by Scott, Kylie
Repeat
by New York Times Bestselling Author
Kylie Scott
Repeat
Copyright © 2019 by Kylie Scott
Cover Design: By Hang Le
Cover Photograph: Brian Kaminksi
Interior Book Design: JT Formatting
ISBN: 978-0995434387
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
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Chapter One
The shop sits on a busy street in the cool downtown neighborhood of Portland, Maine. Larsen and Sons Tattoo Parlor is written on the window in elegant script. Inside, music plays, two guys lounge on a green velvet chaise flicking through books. It’s all very clean and neat and awesome looking. And there’s a sound like an electric drill in the air.
The girl behind the counter stops, mouth gaping when she sees me. She’s pretty and petite with a shaved head.
“Hi,” I say, attempting a smile. “Can I speak to—”
“Are you fucking kidding me,” a deep voice booms.
I meet the eyes of a tall man covered in tattoos. Shortish, light brown hair, lean but muscular. He wears jeans and designer sneakers, a T-shirt advertising some band. For sure, he’d be handsome if he wasn’t scowling at me. Actually, strike that. He’s handsome period, irrespective of his glare. His angular jaw is covered in stubble and it frames perfect lips. Straight nose, high cheekbones. Unlike me, this man is a work of art.
“No, not happening,” he says, striding over. His large hand wraps around my upper arm, grip firm though not cruel. “You don’t get to come back.”
“Don’t touch me.” My words are ignored as he marches me back toward the door. Panic bubbles up inside and I slap his chest hard. “Hey, buddy. Do. Not. Touch. Me.”
At that, he blinks, a little startled. “Buddy?”
I don’t know what he was expecting, but he lets go. It takes me a full minute to get my breathing back under control. Dammit. Meanwhile, everyone is watching. The girl behind the counter and the two guys waiting on the chaise. The woman with brown skin and big beautiful hair holding a tattoo gun and the older woman she’s working on. We have quite the audience assembled. The man screaming about being back in black over the sound system is the only noise.
“You need to leave,” he says, voice quieter this time, though no less harsh.
“I have a few questions I need to ask you first.”
“No.”
“Did you do this?” I ask, pulling up the sleeve on my T-shirt to display my shoulder. It’s a beautiful piece. A cluster of violets with olive-green stems and leaves. It’s almost like a scientific drawing, but missing the root structure.
His gaze narrows. “Of course I did it.”
“I was your client. Okay.” That’s now a definite. Good. Definites give my world structure and help things make sense. Unknowns just piss me off. “Did I not pay you or something?”
“’the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re angry.”
And it’s obvious the moment he sees my brow. The hostility and confusion in his eyes changes to surprise.
I immediately smooth down my bangs, trying to hide. Stupid to get self-conscious, but I can’t help it.
He gently brushes my hand aside, parting my hair to see. An intimate gesture that sets me on edge. As hands-on as tattooing must be, the way he’s touching me and getting in my space is . . . more. I try to step back, but there’s nowhere to go. Besides, he’s not actually hurting me, just making me nervous. And as much as I abhor being crowded, some part of me doesn’t mind him touching me.
Weird. Maybe I need sex or something. Maybe he’s my type. I don’t know.
Deep lines are embedded in his forehead as he studies me. This is exactly the reason I cut my hair in the first place. The scar starts an inch into my hairline, ending below my right eyebrow. It’s wide and jagged, dark pink.
That’s enough. I put a hand to his chest, pushing him back. Happily, he goes. A small step, at least.
“So you know me?” I ask, trying to clarify things. “Like, as more than a customer.”
The man just stares. I don’t know what his expression means. A mix of unhappy and perplexed, maybe? He really is quite handsome. A new song starts, this time it’s a woman singing.
“Well?”
Finally, he speaks. “What the fuck happened to you?”
A week earlier . . .
“Are you ready?”
I stop kicking my feet and hop down off the hospital bed. “Yeah.”
“Good. The car’s waiting in the drop-off zone and we’ll go straight home. Everything’s organized,” says my sister, a confident smile on her face. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not worried,” I lie.
“Did you want to see the photos of my house again?”
“No. It’s fine.”
My sister’s name is Frances (not Fran or Frannie), and she’s a police officer who lives in North Deering. She blames herself for what happened. It probably comes with the job.
At thirty, Frances is five years older than me. We have the same strawberry-blond hair and blue eyes, small breasts and child-birthing hips. Her words, not mine, and I told her it was a shitty descriptor. But given my current condition, there’s something to be said for relying on others’ descriptions.
Anyway, my sister and I look alike. I’ve seen this in various photos and in the mirror, so it’s a definite.
