Contents Crash Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Cruise Control Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Repairs Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Check Engine Light Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Test Flights Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Hazard Lights Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Takeoff Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Maintenance Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Preview of The Fallout Acknowledgments More From WS Greer First edition published by Kindle Direct Publishing 2020 Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2020 by WS Greer All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Cover design by Robin Harper/Wicked by Design https://www.facebook.com/WickedByDesignRobinHarper Interior Design and Formatting by Book Mode Created with Vellum Crash Chapter One ~ Tessa ~ Have you ever felt like you were walking down a dark road? A road that doesn't feel like home. A road that is terrifying, and at the end of which you know there is nothing but impending doom. Have you ever felt like you were walking toward your end with every step you take? Well, that's how I’ve felt for far too long now, and today is the day the doom swallows me. The office is beautifully decorated: hardwood floors, walnut wood furniture that meshes perfectly with the black and brown couch I find myself sitting on, and elegant art on the walls that isn't too distracting, but beautiful nonetheless. It’s a comforting setting, which I especially appreciate at this moment, because I need all the comfort I can get. Across from me is a man I never thought I would have to sit in front of, but after struggling to solve the puzzle on our own the past six months, we’re here. His name is Dr. Malcolm Colson, and he’s a relationship therapist. We’ve been seeing him for four weeks now, and although Dr. Colson is brilliant, I don't think we’re making much progress. We’re moving, but it doesn't feel like it’s in the right direction. That’s not Dr. Colson’s fault, though, it’s ours. Sitting on the couch next to me is my boyfriend of the last two years, Brandon Stills. Brandon is a gorgeous man. He’s just under six-feet tall, with short, perfectly manicured hair and a beard that’s neatly trimmed. His hair is dark brown while his eyes are light brown, and he holds the confidence of a man two feet taller than he is. Brandon is in decent shape, as he hits the gym regularly, and he attracts plenty of attention from women, even when he’s standing next to me. I always felt lucky to have him. Until I didn't. Dr. Colson is a beautiful man in his own right. He’s probably six-feet tall himself, but he’s got a bit more to his frame than Brandon. Dr. Colson’s shoulders are broader, and his chest grabs my attention through the fabric of his button-up shirt. He’s probably two-hundred pounds to Brandon’s one-seventy, and his skin has that luscious golden brown you get when you have interracial parents. His green eyes are impossible to ignore, and the confidence he emits is like a fog that engulfs you when you get too close to him. It’s something I wish I could breathe in and use for myself, but since I can’t, I’ve found myself leaning on Dr. Colson for support when we come here. He’s been the best therapist I could ask for, and his skill is being put to the test. I’m in the presence of two beautiful men, but I’ve never felt more uneasy and self-conscious. The air doesn't feel like it should. It’s thicker, like the weight of the tension in the room is mixing with the oxygen and making it harder to breathe in. The comfortable couch doesn't feel as cozy as it did four weeks ago, and I feel as though I’ve run out of positive words to add to the conversation. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of him. I’m just so very tired of it all. “You see, this is what I’m talking about,” Brandon says. His words pull me out of my daze and roughly drag me back into the conversation I no longer want any part of. “See? She just goes to some happy place inside her head, and it’s like I’m talking to myself. She doesn't want to listen to me. Jesus.” I look up and see Dr. Colson staring at me, his green eyes captivating me. He doesn't look angry, but then again he never does. He looks like he’s trying to read me. It’s like I’m an open book, but I’m written in a language he hasn't learned yet, so he’s thumbing through the pages looking for words he recognizes so he can piece them together to make a complete sentence. I’ve been fascinated by Dr. Colson’s ability to pay close attention to us. He listens better than any man I’ve ever met, and he uses the information to give us sound advice that I believe could work if we were two people who were still invested in working it out, which I’m not sure we are anymore. Dr. Colson has earned my trust and respect. I only wish Brandon would shut the fuck up so Dr. Colson could earn his. “Okay, you're frustrated, Brandon,” Dr. Colson says, his voice low and commanding. “And I like that you're communicating today, instead of holding it all in. However, your communication can’t be powered by assumptions. I don't think Tessa doesn't want to listen to you. I think what's more likely is that your main concern is talking and getting your point across, rather than reading your girlfriend’s body language and nonverbal clues. From what I’m seeing—and please correct me if I’m wrong, Tessa—Tessa is shutting down. She looks drained. Brandon, have you asked Tessa how she feels about all of this?” I don't look over at him, but I hear Brandon
