Poker-hot pain exploded in my head. I gasped, taking in a mouthful of water that burned a fiery route straight down to my lungs. I choked.
Air! I clawed for oxygen. Surfaced. Floundered.
Pain. Pain everywhere.
Lazy swirls of red blended with the water. My world kaleidoscoped then shattered into dizzy blackness. Thunder in my head. Rocks in my limbs. Inferno in my lungs.
Everything decelerated. White noise pressed in, closer and closer. Fear mutated into raw panic. Oh God. Please don’t let me die. Not now. Not ready. Too young.
My heart pumped louder and faster, louder and faster. Shite. Maybe thirty-one wasn’t too young.
Louder and faster, louder and faster, louder and faster, until the din obliterated everything . . . obliterated me.
# # #
Flying, floating, swirling with the current.
Where was I? Somewhere dark. Black hole dark.
Icy knowledge inched up my spine. I’d died. I’d really gone and died.
Regret and anger washed over me, and on their heels, confusion.
Why? What had happened?
The floaty sensation stopped with a jolt. This was it, then. The Heaven/Hell decision. A way bigger deal than sitting my A-levels, and look how badly I’d screwed them up. This wasn’t going to end well.
Then, like dawn infiltrating the night sky, I realised I could feel. Poolside tiles, cool and rough against my skin. Pain—the same shrieking pain I’d felt earlier. And my heartbeat, fast and erratic, sweet certain proof I wasn’t dead at all.
Which should have been a relief, but I had other things to deal with. Like breathing. And—oh, dear God—something was wrong. Where was the air? My eyes bulged in panic. Dying once was bad enough, but twice in one day?
Strong arms manhandled me into the recovery position. I coughed and retched and brought up half a swimming pool of water, my head bouncing off the tiles. Agony rippled through me. I groaned.
“Try to relax. Just breathe. Focus in, and breathe.” A chocolate-y voice seeped through my senses. Rich, smooth, compelling.
Oh, the effort of breathing.
“That’s it.” I felt a warm hand on my back. “You’re doing really well.”
Idiot. I didn’t feel even remotely well.
And would everyone just shut up? What was their problem? Shouting, screams, people dashing this way and that. “So much blood!”; “Get help!”; “Bloody hell! What happened to her?”; and even “She’s dead!”, to which the chocolate voice, near my head, replied, “No, she’s not.”
Crap. Was this cacophony about me?
“Don’t try to sit,” said Chocolate. “Take it easy. You’ll be fine.” Then louder, “We need a lifeguard. And an ambulance. Someone call 999.” And to me, “Good girl. Keep breathing. An ambulance is on its way.” He stroked my back.
I began to shiver, and even that hurt. I whimpered. My head felt as if someone had picked me up and used me as a battering ram.
Chocolate arranged a towel over me and, somehow, his comforting touch soothed the hurt in my head. In the distance a siren wailed. What had happened? Swimming, that’s right. The swimmer’s arm had come down on me, but then what? Pain in my head. I must’ve swum into something. Another swimmer? The wall?
I attempted to prop myself upright. Made it painstakingly to all fours and willed my body not to collapse.
“Careful there,” Chocolate warned.
I waited for the dizziness to clear. It didn’t.
“Sorry,” I whispered, falling back against him.
“No bother.” He shifted into a sitting position behind me, his legs and arms enveloping me. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
Gently, rhythmically, he stroked my arms and I relaxed into him. Eventually, quietly, steadily, his hands moved up to my head. I stiffened.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” he said. “I’ll try not to hurt you.”
His fingers sifted through my matted hair and I winced as he found the spot, on top of my head, where I’d obviously connected with whatever-it-was.
“I think,” he murmured in my ear, so close I could feel his heartbeat against my back, “you’ll need a few stitches, but you’re going to be fine.”
“Okay, folks. Give us some space, please.” A gruff voice took control. “The lady needs air.”
This must be the paramedics, then. I tried to sit up straighter.
“Take your time,” Chocolate told me, staying exactly where he was. “No need to rush.”
Indeed not; not when I had him at my back. It was an Arctic blast when he gently squeezed my shoulders, removed his hands, and stood.
