Reckless (Blue Collar Boyfriends Book 1)

by Jessi Gage

  Is Derek coming? She wanted to ask, but the air-giving tube prevented it.

  He’d said he wouldn’t let go, but he must have, because she’d been ripped away from him again, just not by the fog this time.

  Agony at the forced separation burned her from the inside out. She scrunched up her face with the empty ache, only to have pain scour her cheeks and forehead, her left eye and ear, her scalp.

  “You have to relax, Cami. Please try to remain calm.” Someone Velcro’d a blood pressure cuff around her arm. Other hands were on her, too, and other people spoke nearby, but she focused on the calm voice. “Your face is bruised, and you have some stitches. I need you to try to keep still. You won’t be able to talk, but we’ll bring you a pad and a pencil so you can communicate. I’ll answer all your questions, but first I’m going to examine you. Can you open your eye on your own?”

  Eye? Not eyes? That didn’t sound good. She tried to breathe through the impossible sense of loss, and focused on opening her “eye.” The right one opened a crack. She slammed it shut again as angry sparks of light stabbed through to her brain.

  “Good, Cami. That’s really good. You other eye is swollen. You won’t be able to open it just yet. You were in a car accident. We’re taking care of you here at Mercy Med. I’m Dr. Grant. Squeeze my hand if you understand.”

  She obeyed the voice, because it brooked no argument.

  “The pain should be better now. I’ve increased your morphine drip. Squeeze my hand if your pain is tolerable. Let go of my hand if your pain is bad.”

  She squeezed, grateful the pain was fading.

  The next hour was both grounding and terrifying. She’d been in a coma for four days, they told her. She’d had part of her skull removed to allow for swelling. Her name was Cami.

  Once she started remembering, she couldn’t stop. She saw that white tailgate again, too close. Way too close. She heard the groan of buckling metal, the crash of breaking glass. She relived the surge of terror until her skin flashed with cold sweats.

  It had happened again. She’d had another accident.

  As the last nurse left her room, she tried to sit up, an important question doing battle with her blasted breathing tube.

  “Don’t try to talk, sweetie,” the auburn-haired woman she began to remember as her mother said. “Easy, easy does it.”

  She made frantic hand motions, wanting the promised pad and pen.

  Her mother fished in her purse and finally put a pen in her hand. She smoothed an old receipt out on the bed.

  Cami wrote on it, Was anyone else hurt?

  Her mother shook her head, her lips quirking despite sad eyes that remembered a time when smiles had been impossible. “Just like you, sweetheart, always thinking of others. Two other cars were involved, but other than some mild whiplash, everyone else is okay.” Her voice faltered at the end. A tear slid down her cheek, and she discretely blotted it with a tissue from her purse.

  Her chest relaxed a fraction to know no one had died, even as her heart ached with eight-year-old guilt. She’d been driving then, too. It had been raining, and her father had been in the passenger seat. They were coming home from a daddy-daughter date. Pizza and a movie. His last words to her had been, “Don’t rush it, sweetheart. Merge when you’re ready.” She hadn’t listened, had rolled her eyes at his overreacting hand clenched on the armrest. She’d been impatient. She’d been eighteen and invincible.

  Focused on the car she’d be slipping in behind, she’d clipped the bumper of the car in her blind spot. The wheel jerked in her hands, and she’d overcompensated by yanking it in the other direction. They’d spun out of control. Her world had changed. She was not invincible. Neither was her father.

  She closed her eyes against the fresh wave of remorse. When she opened them, she picked up the pen again and wrote,

  I’m a menace. I’m never driving again.

  Not even for Helping Hand. As soon as she got off the breathing tube, she’d call Ellen and quit. She’d find a volunteer position that didn’t require her to drive, like she should have a long time ago.

  “Shhh, sweetheart,” her mother said, holding her hand and stroking her arm. “The accident wasn’t your fault. Witnesses said a white truck cut you off. The police are looking for the person responsible. It wasn’t your fault. Don’t cry. It wasn’t your fault.” She heard the this time, even though her mother never would have said it.

