Hollow (Neighbors of Sapphire Valley #2)

Prologue

And they said I wouldn’t go to Heaven.

Wait, shit, never mind… wrong lights.

It’s possible I could actually be dead, and this is that holy place. Every time I blink, it’s like the bright white above me gets more intense.

But I know it isn’t that place, because I can feel the pain resonating deep in my bones. Plus, let’s be honest, it isn’t just because I’ve taken a dick that any god won’t allow me into their sanctuary. I’m pretty sure I pissed on a bible at one point during a college party a few years ago.

I’d prefer to dance down in Hell anyway.

Continuing my valiant effort to clear the film of haze over my eyes, I feel the familiar sensation of some form of opioids running through my system.

I’ve always had a weird reaction to strong painkillers, they make me quite sick, but right now, all I can feel is an ache all over and a tingling in my toes.

I wiggle them and move my arms to my sides, which I’m relieved I’m still able to do. At least I’m not paralyzed.

A chill runs through me, and the scratchy sheets over me do little to warm my bones. When I push down on the mattress, worry leaks into my already growing anxiety.

I’m in post-op.

For me, someone who’s been around a hospital for several years now, I can tell that this is an ICU bed. They’re distinctly different from stretchers or the ones in a general ward. These are actually comfortable, for good reason obviously.

The ceiling comes into focus—the square tiles and fluorescent lights all too familiar. I’ve spent nearly three-quarters of my time here, and not because I’m a frequent patient. I’m an ICU nurse at San Francisco General Hospital.

“Ayden?” A calm male voice cuts through the space, sounding far louder in a room filled only with soft beeps and gentle puffs of air.

I turn, which I find harder to do, the stiff weight of a neck brace resisting me, and spot a face I recognize.

Worried hazel eyes, framed by light brown skin, meet mine.

The distinct mole over his right brow confirms it’s someone I’d call a close work friend, though not my best friend; the fraternization law could get him in trouble for that.

“Ugh.” I don’t need to check his work attire or glance at the ID badge I know reads Markus Yadav, MD, Intensive Care Unit, Critical Care Medicine, for embarrassment to wash over me. “They would bring me to my hospital.” I pause. “Fuck me.”

I’m not sure why I try to move, because I know with all these tubes and wires, I’m not going anywhere.

He presses a hand lightly to my forearm, and the concern in his expression has me preparing to panic. I mean, it shouldn’t surprise me, I am in a neck brace.

But that’s just precautionary, right? Right?

“Scared us for a second there.”

Scared them? What’s he talking about?

“Guess I didn’t just have a bad fall.” I’ve had those from time to time, but never bad enough to send me to the hospital. “What happened?”

I try to summon any memory that could explain how I ended up here, but my mind offers nothing.

The last thing I remember is leaving the movie theater with Michael.

He’d suggested we skip dinner out, head home, and order in instead.

Everything after pulling out of the parking lot dissolves into a smear of nothingness.

“You were in a car accident, Ayden… You’re lucky to be alive.” He hesitates, then adds, “Apparently the vehicle was totaled.”

My chest tightens, and it’s as if I’ve been scraped hollow—everything gone except my mind, left to make sense of it. Fragments of memories flare and vanish like sparks, never forming into anything whole. None of it fits together, and my lungs claw for air that doesn’t come fast enough.

“Where’s Michael?” I frantically ask.

“He’s fine.” Markus grabs the arm of a chair to pull it over to him, then sits as he continues, never taking his hand away from me. “According to the intake form, most of the impact was on your side…”

I can’t tell what’s making me sick—the worry on his face, the medicine pumping through me, or the fact I could’ve died.

“Were you drinking?” he asks in a whisper.

“N-No…” I’m thinking so hard the room tilts. “I… I mean, yeah, but I only had one beer at the theater. Not enough to inebriate me.” I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. “Besides, that shouldn’t matter—Michael never lets me drive.”

“Shit, Ayden.” His voice is thick with concern. “You had a moderate-to-severe head injury. I’m not surprised you don’t remember what happened, but losing memories from before? That’s concerning.”

“What?” My voice shakes.

“Michael wasn’t driving, the police report says you were.”

My heart rate spikes, and the quickening beeps of the monitor only feed my panic.

“No. I-I wasn’t. I never drive. I don’t… No, that’s not right!”

My breathing quickens, a panic attack closing the distance to the calm I’m desperate to hold on to. It feels impossible, with thoughts of what this could mean for me. I’d finally landed the schedule I’d begged for, was on the brink of a promotion, and preparing to move. I cannot get a DUI.

“Relax, Ayden, it’s going to be alright. I believe you. We’ll get this figured out.”

“Where’s Mike? Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

His face falls, and dread, pain, and anguish wash over me like a wildfire no one, including myself, can contain. “He confirmed you were driving. He’s reached out to his dad, and said he’d be back when he can.”

His dad’s the chief of the SFPD, and truthfully, the last person I want helping in this situation.

“Was anyone else involved? Was it just us?” Goddammit, this cannot be happening.

“Just you guys. You swerved off the road”—my temples pulse painfully—“went over the curb, and smashed into a pole…” His voice trails off as darkness seeps in from the corners of my vision. Everything in front of me sharpens to a pinpoint—until all that’s left are the backs of my eyelids.

I can’t believe I’m this incapable of catching a break. What did I do to deserve not even a moment of peace in nearly eight years?

What the fuck am I going to do?