Healing Melody E-Book

Ozlo and Priya Grey

• Herausgeber: BOA Press, LLC.
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

His Touch Makes Me Forget My Scars... Melody I had everything: looks, money, adoring fans all over the world. In a split-second, everything changed. Now, I’m a prisoner in my own home, scared to face the world. Then one fateful night I meet him. Kade’s tough, fearless, and knows the meaning of the word loss. He’s also sexy as hell. When our worlds collide, neither one of us will be the same. Kade I’m a fighter. I have the scars to prove it, not just from the war, but from inside the ring too. And although we come from two different worlds, Melody’s scars run just as deep. After everything I’ve lost, it’s hard to keep fighting. But then Melody gives me a reason. Note: This is a stand-alone romance novel with an HEA ending that is intended for adults only.

Leseprobe

TABLEOF CONTENTS

Title

Coming Soon…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

Other Books

Awaken Excerpt

About the Authors

Copyright

Healing Melody

By Ozlo & Priya Grey

Copyright © 2015 by Ozlo & Priya Grey. All Rights Reserved.

Edition: December 15, 2016

Coming Soon…

Love’s Addiction by Ozlo & Priya Grey. Another sizzling, contemporary romance coming 2017. Join our newsletter to read it before anyone else.

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CHAPTER 1

I shouldn’t be here – in an abandoned warehouse on the East Side of LA, fighting a dude ten years younger than me. I’m not ready for this fight. I didn’t have enough time to train. The only reason I’m here – getting the shit kicked out of me – is because of my son.

Max is five years old.

I’m fighting to save his life.

Damn it! This sly motherfucker just hit me with an elbow strike. My right eye is swelling shut. Now, I only have one good eye to keep track of him. It won’t be easy because this dude moves fast.

Figures, he’s Brazilian.

Shit! He just hit me with another leg kick. My knee buckles. I struggle to stay on my feet.

Sensing an opportunity, the Brazilian storms forward and launches a spinning back kick. Losing my balance, I crash to the floor.

The crowd outside the cage roars with approval. They’ve come for a real fight. They want to see blood. Well, it looks like they’re going to get what they paid for.

Unfortunately, most of the blood being spilled is mine.

The Brazilian, whose name is Jose Silva, jumps on top of me and pounds me with a hammer fist. I thrust my pelvis forward to get him off of me. Quickly, I roll to my side.

But like I said: This fucker’s fast.

Before I know it, he’s got his legs wrapped around my waist. His arms squeeze my neck in a chokehold. By applying pressure, he hopes to cut off the oxygen and blood flowing to my brain.

This Silva dude has been fighting regularly for the last two years. He’s good, real good. He’s an expert in Jiu Jitsu and Muay Thai. He actually trained at my gym once. I taught him a couple of moves. I freakin’taught him how to properly apply the chokehold he’s using on me right now.

Fuck.

I feel my head getting lighter from the chokehold. I picture my son, Max, lying in his hospital bed. He may only be five years old, but he has the heart of a tiger. He’s been stuck in the hospital for the last month fighting what doctors’ call acute myeloid leukemia. All I know is that it’s a rare form of cancer. The doctor’s are trying their best. It’s going to be a tough battle.

Max is a fighter, though. He won’t give up.

Neither can his old man.

I slam my elbow – hard! – into Silva’s side. His grip loosens. I slam my other elbow into his other side. With a loud grunt, I fling my head back, and head-butt the Brazilian. He falls backward, finally letting me loose. Swiftly, I whirl around and try to place him in a neck crank. But he predicts what’s coming and rapidly rolls away.

We both struggle to our feet.

I try to catch my breath.

This is the longest five minutes of my life. I just need to get through this round and hopefully get my second wind.

Through my one good eye, I stare Silva down.

I can’t believe it. He doesn’t have a fucking scratch on him. In fact, he looks like he just stepped out of the shower and is ready to go out to the club.

My chances don’t look good the longer this fight goes on. I just don’t have the stamina. If I had more than two days to train, maybe it would be a different story. But I can’t use that as an excuse. Max doesn’t need excuses; he just needs the best medicine money can buy.

That’s why I’m here: Money.

If I win this fight, the money I’ll take home will help pay for some experimental drug treatment. The doctors believe it may be the only chance Max has at beating the cancer.

I can’t let my son down.

I lurch forward. I throw a superman punch at Silva followed by a liver kick. But he surprises me; he wraps his arm around my extended leg. Suddenly, he squats and punches me with an uppercut – straight to my groin. FUCK!!!!