  It was a lie anyway. Yes, she’d been cut off—how anyone could be so callous or at the very least oblivious on the road was beyond her—but it had ultimately been her foot that slammed on the brakes too hard. It had been her hands on the wheel, panicking, yanking her car into the fast lane, into the path of speeding cars that hadn’t had enough time to avoid colliding with her.

  She never should have gotten on the freeway.

  She’d messed up. Again. But at least the damage seemed limited mostly to herself. Last time, she’d destroyed her entire family.

  Her mother clasped her hands around one of Cami’s. Her mouth pursed in a grief-tinged smile. Her auburn eyebrows pinched in concern, not accusation, never accusation. Yet Cami couldn’t meet her mother’s eyes. Hadn’t been able to since the other accident.

  Intellectually, she knew forgiveness was possible. She urged the kids she counseled to forgive all the time. It was a staple in the counselor’s handbook. And yet, deep down in her heart, where who she was always seemed to trump what she knew, she didn’t understand how her mother could still love her, how she could have truly forgiven her for causing the accident that had killed her father. In that secret, private place, she suspected her mother’s love was merely a facade. She worried that like her brother, her mother had never really forgiven her.

  She wiggled her hand out of her mother’s grasp, the contact suddenly unbearable. Why couldn’t Derek be here to hold her hand, instead? With Derek, she hadn’t obsessed about the past. There hadn’t been any past to obsess about. Even if there had been, he would have kept her preoccupied enough it wouldn’t have been a wall between them like this awkwardness between her and her mother.

  Under her pain, her face heated with the memory of making love with Derek what felt like mere moments ago. Their handful of nights together rushed through her consciousness with fierce longing. Her heart contracted with horrible understanding.

  He wasn’t real.

  She’d been here in the hospital, unconscious and hooked up to tubes and wires the last four days. Derek had been no more than a random creation of her concussed neurons, a desperate reaching of her subconscious for acceptance and love as a reaction to her massive insecurities.

  But oh, how her heart wanted him to be real!

  Regret clogged her chest until she was sure she would have died from lack of air if not for the breathing tube.

  “Sweetheart?” her mother said. “Are you okay?”

  She wanted to tell her mother never to call her that again. That’s what Derek had called her. She’d been his sweetheart, his dream girl. But she had no strength to protest the endearment.

  She was too busy trying to survive the ache of her broken heart.

  * * * *

  Derek shuffled to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. He normally didn’t have any until he got to the job site, but he wouldn’t be going to work today. He might not be going to work for a while. Deadlines or no deadlines, Jibb’s Construction would just have to make do without him. He had something he needed to do.

  After DG had disappeared, he’d realized what had happened. Denying his part in the accident on Friday had done a number on his conscience. Nightmares had led to sleep deprivation, sleep deprivation had led to hallucinations, and before he knew it, his strained mind had made up a sexy-as-hell comfort for himself whose unwavering compassion had led him to the only conclusion that would make it all stop. He had to turn himself in.

  Once he’d accepted that and the fact DG didn’t exist, he’d slept like a baby for six blessed hours before his alarm had
gone off in time for him to call in sick and snooze for another two. With some solid sleep under his belt, he felt better than he had in days, except for the heavy pain in his chest from the loss of his dream girl.

  She had felt real. He wanted her to be real, wanted to have her in his bed every night, wake up beside her every morning. He wanted her as a girlfriend. Could imagine her as even more. And he’d made every last nuance up, from her short, polish-free fingernails to her gorgeous breasts to the perfect blend of sexiness and innocence. She’d been perfect because he’d made her up to be exactly what he wanted.

  What an idiot he’d been to believe it all. His subconscious had done a number on him.

  He’d gone loony-toons for days on end and thanked his lucky stars he’d come to his senses before anyone found out about it.

  Now he needed to own up to being an asshole on the road and take his lumps. Even if it meant a suspended license. Fines. Gulp, jail time. Double gulp, humiliation as he faced Deidre and saw the inevitable judgment in her eyes. Shit. Would she try to keep Haley away from him?

