Downpour: A Grumpy Sunshine Romance (The Griffith Brothers Book 2)
Downpour: Prologue

Do you know what it sounds like when seventy thousand people fall silent at the same time? I do.

“Tight legs, loose hips,” Marty said. “You all taped up?”

I nodded and blocked everything out. The crowd, the announcer—even the two-thousand-pound beast under my ass. It all faded away.

I was in the zone, and I wasn’t leaving until the title was mine.

“Rider ready.”

Seventy thousand people holding their breath sounds like the hush before a thunderclap.

The chute boss placed a steady hand on my shoulder, ready to catch me in case Homewrecker decided to slam me into the gate before it opened.

“Go Uncle Ray!” my nieces cheered, bouncing up and down.

“You got this, brother!” Christian shouted, followed by a sharp whistle.

Eight seconds.

I never bothered counting in my head. Some riders did, but time had a way of freezing when a beast the size of a wrecking ball was trying to end me. The pain ripping through my shoulder made it hard to tell seven seconds from eight.

I shut my eyes, blocking out everything until all I heard was silence.

The gate swung wide, but Homewrecker paused.

Aw, shit.

Nothing worse than a boring bull.

I needed him to bring everything he had. Fifty points were on me, but the other fifty for bucking and intensity were all up to the animal.

With a grunt, Homewrecker threw me in the air, but I held on. The animal twisted like a tornado, slamming forward and back with each buck.

My hand ached and burned as every muscle and tendon stretched to its limit. I squeezed harder, fighting for every second.

The crowd’s roar crushed my mental block.

Had it been eight seconds or was I just putting on a good show?

Homewrecker veered left then snapped right, catching me off guard. I shifted my hips to counter, but I could tell he was done with me.

He thrashed left and right until my grip failed and he threw me into the air. A hoof connected with my side, and pain exploded through my body.

The ground rushed up to meet me and I slammed into the dirt head-first. The pain stopped immediately.

That’s weird.

I tried to roll onto my knees to get out of the ring, but nothing happened no matter how much I jerked.

Remember how I said the seventy-thousand-strong silence felt like waiting for thunder?

I couldn’t feel a thing, but I sensed the weight of that gasp.

Then shouts erupted like a storm.

“MEDICAL! MEDICAL! GET THE SPINEBOARD!”

“RAY!”

“Stay still,” someone commanded as figures swarmed around me.

No problem there. I wasn’t sure why I couldn’t move, but I just laid there as bodies flooded around me.

My older brother, Christian, had jumped the barrier and was in the ring, kneeling beside me.

That was nice of him.

I didn’t feel anything when he picked up my hand.

Might be here for a while. I could use a nap.

That was the last thing I remembered thinking before it all went black.

Downpour.

ONE WEEK AFTER THE ACCIDENT

That beeping was fucking annoying. Someone needed to shut the damn machine off.

Familiar voices echoed in the distance, like my brothers shouting through a dense haze.

Beep…

Jesus Christ—I wanted to pull the plug myself just so I could get some fucking sleep

I struggled to wrench my eyes open, desperate to locate the source of that infuriating noise, but my lids felt glued shut. My body was numb. Like it didn’t exist. My throat hurt like a bitch, though. Why couldn’t the numbness fix that?

It was like being awake and asleep at the same time—teetering on the threshold of heaven and hell. Eternal limbo.

Beep… Beep… Beep…

Fuck me.

THREE WEEKS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

Beep… Beep…

Was this what hell was like? Just one annoying beeping sound for all eternity?

Fuck me sideways. It was grating.

The voices had grown louder. Maybe I was going insane.

Orbs of gray and white floated across my field of vision, bending the darkness.

Goddamnit!

Fire lit up my throat in a blaze. It felt like a knife ripping through my windpipe. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t.

Why couldn’t I scream? Was I still in the ring? My head rocked, but I wasn’t the one controlling it.

Something soft was behind my skull. It didn’t feel like the dirt of the arena.