I should have seen that coming. This is an underground fight. Anything goes.

No Rules.

There’s no time to recover from the scorching pain shooting through my nuts. Silva still has his right arm wrapped around my leg. I look up and see the sinister look in his eyes.

He’s going in for the kill.

“Desculpa, velho,” he says with a grin. Which means “sorry, old man” in Portuguese.

He flips himself over, taking my leg – along with my entire body – with him.

My head slams down on the mat. Silva then pins me in a knee bar, twisting my leg. Excruciating pain bolts through my lower extremity. He keeps applying pressure. I should tap out – quit – but I can’t.

Max is counting on me.

Silva keeps twisting my leg. I struggle to get free.

“Tap out, old man,” Silva screams in English. “I don’t want to break it.”

“No,” I shout.

I won’t tap out.

I can’t quit.

I try to punch him, but I just hit the mat.

I hear the crowd outside the cage roar once again.

Silva keeps applying pressure and my leg bends further. The pain is unbearable.

I pray for a last burst of energy, hoping that I can somehow get out of this position.

“Tap out,” Silva screams again.

I shake my head. “No!”

The pain burns through me like a raging fire.

I won’t tap out, ever.

Then I hear the tear.

My leg snaps.

The fight is over.

I’ve failed as a father.

I’m sorry, Max.

CHAPTER 2

I’ve been sitting at my piano all day. All I have to show for it is some shitty verse and a forgettable chorus. This song blows. I can’t save it. It’s terrible – just like all the other songs I’ve tried composing this week.

I ruffle my long brown hair. Then drop my head onto the piano.

I’m creatively fucked.

The record label has been waiting months for my new songs. My last album, A Different Melody, spawned five number-one hits and launched a sold-out world tour. I’ve performed to adoring fans all over the world: London, Rio, Sydney, Tokyo…

I’m the hot, new music sensation. My label doesn’t want too much time to pass before releasing my follow-up record.

“We have to strike while we’re hot!” my agent Randy keeps saying.

She checks in daily to see how the songs are coming. She says if the next album is as successful as the last one, I’ll be bigger than Taylor Swift and Beyoncé combined. I think she’s exaggerating but maybe not by much.

No one, including me, saw this kind of success coming.

In little over five years, I’ve gone from an obscure YouTube singer/songwriter to one of the most popular entertainers in the industry. And the funny thing is, I don’t even put on much of a show. I don’t dance on stage with an entourage, wear crazy outfits or even twerk. It’s just me – my voice and my music.

But fans can’t seem to get enough of me.

And even though I’m not much of an actress, it turns out fans like to see me on the big screen too. I’ve acted in two movies that have done really well at the box office. So besides being a successful musician, I also have a nice little acting career on the side. I guess you can say I’ve won the lottery: I’m doing what I love and everybody seems to love me.

But there’s a problem: Now, everyone has expectations. I’m feeling the pressure big time to deliver on my next album.

In their last issue, Rolling Stone called me ‘the voice of a generation.’ Well, if that’s the case, my generation is fucked. Because right now, every song coming out of my mouth is total garbage.

With my cheek still pressed against the piano, I dance my fingers over the keys. I’m trying to find some inspiration, but nothing’s coming. I lean back on the piano bench and shout, “Fuck!!!”

My voice echoes off the walls of my living room.

Randy says if I’m having a tough time, she can call in some collaborators… aka ghostwriters. But that goes against everything I believe in. I write and perform my own music. If I sang someone else’s words and tried to pass them off as my own, I couldn’t respect myself. I’d be a fraud.

I look at my phone. It’s almost midnight. I can’t let another night pass without a decent song. I’m Melody Swanson for crying out loud. According to that same Rolling Stone article, ‘I’m the next Lauryn Hill, the next Jodi Mitchell.’ The way the article describes me, it’s like I’m not even human: “Melody Swanson has the face of an angel and the voice to match. As the whole world anxiously awaits her next album, we can only hope it’s as relevant as A Different Melody. If Miss Swanson delivers, then her status as musical juggernaut is assured. She will be a torchlight for these bleak times.”

See what I mean by pressure?

I’m screwed! Every time I try to write a new song, I can’t stand what I come up with. I just can’t seem to get into a groove.

I can’t be dried up already, can I? I’m only twenty-four.

Questions race through my mind.

