I check my phone every ten minutes from the moment I wake up on Wednesday until Dr. Jones calls at half-eleven. A sense of dread blooms in my stomach when I hide in the kitchenette while Luke snaps pictures of a new collection of shoes from a local designer.
I take a deep breath before sliding my thumb across the screen. It’s fine. You’re fine. Relax. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Cassidy,” Dr. Jones says, the usual lightness gone from his voice, replaced by a formal tone with a sharp edge.
A tumult of anger dances up my spine, and my heart kicks into the cardiac arrest range. Something is wrong.
Fucking bastard!
I’m going to castrate him; I swear to God. He won’t get a chance to stick his beautiful, long cock inside any woman ever again.
“Good morning,” I say, a body-wide shudder running over me. “By the sound of it, you don’t have good news.”
The flash clicking on Luke’s Nikon is the only sound breaking the heavy silence.
“Cassidy, can you come by the office today?”
Another riot of nerves wrings my stomach, and I picture how I’ll torture Logan for this mess. “Should I be worried? What do I have?”
“I’d rather it if we could talk face to face. What time can you be here?”
I glance at the calendar on the wall, checking my appointments for the day. Pulse throbs in my ears, muting the sound of Luke’s camera and the traffic outside the window.
I’ve got a family photoshoot booked in half an hour and a toddler session at four in the afternoon, but I won’t be able to take one decent picture today with the unspoken STD diagnosis hanging over my head like a brewing tornado.
“If I can reschedule my clients, I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Okay, that’s fine. I’m dealing with paperwork today, so any time is good. I’ll see you soon.” He cuts the call before I can pester him for more information.
An oppressive silence rings in my ears. God, please don’t let it be HIV. Please. I’ll never look at Logan again, I swear. Just don’t let it be HIV.
I squeeze the phone with all my might, taking deep breaths and doing my best to keep calm, but the unshed tears are once again threatening to spill.
How much can one person cry before the tears dry out? Since Friday, I’ve cried two rivers, but the waterworks still work just fine. I wish the plumbing in my flat was as reliable as my tear ducts.
I call my client to reschedule the morning appointment to next week, and once that’s taken care of, I swing my bag over my shoulder. “I’m off,” I tell Luke, my legs feeling a little spongy. “I’ll be back later. I’ve got a toddler photoshoot at four.”
He’s in the zone, glaring between the camera and a pair of cute, pink, strappy heels with little bows at the back as if he’s willing the shoes to pose better. I’m not sure if he heard me, but the answer is silence.
With every step closer to my car, I’m shaking more until the anger rising in my chest is like a cornered, scared animal trying to claw its way out. And a way out I show it when I sit at the wheel and send Logan a text.
Me: Thanks a lot, asshole! Don’t come near me again, or I’ll cut your dick off. Better let your girls know to get tested.
I toss the phone on the passenger seat and start the engine, pulling out onto the main road. The hands-free system activates, filling the car with the ringtone I assigned to Logan after the evening we spent in his pool—“Swim” by Chase Atlantic. I send him to voice mail seven times, but he’s not getting the hint.
“What?!” I snap, answering on his eighth try. “I’ve got nothing to tell you!”
“Whatever you have, you didn’t get it from me, so you call your guys to let them know.”
I scoff, pressing my foot harder to the floor. “I’ve not been with anyone in over a year, Logan. You gave me this shit! Don’t you dare show your face around me again. We’re done. Over! You got that?! OVER!”
A loud bang sounds on his side of the line. “I got tested before we happened, Cass. I was good, so you gave…” He trails off, his voice changing from anger to controlled annoyance. “What did you test positive for?”
“None of your business!”
Even if I knew which STD he oh so graciously shared with me, I wouldn’t tell him. He deserves to experience the humiliation of walking into a clinic, peeing in the cup, and getting swabbed. The mortification of receiving the results.
I’d pay good money to see the almighty Logan Hayes hanging his head low in shame.
“I never had unprotected sex until you, so don’t blame this mess on me. You think I’ll make this easy for you? Ha!” I shift the gear, pressing my foot back down. “Forget it! If you want to know what treatment you need, you’ll have to go through the whole fucked-up process just like I did! Call your doctor!”
The light on the junction ahead changes to red. I’ve riled myself up so bad I’ve not noticed the climbing speed or how hard I’ve been pressing on the gas.
I’m doing over sixty miles an hour in the heart of Newport, and I have no chance to stop in time. There’s no room to veer right or left and avoid the standstill Mustang no more than twenty yards away.
“Shit!” I cry out, slamming the brakes.
The sound of tires skidding on the road pierces my ears. I lose control of the car a second before a huge blow jolts my little Fiat. Time slows down. The force of impact throws me forward, my arms in the air as if gravity ceased to exist.