  He couldn’t allow that. He’d accept the consequences of his temper, but he’d be damned if he’d let those consequences affect Haley any more than they had to. She enjoyed their weekends together as much as he did, and it would feel like a punishment to her if Deidre tried to keep them apart.

  After showering, he poured his coffee and sat down at the kitchen table with the phone book. The blue pages were no help whatsoever in a search for the non-emergency police number.

  Why did the cops have to have so many phone numbers? Which one should he call? There was no entry for Turning yourself in? Call 555-FUKT.

  He tossed the useless book on the counter and grabbed his keys and Thermos before he changed his mind. He might as well do this in person. It might be his last chance to drive for a while.

  Forty-five minutes later—yeah, they made him wait to turn himself in—he shook hands with Lieutenant Christy, a tall, hard-eyed man with gray hair buzzed so close his tan scalp showed through.

  “What brings you in, today, Mr. Summers?” Lt. Christy asked as he showed Derek into his office, a claustrophobic eight-by-eight cube of plaster, industrial-grade blue carpet, and reinforced glass that looked out at the reception area. Christy’s desk was neat, but his walls were overrun with layer upon layer of tacked up pictures, flyers, and clippings. All that paper smothered the corkboards like multicolored kudzu.

  Derek took the offered chair, sucked a deep breath, and fessed up.

  Christy listened as he described how he’d cut off the Honda, and mentioned the other two cars he’d seen get involved in the accident. His embarrassment at his behavior grew with every word. It was one thing to act the way he had Friday without an audience, quite another to tell a cop about it. He’d called the driver of that Honda some nasty names, but the real jerk looked back at him from the mirror every morning. In all his self-righteous glory, he’d proclaimed himself judge, jury, and executioner of the highway. A little patience, and he could have eased up on the gas just a hair while a less confident driver took a little longer to change lanes than he thought reasonable. Would that have killed him? No. But acting impatiently might have caused irreparable harm.

  He deserved whatever punishment Christy set in motion. He only hoped it wouldn’t ruin his relationship with Haley or end his career with Jibb’s.

  When he finished, Christy grunted, his face unreadable.

  “Been looking for you,” he said after the most uncomfortable minute of silence Derek had ever endured. “What’s your plate number?”

  Derek told him.

  Christy fished a file folder out from a drawer and slid a carbon-copy yellow sheet partway out. He gave the sheet a quick scan before tucking it back in and slapping the folder on his desk. “Fits the partial we got.” He leaned back in his swiveling chair. “What took you so long to come forward?”

  Perspiration tickled under his collar and down his spine. His face burned with shame.

  “Denial,” he said. “Cowardice. Fear of consequences. Shit.” He shook his head, hating himself. He met Christy’s eyes with difficulty. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Christy nodded, his face grim. “A woman. Driver of the red Honda you described.”

  His stomach contracted with remorse. The driver had been a woman. Somehow that made it worse. In his mind’s eye, he saw the red Honda rolling, the crushed roof, the airbag. In an instant, he relived the terror he’d felt when his dreams had dumped him behind the wheel of that little car. “How bad?” he forced out.

  “Bad.”

  His stomach hit the floor. He wanted to disappear.

  Christy cleared his throat, making Derek look up through eyes itching to tear up. The hard lines of the lieutenant’s face smoothed, and Derek wanted to tell him to lose the sympathy.

  He didn’t deserve any.

  “Hurt bad,” Christy repeated. “But not dead. That’s good news for you. You don’t want to be up on vehicular homicide charges, especially when you fled the scene.”

  The blood drained from his face. He hadn’t thought of it as fleeing the scene. Shit. That made him feel like an even bigger asshole.

  “You’re looking at reckless driving and felony hit and run—I know, I know, you didn’t actually hit anyone, but that’s the standard charge for non-fatal road rage in California. It carries a year sentence or up to a ten-thousand-dollar fine.” Christy’s voice was calm and even. Derek wished he would yell. “But your record is spotless. Depending on the judge, you might get off with a one-thousand-dollar fine and court-ordered anger management counseling. That’s a best-case scenario, mind you.

