Chapter 2 #2
“Suspected hit and run,” he says slowly. “Though it could be that the other driver is dazed and doesn’t realize they’re—”
Hit and run.
The cold heaviness in my chest turns to ice. Then to something hotter. Something that feels a lot like rage.
But that’s for later. Right now, there’s only one thing that matters.
I start my bike and follow the ambulance.
The hospital is a blur of fluorescent lights and antiseptic.
I don’t remember parking. Don’t remember walking through the doors. One moment I’m on my bike, the next I’m at the emergency reception desk, my hands planted on the counter.
“Josephine Bright. She just came in by ambulance. Car accident.”
The woman behind the desk looks up at me—takes in the cut, the road dust, whatever expression is on my face—and has the good sense not to argue.
“Are you family?”
“Her partner.” The lie slides out smooth. I’m already committed to it.
Her fingers move across the keyboard. “She’s being assessed now. I’ll need you to fill out some information for us while you wait.” She slides a clipboard across the counter. “As much as you can.”
I take it, expecting to stare at a bunch of blank lines I can’t fill. We’re not actually together. I’m her client, nothing more. What could I possibly know?
I look down at the form.
Full name
Josephine Amy Bright. She mentioned her middle name once, months ago. I remember thinking Amy suited her.
Date of birth
March 15th. Ginger had suggested we get her some flowers for her birthday.
Address
1847 Oakwood Lane. The little blue house with the overgrown rose bushes and the porch light she always leaves on. I know because I’ve driven past it more times than I care to admit, like some lovesick teenager who can’t stay away.
Emergency contact
Me. Fuck if I know who else she might list, but for now I’m gonna have to do.
Allergies
Penicillin. She mentioned it once when Duck had a chest infection and Maggie was pushing antibiotics on everyone in sight. “Not all of us can take those,” she’d said, waving Maggie off, and I’d filed it away without thinking.
Primary care physician
Dr. Sarah Cousins, Stoneheart Medical. I’d overheard her making an appointment once, months ago.
My pen hovers over the form.
I know her coffee order—black, no sugar, an extra shot when she’s been working late.
I know she takes her whiskey neat, her wine red, and her beer cheap.
I know she stress-cleans her office when a case is going sideways, and she taps her pen against her teeth when she’s thinking.
I know she gets a little crease between her eyebrows when she’s trying not to laugh at something I’ve said, and doesn’t frown at all when she’s annoyed in the court room.
I know she hums under her breath when she thinks no one’s around—old jazz songs, the kind her grandmother used to play.
I know she kicks off her heels the second she’s behind closed doors, and her real laugh, the unguarded one, sounds nothing like the polished chuckle she uses in meetings with clients.
Jesus Christ.
I’ve been cataloging this woman for over a year. Every detail, every habit, every tiny piece of her I could collect without crossing the lines I drew between us.
What a fucking joke.
I fill out the rest of the form with a steady hand, even though I’m beginning to feel like I might have been blind sided by a fucking truck as well. When I hand it back to the receptionist, she scans it with raised eyebrows.
“This is thorough, thank you.”
“No problem.” I step back from the counter. “When can I see her?”
The receptionist gives me a tired, sympathetic smile. “As soon as the doctors stabilize her.”
I step back, taking a seat on an uncomfortable plastic chair.
The waiting room is surprisingly quiet for an emergency department.
A few scattered souls dot the rows of seats—an elderly man with a hacking cough, a young woman scrolling her phone with red-rimmed eyes, a couple huddled together in the corner speaking in hushed, urgent tones.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow-white glow that makes everyone look half-dead.
The TV mounted in the corner plays some late-night infomercial on mute. A woman with unnaturally white teeth demonstrates a blender. Riveting stuff.
I should call the club and check in, let someone know what’s happening. But I can’t make myself move. Can’t do anything but sit here, staring at the doors Josie’s behind, replaying that fucking form in my head.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and scrub my hands over my face.
Twenty years of running this club. Twenty-plus years of keeping my shit locked down, of never letting anyone see weakness, of making the hard calls and living with the consequences. I’ve buried brothers. Held men while they bled out. Delivered news that destroyed families.
None of it—none of it—prepared me for the sight of Josie Bright bleeding in the wreckage of her car.
