Page 1 of A Future To Remember

CHAPTER 1

her

The pain around my rib cage pulled me from a deep slumber, while the throbbing in my head pushed me to open my eyes. The room was awash in light that was too bright—the walls a mint green and the ambience completely foreign.

At first, I thought I was in a hotel room. Light was streaming in from a window with one of those pullback curtains. The sheets against my skin were overly starched and scratchy, and don’t even get me started on the mushy pillow. I hate mushy pillows. I think the whole fucking world hates mushy pillows, which is why cheap hotels buy them. They want you up, dressed, and out the door—no loitering or lingering!

As my sight focused and my head became a little less muddled, I realized this wasn’t a cheap hotel. Blame it on my keen instincts or the IV bag hanging next to my bed, but I soon switched my suspicion from hotel to hospital, and having no idea how I got here, I wondered if I’d at least been wearing clean underwear.

Movement from the corner of the room made both my pulse and attention jump. Someone was in here with me.

A well-muscled, handsome man with jet-black hair, a slightly crooked nose, a chiseled jaw, and dark eyes sat in a chair, twirling a Stetson. He reminded me a lot of a younger Josh Brolin.

Now, I’m a sucker for a well-muscled, good-looking Josh Brolin type—throw in a Stetson and I’m likely to get goofy—but this guy’s expression was giving off a decidedly unfriendly vibe, and I started to think that I might be in trouble.

The sheriff’s star clipped to the side of his belt and the holstered gun also might have been clues.

He nodded at me, acknowledging the fact that I was now conscious.

“Sheriff,” I said. My voice came out in a croaked whisper, like I hadn’t used it in some time.

“Mornin’,” he said with a nod, like we knew each other. “Glad to see you’re finally awake.”

“I like to sleep in,” I joked, my voice still croaky but louder.

One corner of his mouth quirked in the hint of a smile, which quickly vanished. “When the doc said you were starting to come around, I came right over. I’m Sheriff Penton. Cash Penton. Most people ‘round here just call me Cash.”

“Nice to meet you, Cash,” I said. And it was. Or was it? My brain felt muddled, so it was hard to tell.

“I was hopin’ you could tell me what happened.”

I did that slow-blink thing you do when someone asks you a question without obvious context. Like when you zone out during a boring conversation, then zone back in again only when you hear the octave in their voice lift into a question.

“How about you tell me?” I asked. Stalling felt like the right course of action here. After all, the headache currently splitting my brain in two might’ve been linked to a hangover, and if I’d gotten behind the wheel, crashed the car, and was facing a DWI—or worse—I didn’t want to be the one to confess it before I knew what he knew about how the hell I had ended up here.

The sheriff’s lips pursed with disappointment, and I realized he was one of those broody boys who exude a sense of deep thought and contemplation while they’re openly judging you.

He motioned with the Stetson toward me. “You first.”

I sighed and cleared my throat, which felt phlegmy and viscous. I then tried to inch my way up the bed a little, which was slightly inclined. The movement hurt my rib cage like a motherfucker, so I quickly abandoned the effort. “I think I was in an accident.”

“Accident” can cover a whole gamut of things. Maybe I fell off a ladder? My ribs could’ve supported that idea, and I was obviously in a hospital with severe injuries that’d had me unconscious long enough to be admitted.

“Where?” he asked.

I did that slow-blink thing again. I needed to know what he knew so I could avoid incriminating myself. I waved nonchalantly at the window, which I felt covered a whole lotta territory.

The sheriff followed the direction of my wave and frowned. I couldn’t tell if he was confused, irritated, or impatient. Maybe all three?

He focused back to me. “Can you be more specific?”

I put a hand to my head. Goddamn, my head hurt. It pounded with the force and tempo of a jackhammer. “Not right now. My head is killing me.”

He grunted and got to his feet. “I’ll send in the doc with some more painkillers. How’re the ribs and your wrist?”

Blink. Blink. Blink. He knew my ribs hurt? And my wrist? I looked down and was more than a little surprised to see my left hand in a cast. What the fuck happened to me?

“Ribs are next in line to the head, and to be honest, I didn’t even feel the cast until you mentioned it.”