24. Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Four
Logan
In the blink of an eye, everything can change. One moment, you’re untouchable, floating on cloud nine. The next your phone rings, and your whole world collapses.
I’m sitting next to Trey, locked in a heated match of Street Fighter IV on the Xbox. It’s one of our regular tournaments, a battle of pride and bragging rights.
I’m dominating Trey, flipping around the screen, setting him up for the kill when my phone buzzes. My fingers hesitate on the controller. Might be Mac .
I drop the controller, ignoring Trey’s triumphant shout, and step outside into the parking lot. The number on the screen isn’t one I recognize. My gut tightens, but I answer anyway.
“Hello.” I say, a little irritated. If this is another asshole trying to sell me time-shares in the Bahamas…
“Logan Dale?” The voice is female, calm, clinical. My grip on the phone tightens.
“Yeah?”
“Sir…” There’s a pause, a hesitation that makes my pulse pound. “There’s been an accident—” The phone slips from my fingers, clattering to the gravel.
“Sir? Hello? Sir?” Her voice filters through, tinny and distant.
My hands shake as I scoop the phone back up. “S-sorry,” I croak. “Go on.”
“Do you know a Mackayla Smith?”
“Yes.”
“She’s been in an accident.”
Everything goes silent. The words land like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. Blood rushes to my ears, drowning out the rest of what she’s saying.
“Is…is she okay?” My voice barely works, my throat too tight to swallow.
“You should come in, sir. There’s paperwork we need you to sign.”
The world tilts. “IS. SHE. OKAY?”
“It’s difficult to say at this time, sir. I’m sorry.”
Laughter echoes behind me. Trey, Sam and Chace are on the bus steps making kissing sounds. “ Lover boy ,” they tease. “ Romeo .”
I turn to them, my face must be ghost white, because Sam’s grin falls instantly.
“Which hospital.” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
They watch as I take down the details with shaky hands to my phone.
“What’s wrong?” Sam steps forward, his hand on my shoulder. I shrug him off, stumbling backward.
“Okay. Thanks.” I hand Sam the phone, my fingers numb.
My fingers twitch, fists clenching. I push past them, heading straight for Mearl, who’s lounging in the driver’s seat, feet up, a dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies covering his face.
I nudge his leg. “We need to go.”
Mearl snorts awake, blinking. “Huh? What?”
“Take a detour, now.”
His brows furrow. “Where?”
“Just drive.”
He yawns, stretching. Too slow. Too fucking slow . My pulse is hammering, my skin burning with impatience.
“Move faster.” I snap.
Mearl rubs his eyes. “Not ‘til I take a piss.”
I lunge for him, ready to drag him out of the damn seat if I have to. Sam and Chace grab my arms, pulling me back.
“Logan, chill,” Chace says, his voice careful. “I know what you’re feeling—”
“Fuck off, Chace! You don’t know shit—”
“She’s our sister.” His voice breaks. My fists unclench. The rage is swallowed by something deeper, something raw and crippling.
Trey steps onto the bus, eyes bloodshot, his face ashen. Mearl returns, drying his hands on his jeans. “Where to?” he asks.
“Providence Portland Medical Center.” I say, flat. Empty.
Mearl doesn’t ask questions. He starts the engine. Punching the hospital into the GPS.
Five hours .
Might as well be a fucking eternity. The irony isn’t lost on me that I booked Mac a plane ticket, to save her driving the Charger so far on her own.
What the fuck happened?
An hour in, there’s a loud clunk, followed by a bang from under the bus. We lurch to a stop. Mearl swears, grabbing a flashlight and storms outside. We follow, hovering, as he inspects the damage.
“Stupid fucking potholes,” he growls. “Snapped the axel. We’re stuck.”
A sick, sinking feeling churns in my stomach. I can’t be stuck here. Not when Mac needs me.
I turn and start walking.
“Logan!” Sam calls out. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I ignore him, my feet moving faster.
“Dude, you can’t walk to Portland.” Chace shouts.
I don’t care. I’d crawl if I had to.
A car whizzes past. Then another. I stick my thumb out.
Illegal? Maybe.
Desperate? Absolutely.
I just need to get to her, before it’s too late.
Chace catches up to me, but he doesn’t try to grab me or block my path. He just walks beside me, matching my stride, his breath coming in short puffs in the cold air.
“Logan, stop.” His voice is firm, but I don’t even glance his way. I just keep moving, my boots crunching against the gravel, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Triple A might not be that far off,” he tries again. “We could be back on the road by sunrise.”
“I’m not waiting Chace.” My voice comes out rough, edged with the kind of panic I don’t want him to hear. I sniff hard, the freeing air already making my nose run, though my emotions sure aren’t helping.
“Logan, there are wolves out here. Cougars.” His pace falters slightly, hesitation creeping in.