The couple in the corner gets called back. The young woman with the phone steps out for a cigarette. The old man coughs and coughs and coughs.
I sit there, surrounded by strangers and their private tragedies, and finally let myself feel the weight of my own.
I know everything about Josie. Every detail, every habit, every tiny piece of her I could collect without crossing the lines I drew between us.
I told myself I was keeping my distance. Protecting her from the mess of my life, the danger that comes with my patch, the long shadow of every mistake I’ve ever made.
But I wasn’t protecting her.
I was protecting myself.
Wanting something—really wanting it, the way I want her—means risking losing it. And fuck knows I’ve lost everything before. My marriage. My wife’s respect. Years with my kids I’ll never get back. The version of myself that used to believe good things could last.
It felt easier to keep Josie at arm’s length. Easier to want her from a distance than to reach for her and watch it fall apart.
Except now she’s behind those doors, fighting for her life, and all my distance didn’t protect either of us from a goddamn thing.
Eight months.
Eight months of watching her. Wanting her. Memorizing every detail like a man starving for a taste of paradise he won’t let himself eat.
What a fucking waste.
The doors swing open. A doctor steps through, scanning the room.
“Mr. Armstrong?”
I’m on my feet before she finishes my name.
She’s small, middle-aged, with tired eyes and the calm demeanor of someone who delivers bad news for a living. I close the distance between us in three strides, looming over her.
“How is she?”
To her credit, she doesn’t flinch at the raw, rough need in my voice. “Stable.”
The word hits me like a fist to the chest. My knees nearly buckle, but I force myself to stay standing.
Stable.
She consults her chart. “Ms. Bright sustained three broken ribs, a fractured left wrist, a suspected concussion, and multiple lacerations requiring stitches. She also has significant bruising to her chest and abdomen from the seatbelt, steering column and airbags.”
Each injury lands like a punch. Ribs. Wrist. Concussion. Lacerations. Bruising. I catalog them, my jaw tightening with every word.
“But she’s going to be okay?”
“She’s very lucky.” The doctor’s expression is measured, professional. “The impact was primarily to the driver’s side, but a few inches further forward and we’d be having a very different conversation.”
A few inches.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. A few inches and she’d be gone. A few inches and I’d never get the chance to—
I shut that thought down hard.
She pauses. “Her scans look good. No internal bleeding, no spinal damage, and her brain activity is good. Though we’ll need to do further testing for concussion and other complications when she wakes.”
Lucky. She’s lying broken in a hospital bed and they’re calling her lucky.
She places a hand on my arm. “There is swelling on her brain though, so we’ve put her in a medically induced coma. It’s unlikely she’ll wake for a few days. She needs this time to rest, and allow the brain to heal.”
I nod once.
She’s alive, and that’s all that matters.
“Can I see her?”
“She’s being moved to a private room now. Room 114, upstairs two levels then head down the hall, it’s the first on the left.” The doctor hesitates. “She’s still unconscious—between the concussion and the pain medication, she likely won’t wake for several hours. But you can sit with her.”
“Thank you.”
I make my way to her room, stopping in the doorway as my chest cracks wide open.
She looks small. That’s what hits me first—how small she looks in that hospital bed, surrounded by machines and wires and sterile white sheets.
Josie Bright, who fills every room she walks into.
Who took on Summit and a cartel and a corrupt system without flinching.
Who stood toe-to-toe with me from day one and never once backed down.
She looks fragile.
Wrong.
Her face is bruised, one eye swollen, a line of stitches running along her hairline. Her left arm is in a cast, resting on a pillow. Bandages wrap around her ribs, visible through the thin fabric of the hospital gown. Monitors beep steadily, tracking her heartbeat, her breathing, her oxygen levels.
My throat closes. I have to grip the doorframe to keep myself upright.
This is my fault.
I suck in air, forcing myself to breathe.
Alive. She’s alive. Focus on that.
I pull a chair close to the bed and sink into it, my hands shaking as I reach for her. I take her hand—the uninjured one—and cradle it between both of mine.
Her fingers are cold. Limp. Nothing like the warm, animated hands that gesture when she argues a point, that grip a pen like a weapon, that reached for me before I ruined everything.
“Josie.” My voice comes out rough, barely recognizable. “I’m here.”
No response. Just the beep of the monitors and the soft hiss of oxygen.