A deafening, crushing sound of metal bending and glass braking fills the air.
The airbag explodes in my face.
The seatbelt blocks, shoving me back against the seat.
A waterfall of glass cascades down on me before the world fades to black.
And then… pain.
So much pain.
It’s the first thing I register before prying my eyes open. My vision is blurred as if I’m looking through a pair of four-diopter corrective glasses with a twenty-twenty vision.
I blink, trying to adjust, to see my hands which I’m holding out in front of my face. A high-pitched ringing in my ears drowns out other sounds, and warm and wet blood trickles down my face. I lift my hand to touch it, pulling in a breath that’d have me doubling over if there was enough room. A sharp, stabbing pain rips through my ribcage.
A cold shiver slides down my spine, and pulse triphammers in my neck when my vision starts clearing by the second.
I’m covered in blood.
My hands, blouse, legs… covered in crimson blood and tiny shards of broken glass. I swallow hard, inhaling quick, shallow breaths that don’t hurt as much.
“Cassidy?! Are you okay?” Someone bends down by the car, peering inside through the window—or what used to be a window. There’s no glass there now. “Fuck!” He clips, turning around. “Conor! Call an ambulance!”
Staring straight ahead, my mind is in a hazy daze of confusion. The back of a Mustang I remember smashing into isn’t there anymore. Instead, I’m mindlessly gawping at a shopfront of a hardware store. The front of my car folded at the impact like an accordion.
I blink, replaying the crash. There definitely was a Mustang. Where the hell did it go?
I glance to the side again at the young boy beside my car. He looks familiar. Dark eyes, dark hair, sharp features.
Logan.
No, too young.
His brother.
“I know you,” I say, the words like razor blades on my tongue. “Cody, is… is anyone hurt?”
“You banged your head pretty hard, so I’ll let that slide,” he smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
Logan…
No, too young, but they look so much alike.
“It’s Colt, Cassidy, and you’re the only one hurt. What were you thinking going all Schumacher on my ass?”
“Colt,” I echo, wincing as pain strobes behind my temples. My mind is still half-stuck in slow motion. It takes three times the usual time to process and understand his words. “What is Schumacher?”
He smirks again, and I want to cry.
Logan.
I’d give my arm to have him here. I’m so confused.
“He used to be a Formula 1 driver. Back in 1998, he crashed into the back of another F1 car—” He pauses and waves me off, noticing my baffled expression. “Never mind. What’s the rush?” He shoves his head further inside, glancing at the dashboard. “Wow. Forty at impact. I heard the tires screeching when you hit the brakes, and I looked in the mirror, but it was too late to move out of your way. How fast were you going?”
“Um…” I press my fingers to my temple, pain lancing through my head. It feels like a bomb had gone off in there. “I don’t know. Sixty, I think.” I glance around again. Where is Colt’s car? My neck is too stiff to tilt my head and look through the back window. “I crashed.”
“Yeah, no shit. How you’re still alive is beyond me, girl. You smashed into the back of my car, and this…” he wrinkles his nose, angling himself back to eye my Fiat, “…toy was thrown out and spun twice before it stopped here.”
“The ambulance is on its way.” Another boy stops beside the car. Conor, I think. Or maybe it’s Cody. I can’t tell them apart right now, but he looks like Colt, so he must be one of the triplets. “Hey there, Schumacher. You good? You need to stay where you are until the ambulance gets here.”
“Don’t bother, Conor. She doesn’t get the reference,” Colt says, unhappy with my lack of F1 knowledge. “Don’t move. Fuck knows how badly you’re hurt.”
I tremble. Cold shivers run up and down my entire body as if I were dipped in an ice hole on a frozen lake. Why is it so cold? The sun is shining, and it was eighty-five degrees when I left the studio.
“What is that?” Colt asks, pushing his head inside again. “Is that… radio? No way that’s still working.”
I focus on the quiet melody—“Swim” by Chase Atlantic. “It’s my phone.”
Logan.
The deafening blare of police sirens swallows the melody seeping from my phone. Colt and Conor step away, revealing a crowd of onlookers standing nearby on the sidewalk, snapping pictures and gawking at the scene.
No one’s trying to help. They stand there, appalled and curious, as if this isn’t a real-life accident but a stunt performed by a movie crew.
I assess my position and the damage to my body, glad to see that there aren’t any metal parts sticking out of me. That’s reassuring. My hands and arms are covered in cuts where the glass broke my skin, but nothing major. Nothing that requires stitches. I touch my face, tracing the trickle of blood up from my chin until my fingers find a gaping wound over my left eye.
That might need stitches.
