Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
But it isn’t because of how he looks.
It’s because of what I’ve done.
He says something, his face scrunching in an expression I’ve never seen from him and never thought I would. Hatred. Pure, raw, hatred. He is looking at me like he wants to climb out of the bed and murder me right here in the hospital. His eyes swim with scorn, red-hot scorn, and disappointment. Disgust. Anger.
He despises me.
My bottom lip trembles, and I speak softly. I can’t hear myself, even more so now my bandages are on, but I hope my words are coming out clearly. “I’m so sorry, Caiden. This is all my fault. If there is anything I can do for you.”
“Get out!” I don’t need to hear it, to read it clearly on his lips. He’s yelling it, fists clenched, leaning forward in the bed, looking like it causes him complete and utter agony to say the words.
I know he’s screaming them. I can see that much.
“Get out. Get out. Get out.”
He screams it over and over.
I nod and back up quickly, tears rolling down my cheeks.
I turn and rush out of the room and down the hall, crashing into the nurses’ station by accident when my balance is thrown off from the sudden movement. My ears are ringing, blind, angry ringing and I can’t think. I put my hands over my ears and shake my head back and forth. Make it stop. Oh, God. Make it stop.
A blond nurse helps me.
She approaches, placing her hand on my shoulder and gently shaking me until I look up at her. I’m in a panic. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die. I feel like my whole world is closing in around me. The buzzing in my ears has turned into a high-pitched roar and nausea coils in my stomach. The nurse comes down to my level, looks me in the eyes, and says, “Breathe.”
I can read the word clearly enough.
She says it over, and over, and over.
Until I start breathing.
It takes a while, and each breath feels like fire filling my lungs, but slowly, I start taking deeper breaths, calming my raging heart, stopping the vomit that keeps threatening to spill forth. After I’ve stopped panting, the nurse smiles at me, gently, kindly. She takes my hand and holds it tight as she leans over the counter and picks up a phone.
She’s probably calling a nurse from my ward to come and get me.
I’m glad because I don’t think my legs could move right now, even if I wanted them to.
Caiden hates me.
He hates me.
And his face. I did that. I just effectively ruined his entire life.
How the hell am I ever going to fix this?
~*~*~*~
NOW – AMALIE
My fingers glide over the keys and I smile at Scarlett and Isaac. Scarlett is singing, headphones on, mouth to the microphone, and I’m playing in the background with Isaac. We’re playing around with a song. Today, all the recording staff are here, as well as Susan, who I haven’t seen since we came home from being on tour. The album is in full swing now, songs are being written, recorded and tweaked. Videos are being made. Covers are being created.
This is really it.
This is what it’s all about.
The first song we’re working on is “Whiskey Burning”. Which Scarlett started writing on the road. The song is inspired by Maverick, and even though I can’t really hear her singing it, I can feel the tune through my playing, and I can feel the love by the way she closes her eyes and sways as she sings the lines we both worked so tirelessly to create.
Of course, the recording staff are tweaking things, but we mostly came up with everything before we presented it to them. Scarlet had a certain sound she wanted on the song, and she wasn’t going to let them change it. She said any other song she writes for the album, they can change to their heart’s content, but not this one.
She also requested it become her newest single.
It’s going to be incredible.
Maverick hasn’t heard it yet. She wants it to be a surprise. We have a few live concerts in Denver in the upcoming weeks. Scarlett likes to do a few home concerts when she’s here. We’re also doing one for the annual fair, where hundreds of thousands of people will see us perform live over a course of four days. It’s a great opportunity, and I’m so excited to be part of it.
Scarlett puts a hand up, stopping us from playing, and turns to me. “I don’t love the chorus.” She frowns. “I mean, I love the words, but I just don’t like how it sounds. Any suggestions?”
I purse my lips. “Can we play it one more time? And do you mind if I sing the notes, so I get more of a feel as to how they sound?”