The paramedics took over, briskly checking my wound before flashing an interrogation-strength light in my eyes. I flinched. They watched intently.
The dark, weedy one spoke up. “What’s your name, Love?”
I closed my eyes against the light. “Rebecca Jordan. Becky.”
“And what day is it, Becky?”
Clearly he was checking I still had all my faculties. I did. Every last one hurt. “Saturday. Fifteenth July.”
“Excellent.” He inspected first one, then the other, eye. “Hmm.”
‘Hmm’ what? But I never found out because, at that moment, Liz appeared.
“Becky!” she shrieked, pushing her way to the front of the oglers.
“You’re bleeding!” She sank to her knees, all but elbowing the medic out of the way. “What happened?”
Good question.
“She hit the end of the pool,” said Chocolate. “I was in the next lane.”
Oh no! Shame ripped through my body. How could I be so stupid?
Liz touched my arm. “You what? Why?”
I looked at her, shrugged an I-don’t-know. My lip trembled.
“Hey, it doesn’t matter,” she said, then grimaced. “Sorry, Becs. Headache. I was off taking painkillers.”
She backed off as the second paramedic, a chubby fresh-faced kid, brought over a stretcher.
Excited murmurs from the crowd. Horror from me. Stretchers were for half-dead rugby heroes, not me.
I wiped my eyes, took a shaky breath. “I’m okay now, thanks.” A barefaced lie, but I didn’t want to make any more of a spectacle of myself than I already had, half-naked and all.
I eased myself to all fours. Standing would be a challenge. Even breathing wasn’t high on my list of favourites.
The staring masses reminded me of beady-eyed seagulls, creeping ever closer. I wanted to yell at them, wave my arms, scare them off, but I had to make do with closing my eyes.
“Becky, we’re taking you to A&E,” said Chubby Kid, displaying an unexpected assertive streak. “You need stitches, and you may have concussion.”
Nice.
They manoeuvred me onto the stretcher and I felt like a six-year-old who’d just wet her pants in front of the whole class.
Liz hovered at my shoulder, a sympathetic hand on my arm. “I’ll go get our gear,” she said, and disappeared.
Where was Chocolate? I missed him. Everything seemed easier when he was near. I opened my eyes and scanned the crowd.
Ah, there. He stood at a discreet distance, just in front of the onlookers. My blurred vision definitely didn’t do him justice—he looked sort-of blended and abstract—but I could see he was tall and tanned, with swimmer’s shoulders tapering down to slim hips. Mmm.
I smiled. Saw a flash of teeth as he smiled back.
“I think my swim’s over,” he said and tugged off his black swimming cap.
Ooh! Tanned and blond: my favourite Man Combo.
Liz reappeared at my side, packhorse-ish with all our gear, as the paramedics trundled me out of the leisure centre.
Hang on a minute! That man—Chocolate—had just saved my life. Blond, tanned, fantastic hands, and a hero to boot. I needed to at least thank him.
“Stop,” I commanded my stretcher-bearers. “Just for a second,” I pleaded. “I need to thank my rescuer.”
They
paused, but didn’t lower the stretcher. Make it quick, lady—the message was clear.
I lifted my head. Chocolate had turned to go.
“Excuse me,” I croaked.
Oh no. He hadn’t heard.
“Hey, Mister!” The weedy one called out. “Lady got somethin’ to say.”
Chocolate stopped, looked back at us, then walked over to my stretcher.
“Thanks,” I said. “You saved my life.” I lifted a hand towards him. “I . . . Well, thanks. Thanks so much.”
He smiled at me and, even without my lenses in, I felt warmed. Then he squeezed my hand. My limbs turned weak and this time I couldn’t blame it on drowning.
“Glad I could help,” he said in that chocolate voice, then turned and headed to the changing rooms.
“Hold on a—hey! Stop! Please! Let me buy you a . . .”
Too late. Chocolate had just walked out of my life as quickly as he had walked—or, rather, swam—into it.
Want to read more?
A Heat Of The Moment Thing is available from a range of digital outlets. Links listed on Maggie's website
http://www.maggielepage.com
About Maggie Le Page
Maggie Le Page lives in Christchurch, New Zealand with her partner of sixteen years and their two children.
