Bungalow Nights(59)

At the end of the shelves was another trio of enlarged photographs. Each depicted a spectacularly crashed vehicle. A truck in a ditch. A sports car against a fire hydrant spewing water. An overturned SUV resting on its side like a dead bug.

“Vance.” Layla had to stop and suck in a breath. The accident scenes made her a little sick. “These are—were your cars? Your mom framed pictures of these, too?”

He was staring at them as if he’d never seen them before. “No,” he said slowly. “That was me.”

She widened her eyes. “Why would you take the photos in the first place?”

After a hesitation, he grimaced. “I...I was proud of them.”

She blinked. “Proud?”

He rubbed his hand over the lower half of his face. “Proud that though I totaled the car I walked away without a scratch.”

The tense note in his voice had her placing her palm on his back, stroking it in a little circle like his mom had done to her in the kitchen. She could feel the stiffness of his spine and the rigid muscles surrounding it seemed to vibrate.

“Can you believe that?” he muttered. “I was an idiot.”

“Vance...” she said, her voice soft. “You were a kid.”

“A waste,” he said, still staring at the photos. “I was a f*cking waste.”

“You were a thrills and chills kind of guy,” she countered, troubled by the growing darkness of his mood. “Some people are.”

“It’s no excuse for what I put them through. No wonder...” Shaking his head, he retreated from the shelves, stumbling on the carpet until the back of his legs hit the bed. Then his butt.

Layla crossed to him, sitting close so they were thigh to thigh. “Are you all right?”

His eyes still focused across the room, he didn’t appear to have heard her. “Vance?”

With a sudden movement, he turned his head, his gaze pinning her. “Any one of those should have been the end of me,” he said, his face going hard. “Why the hell did I survive?”

The question chilled her. He was right. He had cheated death, it seemed to her, any number of times. As a child, as a young adult. Again as a soldier at war. She swallowed, hard.

“None of us can know—” she started.

“I know that I was careless with things,” he said, pointing to the automobile photos. “I know that I was reckless with my life.”

But he wasn’t that careless and reckless Vance any longer, Layla thought. As a combat medic, he needed calm control, gentle hands and a compassionate heart for those wounded and hurting. Qualities, she suspected, that were the unforeseen yet fortunate consequences of those very youthful escapades he seemed now to despise.

Turning to him, she took his face in her hands. Her gaze bore into his. “But you’re a good man now,” she told him. “Such a good man.”

The man I’ve fallen in love with.

Everything inside her stilled. Oh, my God. I...

I’m in love with Vance.

The understanding didn’t come as a thunderbolt. It didn’t feel like an anvil had fallen on her head. There was no pain in it—that would come later, she supposed, because he was still just temporarily in her life. For now, though, it was like the sunlight parting coastal clouds, bright and sure and impossible to ignore.

Did something show on her face? Because Vance’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “Layla—”

“Hey, you two!” It was Fitz, calling from the bottom of the stairs. “Come down for dinner!”

She popped up, grateful for the interruption.

“Layla, wait.” Vance made a grab for her shoulder, but she shook him off. His brother’s directive gave her an excuse to make an escape from Vance—though not, she was certain, from her newly acknowledged feelings for him.





CHAPTER NINETEEN



GUT ROILING WITH EMOTIONS, Vance hesitated in his room while Layla headed for the stairs. Something was going on with her, but the something that was going on inside of him was overwhelming his ability to read her. His gaze returned to those damning photos and he seethed, so angry at himself that he could hardly breathe.

He’d always blamed his father for the falling-out between him and his family—not understanding why the man had broken the promise of a position in the family company—but Christ, he’d been wild and irresponsible. Exactly how wild and irresponsible, he hadn’t realized until seeing these photos again. No wonder they’d cut him loose.

That he was different now...well, how could lost trust be regained?

With a last look at what he now thought of as the Wall of Shame, Vance steeled himself to go down to dinner. It wasn’t easy, not after looking at that damning proof. Christ, he couldn’t wait for this night to be over.

At the top of the stairs, he spied Layla on the landing below. Fitz was nowhere in sight, likely already in the dining room. As Vance took his first step, a tremendous noise from outside the house filled the foyer—the screech of brakes, a squealing slide, then the unmistakable crunch of metal meeting solid object.

Car crash.

Vance froze. His imagination? Had the sound been conjured from his memories and triggered by those photos? But even before his mind could filter the truth, instinct kicked in and he was flying downward. “Call 9-1-1,” he ordered Layla, who’d come to a halt. “Get Fitz, my dad, my uncle. We need blankets and a first-aid kit.”

Wide-eyed, she ran off.

The blood in his veins burned like ice as Vance stepped onto the front porch. Oh, God. The scene was straight out of a Driver’s Ed shock film. His heart slammed against his ribs as adrenaline surged through his system. The last time he’d faced blood and injuries, it had ended in death. Still, he raced across the courtyard and toward the road, cataloging details. Red pickup on its roof, resting against the trunk of a giant oak. Windshield shattered. Front end crumpled. At least one inside; no airbags deployed. Another unmoving figure was sprawled nearby, on the side of the road.

He dropped to the ground by the driver’s window. It was broken, too, the safety glass scattered like teardrops on the truck’s headliner. As he reached to turn off the ignition, he noted the driver was a teen boy—who appeared unconscious—with a seeping scalp wound. There was a teen girl on the passenger side, eyes closed and moaning.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Fitz and his father approach at a run. “You two need to divert any oncoming traffic,” he said, and leaped to his feet to rush toward the body lying on the ground. Another teenager, male, face pale, though his eyes were open and slowly blinking at the sky overhead. Vance knelt down. “Hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “I’m Vance, I’m going to help you.”

When the kid didn’t acknowledge him, Vance tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m Vance,” he said again. “How many were in the truck?”

This time, the boy’s eyes shifted to his face and he started blinking rapidly. “Wha—?”

“You’ve been in an accident. How many were in the truck?” He needed to know if there might be other injured persons unaccounted for.

“Th-three,” the kid said. “Where’s...?”

At that moment, Uncle Roy appeared at his elbow, blanket in hand. “Great,” Vance said. “Cover him, will you? And find a way to elevate his legs. He’s in shock.”

On his feet again, he raced back to the truck, this time going around to the passenger side and bending low. The girl was still moaning. “Hey, I’m Vance,” he said. “Can you open your eyes?”

She did, then immediately started struggling against the bonds of her shoulder harness and seat belt. “Need to get out.”

Vance touched her cheek. “No, don’t. You might have hurt your neck or back. The paramedics will be here soon. Try to stay calm.” Layla arrived with another light blanket and he did his best to drape it around the girl’s neck. In her upside-down position, gravity was not his friend.

“Let me do that,” Layla said.

Without a word, he left her to it and headed back around the truck to the driver. Dropping to the ground, he noticed the kid’s head wound was bleeding more profusely. Vance stripped off his shirt, then used his teeth to rip a manageable piece of fabric that he wrapped around the cut on the boy’s forehead. As he tightened the knot, the teenager regained consciousness, lifting an arm to bat at Vance’s hands.

“I’m here to help,” Vance said. “Just relax.” He introduced himself again. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, God, oh, God,” the teen moaned. “My dad’s gonna kill me. I crashed another car last month. He’s gonna kill me.”

Vance’s father thrust another blanket at him. He glanced up. “Someone’s watching for oncoming cars? 9-1-1s been called?” Out in rural avocado country, it could take a while for emergency responders to reach them.