“Hey, Clem.” Nurse Mike sticks his head around the doorway. “Everything’s sorted; you’re good to go. Any last-minute questions or anything?”
I shake my head.
“Call Doctor Patel’s office if you have any problems, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Keep in touch, kid. Let me know how things go.”
“Okay.”
Mike disappears.
“Did you want to bring the flowers?” asks my sister.
I shake my head. This is it. Time to go. Frances just stands by the door, waiting.
My first memory is of waking up in this hospital, but really, I was born late at night on an inner-city street. A couple found me unconscious and bleeding on the sidewa
lk. No identification. Handbag and wallet missing. And the weapon, a blood-splattered empty bottle of scotch, lay abandoned nearby. Walter, half of the pair who found me, gets teary every time he describes that night. But Jack, his partner, did two tours in ’Nam and has seen far worse. They’re the first ones who brought me flowers. Not that I got many. My friends are few.
Previous me had, apparently, gone out to dinner alone. Her last meal consisted of cheese and spinach ravioli in a pumpkin sauce with a bottle of Peroni. (Detective Chen said it’s a yeasty Italian beer that goes well with pasta. It sounds nice. I might try it sometime.) From there, security cameras have her withdrawing a hundred and fifty dollars before walking off into the night. There were no cameras on the quiet side street where she’d parked the car. No one around apart from the attacker.
That’s how Clementine Johns died.
Out in the hallway, there’s a mix of patients, visitors, and medical staff. Same as always for midmorning. I wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants. It’s nice to be wearing actual clothes. Black sandals, blue jeans, and a white T-shirt. Nothing too exciting; nothing that would make me stand out. I want to blend in, watch and learn. Because if we’re the sum of our experiences, then I’m nothing and no one.
Frances watches me out of the corner of her eye, but doesn’t say anything. Something she does a lot. I’d say her silence makes me paranoid, but I’m already paranoid.
“Sure you’re all right?” she asks while we wait for the elevator.
“Yes.”
The elevator arrives and we step inside. When it starts to move, my nervous stomach swoops and drops. Through the crowded lobby we go, then out into the sunshine. Blue summer sky, a couple of green trees, and lots of gray concrete. Nearby traffic, people, and lots of movement. A light breeze ruffles my hair.
The lights on a nearby white sedan flash once and Frances opens the trunk for me to deposit my small suitcase. Anxiety turns into excitement, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. I’ve seen them on TV, but I’ve never actually been in a car since that night.
Now . . .
“Amnesia,” he mutters for about the hundredth time. Usually, ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, or some blasphemy follows that statement. This time, however, there’s nothing. Maybe he’s finally getting used to the idea.
I sit on the opposite side of the booth, inspecting the cocktail menu. It’s as gross and sticky as the table.
“Can I get you guys something else?” asks the waiter with a practiced smile.
“I’ll have a piña colada.”
“You hate coconut,” Ed Larsen informs me, slumped back in his seat.
“Oh.”
“Try a margarita.”
“What he said,” I tell the waiter, who presumably thinks we have some kinky dom-sub thing going on.
Ed orders another lite beer, watching me the entire time. I don’t know if his blatant examination is better or worse than my sister’s furtive looks. He’d suggested going back to his place to talk. I declined. I don’t know the guy, and it didn’t feel safe. So instead we came here. The bar is dark and mostly empty, given it’s the middle of the afternoon, but at least it’s public.
“How old are you?” I ask.
In response, he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and passes me his driver’s license.
“Thank you.” Information is good. More definites. “You’re seven years older than me.”
“Yeah.”
“How serious were we? Did we stay together for long?”
He licks his lips, turns away. “Don’t you have someone else you can ask about all this? Your sister?”
I just look at him.
He frowns, but then sighs. “We saw each other for about half a year before moving in together. That lasted eight months.”
“Pretty serious.”
“If you say so.” His face isn’t happy. But I need to know.
“Did I cheat on you?”
Now the frown comes with a glare.
Despite his don’t-fuck-with-me vibes, it’s hard not to smile. The man is blessed in the DNA department. He’s so pretty. Masculine pretty. I’m not used to being attracted to people, and he’s giving me a heart-beating-harder, tingles-in-the-pants kind of sensation, which is a lot new and a little overwhelming. Makes me want to giggle and flip my hair at him like some vapid idiot.
But I don’t. “It’s just that I’m getting some distinct vibes that somehow I’m the bad guy in all this.”
“No, you didn’t cheat on me,” he growls. “And I didn’t cheat on you either, no matter what you might have thought.”
My brows jump. “Huh. So that’s why we broke up?”
