Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
A fist raps on James’ window. It’s a paramedic asking if we’re okay, telling us not to move until they assess our injuries.
“Check her,” James insists. “Check her. I’m fine.”
The next hour is spent being checked out by EMS (Yes, I can feel and move all my limbs. No, I don’t have a headache.) and relaying our version of events to the police officers. There were four cars involved in the crash, and multiple witnesses who can attest to what happened. The man who slammed into us was taken to the emergency room before I got to see him. I suspect he was driving drunk, but overheard whispers from a few of the medics clarify that wasn’t the case, something about prescription drugs that shouldn’t have been mixed.
After we speak with the police and James shares his insurance and contact information with the other drivers, we’re free to leave—except James’ car is totaled, along with my bike. I don’t bring it up at the moment because it’s the least of anyone’s concerns, but when the driver slammed into the back of us, he basically squashed my bike like a pancake. For the time being, if I need to get somewhere, it’s going to have to be on foot or by bus.
While James deals with the tow truck driver, I stand off to the side, out of the way of the police officers and firefighters cleaning up the wreckage on the road. After his damaged Tesla is loaded onto the back of a truck, he comes over to get me.
“C’mon, the driver is going to drop us off.”
James takes my hand in his and together, we walk toward the tow truck. The cab has one long bench seat, so I scoot to the middle and look for a seatbelt, panicking that there might not be one.
“Here.”
James holds it out for me and I loop it across my body, hissing as it rubs the raw skin across my chest. My only injuries were abrasions from the seatbelt in James’ car as I lurched forward during the crash. The medics checked the bruising and redness along the path of the seatbelt, but there wasn’t much else they could do for it besides offering me some over-the-counter pain reliever, which I refused. Now that the adrenaline and shock are wearing off, I regret my decision.
“Does it hurt?” James asks as he buckles up beside me.
The driver hops in on the other side and I shake my head. “It’s not too bad.”
“Where to, folks?”
“Head toward Mount Bonnell Road and I’ll direct you from there,” James replies.
I stay silent, content to let James take control of the next few minutes. When I blink, the wreck replays in my mind. The point of impact flashes again and again until I’m desperate to focus on something else, like the fact that James is still holding my hand.
Fortunately, James and the driver carry on their own conversation for the short drive, and once we get closer, James directs him into a gated community I’ve heard whispers about at the country club: Island at Mount Bonnell Shores.
“Huh,” the driver says, leaning forward to inspect the sprawling estates surrounding us. “I always wondered who lived here.”
“It’s just up ahead,” James says, ignoring the man’s awestruck tone as he points to the left. “There.”
We pull up in front of a gated estate sitting on a few oak-covered acres. The house isn’t visible from the road, but the dark-stained wooden fence running around the property and the mid-century address numbers give the property a clean, modern look.
The driver pulls up to the curb and James hops out, reaching back for my hand so he can help me jump down. I step out onto the street and realize right away that the air smells different here—fresher—and I swear there’s a slight breeze where none existed before. I smile, because of course James would have waterfront property on Lake Austin. Every house in this exclusive community probably has its own boat dock.
James hammers out the details about his Tesla with the tow truck driver. Cash is exchanged, the driver tips his hat, and then he leaves James and me standing on the curb in front of his house.
“I like your fence,” I say with a small smile. I come from wealth, but James’ is a kind that exists in another stratosphere, the kind that intimidates most people—me included.
He shakes his head and starts to head up the paved walkway.
“C’mon. I think we could both use a drink.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
James’ house is a modern take on a traditional Texas farmhouse: a mix of dark woods, copper, glass, and cut limestone. Ahead of the entry gallery, a tall light shaft illuminates the space from above and gives it a museum aesthetic. Stone walls contrast with bright burnished plaster and concrete floors. I wouldn’t be surprised to find it’s been featured in Architectural Digest, or at least on a couple fancy home blogs.