Was my last album all I had in me? Was that all I had to say?

It can’t be.

I need some inspiration, fuckin’ pronto.

Should I meditate?

I tried that. It didn’t work.

Should I roll another joint?

What’s the point, the last one didn’t help.

Should I get laid?

Now, that’s something I haven’t done in quite a while… but not by choice. My therapist strongly believes I should abstain from sex for at least a month. She’s worried I might become a sex addict on account of my escapades during my last tour.

You see, some people like to do a shot of whiskey before they go on stage, others, a line of coke.

Me: I like to fuck.

Sex unleashes something magical inside of me. It inspires me. And after a good round of fucking, I always feel extraordinary and want to take on the world like some sort of super hero.

And usually, after having sex, is when I write my best songs.

But my therapist, Jeanie, is really worried I’m developing a sex dependency problem. I told her she was full of it. So, she challenged me to prove her wrong.

“Go without sex for a whole month,” she said during my most recent therapy session. “If you can do it without any trouble, then you don’t have a problem.”

She had me cornered, so I agreed.

I’m nine days into my abstinence. And it’s a living hell.

Maybe if I just play with myself, I’ll get inspired and write something good. But I just know there’s something about a nice hard cock that always does the trick for me.

I drum my fingers on the piano.

Damn it! Now I can’t stop thinking about cock. I really want a nice hard one buried inside me. I want to feel it driving in and out of my wet pussy. I picture myself wrapping my legs around the waist of a strong, muscled stud. I squeeze his firm butt as he plows me toward bliss. I’m getting so freakin’ hot just imagining it.

This desire to get fucked is overwhelming.

Shit, maybe I do suffer from sex addiction.

But then I realize I’m dealing with extenuating circumstances here. I’m on a deadline. I have an album to compose and a career to sustain. The whole world is counting on me… or at least Rolling Stone is.

That settles it: Fuck abstinence.

It’s time for a booty call.

I pick up my phone and quickly scroll through my contacts. My fingers stop instantly when Antonio Moreno’s name hits the screen. I have a flashback to the hot sex we had after the Grammys. I remember running my hands over his flawless brown skin, over each clearly defined muscle. I lick my lips as I remember his cock. Damn, that drop-dead-sexy Dominican sure knew how to use it.

Antonio is one of the hottest Latin singers in the business, and also a very bankable Hollywood actor. He's not only good looking, but since he knows a thing or two about rhythm, he’s also spectacular in bed.

Antonio is exactly what I need! As I dial his cellphone number, I hope he’s in LA and not in Miami, his home base.

“Well, hello gorgeous.”

My pussy tingles at the sound of his smooth and sexy Latin voice.

“Please, tell me you’re in LA?” I breathe into the phone.

“That depends. What do you need?” he says calmly.

“You.”

He laughs. “Melody, if you didn’t have such an amazing ass and great pair of tits, I’d think you were a guy.”

“Why?”

“Because all you want is sex and get straight to the point.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, Antonio. Women own their sexuality. Didn’t you get the memo?”

“I guess I’m old fashioned,” he responds. “I like leading the slow dance before I fuck.”

“So, does that mean you’re not interested?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. Did I?”

“Great, come over,” I reply with a wide smile.

“Now?”

“Yes, Antonio. Now. This is a booty call. That’s how it works.”

“But I’m already in bed.”

I check the time on my phone. I’m surprised he’s in bed this early. Antonio is usually a late night party animal.

“That’s unlike you,” I say. “It’s only ten past midnight.”

“I know,” he complains. “I’m doing a guest appearance on Criminal Element tomorrow. My call time is 5 A.M… so,” he says with a playful tone, “if you want what I can give you, you’re going to have to come over to my place. But make it fast; I want to make sure I get my beauty sleep.”

I hesitate. Antonio’s been renting a beach house in Malibu, on the coast. I’m in the Hollywood Hills. Do I really want to drive all the way there just for a quickie?

“The clock is ticking, Melody. If you want my cock, you better hurry.”

“Fine,” I blurt into the phone. “I’m leaving now.”

Ten minutes later, I reverse my blue Maserati out of the garage and drive toward the gates at the end of my driveway.

As I pull into the street, I notice an old, red Volkswagen Beetle parked a few feet away. That car has been there all week. I drive off, and in my rearview mirror, I see the lights of the beetle flick on. The car starts following me. Just as I suspected: Paparazzi.

