Page 119 of Collateral Damage
The vulnerable look he gives me weakens my knees to Jell-O. This isn’t his usual cocky grin or his teasing smirk. This is serious. This is real.
“I’m all in, Syb.”
I exhale my fear and breathe in this confident man instead. “I’m all in.”
“Okay.” Then, because he’s Cooper, he adds, “You sure you’re ready to give up all the other guys? I mean, Benton is pretty hot, even if he comes with a crazy fan-club and an Italian supermodel hellbent on marriage.”
I nudge him with my shoulder. “Oh, please. You’re the one with women fawning all over you.”
He steps closer, the surf swirling around our ankles. “Damn right I am,” he says, his voice softer now. “But I’m not sharing anymore, Syb. I’m all yours, and you’re all mine.”
“Good.” My voice is barely audible over the lapping waves.
He leans down, his wonderful full lips brushing against mine, and for a moment I let the world narrow until it’s only us—us and the decision we’ve made. This is different. It’s real, and if we do it right, it might actually last.
Fifty
Cooper
Past - Age 26
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
I’m woken by the sound of something familiar digging into my brain and forcing me out of the numb darkness. Then comes the sharp, sterile tang of disinfectant. I blink, but it’s too bright, cutting through my vision with needle-sharp intensity. My mind tries to understand what is happening, but everything is heavy, like I’m surfacing from the deepest part of the ocean.
I realize immediately that something is off. My arms are too heavy. My throat is dry and raw, like I’ve been screaming for hours. That incessant beeping won’t stop. It’s the constant humming background to this new world I’ve woken up in.
I suck in a breath as everything comes into focus. White walls. White ceiling. Shiny windows. A monitor to my left attached to an IV taped to my arm, tubing winding upward to a bag filled with clear liquid. A whiteboard hangs on the wall across from me, my name written at the top.
I’m alive.
The fragmented memories of why I thought I’d died hit me. The boat. The crash. The water swallowing me whole. The panic. The blood. The noise.
My leg.
I shift and look down, expecting to see my leg there on the bed, bandaged and bruised.
It’s not.
It’s gone, and in its place is an empty space under the sheet below my right knee. But that doesn’t make sense; I can stillfeelit there. It hurts, aches, but it’s healing. My mind must be playing tricks on me.
Cruel, awful tricks.
I throw off the blanket, expecting to prove to myself that my leg is okay, and my world splinters apart. There’s a bruised knee and bandages on a stump.
It’s gone. My leg is gone.
Phantom tingles run through the empty space. A cruel lie. Suddenly, I’m drowning all over again, being dragged under by the cold, hard truth.
Door creaking open, a young nurse slips in, clipboard in hand and a furrow between her brows. She stops short when she sees me, expression changing to one of pity. It instantly makes this moment worse. I don’t want her fucking pity; I want my life back.I want my leg.
“You’re awake,” she says in a sweet voice. “Let me get the doctor.”
I could ask her what happened, but I already know. The chaos. The water. The fucking boat crash.
“Wait.” I stop her.
She hesitates in the doorway. “Yes?”
