Chapter 2
Garrison
Three Weeks Later
The ache in my side isn’t unfamiliar, but man, is it frustrating.
I’m genuinely beginning to regret not taking Sawyer up on his offer to crash in my guest room so I wouldn’t be alone my first night home from the hospital, but after having absolutely no privacy for the last two weeks, I’m more than ready to be alone.
Freshly showered, I make my way down the hall, stepping carefully around the dark blood stain still saturating the carpet. It’s been partially cleaned, but I’ll likely have to have it cut out and re-carpeted to fully remove the evidence of my near-death experience two weeks ago.
My living room has been re-set at least, my Bible placed back on the coffee table. The mug Tessa had been drinking out of when she was abducted has been washed and put away, thanks to my friend, Anastasia Knox. So, there’s that.
I glance around, grateful to be home. My gaze lands on the door I left partially cracked in my desperate attempt to wash myself. Instead of closing it right away, though, I continue into the kitchen.
Pain management and water. Then I’ll close the door.
Man, what I wouldn’t give for some real pain meds.
But with addiction in my bloodline, the last thing I want to do is tempt that monster.
So in lieu of something stronger, I reach for a bottle of Advil sitting on my counter and open it up, dropping two into my hand.
The tiny blue gel caps will hopefully take the edge off enough that I can sleep.
Then tomorrow, I’ll get started on getting back to my normal life.
First up, checking in on the community center. I’ve been assured things are running smoothly in my absence, and I’m sure they are, but seeing it for myself will put my mind at ease.
With the community center on my mind, I reach up to pull a glass down. I move too quickly, though, and pain shoots through my side. A hiss escapes through clenched teeth as the glass falls and shatters against the tile floor of my kitchen.
Shards fly in all directions, leaving me standing—barefoot—in the center of what might as well be a minefield.
Fantastic.
“You have got to be kidding me.” With a frustrated sigh, I band one arm around my injury, then carefully cross toward the living room to grab my phone.
There is absolutely no way I am going to be able to get on the ground to clean that up easily.
Which means, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I need help.
Besides, if I can’t even get a glass down from the cabinet, then I’d say I’m probably in some serious trouble here, and dealing with Sawyer’s sarcastic comments is likely going to be worth the extra help.
I’ve nearly reached my phone when the front door swings open.
Did he somehow read my mind and show up?
As dark as it is, I can hardly see, and before I can reach for the light, my hand closes on a soft shoulder.
A woman screams, and spray hits my face.
I snap my eyes shut as they ignite, and I let out my own painful cry. Tears stream down my cheeks, and breathing becomes an impossibility as all oxygen vanishes from my vicinity.
“What is—”
My back hits the wall hard enough to knock what little air is in my lungs out, and I fall to the ground, coughing as I frantically try to breathe. Fire spreads through my lungs, and I struggle to draw in even a single clear breath.
Head swimming, I can’t see.
Can’t feel.
I’m helpless against the assault on my senses.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” a woman cries out, her voice panicked. “Come on. We need to get you to fresh air!” She pulls at my hand, and I struggle to my feet. An arm comes around my waist, and she guides me out into the hall, but my balance falters.
The coughing turns to choked gasps, and panic sets in as I realize just how much trouble I’m in if this collapses my lung again. My heart hammers so hard against my ribs I’m sure it’ll shatter them.
“Thomas, open up!” the woman calls out as she beats on what I imagine is a door.
I can’t see a single thing.
Nothing but darkness.
“Mom, what—”
“Help me get him into the kitchen; then call 9-1-1.”
9-1-1? I just got out of the hospital. “No. No ambulance,” I try to argue, but my voice is barely audible. It comes out as a slur of unintelligible grunts.
“We have to get you help,” she says, tone steady as she leads me through what I’m assuming is her apartment. She could be leading me right off a cliff, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
My eyes are burning.
My lungs are on fire.
Is this how I go out? A Navy SEAL and demolition expert taken out by a can of pepper spray wielded by his gorgeous neighbor? If that is who came into my apartment. I can only assume at this point it was her. We didn’t walk far enough for it to be anyone else.
“Head down so I can rinse your eyes,” she says.
Her fingers thread through the hair on the back of my head as she guides me forward.
I obey, not really having much of a choice.
