The Bulletproof Boy Read online

  Copyright 2016 Loretta Lost

  Cover art by Damonza

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Chapter One

  Before I got shot

  My tie is strangling me.

  Reaching up to grab the silk fabric roughly, I fumble to loosen it as I take several shuddering deep breaths. My neck is sticky with sweat, and I just want to rip off my collared shirt and lie down somewhere dark and quiet. It’s early in the day, and I shouldn’t feel so tired. If my assistant walked in and heard me panting like this, he would think I’d just run a marathon instead of leisurely taking the elevator up to my office.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  The doctors all say that it’s just a combination of stress and anxiety. They say I have to sleep more, work less, and talk to a therapist. After years of ignoring them, I finally began seeing a shrink. I enjoyed our sessions so much that I started making the drive to her clinic multiple times per week. I even have her on speed dial. I thought Dr. Nelson was helping me sort out the mess in my head, but somehow, I’m only getting worse. I am sleeping less. My thoughts are more scattered than ever before. I am completely drained, my lungs feel raw, and my whole body aches from head to toe.

  I think I’m dying.

  Sometimes, you just know that sort of thing.

  I used to feel peaceful here, sitting at my desk, soaking up panoramic views from the crystal-clear glass windows. Anyone would feel humbled and blessed to be sitting where I am. Every day, I try to steal a moment to pause and gaze out at the city from this office, nestled in one of the tallest buildings in Los Angeles. In the past decade that I’ve been on the architectural scene, the skyline has been sculpted and improved—often by my own hands. Many of the newer structures near the waterfront, including the one I’m in, began as mere scribbles in my notebooks. It still blows my mind every day, to bear witness to the way that ideas and dreams can take shape in concrete and steel.

  But lately, I don’t feel much. The accomplishments that brought me such joy feel like distant memories, and I am detached, as if someone else did them. Maybe I’ve grown disillusioned with it all. These buildings, so hypnotizing in their beauty, don’t seem to mean anything to me anymore. The drawings in my notebook, on my computer, are just black lines on white space.

  Nothing seems to matter.

  Coughing violently, my chest floods with pain. It’s a familiar pain, and reminds me of an injury I sustained years ago. I wonder if all those injuries are catching up to me now. I just want to quit. Sometime in the past few weeks or months, I hit rock bottom. I’ve been trying my best to hide it and keep going, but I can’t maintain this charade much longer. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve tried to do—it’s not enough.

  And I can’t do this anymore. I’m done. It’s over.

  Looking out at the skyscrapers, I smile sadly, imagining that I am a weary king presiding over his kingdom. Who will take over when I’m gone? There is always my good friend, Miranda Walters. And Levi Bishop… Frowning, I reach for my phone to check my appointments. I have to prepare for a conference call with Levi and my construction team in Karachi in about an hour. But I have some time before then, and I feel like there’s something I need to do.

  I need to prepare for my death. I need to decide who takes over when I’m no longer able. And there’s only one face that fills my mind. Only one person capable enough, only one person I would entrust with my legacy and my life’s work. Only one person on this planet, out of all the people I’ve met, who I consider my partner, my family—my other half.

  She is gone. She has been gone for a really long time. I thought I was dealing with it, but in my long sessions with Dr. Annabelle Nelson, I’ve only come to realize what a gaping hole there is in my world, without her. Maybe talking about it and forcing myself to face it every day hasn’t been as healthy as all the doctors think it should be.

  It was easier when I just kept pretending that I was going to see her again tomorrow. But now, I am fairly convinced that I am never going to see her again. It’s a crushing defeat that I was never prepared to handle. In recent weeks, my health has declined, and I know I’m running out of time.

  Sliding my hand out, I retrieve an unfinished letter. I was not even able to complete the first sentence. Reaching for my pen, I slowly add one final word, and a period.

  Dear Sophie,

  By the time you read this, I might be dead.

  As I finish writing the word, the reality sinks in and my throat goes very dry. It’s different when you put your worst fears down in writing. It makes them feel undeniably urgent. The pain in my chest increases tenfold, and causes me to grunt and double over slightly. I rise to my feet, placing both of my palms flat on the mahogany desk, on either side of the letter. A bead of sweat rolls down my nose and falls onto the paper, dotting the letter ‘i’ in her name.

  When the pain subsides a little, I am struck by an idea. My hand rips the letter off my desk, crumpling and tossing it into my wastebasket. I reach for my cell phone and quickly dial my most trusted colleague before pressing the speaker button. While the phone rings, I reach for another blank sheet, and sit to begin my letter anew.

  The slender fountain pen clutched in my hand was a graduation gift from Sophie, almost ten years ago. She told me she was getting me a Porsche, but it turns out she meant a pen designed by Porsche. I remember being very grateful that she hadn’t stolen a sports car for me. Again.

  To this day, it’s still my favorite pen.

  Now, my hand is clenched so tightly around the titanium writing instrument that I fear that it might snap into pieces.