  “Sit tight. I’ll get you processed and on your way. You’re not going to be leaving the state, now, are you, son?”

  “No, sir.” His voice sounded far away and hollow.

  When Christy got back, Derek watched him enter some things in his computer and asked, “Can you tell me about the driver of the Honda? Am I allowed to know how bad—” He swallowed, unable to say the words hurt or injured. Saying them would make it feel too real. So would knowing how bad the damage was. He changed his mind. He didn’t want to know.

  He waited for Christy’s answer.

  “Let me do some homework,” the lieutenant said, “and I’ll let you know what I can about her condition later today.”

  Derek walked from the East-Redding Precinct with leaden feet. He’d thought turning himself in would ease the knot of guilt in his stomach, but knowing the damage he’d caused with one reckless decision made the guilt sit even harder and heavier.

  The back of his head met the headrest in his cab with several hard thumps. “Derek, you shithead.” He stared out his windshield for a while. Should he go to work? He’d never felt less like pulling the site together for a walkthrough, but seeing as he wasn’t in a holding cell like he’d been prepared for, he figured he might as well make himself useful. No sense in wasting a sick day when he probably ought to save them up for his court date and whatever might follow.

  He glanced at his console clock. Almost ten; he could get a full day in if he stayed ’til six.

  He started the truck and drove to the site. At least at work, he wouldn’t dwell on how deep in the crapper his life was about to sink.

  Chapter 14

  Hot yellow sun pushed at the blinds. As much as Cami wanted to ask to have them opened so she could see the cheerful sky outside her hospital room, she knew her pounding head would never survive it. Even with pain meds dripping steadily into her veins, the headache drained all her strength and most of her good spirits. She could tolerate the soft glow from the bedside lamp now that her mother had draped a scarf over it, but that was about it.

  Sound was another story. Fed up with the rise and fall of scratchy music, like a never-ending Zydeco record played through overhead speakers, she’d written out a request on her notepad.

  Please ask the patient next door to turn down their TV.

  Her nurse had responded
with, There’s no one in the next room, and the TV’s not on. It turned out she had tinnitus, or ringing in the ears, a common side-effect of head trauma and often exacerbated by pain meds. She had her TV turned up to moderate volume, not really listening to the programming, but appreciating the way it distracted her from the music in her head.

  Her mother’s voice helped, too. She sat by the bed, chatting away about normal life stuff, reading to her out of waiting room magazines, commenting on whatever was on TV, and generally doing her best to get Cami to smile.

  She appreciated the effort, but it was a lost cause. Maybe if they made a pain med for heartache… She missed her imaginary Derek so badly she found herself longing at times to go back into the coma and find him again. Just for one more night.

  One more night of being free from her insecurities and guilt. One more night of loving a man who looked at her like she was his salvation. One more night of basking in the confidence she couldn’t help but feel in his strong arms.

  One more night, then another, and another…and she refused to follow that train of thought. She was glad to be conscious, even if it meant leaving behind a wonderful dream. If she repeated it to herself enough, surely she’d start believing it.

  Her mother stopped talking and stood up. Cami followed her gaze toward the door to find a female police officer striding into her private room.

  The officer’s uniform fit snugly over a plump figure. She wore no makeup except a swipe of pink lipstick interrupting the rich cocoa color of her skin. She carried herself with straight-backed air of sternness, but laugh lines around her mouth showed she smiled often. She held out her hand to greet Cami’s mother.

  “Good morning, folks. I’m Officer Anita Reynolds, Redding PD. You must be Mrs. Arlington,” she said, shaking her mother’s hand. Meeting Cami’s good eye, she pulled a laptop out of her messenger bag. “And you must be sleeping beauty, aka Miss Camilla Arlington of the famous I-5 spectacular. We heard you woke up middle of the night. Glad to have you back. Now that you’ve had a few hours to get your bearings, I’m here to take your statement. But only if you feel up to it. I’m not one to push if you’d rather I come back this afternoon or even tomorrow. Up to you.”