Besides, if she can get me relief from this agony, I’ll take it.
Cold water hits my eyes. It stings, burning my already sensitive eyes like tiny granules of glass behind my lids.
I grind my teeth together, focusing only on staying upright.
At least the pain in my side is muted, thanks to the agony I’m suffering internally.
Seconds pass, and soon, slow relief creeps in. I groan as the pain in my eyes slowly ebbs. As time keeps on ticking, my breathing becomes a bit easier, but when my head swims and I sway, I know I’m not out of the woods yet.
“Are they on their way?” she asks.
“Yes. A few minutes out,” her son replies.
“I am so sorry,” she mutters to me. “I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead. I thought you were an intruder. When you grabbed me, I panicked—”
“Death would be preferable at this moment,” I groan, unsure if she even hears me. Did I even say it out loud? I have absolutely no clue.
My legs give out, and I fall over, darkness stealing the small sliver of light that rinsing my eyes gained. I don’t even feel the impact of the floor, nor the pain that should have followed.
The last thing I hear is a woman’s scream before the entire world goes silent.
Light assaults my sensitive eyes as I open them and stare up at a stark white ceiling. Fluorescents hang directly above me, mounted on the tiled ceiling, and the all-too-familiar beeping of machines pulls my attention next.
I’m back at the hospital. Fantastic.
“He’s awake!” A teenage boy I recognize instantly comes into view above me. Thomas Ellis. He spends the occasional afternoon at the center—or at least he has since he and his mother moved in next door to me three months ago.
His wide blue eyes are staring down at me, a relieved smile on his face. “Mr. Holt, it’s good to see you awake,” he says.
“Thank the Lord,” a woman replies, her tone soft but slightly strained. My gorgeous neighbor comes into view next when she steps up beside my bed. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, her hazel eyes focused intently on me. They’re rimmed with red, likely from the pepper spray.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “Thomas, call the nurse.”
Before I have the chance to argue that I just need a moment, Thomas has already pressed the call button on the side of my bed.
My head is throbbing, the pain in my side coming back with a vengeance as each second passes by.
“What happened?” I manage.
“My mom pepper-sprayed you,” the boy says with a smirk at his mother.
Her cheeks turn a deep pink.
“Yup. I remember that.” I try to sit up, but fresh pain shoots through my side.
“No, you need to stay down.” Slender hands grip my right shoulder and gently press me back down. Her touch ignites something else in my blood, despite the lingering pain from my initial injury and being pepper-sprayed. I still beneath her hands and let her guide me back down onto the bed.
“You know, I’d hoped not to see you for quite some time, Garrison,” Doctor Alex Jones comments as he comes into the room.
“You and me both, Doc,” I groan.
“We’ll give you some privacy.” My neighbor—Katelyn, if I’m remembering right—takes her son’s hand and pulls him toward the door. As soon as it closes, I shift my attention to the doctor.
“Good news. The lung didn’t collapse again, but you did set yourself back on the healing process quite significantly.”
Fantastic. “What am I looking at?”
“We need to keep you for a few days so we can monitor your oxygen levels, but—”
“I want to go home. Is a stay necessary?” I’d just gotten free of this place. Am I really going to have to stay longer? Anxiety is already threatening to get the better of me. I hate hospitals.
With a passion.
The stench of death clings to every inch of the halls. Something no amount of sterilization can remove.
Alex hesitates a moment. “Since your lung didn’t collapse again and you’re able to breathe freely on your own, I could send you home tomorrow. But the only way I’m okay with it is if you agree to absolutely no heavy lifting. No exertion of any kind. Just rest.”
“Deal.”
“And, you need someone to stay with you.”
“Done,” I agree without hesitation. If it means I get to go home, then I’ll allow the good doc himself to follow me home.
“If you feel off in any way, you don’t hesitate to call.”
“I can do that.” Excitement pushes past some of my exhaustion. Home. My bed. My shower. It’s within reach—again.
The door opens, and Sawyer breezes in, a sucker in his mouth and a grin on his face. I am never going to hear the end of this.
“I told you I should have stayed with you,” he says as he stops beside my bed. The humor leaves his face. “You going to live?”
“That’s what the good doctor here says. I get to go home tomorrow.”
“With restrictions,” Alex adds. “And supervision.”