  Dear Scarlett,

  If you’re reading this, it means that something has happened to me.

  I curse softly, realizing that I addressed the letter to the wrong name. My head hurts. What would she prefer to be called? Is there a chance anyone will see this? I don’t even care anymore.

  The ringing of the phone finally stops as a female voice answers. “Sorry about that, Cole. I was on the phone with the senator, and he was very upset about the towers.”

  “You can tell Senator Powell that I don’t give a shit about—”

  An explosive cough racks my chest, rendering me unable to respond. It feels like my lungs are being shredded with razor blades. When I finish wheezing, I stare at the white paper, startled to find it showered with droplets of blood. I look at my hand, and my eyes widen at the sight of blood dripping down my palm. What the actual fuck? I knew I was sick, but this…

  “Cole? Are you there?” The older woman’s voice is filled with concern. “Jesus, Cole! Are you okay?”

  “Miranda,” I say hoarsely as I lean back in my chair. “Please get my lawyer to come to my office. I need to make some adjustments to my will.”

  “Stop. Stop it. You’re overreacting,” she says, but her voice has grown shaky.

  “Please. Get Mr. Bishop.”

  “Cole,” Miranda says with warning. “You’ve got to get to the hospital. I’ve been telling you for days…”

  “No, no hospitals. I have tried, but the doctors aren’t helping.”

  “I’m a mother of three, Cole.
Trust me when I say you can’t tough it out and take chances when it comes to your health. You know I love you like you’re my own damn son. So if you don’t get your ass to a hospital right now, I will come up there and drag you out of that office myself!”

  The kindness in her voice makes me smile, and I can’t help feeling a bit of nostalgia for my own mother. My tie is beginning to feel tight again, even though I have loosened it many times this morning. I reach up to pull it off, and I curse under my breath when I realize that I have gotten blood all over the expensive fabric. Luckily, it wasn’t a favorite.

  I toss my ruined tie into the wastebasket and breathe deeply, rising to my feet and looking down at the letter. I don’t even care anymore. Wiping my hands off on my pants, I reach for a fresh sheet of paper.

  “Cole, promise me you will go to the hospital?” Miranda demands.

  “I just need a breath of fresh air,” I tell her. “Maybe a few minutes on the rooftop will do me some good. Mr. Bishop can meet me up there.” I curse, remembering my conference call. “Miranda, if I’m not feeling better in half an hour, can you reschedule the conference call with Levi? Tell him I’m in a meeting with his father.”

  “That meeting is important, Cole. We can’t reschedule it. We could lose Karachi if the team doesn’t meet this deadline.”

  My stomach turns at that word. That word makes me sick.

  “I could talk to them for you—” Miranda is suggesting.

  “No way,” I tell her firmly. “Those men need to be threatened and scared out of their minds if they’re going to complete the task on time. You couldn’t scare a teddy bear. It needs to be me. Just give me five minutes on the roof, and have my assistant bring me some tea. After I discuss my will with Mr. Bishop, I will make it to that conference call to chat with his son.”

  “You need to get better, Cole. I need you. This whole company needs you.”

  “I know. Depending on how this meeting goes, you and I might have to get on a plane and head to Pakistan this evening.”

  “Whatever it takes, honey. I’m beside you every step of the way.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her softly.

  Jamming my finger on the end button, I move to the glass doors on the north end of my office that lead up to the garden. It’s one of the signatures of my designs—injecting the tranquility of nature into urban settings. My steps are sluggish, and I need to grasp the walls to support me as I stumble through the doors and up the stairs. The stunning Zen garden is complete with a koi pond and relaxing waterfall. It hurts to breathe, but I inhale raggedly. As I reach the scenic garden, I exhale and allow the cool ocean breeze to waft through my shaggy brown hair, healing me. Since I became successful, I stopped cutting my hair constantly in an effort to present the image of a well-groomed professional.

  I’m not just a mathematician or an engineer. I’m an artist.

  When clients come to my office, I often entertain them up here in the garden. I don’t like talking about my work very much, but I figure that sitting up on this rooftop, way above the city, relaxing and watching the fish while being served tea by my assistant, is an excellent demonstration of what I can accomplish.

  Now, if only the tranquility of this garden could help to clear my head so that I could write this damned letter. I slap the white paper down on a black granite slab and stare at it angrily, hoping for inspiration.

  Dear Sophie,

  I begin writing again, with the Porsche pen, until a sharp pain in my skull causes my eyes to shut tightly. Reaching up to grasp my head, I stagger backward, groaning in pain. What is wrong with me? Is this a migraine? It doesn’t matter. My lawyer should be here any minute now. I need to get this letter written.

  Hearing a noise, I turn sharply to look at the doors leading down to my office. This is a bad idea, because my head explodes in blinding pain. Why is my body betraying me like this? I move to the edge of the rooftop, grasping the railing as I stare down at the tiny cars below, deadlocked in a traffic jam. Tiny multicolored lights dance in my field of vision, obscuring the street below.