I make my way down Nightingale Drive, toward Sunset. That red Volkswagen bug follows close behind. I need to lose it before I hit the Pacific Coast Highway and make my way into Malibu. The last thing Antonio and I want is our names linked in the papers. Especially since he’s going through a bitter divorce in Miami involving the custody of his two kids. That wouldn’t be good for either one of our public images. Rolling Stone called me an angel, remember?

I’m forced to stop at a red light. That red Volkswagen pulls up alongside me. The driver’s passenger-side window is rolled down. I glance over and see a camera lens pointed straight at me. Behind the lens, I see a familiar round-faced guy with an unruly beard.

Fuck, it’s him. I think his name is Charlie. He’s the WORST of these LA paparazzi scumbags. He doesn’t believe in boundaries. And lately, he’s made getting footage of me his number one priority.

“Smile, Melody,” he shouts. “Everyone wants to see a smile on America’s Sweetheart.”

I want to give him the finger. But again, I have an image to protect. I shoot him a stupid smirk instead. “Don’t you get tired of following me around?”

“You?” he replies with a grin. “Never. Now, Melody, why don’t you tell us where you’re going this Saturday night?”

I don’t respond. Like I’m going to tell him. I need to lose this fucker, Charlie, before Ihit Malibu. I take another look at his car and an idea springs to mind. The minute the light turns green; I’ll slam on the accelerator. My Maserati will blow the doors off his old Volkswagen bug. Then, I can easily lose him in traffic.

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, waiting impatiently for the light to turn. The whole time Charlie floods me with questions.

“Are you going to go see your boyfriend for a midnight rendezvous? Or is it a girlfriend? Come on Melody, the people have a right to know.”

“No, they don’t,” I mutter to myself.

The light turns green and I slam my foot on the accelerator. From the corner of my eye, I catch a fleeting glimpse of something big and white. That’s the last thing I remember.

CHAPTER 3

When I open my eyes, I see a blinding bright light. Then, I make out a man’s face. I don’t recognize him. Through my blurred vision I notice a nametag on his white lab coat. It takes me a moment to read the letters. Finally, I manage to string them together: Dr. Mercer.

I attempt to ask him where I am, but I can’t speak. That’s when I realize there’s a tube down my throat. I glance around nervously as anxiety rips through my body. I try to raise my head, but I can’t move a muscle. A faint beeping sound quickens its pace.

“Relax, Melody,” he says in a soothing voice. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Relax. Where the fuck am I? What has happened to me?

Doctor Mercer turns and looks at someone. I can’t move my head to see.

Fuck, am I paralyzed? Is that why I can’t move?

“Now that’s she out of the coma,” Dr. Mercer says softly. “Administer 10 mg every four hours to help with the pain.”

“Yes, Doctor,” I hear a woman respond.

Coma? Will someone tell me what the fuck has happened? I want so badly to yell from the top of my lungs.

Doctor Mercer turns and looks at me again. He offers a heartfelt smile but I can tell everything he’s about to say will be devastating.

“You had a terrible car accident, Melody. You’ve been in a coma for two weeks. You suffered 3rd degree burns on over fifty percent of your body, including your face.”

He continues talking but I stop listening.

Coma. Car Crash.

Third Degree burns. Fifty Percent.

My Face!

Dr. Mercer finishes talking and gives me another warm smile.

“We’re going to get you through this,” he says reassuringly before stepping away. As he leaves, my eyes overflow with tears.

Once he’s gone, a nurse appears in my vision. She concentrates on the IV pump next to my bed. As she adjusts a setting, it beeps. Then she glances down at me. I see the pity emanating from her eyes. With a soft, sad smile she takes a seat beside me. I see a needle in her hand. She pricks my skin with it. As she pulls back on the plunger, she says, “This will help with the pain, sweetie. I’ll come back to check on you in a bit.”

What pain? I can’t feel a thing. I’m numb.

The nurse leaves the room. She draws all the energy out with her.

Chilling, scary thoughts ricochet through my mind. How did this happen to me? Why did it happen? Dread and shock sweep over me. I want to throw my hands up in the air, scream and cry all at once… but I can’t move. I can’t feel a single muscle in my body. The air around me recedes. I’m trapped. Trapped in a badly burned, damaged body. This can’t be real? It’s a nightmare. That’s what it is, a nightmare. I just have to wake up.

