Time distorted like it did when she visited the dentist, and the receptionist insisted on redefining the word “brief.” But she made progress. Two slides forward, she saw something pink lying on the path. Her cell phone. She crawled closed and picked it up. Music still blast from the headphones. She turned it over and—
No service.
“Stupid woods,” she muttered. “Stupid park.”
Still clutching the phone, she started dragging herself forward again. She reached the edge of the path and spotted her saviors. Two girls raced forward as if they’d eaten an entire pan of brownies last night. Or maybe they’d simply spotted her.
Help.
But the cry died before she could part her lips. Her vision blurred. And then—
Nothing.
Chapter Two
“YOU HAVE FIVE minutes to get off your ass and find your pants. Don’t bother shaving. We don’t have time.”
Dominic turned his back on the only appliance in the kitchen he gave a damn about—the coffeemaker—and faced the friend who’d saved his high school football team a time or two with a well-placed field goal. But most of the time, Ryan had missed the uprights. And right now, the town rich kid turned air force officer had kicked one helluva foul.
“How did you get in here?” Dominic asked.
“Your super gave me the key,” Ryan said. His dress uniform sparkled under Dominic’s crappy overhead lights. Between the severe look on his movie-star face and the medals lining his chest, yeah, Dominic could see how the timid super had handed over the key. Hell, even Dominic was tempted to give in and pull a pair of jeans over his boxer briefs. Maybe find a clean shirt.
“Get dressed,” Ryan barked again.
“And if I refuse?” Dominic held tight to his steaming mug with his left hand. He’d given up on sleeping through the lingering pain months ago. Now, he sipped his cup of joe and tried not to think about the future.
“Three minutes now.” Ryan glanced down at his watch. “If it takes longer to find your pants and your wallet, I’m heading for an unauthorized absence.”
“You’re a long way from base. I don’t see how three minutes would make a difference—”
“I need you to put down the coffee and put on your pants. They won’t let you on the plane in your underwear. And if we miss this flight to Oregon, I won’t make it back before my leave is up.”
Oregon. Ah hell.
“I’m not getting on a fucking plane. I don’t give a damn who sent you to try and bring me home. I’m not going. You’re risking your career for a lost cause.”
Ryan turned and marched the shiny-ass shoes that matched his sparkly uniform across the apartment. Then he disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Dominic staring into the now empty living area. The space looked as if he’d hired one of the guys who’d served alongside him to play decorator. The worn brown leather couch pointed to a big-ass TV mounted on the wall. A cardboard box sat in front of it.
When Dominic had first moved into the place, a ranger who lived down the road had stopped by for a beer. His buddy had turned over the box and declared it a coffee table. And now, months after leaving the only place where he had ever felt like he belonged—the freaking army—Dominic ate every meal with his feet on that box.
But the sorry state of his rental didn’t leave him pining for his dad’s farmhouse in Forever, Oregon.
His left hand tightened on his mug to keep his right from dropping the coffee cup to the linoleum. Sure, his brain had fired off the message—hold on to the fucking coffee—but the nerves in his right hand rarely listened anymore.
And neither did Ryan. He could hear his childhood friend opening drawers in his bedroom.
“Hey, careful with my dresser,” Dominic called. “I picked that up secondhand. The first owner didn’t exactly treat it right.”
His friend from what felt like another lifetime—those years before he’d joined the military—ignored him and continued abusing his furniture. Ryan returned a minute later with a pair of faded jeans and plain red T-shirt. “Put down the coffee,” he ordered.
Ryan tossed the clothes across the room. But Dominic didn’t move to catch them. He’d spent the past few months learning his limitations. Thanks to a trigger-happy terrorist, Dominic’s right hand struggled to pick things up. And yeah, there was a laundry list of other things he couldn’t do as a result of one bullet through the palm of his hand. Sure, the shots that had nicked his pulmonary artery had nearly cost him his life, but the bullet in his hand had changed his future. He wasn’t a soldier anymore. Hell, he wasn’t much use to anyone and he damn well knew it.