With a career that has morphed from finance to education to small business, writing fiction is about the last thing her training prepared her for, but Maggie’s never been one to let a little thing like you’re-not-trained-for-this stop her.
When she left full-time employment for motherhood, she put those sleep-deprived times to good use, writing (and rewriting) her first book. These days Maggie juggles family, part-time work, and writing (which doesn’t count as work since it’s fun). It’s fair to say her life is fairly chaotic.
That chaos doesn’t stop her from hanging out in her local café with laptop and coffee at least once a week. She adores sitting alone, people-watching, catching snippets of conversation, and extrapolating wildly to invent new characters. She likes to daydream.
Maggie loves travel, reading, and lazy hazy beach days, preferably presented to her as an island holiday combo. (See? She loves to daydream.)
She regards an undisturbed night’s sleep as a novelty, a whole day writing as a luxury, and an evening with fab friends, fab food and fab wine as one of life’s greatest pleasures.
For more information about Maggie Le Page:
Visit her website
http://www.maggielepage.com
or
Find her on Facebook
http://www.facebook.com/MaggieLePage
Acknowledgements
I always assumed the second book would come easier to me than the first. I was wrong. Determined as I was to complete book two faster than book one, I was understandably annoyed when life got in the way. On the upside, I learned that sh**—if you’ll pardon my French—does happen, and when it does it’s best to roll with it (rather than fight through it) and keep your sense of humour. That way you tend to stay sane.
I am indebted to a lot of people who have helped me stay sane.
Firstly, my partner, who is so, so supportive of my writing and one of my staunchest fans. And my children, without whom my life would be incredibly ordered and incredibly dull. I feel like the luckiest woman alive to have you all in my heart and home.
My critique partners, Bronwen Evans and Gracie O’Neil. Rain, bad writing or earthquakes, I know I can count on you two to bolster me with love and warm fuzzies and First Aid for my writing. Thank you so much. I love you both.
My local writing pals—Clarence Fernando, Carla Munro, Heather Smythe, Peter Walker, Steve Malley and, later, Tracey Edwardes and Esther Vallance. Your enthusiasm for the novel’s premise and detailed critiques of the chapters as they emerged were great motivators. And Steve Malley (again!), for not only critiquing individual chapters but also reading that dodgy first draft in its entirety. (Without quotation marks! How did that happen? I can’t believe you persevered, but I’m so grateful you did.) Your comments were bang on, insightful yet affirming, and exactly what I needed. You rock!
Kamy Chetty and Nicola Campbell, for the medical basics and insights into hospital procedures.
Suran Dickson, Kate O’Keefe, Catherine Robertson; the most brilliant beta readers ever. Lesley Marshall, for your generous partial manuscript critique. Caroline Fuller, my very first ‘gamma’ (!) reader. You ladies are a killer combination and I owe you all big time.
Gracie O’Neil (again!) for being so generous with your time and creating the mobi/epub formats for me at shockingly short notice. Mwah! xx
The BI50D loop—the best bunch of online friends a writer girl could have. Your collective expertise and ongoing support is invaluable to me.
The ChickLitChatHQ Facebook group—finding you all felt like coming home. To meet so many generous, like-minded readers/writers has in itself been fantastic, but to have you all holding my hand as I battle the churning waters of marketing is an added bonus. Huge cyber hugs to you all.
Lastly, and most importantly, a huge thank you to all the readers who loved A Heat Of The Moment Thing and couldn’t wait for the next book. Thank you for being patient and so, so supportive. You make this crazy writing game absolutely worth continuing to play.
The Trouble With Dying
By Maggie Le Page
Kindle Edition
ISBN 978-0-473-31061-5
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.
Copyright © 2014 by Parce Que Books
Cover Art by Kellie Dennis at Book Cover By Design
http://www.bookcoverbydesign.co.uk
The Trouble With Dying is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, either living or dead, to events, businesses, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Letter to Readers
Excerpt from A Heat Of The Moment Thing
About Maggie Le Page
Acknowledgements
The Trouble With Dying
The Trouble With Dying Page 34