“This is fucked. Actually, it was fucked the first time.” He turns away and finishes the last of his beer. “Jesus.”
I just keep quiet, waiting.
“You have no memories, no feelings about me whatsoever?”
“No, nothing.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw, his hands sitting fisted on the table.
“It’s called traumatic retrograde amnesia,” I say, trying to explain. “What they call my ‘episodic memory’ is gone—all my memories of events and people and history. Personal facts. But I can still make a cup of coffee, read a book, or drive a car. Stuff like that. Things that were done repetitively, you know? Not that I’m allowed to drive at the moment. My car’s sitting outside my sister’s house gathering dust. They said to give it some time before I got behind the wheel again, make sure I’m okay. Also, apparently the part of my brain in charge of inhibitions and social restrictors, et cetera, is a bit messed up, so I don’t always react right, or at least not necessarily how you’d expect me to behave based on previous me.”
“Previous you?”
I shrug. “It’s as good a label for her as any.”
“She’s you. You’re her.”
“Maybe. But she’s still a complete stranger to me.”
“Christ,” he mutters.
This is awkward. “I’m upsetting you. I’m sorry. But there are things I need to know, and I’m hoping you can help me out with some of them.”
Our drinks arrive, the glass of the margarita lined with salt and smelling of lemon. I take a sip and smile. “I like it.”
He reaches grimly for his beer, the ink on his forearm shifting with the muscle beneath. His tattoos cover a variety of topics. A bottle marked “poison” with skull and crossbones set amongst roses. An anatomical heart. A tattoo gun (very meta). A lighthouse with waves crashing below. I wonder if it’s the Portland Headlight, the famous one at Cape Elizabeth. There was something on TV about it the other day. His tattoos are hypnotic in a way. As if, combined, they tell a story, if only you could understand.
Ed pushes his beer aside. “So, because you don’t remember, I should just forget all the shit you pulled and help you? Because that was all the ‘previous you’ and not the girl sitting in front of me?”
“That’s your decision to make, of course.”
“Thanks, Clem.” His voice is bitter, full of a kind of controlled rage. “That’s real fucking big of you.”
I flinch, unused to people swearing at me. Not that he hasn’t been swearing in my general vicinity since the moment we met, but for some reason, this time it has an effect on me. Can’t help but wonder how angry does he get, exactly? The man is taller than me, his shoulders broader than mine. And I’ve already had a small taste of the strength he holds in his hands.
“Shit.” He sighs at my reaction. “Clem, don’t . . . don’t do that. I would never hurt you.”
Unsure of what to say, I down more of my drink.
“You don’t know me; I get it,” he says, voice softer, gentler. “Look at me, Clementine.”
When I do, his eyes are full of remorse and he’s sad now. Not angry.
“I would never hurt you, I swear it. You’re safe with me.”
“Okay.” Slowly, I nod. “It’s a stupid name, don’t you think?”
“Yours? I don’
t know. I always liked it.”
I almost smile.
“You’re staying with your sister?”
“Yes.”
“How’s that going?”
“It’s all right.”
The side of his mouth lifts briefly. “You and Frances were always fighting about something.”
“Actually, that makes sense.” I laugh. “Did she approve of you?”
“You’d have to ask her that.”
“Oh, I have lots of questions for her.”
This time, when he looks at me, it’s more of a thoughtful kind of thing. Like he’s processing. I’ve given him a lot of information, and I know it takes a while to sort things out in your head. So I drink my margarita and watch the woman behind the bar, the two men sitting on stools, chatting. Even though their hygiene standards are lacking, I like the place. It’s relaxed.
Maybe it’s my kind of place.
“I don’t seem to have many friends,” I say, a question popping into my head. “Was I always like that, a bit of a loner?”
He shakes his head. “You had friends. But apparently you cut them all off when you left me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he says, shoulders dropping slightly. “Maybe you wanted a fresh start. Maybe you just didn’t want to talk about the breakup and shit. Maybe you just wanted to be left alone.”
Huh.
“Give me your phone; I’ll put my details in.” He holds out a hand. “You would have deleted me from your contacts.”
“Oh, I don’t have one. My bag and everything was taken in the attack.”
His brows rise. “You’re walking around without a cell? Clem, that’s not safe.”
“Pretty sure having a phone didn’t make much of a difference last time.”
“Finish up your drink.” He tips his chin at the glass. “I’ll give you a lift back to Frances’s place. We’ll stop by a shop on the way and get you some things.”
It’s an interesting idea. And he seems like a nice man, one who used to care about me. But from what little he said about the breakup, it sounds as if it was a special level of hell. Despite his assurances, he might very well have cheated on me. Crushed my heart. Torn apart my life. Shit like that.