  Focus, Cole, I inwardly chant. You need to focus.

  I don’t expect my knees to buckle beneath me. Somehow, my arms feel like jelly, and when my hands lose the strength to grip the railing, the pen slips out of my hand and tumbles to the street below. I can’t even make an effort to catch it as I crumple to the floor of the rooftop. Squinting at the bright blue sky with determination, I try to resume my task.

  “Dear Scar,” I mumble, attempting to write the letter out loud. That will make it easier once I am able to concentrate and put the words down on paper. I just need to get my pen—but it is so far away.

  The vast expanse of blue begins fading to black quite quickly, and my eyelids are refusing to stay open. As the world disappears, I feel like shit for not finishing my task, even though I can no longer remember exactly what it was…

  I just have the nagging feeling that something important is unfinished.

  “Cole!” shouts a man’s voice from nearby.

  It is comforting to hear another human voice. I am grateful to know that I am not entirely alone in this moment, but it still feels that way. I think I’ve felt alone for years.

  Chapter Two

  Still not shot yet

  When I pry my eyes open, I am greeted with the unmistakable fluorescent lights of a hospital. There is an oxygen mask over my face, and I groan in disgust as I remove it, feeling embarrassment creep up around my neck. I can’t believe I collapsed at work. What’s wrong with me? I had that conference call, and… Miranda’s going to kill me.

  I feel around frantically for my phone, knowing I need to reach her and tell her to cover for me in the meeting, although I’m sure she already is. The conference was supposed to be at midnight in Karachi. The team is working around the clock, and it’s the only time they had available. If we don’t get a handle on the situation there, we could end up losing the project entirely.

  We could stand to lose millions.

  But as I search for my phone, I am frustrated to find nothing near me. There are only the clean, white sheets of this very small bed, and an empty bedside table. My eyes quickly scan the shape of the room and the position of the window, and I recognize the work. It’s a hospital I designed, and it’s not particularly close to my office. I did not choose the location, and I never had any intention of becoming one of this hospital’s occupants.

  “Fuck,” I mutter to myself, reaching for the bed’s railing and pulling myself up. I am immediately hit by a wave of dizziness, and I begin coughing so much that it hurts all of my internal organs.

  Reaching for the oxygen mask I pushed aside, I bring it to my mouth and inhale desperately in defeat.

  “Mr. Hunter, you’re awake,” says a male nurse rushing into the room, carrying a pouch filled with yellow fluid. He places a hand on my shoulder and gently pushes me back down onto the bed. “I am sorry, but I have to recommend you don’t get up or overexert yourself. I need to administer this medicine to you intravenously.”

  “What is that?” I ask him as he prepares my arm for a needle. “What are you giving me? Is this chemotherapy? Do I have cancer?”

  “I am not at liberty to discuss that. The doctor will come in to explain your condition soon. For now, though, this isn’t chemotherapy. It’s chelation therapy. They do look similar. I am sorry for the lack of explanation, but we have to move quickly on this.”

  “Chelation?” I ask, wincing as he shoves the needle into my arm. “Why?”

  “We did some tests and discovered that there’s an unusually high presence of certain heavy metals in your blood. We still have more tests to do, but this should help cleanse your blood. In the meantime, I’ve been instructed to ask you a few questions so we can better determine how to treat you. Do you have any history of substance abuse?”

  “No!” I reply in disbelief.

  “Tobacco, alcohol, any recreational—”

  “No. What the hell is wrong with
me? Am I dying?”

  He hesitates. “I am sorry. I am not authorized to discuss the details of your condition. The doctor will have a chance to see you shortly. Have you been exposed to any construction sites lately?”

  “Of course. I’m an architect and developer, I am always visiting construction sites.”

  “Has anyone else been coughing or complaining of respiratory distress at those sites?”

  “No,” I say with annoyance. “I don’t run a fucking coal mine. All my projects are done with extremely high safety standards.”

  “I apologize, sir, these are just standard questions to determine exposure. Have you had any painful urination lately?”

  “No.”

  “Any back pain or decrease in urinary output?”

  “No, look—I don’t have time for this. Do you know where my phone is? I have an important meeting to attend.”

  “Your mother has your phone. She’s waiting outside.”

  I stare at him in utter confusion for a few seconds. “My mother is dead.”

  “Oh—my apologies. Well, there’s a nice older woman who has been fussing over you since we brought you in.”

  Miranda. Coughing, I grasp the railing again. That means she’s not going to be back at the office in time for the meeting. “Can you ask her to come talk to me and bring my phone? She has to cover the meeting for me.”

  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask that you avoid any stress right now. Until we figure out what’s wrong—”

  “You don’t understand. My company—I just can’t get sick now. If I was dead, then I’d have an excuse to miss work, but as long as I’m conscious and breathing, I need to be in the office.”

  “But you weren’t conscious,” the nurse points out, “and you need assistance breathing.”