My legs are trapped under the steering column that’s digging into my thighs. Shit, what if I don’t have legs? What if I’m in shock and can’t feel the pain?!
The theory is overthrown when I start to panic and inhale another deep, sharp breath. The agony ripping my ribcage wide open proves I can, in fact, feel pain. Excruciating pain.
I wriggle my toes, checking if they’re there, and breathe a sigh of relief, feeling them move in my sneakers.
I’m okay.
I’ve got legs.
I’m alive.
Colt is right. It’s baffling that I’m not severed in half. I want to kiss the toy with a decent crash zone for saving my life, but before I try to hug the wheel and thank the piece of metal, Shawn bends down, sticking his head inside the car.
“Hey there, Cass,” he says, his voice gentle, calm, and soft as if he’s talking to a frightened child. “How are you feeling? Can you move your hands and legs?”
“Yes. I’m okay. God, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to my speed or the road and—”
“Hey, calm down. Shit happens. My brothers are fine, so let’s focus on you now, alright?” He assesses the car and tries to pry the door open, but it’s stuck. “We might have to cut you out of here.”
“No, no, no. If you open the door and slide the seat back, I’ll get out on my own. I’m not that hurt.” I lift my hands, twirling my wrists and bending my elbows. “See?”
He smiles, shaking his head, then straightens up, shouting someone over. Three firemen approach the car, playing tug-of-war with the door. All the while, “Swim” by Chase Atlantic plays in the background on repeat, not stopping for longer than three seconds at a time. The melody fills the cracks in my composure like warm honey, helping me stay calm.
The paramedics clasp a neck brace around my neck as soon as the door is cut open, and the seat is pushed back to free my legs. A young man dressed in an EMT uniform shines a light in my eyes and asks dozens of questions before hauling me onto a stretcher despite my protests.
I can walk.
I’m not that hurt.
My ribs are killing me, and my head feels as if it’s split wide open at the back, but my legs and my spine are fine.
“Colt!” I yell, seeing him stand to the side with one of the firemen. Conor’s there, too, snapping pictures of my car. Colt jogs over, forcing the paramedics to make a short stop. “My phone,” I pant. “Can you please get my phone? It’s somewhere on the passenger side.”
“If I can find it,” he mutters, looking me up and down with genuine concern in his eyes. “You’ll be alright, Cass.”
I’m not sure which one of us he’s trying to reassure. The triplets are identical save for their hairstyles, but somehow, each resembles one of his older brothers more than the other.
Colt has the same eyes as Logan. Deep, rich brown with a single speck of gold in his left iris. A skitter of dread prickles my skin like a rash, and the thin outer layer of my composed, forced calmness begins to shiver and crack. I wish Logan was with me right now.
I wish he’d hold my hand and just be here.
I’m scared. I won’t admit it out loud, but I’m terrified of what will happen at the hospital. One of the paramedics wore a disturbing look on his face when I described the pain in my ribs and how every breath feels as if my lungs are pierced with a blade. That can’t be good.
Colt jogs over to the Fiat, and I’m hauled into the back of the ambulance. The smell of antiseptic irritates my nose while I stare at the roof, refusing to check what the EMTs are doing around me.
“There, I got your bag, too,” Colt jumps in, placing the bag beside me, and pushes the phone into my hand. “Take care, alright?” He squeezes my fingers, a small smile curving his lips. “And slow down, Schumacher.”
I chuckle, nodding as much as the cervical collar allows, and close my fingers on the phone that’s no longer ringing. I want to call Logan and beg him to come to the hospital, but the memory of him sneaking out of my apartment in the middle of the night flashes before my eyes, and I don’t dial.
That’s not how our relationship works.
That’s not how my relationship with anyone works.
I’m alone in this. No one but myself to count on.
Colt gets out of the ambulance, and a second later, the paramedics shut the door, the siren blaring overhead.
“You can call your family if you want,” one of the crew, a woman in her late thirties, says, buckling up in her seat.
“No family,” I mutter but hold the phone up to see the screen and dial a number.
“Good afternoon, Newport Beach OBGYN. How can I help?” The receptionist’s melodic voice sounds in my ear, the line well practiced.
“Hey, Darcie, it’s Cassidy Roberts. Could you put me through to Dr. Jones?”
“Yeah, sure. Hold on a second.” The on-hold music starts, but thankfully, it’s not as annoying as other places, and ends after a few seconds when Darcie’s voice fills my ear again. “Sorry, he nipped out to grab a bite to eat. Do you want me to give him a message?”
“Yes, tell him I won’t be able to make the appointment today. I’ll call him tomorrow to reschedule.”
“Sure thing. I’ll let him know. Take care!”
A little too late for that piece of advice…