“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter, pulling my jacket tighter around me. The cold is seeping into my bones, but it’s nothing compared to the ice already settling in my chest.
“Don’t be a dick! You could freeze to death or get mauled or—”
I keep walking.
“Logan!” Chace voice grows fainter behind me. “Logan, come on, man! This is insane!”
I don’t stop.
It’s dangerous.
It’s reckless.
I know that. But I don’t care.
Sitting on that fucking bus, waiting for my phone to ring with news that could shatter me—it’s worse. It’s unbearable. I’d rather walk into the dark, into the cold, into the goddamn jaws of whatever’s out there, then wait and find out if Mac is dead.
I must have walked three miles by now. My feet are killing me, but the pain is a dull echo beneath the storm raging inside me. My phone is slick with sweat, my palm cramping from gripping it too tight. I keep wiping it on my shirt, checking for signal.
Nothing.
The only fucking calls I’ve gotten have been from the guys.
And now—again—my phone buzzes in my hand.
Trey.
I answer before the first ring even finishes. “Have you heard anything?”
“No…nothing yet. Triple A’s here, though. We should be by to pick you up soon.” I barely hear the rest before the line goes dead. I stare at the screen. Fucking battery. An hour of constant calls has drained it dry. The few times I managed to get through to the hospital, it was always the same—she’s in surgery…we’re doing everything we can…we’ll call when we know more.
My pulse pounds, rage rising sharp and sudden. My grip tightens, and for a second, I almost smash the phone into the pavement. But if I do, and the hospital calls—It doesn’t matter. It’s dead.
Maybe like—
No!
I start to yell, shouting until my voice is bloody and raw. If there are any predators lurking in the dark, let them come—I fucking dare them. I need to vent. Need to break something.
I shove my phone back into my pocket, my arms trembling. My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles aching from how hard I squeeze them. I should hit something. Lay into the asphalt until my skin splits and my hands bleed. Maybe that’ll make the pressure in my chest ease up. Maybe that’ll stop this helpless, useless, fucking powerless feeling.
My feet carry me forward without thought, past empty streets and flickering streetlights, past the silent ghosts of a city still asleep. I don’t stop walking until I reach the bridge.
My breath is fast, sharp. My chest heaves. The first rays of sunlight bleed through the mist, streaking the sky in gold and copper, setting the horizon on fire.
I made it through the night.
Did she?
I swallow hard, my throat raw. My fingers twitch toward my phone, but I can’t check. I can’t. I don’t want to see the words. Don’t want to hear the confirmation. No news is better than bad news. Right?
A gust of wind rushes down the hillside, pressing against me, urging me forward. I sway. Step closer to the edge.
Below, the valley is thick with trees, dark and endless.
Maybe this is God’s will.
The thought slips in so easily, so naturally, like it belongs. Like it’s always been there.
I feel unsteady, like if I just lean forward a little more, the wind will take me the rest of the way. My arms lift slightly, fingers curling into the air, the sunrise painting my skin in firelight.
I close my eyes.
Mac. My angel.
She’s everywhere. In every breath. Every beat of my heart. Every flickering memory playing like an old film reel behind my eyes.
If she doesn’t make it…
My throat clenches.
If I step off, would the Lord take me in her place?
He guided me here, didn’t He? Brought me to this moment, to this edge?
I have memories of her. Of us. I’ve seen her smile, felt her love. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe I was only ever meant to be temporary. Maybe—
The ground is there, below me. Maybe forty feet, maybe more. My vision distorts, and the call of the abyss hums through my veins.
Deal or no deal, Logan?
If there’s even a chance it helps Mac—if I could trade my breath for hers, my heartbeat for hers—wouldn’t that be worth it?
Wouldn’t she be worth it?
My fingers tighten at my sides. My chest cracks open with the weight of it all.
Then I hear her.
A whisper. A breath.
Logan.
My head snaps up. My heart stutters. The wind stills, the world holding its breath.
“Hey, mister! What the hell are you doing?” A voice, gruff, unfamiliar, cuts through the fog in my head. I turn just as a hand grabs the back of my jacket and yanks me backward with enough force to send me crashing to the pavement. The air punches out of my lungs.
My chest heaves.
My back throbs.
My head swims.
Suddenly I’m crying.
Hard.
Ugly.
My breath stutters between sobs, my scraped fingers trembling as I wipe my face.
“Jesus fucking H. Christ, son,” the man mutters. “You having a bad trip or somethin’?”
I blink up at him. He’s wearing a red-and-white trucker’s cap, a thick brown-and-blue sleeveless vest over a black T-shirt. Five o’clock shadow, bushy mustache, streaked with gray. His eyes—turquoise—lock onto mine, sharp, with something between concern and annoyance.