But then I begin to feel the pain. This pain is real. It’s not a dream. My body is suddenly wracked with it. Tears of agony fill my eyes. Then, thankfully, I feel an unfamiliar, warm sensation run through me. The pain subsides. It must be the drugs the nurse administered. Slowly, a soothing feeling washes over me. My eyes get heavy and I begin to fall asleep.

When I wake up, my nightmare continues. For the rest of the week, I’m in a drug-induced fog as Dr. Mercer and several nurses try to manage my pain. Slowly, I am able to piece together what happened the night of the crash. Images assemble themselves together like a jig saw puzzle, creating a devastating memory that loops in my mind over and over again. They hit me like flashes of lightening: my foot slams on the accelerator when the traffic light turns green, a white truck flies out of nowhere, the truck t-bones my Maserati, my car spins into oncoming traffic. The windshield shatters, the glass prickles my skin. I feel the weight of something hard, and cold as metal, press into my side and face. Everything around me fades to black. When I regain consciousness, a wave of heat engulfs me. Fire. The car is on fire.

I’M ON FIRE!

I recall trying to scream as the flames scorched my skin.

“Help Me! Help Me!” I tried to shout. But the words just wouldn’t come out.

I swear I have a blurred vision of him: Charlie – that fuckin’ paparazzi guy with the beard. He stood a few feet from my car… taking pictures. He photographed me while I was helpless and burning to death.

As the red-hot flames licked my skin, the pain became unbearable. I blacked out again.

Now, here I am. Four weeks later, shackled to a hospital bed, supposedly lucky to be alive. My jaw, nose, and cheekbones were damaged in the crash; in addition to my face and body being badly burned. Because of all the injuries I sustained, doctors had to repair my jaw and reconstruct part of my face. Now, I’m wrapped in bandages like a mummy. Doctor Mercer says it’s going to take several reconstructive burn surgeries to get my face and disfigured skin back to some semblance of normalcy. And in all likelihood, I won’t look like I did before the accident.

So much for having the face of an angel? It sounds like I’ll be the newest attraction at the circus freak show.

Dr. Mercer also says I should expect at least a year of physical therapy to get back to my normal movement and body function. Apparently, I should be grateful I’m not paralyzed.

Why does everyone feel the need to tell me how I should feel?

How did this happen to me? I guess that’s a stupid question. It happened because I was trying to lose that paparazzi asshole and got t-boned by a truck running a red light.

I guess the real question is why?

Why did it happen?

Why did it happen to me?

I’ve always believed in God. But how do I wrap my head around this? Why would God hurt me? I’m Melody Swanson. I’m supposed to be the ‘voice of a generation’. I’m supposed to have the face of an angel. Why would God punish me? Why would God take away my face and destroy my career? I thought I was doing something good with my life, giving people a gift through my music. Then why would God decide to take that all away?

Because of this accident, my career is over. I’ll never be able to step on a stage again. I’m going to look like a mutant for the rest of my life. I thought I was put on this earth to entertain people; now they’re going to cringe at the sight of me.

I know I’m not a saint; but there are a million assholes in the world. That paparazzi motherfucker, Charlie, is a perfect example. Why didn’t this happen to him? Why didn’t his car get smashed? Why am I the one who’s stuck in the hospital? Why is it my life that is forever changed? Why is it my career that’s been snatched away?

Why?! Why?! Why?!

Maybe God hates me… I wish I had died in that crash. I can’t find any good reason to live like this.

One thing is for sure. My body may have survived, but my soul has passed away. My music is gone; its spirit has abandoned me. I can feel the empty void it left behind.

I’ll never sing or perform again.

If that’s my reality, what’s the point of living?

If I could move my body, I’d destroy this hospital room in a rage. I’d smash everything in my sight. ARGH!!! I’m so fuckin’ angry! So filled with venom! But all I can do is lay here, like a corpse.

I don’t want to live anymore if it means living like this… permanently scarred, my musical spirit crushed.

When I get out of this hospital, I’m going to kill myself.There’s no point in going on. I don’t see a future for myself anymore.

The thoughts racing through my mind are halted when I hear, “I’m so sorry.” Suzie takes my hand in hers. I see the tears in her eyes as she looks at me. “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling right now.”

If I could move my jaw freely, I’d tell her I’m angry, and depressed, and numb all at the same time. It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. But I can’t talk; all I can do is look at her. Suzie is my personal assistant… and also my best friend.

Can Suzie see the fear in my eyes? I think she can.

