Page 1 of Make You Love Me
Chapter 1
Jordan
Everyone, at some point in their life, will be slapped in the face by the same unapologetic reality—we’re not infallible, bad things happen to good people, and we aren’t allowed a say when our time is up.
This is that moment for me.
A warm fluid streams into my eyes, but with my arms pinned under a web of metal, I can’t wipe it away. Slashes on the side of my head burn and pulse with every labored heartbeat. It’s all I can feel. Most of my body is numb, only a few random tingles in my thighs and back confirm my fate hasn’t yet been sealed. I refuse to go out like this. Not before I’ve had a chance to live.
Panic grips my lungs before the smoke, and I’m suffocating in the thick plume laced with the smell of oil and gasoline, clouding the cabin. That could only mean one thing…the bomb inside my metal coffin has been activated. Maybe there’s no hope for me after all.
The irony of this is not lost on me. Although I managed to escape the explosion that claimed the lives of most of my former unit years ago, it appears to have caught up with me. It’s not anenemy ambush this time around, but this feels all too familiar—unpredictable, indefensible, criminal, tragic. Maybe one’s fate can’t be skirted by dumb luck more than once.
When I bought my teenage dream car—a 1965 two-door, poppy red Mustang with an automatic V-8 and white vinyl seats—I thought I had the rest of my life ahead of me. The seller, a gray-haired grandmother, purging her late husband’s belongings to pay for the European cruise he refused to take her on over their forty-plus-year marriage, had different circumstances, but she and I faced the same pivotal life moment: the conclusion of years spent serving others and prioritizing everyone but ourselves. Now, freedom granted us the opportunity to shape our lives according to our own choices and wishes. And my list of things to accomplish is long.
Yesterday, Sergeant Montgomery handed over my discharge papers, and the first thing I did was purchase my dream car. The same one that a scrap yard would now reject. After being struck, rolled, and skidded to a stop against a light pole, it’s as useless to anyone as a smoked cigarette.
Damn it. I loved this car. The asshole who hit me had to be going close to sixty. Like any responsible driver, I was following the law and running just two miles over the thirty-five mile per hour speed limit on the way to celebrate my first official day as a civilian. My destination—McDonough’s Irish Pub in downtown Richmond, Virginia, only a few blocks away from where my beautiful car is now pinned to a pole.
I should be trying to figure a way out before the engine goes up in flames, but all I can think about is how pissed my sister will be when she finds out.
If I am hell-bent on buying a car, my sister said the day I signed the certified check, at least buy something safer. I understand her concern. We lost both our parents back in high school to a horrific crash not too different from this one, andsince then, she refuses to drive, begging me on a regular basis not to either. Until yesterday, it’s been easy to honor her wishes.
In the military, there was usually someone else with the keys—higher-ranked or trained personnel for Humvees, helicopters, and tactical vehicles. Rarely did I have a choice in the matter, and I didn’t mind. But after eight years of following orders and doing anything my unit and country required, I wanted the freedom a running motor and four wheels provided. I wanted the damn keys.
Funny how one decision, one moment can bring all your plans to a screeching halt. And if I don’t survive this, my sister will hate me for the rest of her life.
???
“Jordan!”
Remember that tube feature on playgrounds where you speak into one end and the person on the other end, yards away, can hear you? That’s what my name sounds like. A distant, hollow version of the person’s voice traveling through a metal pipe to my ears.
“Jordan, can you hear me?”
I can…barely, I want to say…but I…
“Jordan, it’s me, Hayes.”
I startle back to consciousness. Who? Sergeant? Why is he here? Where am I?
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
Ambulance? What hap—Oh, God. The crash. I’m still alive, somehow. But for how long?
“Jordan, stay with me, buddy.”
I want to, but it’s not that easy. I can’t see anything. Feel anything. I’m covered in something slick and sticky, and I’mafraid it’s blood. All my blood by the sheer amount of it coating my skin and clothes.
“Tell my sister…I love her…and I’m sorry.”
???
“Until when?” I hear a strained male voice ask.
“Until he’s stable. He’s had multiple significant surgeries and lost a lot of blood.” The second male, firm in his delivery, doesn’t sound quite as tired. He sounds more like the military doctors I’ve encountered while serving—half drill instructor, half lifesaver, matter of fact approach, unimpressed tone, no sugar-coating.
“Has anyone called his sister?”