The burning eased to a simmer and the beeping slowed.

Thank fuck for that. It was still annoying, though.

The orbs of light widened, mellowing the blackness to a bleak storm.

Pain lanced down the back of my neck like a bolt of lightning. With each shot of agony, the grayness grew to familiar pink.

Huh. I could see the veins behind my eyelids. That was new.

Could I lift them?

I focused my effort and peered through protein-crusted lashes at the blurry lump to my left.

Was that Christian? Spectators weren’t supposed to get in the ring. What was he doing here?

I tried calling out to tell him to get the fuck out of the arena, but I couldn’t form the words.

Bright stabs of light split my head open like a watermelon falling off the back of a pickup truck.

Motherfucker! Nope. Not doing that.

I slammed my eyes shut again. I tried to breathe through the migraine, but that was a bad idea, too. My throat was coated in acid, and lifting my chest to fill my lungs was damn near impossible.

My cheek itched but I couldn’t replace my hand to scratch it.

I tried to call out to Christian again, but I couldn’t get the words out.

My mouth was sandy and parched. I had eaten dirt more times than I could count in my bull riding career, but this felt different.

I debated taking another look. The pounding migraine was coming either way.

I forced my eyes open.

Christian was sitting beside me, reading a book. I had thumbed through that one when I was at his house last week.

It was a Jordan Loft title that had a twist at the end. From the look on his face, he hadn’t gotten to it yet.

“Chris,” I croaked, and this time, he glanced up.

“Ray?” he rasped.

I blinked.

Damn, he looked like shit. That publicist he was seeing must’ve been keeping him busy at night.

My mouth felt like a cotton ball. I tried to lick my lips, but my tongue was dry too. I tried to ask him why I wasn’t at the arena, but the darkness grew again, floating around the edges of my vision.

My head rocked as he slammed his hand into the panel beside me. Something hard and plastic pressed against my mouth.

Maybe that was why he couldn’t hear me.

A wrecking ball rolled around in my head as I flicked my eyes down to get a look at it.

Christian reached over and lifted the thing off my mouth.

“My score?”

Goddamn, it hurt to talk. What the hell was wrong with my throat?

Christian reached into his pocket and pulled out the championship buckle. He placed it in my hand, but I couldn’t feel it.

“Ninety-one point nine,” he said.

I’d won.

So why wasn’t the crowd cheering?

TWO MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

I was fully convinced that whoever stippled popcorn ceilings did it in patterns that mimicked those psychology tests. For sixty endless days, I’d been trapped in this childhood bedroom turned prison.

Sixty motherfucking days of pissing in a bedpan. Sixty excruciating days of Mom feeding me like an infant and wiping the drool and crumbs from my chin. Sixty insufferable days of my brothers carrying my body around the goddamn house just so I could see something beyond these four fucking walls.

Sixty days of wishing I had died in that arena.

FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

My hands itched like a thousand fire ants were crawling under my skin. It was annoying as hell, and it had been happening more and more after each visit to my sadistic physical therapist. Probably because she took joy in electrocuting me.

According to her, functional electrical stimulation was supposed to help me regain use of my body. So far all it did was make me itch so bad I wanted to claw my own flesh off.

I stared at my useless hands, desperate to scratch but unable to do anything about it. No way in hell was I going to call someone in here just to scratch my goddamn hand.

Then again, I was tired of being awake. I wanted to close the curtains, lay down, and pretend I didn’t exist.

Sleeping was the closest I could get to being dead. Maybe that’s why I craved it so much.

Muscle atrophy be damned.

I’d waste away in this room, slowly going mad staring at the fucking popcorn ceiling, counting the bumps until my mind turned to mush.

SIX MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

“The surgery went as expected. Like we all discussed during the trial screening, it’s extremely invasive. The recovery is going to be rough. We’ll continue to monitor the electrodes that were implanted along his spine for the next few days to make sure the surgery site starts healing and there are no complications. If all goes well, we’ll be able to work with his care team to set up the pulse generator and start the rehab program.”