She lowers her head and shakes it. “I don’t know what to say, Melody. All I can tell you is that I’m here for you, okay?” She looks at me and smiles. It’s a genuine, heartfelt smile. I’m grateful she’s here.

I feel the tears stream from my eyes. I manage a slow nod.

Suzie then gently squeezes my hand. “Listen,” she says. “I know you’re not going to like this, but your parents are outside. They want to see you one more time.”

I instantly roll my eyes. Suzie nods. “I know, but they insist. Randy is out there too, so is Nancy. I’ve held them off as long as I can but they want to see you now. Okay?”

Although I’m not in the mood for visitors, I realize I don’t have a choice. I slowly nod my head.

Suzie gives my hand another squeeze and then stands up. She wipes her eyes and walks to the door. They all rush in: my parents; my agent, Randy; and my publicist, Nancy. They immediately surround my bed.

They make several comments that I can’t reply to. All I can do is stare at them and nod here and there.

“You’re lucky there was a patrol car in the vicinity,” my Mom says. “Officer Mendocino arrived just in time to pull you out of the wreckage.” She’s a broken record. My mom has already mentioned this several times on prior visits but feels compelled to say it once again.

I wish my parents would just fly back to Cleveland and leave me alone. All they keep saying is how lucky I am to be alive. That’s all anyone says. I wish everyone would just stop. I’m not lucky. I’m fucked. Now, please leave me alone.

“Baby, I know things look dark right now,” says my father in a worried tone. “But you’re going to pull through this. It’s just going to take time and patience.”

I want to laugh at what he just said, but can’t.

You have no idea what I’m going through, I want to say. And I’d rather be alone than look at the uncomfortable expression on your faces as you stare at me.

“I’m going to come by tomorrow with your iPad, so you can watch some movies,” Suzie says. I can tell she’s fighting back tears as she stares at my bandaged face.

“The label says they’ll cover all your medical bills, including plastic surgery,” chimes in Randy, my agent.

“That’s awfully nice of them,” says my mom.

Again, I want to laugh. My last album was the reason the label hadn’t filed for bankruptcy. Paying my medical bills is the least they can do.

“And I spoke to Jack, the president,” continues Randy. “And he said anything you need, you just let him know.”

A new body would be nice, I think to myself.

My publicist, Nancy, who is standing off in the corner, takes a few steps toward the bed. She looks at my parents. “I think when we’re done here, one of you should talk to the media. Tell them about Melody’s recovery.”

“I’ll do it,” replies my mother with a serious nod.

“I’ll be by your side,” says my dad.

“Great,” replies Nancy. “I’ll write something up for you.” Then, she glances down at me. “Melody, is there anything you would like the public to know?”

“She can’t talk!” snaps Suzie. “Her jaw is wired shut, remember?”

“Right,” says Nancy with a curt nod. “I’m sorry. My bad. I’ll be back with a statement.” She nods to my parents and walks out of the room.

Once she’s gone, the rest of them just stand there, surrounding me, not knowing what to say.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” my mother mutters once again.

I’m not lucky.

CHAPTER 4

The hospital lobby is swarming with reporters. Security is yelling at them to vacate the premises. As I ride the elevator to Max’s floor, I overhear two nurses talking about some pop star that just got admitted. Car crash. One of the nurses asks the other if it would be inappropriate to ask for an autograph.

As I step out of the elevator, I use my crutches to make the long journey down the corridor to Max’s room. I don’t know how I’m going to face him, knowing I failed him. When I enter the room, I see my older sister, Layla, standing by his bed. She glances at the brace on my right leg and immediately knows I lost the fight. Her face darkens with sadness. I hobble over to the bed. With his eyes half closed, and his face pale white, Max looks at me and tries to smile.

“How’s my little tiger?” I say, touching his cold hand.

“Did you beat him, Dad?” he softly asks, his voice as weak as a whisper.

I can’t tell him the truth: That his father has let him down.

“You bet I did,” I lie, forcing a smile.

Layla, who stayed with Max while I was at the fight, looks at me with caring eyes.

“He refused to go to sleep until you came back,” she says. She then gently squeezes my shoulder.

“I knew you’d beat him,” Max murmurs, struggling to keep his eyes open. “You’re the toughest guy on the planet.”

I have to use all my willpower to keep from crying right there in front of my boy. It requires more strength than the fight I was just in. I take a deep breath and nod.

“You know it, Tiger.”

“Dad, when am I going to leave the hospital? I’ve been here forever.”

[...]