Page 3 of Downpour

Thank fuck for that. It was still annoying, though.

The orbs of light widened, mellowing the blackness to a bleak storm.

Pain lanced down the back of my neck like a bolt of lightning. With each shot of agony, the grayness grew to familiar pink.

Huh.I could see the veins behind my eyelids. That was new.

Could I lift them?

I focused my effort and peered through protein-crusted lashes at the blurry lump to my left.

Was that Christian? Spectators weren’t supposed to get in the ring. What was he doing here?

I tried calling out to tell him to get the fuck out of the arena, but I couldn’t form the words.

Bright stabs of light split my head open like a watermelon falling off the back of a pickup truck.

Motherfucker!Nope. Not doing that.

I slammed my eyes shut again. I tried to breathe through the migraine, but that was a bad idea, too. My throat was coated in acid, and lifting my chest to fill my lungs was damn near impossible.

My cheek itched but I couldn’t find my hand to scratch it.

I tried to call out to Christian again, but I couldn’t get the words out.

My mouth was sandy and parched. I had eaten dirt more times than I could count in my bull riding career, but this felt different.

I debated taking another look. The pounding migraine was coming either way.

I forced my eyes open.

Christian was sitting beside me, reading a book. I had thumbed through that one when I was at his house last week.

It was a Jordan Loft title that had a twist at the end. From the look on his face, he hadn’t gotten to it yet.

“Chris,” I croaked, and this time, he glanced up.

“Ray?” he rasped.

I blinked.

Damn, he looked like shit. That publicist he was seeing must’ve been keeping him busy at night.

My mouth felt like a cotton ball. I tried to lick my lips, but my tongue was dry too. I tried to ask him why I wasn’t at the arena, but the darkness grew again, floating around the edges of my vision.

My head rocked as he slammed his hand into the panel beside me. Something hard and plastic pressed against my mouth.

Maybe that was why he couldn’t hear me.

A wrecking ball rolled around in my head as I flicked my eyes down to get a look at it.

Christian reached over and lifted the thing off my mouth.

“My score?”

Goddamn, it hurt to talk. What the hell was wrong with my throat?

Christian reached into his pocket and pulled out the championship buckle. He placed it in my hand, but I couldn’t feel it.

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