I stared blankly at the wall as the surgeon updated my mom.

The surgeon sighed. “This kind of stimulation therapy is brand new and very experimental. It’s one of just a few clinical trials in the world. I can’t promise anything. We simply don’t have the data to know what will happen.”

Did the risk really matter at this point? Might as well be a lab rat for this experimental science shit. Not like my body was good for anything else.

EIGHT MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

The itch in my hand flared up again. I swore under my breath and wrenched my eyes from the TV screen. The channel had shifted from the morning news to some unbearable soap opera. I hadn’t bothered changing it with the clicker my brother, Nate, bought online.

He’d been so goddamn excited to set up that curved metal arm for me. As if I should be thrilled to change the channel by biting down on a button with my teeth.

I’d rather endure the melodramatic garbage.

I groaned and let my head fall back against the pillow, drained from the physical therapy session. I hadn’t done much beyond being twisted and prodded like a lifeless doll, but it had still worn me out.

Christian had dragged me to the PT appointment today, going on about the benefits of therapy for his own mental well-being and the wonders the family counselor he took my nieces to had done for all of them.

Apparently, his therapist had an available appointment if I felt like opening up.

I didn’t.

What was the point in dissecting the fact that I was quadriplegic. That I was unable to move an inch beyond my neck because I had to ride one more bull, had to claim one more championship? Because I just couldn’t quit while I was ahead.

I didn’t need to dig into any of it. It was what it was.

After months, the soreness from the breathing tube had finally faded, and the uncontrollable coughing had subsided. Unfortunate, really, since it meant people expected me to carry on a conversation when they barged into my room unannounced.

There was nothing to say.

I despised the empty platitudes, the hollow niceties, the patronizing smiles, and the well-meaning sentiments.

But what I hated most was the goddamn itch in my hand.

I shut my eyes, grasping at the fading memory of what it felt like to flex my muscles and move.

But I did.

My hand tilted to the side and brushed against a throw pillow. The coarse textured fabric soothed my itch.

Did I actually… I concentrated on my wrist—on the muscles there—as if I could will them back to life.

Sweat beaded on my forehead and the itch intensified. And then…

I moved.

My hand shifted left and right as I scratched the itch against the pillow.

NINE MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

“What the hell?” Christian stood in the doorway with his jaw on top of his boots.

I raised the hospital-grade cup to my lips and sipped through the bent straw.

The plate slipped from my brother’s hand and crashed to the floor. Mashed potatoes splattered as peas scattered across the hardwood. A pang of sadness gripped me as the meatloaf landed on his boot.

Damn it… I loved meatloaf.

The scent had been taunting me for an hour, and I was starving.

Christian gaped. “I must be hallucinating from when I hit my head on the tractor earlier.”

“Sorry,” I said, setting the cup on the tray beside the raised bed. The mattress felt like it had been sewn from Satan’s flesh. I had it to thank for the ache in my shoulders and neck.

He stared with disbelief etched on his face. “Do that again.”

I glanced up. “I’d rather not. It hurts like hell.”

“What the fuck, man?” He ran his hand down his beard, his jaw tightening and his lips trembling.

I gritted my teeth as I watched the tears stream down his face. I hadn’t shed a tear since waking in that hospital bed. So why was he crying?

“Ray, what the fuck? You’re moving!”

“I was thirsty.”

He didn’t move for the plate, the squished potatoes, or the meatloaf. “Y-you…picked it up.”

“I just learned how to use my hand again,” I said. “Don’t make me use it to flip you off.”

I didn’t mention the month of therapy I’d spent working on it.

Apparently, that itch was a good thing.

ONE YEAR AFTER THE ACCIDENT

The smell of lumber and sawdust lingered in the air as I wheeled myself up the ramp to my new house.

