Hey there, my Reputationers! I know I have been terrible at updating, but so that you all don't wait ages for the full chapter to come out, I will be posting it in four parts. 

I'd like to send a very special thank you to my good friend Sal Mason for helping me out with this section of the chapter by beta reading and giving some advice and guidance. This 1/4 of a chapter wouldn't even be done right now without her. 

Anyways, here is the first peek at the final chapter of BMR. Enjoy!

***

I wake up to a white room. It doesn't take me long to realize I'm in a hospital bed with an IV in my arm. The pain in my leg is now a dull ache, so I'm thankful for whatever drug is pumping through my veins.

When I start to look around, my restlessness catches the attention of the only other person in the room. He shoots up from his seat in the corner and strolls to my side for a closer inspection. There's a slight hint of worry in his cold eyes before he drops in the seat next to my bed.

"Careful. You don't want to tear the stitches in your leg," Andrew warns, grabbing my arm to keep me still.

"Where's Sabrina?" I had hoped she would be here when I woke up.

"Down at the station. She was released after they patched her up. No doubt she'll be there for a while."

"Fuck." I sink back into my pillow.

"They'll want to question you, too." Even with his even tone, the tremble in his voice suggests that he is mad as hell.

"Shit. Dad, I know I fucked up, but-"

His bitter chuckle cuts into me like a hot knife. "Am I supposed to be shocked? You always fuck up."

"You have to get me out of this."

"Not this time, son." His gravelly voice lowers. "There's a cop outside, watching the door. You might even be a suspect." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm hoping they just see you as a witness. Wrong place at the wrong time. But if you don't cooperate, they'll most likely arrest you."

There's no way in hell I'm getting arrested.

"Come on, Dad-"

"No," he growls, an accusing finger directed at me. "When the cops were sniffing around the house, they found your bloodied-up bed - and then the gun was missing. You had your mother worried." The tremor in his voice implies that Sandra wasn't the only worried one. He hides it well, but he can't fool me anymore.

"Do the cops know about the gun?"

"If they did, you'd be cuffed to the bed right now." Andrew grunts before folding his arms. "My PI was able to pull some strings to get it removed from evidence, but that's as far as my reach went." His eyes darken when our gazes meet. "Don't think there won't be consequences after we get you out of this mess."

After what I've been through these last couple weeks, this threat is the last of my concerns.

"You are lucky that I've had you followed for the past week," he continues, "The ambulance would not have gotten there on time, otherwise."

"You had me followed." I repeat his words.

"It's a good thing I did, too. My guy's the one who called in the gunshots."

There's a knock on the door and I flinch. Andrew's hand comes to rest on my shoulder and I'm surprised that it gives me comfort. When granted entrance by my father, a doctor walks in and stops at the foot of my bed.

She skips the pleasantries. "I'm afraid I have some bad news about the results from the CT scan last night."

I must have still been unconscious when they did that.

Andrew straightens in his chair, his fingers wrapping tightly around the armrests. There's a slight bobbing of his Adam's apple before when he briefly glances in my direction and then back at the doctor. "What kind of bad news?"

She turns her attention to me. "Not too long ago you were admitted here for a concussion and when your girlfriend informed us you've had multiple blows to the head since you were here last, we thought it necessary to check for any further brain damage."

I let out a deep breath. "And what did you find?"

"Mr. Griffin, you have a moderate TBI. A traumatic brain injury." When I don't say anything, she continues, "You been experiencing any impulsive or aggressive behavior, headaches, suicidal thoughts?"

At the mention of suicide, I look at my father.

"Not the last one." I lie smoothly, my eyes on her again.

"Wait a minute," Andrew interjects. "What does this mean, exactly?"

The more she talks, the more my heart sinks. With my leg and the brain damage, the Doc says recovery could take up to at least six months. My father's expression becomes more grim when she adds the cherry on top.

"In some cases, brain damage can be permanent."

***

Sorry! Told you it was short. 

Will be trying my hardest to post the next part ASAP, but I do have to work this weekend. I hope you enjoyed what I gave you so far and if you could leave a comment telling me what you think so far, that would be amazing. I'd really appreciate it. And if you think this small chapter is deserving, you can leave a vote if you like. (:

Until next time,

TheWriterD