Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
They switch the black lights on. The dark room is suddenly a sea of neon designer sports bras, highlighted hair, and freakishly bright white smiles. I can feel the grimace etching on my face. I close my eyes, try to tune out the thumping music that blares through the speakers.
I feel… off. Lightheaded. Fatigued. Nauseous.
Maybe I should have skipped the second espresso and opted for a real breakfast. But I can’t slow down my pace. I can’t let this bike, this silly screen, this chocolate monster… I can’t let them beat me.
I can’t let anything overpower me.
Not again.
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Come on girls, ride harder. Give me everything you’ve got!” Tori’s chirpy lisp swirls around in my head.
But now, they are jumbling… fading… disappearing.
My mind is clouds. The brightness of the neon’s dull as the room grows darker. I feel as if I’m floating, tipping, falling.
There’s a strange sensation of a dull thud as my head hits the floor. But I feel no pain, my mind seems disconnected from my body. The echo of screams fills the room.
A woman stands over me, her face a mask of terror as her eyes widen. Sweat runs down her décolletage and I find myself watching the beads as they disappear into her sports bra. Her mouth opens, the whites of her eyes and her teeth are an inhuman white beneath the blacklights as she screams, “Miranda!”
That’s… my name.
The world goes totally dark.
When I come to, my mouth feels like cotton. My head aches. I’ve no idea where I am.
I open my eyes. And I know I’ve died and gone to heaven. Because I’m looking straight into a bright white beam of light.
There’s a figure dressed in white, hazy behind the light. Is it God?
He’s peering into my eyes with an annoyingly bright flashlight. Strange. His lips form a thin line as he moves his inspection to my other eye.
I take a closer look at him… wait… is that a white… lab coat? What I mistook for the keys of the pearly gates are a stethoscope hanging from his neck.
This is no celestial being. This is a doctor. Am I sick?
I’m not dead.
I'm very much alive.
What am I wearing? A papery blue gown. I pull the neckline forward, only to discover I’m totally nude beneath the thin material.
So, moms aren’t kidding when they tell you to wear clean underwear because you never know when you’ll be in an accident. Good thing I wasn’t wearing any? I picture a nurse peeling the sweaty spandex cropped leggings from my body then decide against thinking about how I came to be naked.
I try to sit up and a sharp pain pierces through the back of my skull. A groan rolls from my lips, my hand going to my head.
A big, heavy palm presses firm against my shoulder. “No, ma’am. Lay yourself right back down.” The gray haired doctor stares down at me.
I lie back down on the pillow, my head in no condition to be sitting up anyway. My mouth is dry. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the hospital. You fell off your bike in a spin class at Spynners Studios. The instructor called 9-1-1 and you were transported here by ambulance. They had a difficult time finding your family, but we did manage to get in contact with your sister.”
I have a vague memory of the incident he’s described, but no recollection of them calling my sister. “Lexi?”
He flips through the papers on a clipboard that’s suddenly appeared in his hands. “Yes. Lexi Montague. Sacramento, California? We told her you were in good hands, but she insisted on being able to call you as soon as possible.”
God, I wish they wouldn’t have called her. I don’t want her worried about me. “I’m fine. I only passed out in spin class.”
“How are you feeling?”
I take stock of my body. I feel fine other than being groggy from sleep and the sharp pain I felt when I tried to sit up. “Okay, I guess. My head hurts.”
“You’ve got a little bump there, but the CT scan came back fine. I think a little ibuprofen will fix you right up.” His business-like manner breaks, his tone turning more personal. “There’s someone here to see you. Mr. Lord?”
“I don’t know him.”
“He said he’s with the studio. Just wants to check on you. See if you’re alright. Should I let him in?”
“Yes, of course.”
The doctor disappears from the room, but another man steps in right behind him. I blink in surprise, and stifle a little squeak. The man is stunning.
And I’m wearing a paper hospital gown.
Easily six three with mesmerizing green eyes, and dark brown, slightly curly hair. He has one of those strong Roman noses that always make me look twice, and one of those perfectly structured, symmetrical faces that make him look like he was born on Mount Olympus.