It was a work in progress, with missing closet doors, exposed electrical sockets, and half-installed appliances. None of that mattered to me. I could always pay someone to deal with the details later.

I shoved on the wheels to push myself up the last bit of the wheelchair ramp, ignoring the ache in my arms.

This land had been mine since birth. All three of my brothers had their own plots, too. Christian and Nate had built their homes years ago. They were older and ready to settle down with their families. I’d held onto my piece even while living in Colorado for most of my twenties.

Sure, I let them use it for the cattle, but I never developed it myself.

I made it onto the porch and spun myself around with a sigh. I never thought my piece of the Griffith Brothers Ranch would need to be wheelchair accessible.

But at least I was alone.

Christian and Nate’s houses stood to the east, with the main house a little north of that. Cassandra, Christian’s fiancé and the ranch’s property manager, was busy overseeing the construction of the lodge and restaurant on the west side.

Nobody ventured out to the south end where my house was tucked away. It was intentionally obscured by a veil of trees and accessible only by a dirt path winding around the ranch, out to the service road.

I pushed the front door open and breathed in the crisp smell of fresh paint.

“Oh, hello!” an unexpected voice greeted me from inside, shattering my moment of peace. “You must be Ray.”

I sat, motionless, and stared at the stern-looking, gray-haired woman who was looking back at me. She’d invited herself into my home and was putting sheets on…

My jaw clenched.

That fucking hospital bed had been moved from my parents’ place to mine.

I wanted to spin my chair around, slam the door shut, and set this place on fire.

“I don’t care who you are,” I growled, rolling back from the doorway. “Just get out of my house.”

The woman laughed as if I was kidding.

I wasn’t.

“Your momma told me you were a little prickly.” She offered a warm smile. “But it doesn’t bother me. I’m just here to help.”

Her scrubs told me as much, but I wasn’t having it.

I stabbed a finger at the door. “Out.”

ONE YEAR AND ONE MONTH AFTER THE ACCIDENT

Christian sat on my couch, pressing his fingers to his eyes. “You can’t keep firing people.”

“That’s the fourth CNA you’ve scared off this week,” CJ pointed out. “Do you think these people grow on trees?”

Becks took a nicer approach. “It’s a small town. There aren’t many options.”

Nate nodded in agreement.

I didn’t bother looking up from the length of rope I was tying in knots. My brothers and sisters-in-law were the ones who staged this intervention. They weren’t owed my attention.

I loosened the overhand knot so I could tie it again. It was a mind-numbing activity that helped improve the dexterity in my hands.

“Then stop sending people where they’re not wanted,” I muttered.

Cassandra snorted and glanced at Christian. “Told you.”

My future sister-in-law was the only person I could stand at the moment, but only because she was the only one who left me alone.

Nate tried again, his voice a mix of patience and exasperation. “I know it’s not ideal⁠—“

Ideal? Did they really think I enjoyed being waited on hand and foot?

“—but either you let us help you, or you stop firing the people who are hired to help you,” he finished, making their terms clear.

I pulled the lever on my chair and rolled into the bedroom. “Send someone else out here and see what happens.”

ONE DAY AFTER THAT

“I quit. Never in my life have I been subjected to someone as rude and mean and⁠—”

I slammed the door before the guy could finish his sentence.

Good riddance.

ONE YEAR AND FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

“Raymond Tyler Griffith! You did not change the locks on your doors.”

My mother’s furious shouts carried through the windowpane. No doubt, she had stormed down from her place after another home health aide failed to get in with the spare key.

At least the blinds were closed.

I stared at the kitchen ceiling as the cool floor tiles bit into my back. Sharp pain lanced through my hips and neck.

My wheelchair was toppled over a few feet away, surrounded by a mess of shattered glass. The steady stream from the tap was now joined by trickles of water cascading off the counter and onto the slowly flooding floor.

Lucky for me, Momma couldn’t see me like this.

Not so lucky for me, I was stranded on the floor until I figured out how to get up.