different way—as a lawyer. I don’t regret staying in, applying to the elite SAS forces, especially as it led me to a very successful writing career.
Aye, life was fine until the accident. I use both hands to lift one leg, then the other to face the car door opening before placing my crutches on the ground.
Aaron springs into action. “Here, let me help you.” He’s out of the car and moving swiftly around it before I can stop him. He reaches forward to help me down.
“Well, pal, it’s about time I stood on my own two feet … literally,” I joke before easing my feet to the ground and standing.
He stills, becoming an unmoving mass of muscle in front of me, his mouth a grim straight line. He obviously didn’t think my comment was funny. “What? Too soon?” I continue, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
“Too fuckin’ right, it’s too soon. You nearly died, and you want to make jokes.” He shakes his head, and a flash of guilt hits me like a punch to the gut as I’m reminded of the minicab driver who did lose his life that night. A knot of anger builds when I think about the drunk driver who hit us head-on, instantly making the driver’s wife a widow and leaving his two small children fatherless.
My head drops down, and I lean heavily on the crutches. “Hey, did you set up that trust account like I asked you to?”
“Aye, all done, and I’ve decided to chip in too.”
My throat tightens. “Thanks.” He steps out of my path and walks around to the trunk to get my bags out.
Aaron and I have always been about the same size. We’re not heavyweight big, but still tall and strong. Since the accident, I’ve become a lot leaner with the loss of muscle mass. I can’t wait to get back to working out properly rather than doing just the exercises the physiotherapist has given me for my legs and arm.
I hobble on my crutches, slowly and carefully, over the uneven, slightly sloping ground to the wooden deck that runs along this side of the cottage. It leads to the front door, where Aaron is now waiting with my bags, one in each hand. He knows better than to offer to help me.
At the door, I pull the key from my pocket and awkwardly push the weathered piece of wood open, stepping directly into the living area.
It took me a long time to find this place—the perfect cottage rental for me to continue my rehabilitation. Not that I had much else to do while stuck in a bed for the majority of my days. I chose it specifically for its remoteness, and so far, everything that I can see is exactly what I’d hoped for. I hate crowds, a hangover from my days in the military when groups of people in war-torn countries had me and my team looking for danger in every movement of a hand, turn of a head, or murmured conversation.
I look around the room. It’s just like the online photos: Simple but comfortably furnished. No stairs, only that one up to the deck from the driveway. No near neighbors, the closest about half a mile back up the gravel road. Perfect, because privacy was my number one criterion.
I duck my head slightly under a low wooden beam, one of two running across the ceiling from one wall to the other. It’s a typical feature of these older cottages, even if a little annoying for guys as tall as my friend and me. Nothing I can’t live with though, which is lucky because I’ll be here for the next six months.
Aaron steps past me. “I’ll drop the bags in the bedroom. I’m guessing it won’t be hard to find. This place is small.” I laugh at him as he walks through the galley kitchen, then opens the door on the other side.
I turn in the other direction and, leaning heavily on my crutches, make my way through the living area toward the pair of clear glass doors at the end of the room. The view through the glass appears to be all ocean. An illusion created by the way the narrow wooden deck across the back drops down onto a sloping lawn, which ends about one hundred meters away at the cliff edge.
I lean against the wall to push both the doors open. A blast of fresh salty air assails my senses. It’s so good to be able to breathe in and not have the sting of antiseptic or bleach invade my nostrils. I’ve had enough of hospitals and rehabilitation centers to last me a lifetime. I’m grateful to the orthopedic surgeons who rebuilt my crushed legs with rods and plates, but the recovery has been brutal. I’m so glad to be free of it all. Well, at least the daily medical interventions and that cumbersome frame that was screwed onto my leg. Now I only need to keep up with the exercises the physiotherapist gave me.
I breathe in a big lungful of the sea breeze, and it reminds me of the one summer beach holiday I had as a kid. It was with Aaron’s family at Nairn, on the Northeast coast of Scotland. We were about thirteen, and it was everything I’d imagined a summer holiday to be. We didn’t care that the water was freezing as we raced each other to it, our feet sinking into the soft white sand, leaving imprints that would be washed away overnight with the incoming tide.
Aaron joins me in the doorway, and for a moment, like me, he stares silently out at the whitecaps cresting the deep blue water far below. I wonder if he’s remembering that same holiday. It was a long time ago.
“I found the bedroom,” he jokes, “and you’ll be pleased to know the bed is large. But then that means there isn’t much space for anything else in the room.”
“I don’t need anything bigger,” I mumble almost to myself.
“Remind me again why you didn’t want to return to your larger private home in Scotland?”
“You know my family, and probably yours too, would never have left me alone.”
He nods, then spins around, saying, “I’ll bring the food in from the car.”
I follow him back into the living room and take a closer look around my new temporary home. The living room might be small, but it has a sofa, a small flat-screen TV, and a wood-burning fireplace in one corner. On the opposite side of the room is a full-size desk with an office chair, which is where I plan to spend most of my time writing. I have a lot of catching up to do after my unplanned hospital stay. Now that I’m managing my pain better and finally able to move around on my own, I need to get back to work and finish my book.
With a grunt, Aaron shoulders the front door open and carries the large box of food directly into the galley kitchen. It’s just the basics but should keep me going for about a week until I can get more ordered online. I’m going to be here for months, so the sooner I get things like food deliveries sorted, the better.
“Just put it on the countertop. I can put it away later.”
With a shrug of his shoulders, he silently turns to do another trip to the car to bring in the remaining supplies. Near the doorway is a small table pushed up against the wall, and I ease my body down into one of the wooden chairs. With Aaron filling the space inside as he moves about, it makes sense for me and my crutches to stay clear. I wish I didn’t have to sit by uselessly and watch him bring in my gear, but even I have to face the reality that it’s going to be a long time before I’m back to full strength.