“You look to be in a sorry state.” He pulls a flask from his vest pocket and holds it out. “Here. Have a swig. It’ll steady ya.”
I groan. Shaking my head. He shoves it against my chest. “Ain’t got much of a choice, sonny.” I glare at him, and he scowls. “You best not look at me with that tone of voice, or I’ll fetch you a hidin’” His accent is rough, aged, like whiskey and cigarettes. “So…what painin’ ya?”
Painin’? I don’t know what he means.
“A friend…”
“Oh?” he tips his head. “This friend a girl?”
I nod. Swallowing hard. I take a sip of the scotch—it burns like fire all the way down. Another. Before I can take a third, he snatches it back and downs some himself.
“Figures,” he mutters. “They’re always good at twistin’ us up, have us trippin’ over our damn selves.”
“Something like that…”
“She dump your ass or what?” I shake my head, the shock of nearly falling making me shake.
“She’s… she’s in surgery.” I say, weakly.
“Surgery? And you’ve given up on her like that? Shee-it son.”
My body tenses. The panic, the fear—it’s back, flooding through me.
“She was in an accident…I don’t know…I don’t—”
“Alright, son. Don’t force it.”
He pulls out a pack of Camels, lighting one with the click and ping of his steel lighter. Then he offers me the pack. I shake my head. He takes the cigarette from his own lips and presses it to mine instead. “This’ll help steady you, too.” The smoke stings my eyes, but I inhale anyway. It burns. I cough, gagging, but the warmth is welcome. I feel queasy at the taste. There’s a long beat as he lights another watching me before he looks back to the edge of the bridge.
“You know lemmings?” I frown.
“Never owned one, if that’s what you mean?”
He snorts, spitting onto the pavement. “Owned one… had friend who owned a gopher once, pain in the ass thing shrieking all damn day. But, no. No I’m talking about Lemmings now, dummy. They get a bad rep for jumpin’ right off cliffs, right?”
I nod. “All horseshit,” he says. “Some fella at Disney, doin’ a documentary, chased em off a cliff for the camera. Stupidest damn thing I ever heard.” He chuckles, shaking his head.
I don’t laugh. “You think your girl would want you runnin’ off a cliff like a dang lemming?” His tone sharpens. “Death don’t equal life, death is death. Thinking otherwise, well… It’s unnatural, son.”
Unnatural . I scoff.
“If you give a hoot about her –and I bet she gives a hoot about you –you best get your ass to her. Stop with this pansy-ass ‘woe is me’ bullshit.” He exhales smoke through his nose. “Life’s hard. You lose people. But the world don’t stop turnin’ just cause you can’t see past the hurt.”
I say nothing.
Airbrakes.
A tow truck rounds the bend, our tour bus hooked behind it. The driver slows when he sees me, and the truck rumbles to a stop.
The man nods toward it. “That your crew?”
I sniff, dragging my sleeve across my face. “Yeah.”
“Well,” he clasps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing once. “Then get movin’. You got a girl to see.”
I hesitate. “Thanks.”
His smile is tired, lined with something I can’t quite place. “Be a damn shame to let a young ‘un like you go the way of the dodo over a case of the ‘ Why Me’s ’.” With that, he climbs into his car, honking twice as he drives off. I watch him go, breath unsteady.
What the fuck was I thinking ?
“Everything okay?” Sam leans out of the trucks open door.
“Nope.” I admit. But I force a dry smile as I climb in, slamming the door behind me. The cab is packed. The guys are here.
Maybe that’ll help steady me.
Next stop—Providence Portland Medical Center
The journey to the hospital is the longest of my life. Sam took my SIM card out of my phone and swapped it with his as it was fully charged. The minute the truck screeches to a stop, I’m out before it fully halts, dodging traffic, running flat out. My feet barely touch the ground.
I charge through the ER doors and straight to the nurse’s station. The woman behind the counter wears magenta scrubs and clutches masses of folders in her hands, her eyes darting between the paperwork and a monitor.
“Excuse me—”
“One moment, sir,” she says without looking up. A pang of anger slithers up my spine. “This is an emergency—”
“I understand that, sir. This is an—"
“Mackayla Smith.” I grind my teeth, fists clenched. “She was admitted hours ago. Car accident.”
The nurse lets out a sigh, finally setting the files down. She clicks onto the system, fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Are you family?”
“Sí …yes, yes.”
Her expression tightens, but she nods, scanning the screen. “She was in surgery. I don’t know if she’s still in there, or in recovery. If you head down the corridor to your right, take the lift to the third floor. The ICU is on your right.”
“Thank you.”
I’m already moving before she yells after me, “Room B32!”
The guys barely catch up as I hit the elevator button repeatedly. We cram into an already packed lift, none of us speaking. The tension is thick enough to choke on.
When we reach ICU, I spot room B32 on the wall, but it’s not a single room—it’s an entire suite. That means more waiting, more searching. The doors are locked. I press the buzzer. Nothing. Sam tries to slip past when the door opens for a doctor, but security stops him. My patience is gone. I slam the buzzer again.
Where the fuck is everyone .
Finally, a voice cracks through the intercom. “Intensive Care Unit. How can I help you?”
“Mackayla Smith.”
My pulse hammers in my ears. The door buzzes open, and I storm inside. A nurse, about my age, approaches with a clipboard, her eyes widening before she regains composure.
“Are you family?” she asks softly.
Shit. Did Mac put me as her next of kin after Braden died?
“I’m her next of kin—”
“We all are,” Sam adds firmly.
Silence. Then she lowers the clipboard slightly. “Miss Smith is still in surgery. There’s a family room you can wait in. If you’ll follow me, I’ll get a doctor to update you.”
I stare at her, words catching in my throat. “But. I thought she was in recovery?”
“Please, come with me, gentlemen, and we can talk.”
The room is sterile, all blue pastel and stiff brown leather chairs. They look cushioned, but they might as well be stone. We sit, sweaty, restless, unable to look at each other. Every one of us loves Mac in some way—like a sister, like family. But for me? She’s everything. My heart, my soul, my reason for breathing.
Minutes feel like hours. Then the door opens. “My name is Dr. Rembrant. I’ve been overseeing Miss Smith’s care.” I nod but don’t look at his face, only his immaculate hands clutching the clipboard. My throat locks up. My vision blurs. A wetness drips onto my cheek, but I only notice when my fingers come away damp.
“As you know, Miss Smith was in an accident with a male driver earlier—"
“Wait…what?” The words scrape out of me, raw and strangled. I’ve been so focused on Mac, I didn’t think about the driver.
“She has multiple fractures, three broken ribs, and intercranial hemorrhaging. We’ve placed her in a medically induced coma to allow her brain to heal. Once the swelling reduces, we’ll begin the weaning process—”
His voice fades, swallowed by the high-pitched ringing in my ears.
My stomach clenches. Every breath is a fucking battle.
Time warps, folding in on itself. I don’t know how long I sit here, locked in, drowning in the past—because we’ve heard this before. We’ve lived this before. Braden.
A ghost of a memory cuts through—white walls, fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic and blood. Voices telling us there was nothing more they could do.
No. No, no, no.
My fingers dig into my knees. I must’ve been moved at some point because there’s a cold coffee cup in front of me, untouched. I don’t remember sitting down.
Footsteps.
That’s what pulls me back. The rhythmic thud of shoes against tile.
The door squeaks open.
Another set of footsteps.
I force myself to lift my head.
Dean.
He looks…wrong. Not just pale—empty. His eyes are raw, rimmed red, but his face is eerily calm. Like the lights been drained out of him.
‘Hey…” My voice is hoarse.
He doesn’t answer, just drops in the chair next to Sam. Sam shifts uncomfortably.
“Where’s Clay?”
Dean looks at me like I just spoke Latin. His mouth opens. Then, without a word, he swings for me.
I dodge, barely, and tackle him. My arm locks around his neck, ready to fight—but then a force yanks me off. I crash into a chair.
Si, the mechanic, stands over us, jaw tight, muscles coiled with rage. “Clay was driving,”
What the fuck is the mechanic doing here?
The words send ice through my veins. My stomach turns to lead. “Shit. I didn’t…We didn’t know. What’s happening with him”
Dean shakes his head, staring at the floor.
Overwhelmed.
Broken.
“Mr. Dale?”
A new voice. I turn. A doctor stands in the doorway, long blonde hair, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Dale?” he repeats.
“What is it, doc? Is she awake?”
The doctor scowls slightly, checking his sheet. “Not yet. We need her intracranial pressure to ease before we wake her. However, she’s stable enough for visitors.”
The air in my lungs finally moves. “I can see her?”
“If you’d like to follow me, we can take two at a time.”
Chace and Trey exchange looks, then nod. “Sam, Logan, you two go first.”
My feet feel like lead as I follow the doctor. The second I step into Mac’s room, my breath catches. Machine’s beep softly. Tubes run across her fragile body. Her chest rises and falls, but it’s not her own breath—it’s the ventilator’s. Bandages cover her head. Bruises mar her beautiful face.
My angel.
I stumble forward. “Thank you, doc.”
He nods and steps back as Sam stays near the door, murmuring quietly. I can’t listen. I can’t do anything but stare at Mac, so still, so small beneath the wire and IV drips.
I reach for her hand. It’s cold, the IV taped in place. The tears spill, hot and unstoppable. My throat burns. I press my forehead to her pillow, whispering, “I’m here, angel. I’m here.”