by Hart, Rye
I can tell she doesn't believe a word I'm saying. Of course not. Everything I said was little more than the cliché garbage most men say to avoid making a woman cry while they try to let them down as gently as they possibly can. In this case though, it also happens to be true.
Better Marianne learn that now instead of finding out what a jackass I am months down the line. Not to mention, now that Sydney is back in my life, there’s no room for anyone else.
“Goodbye, Marianne,” I say. “And thanks again. I really appreciate everything.”
The phone clicks before I even finish my sentence. Good for her. She may not believe it, but it's the, smartest decision she could have possibly made for herself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SYDNEY
“Where am I?” I ask.
My voice comes out sounding distant, as if I'm standing in some long, dark tunnel and can hear it echoing away from me. I blink once. Twice. And on the third time, my surroundings finally start coming into focus.
I'm in a jet. Not just any jet though, but a posh, private one. The cabin is gorgeously appointed and has plush, luxury seats that I sink back into. I look down and notice that there's a glass of champagne at my side.
It's then that I notice I'm not alone either.
I turn my head and see that there's a man sitting across the aisle from me. He's handsome and statuesque. His body is chiseled to perfection, and his cheek bones are almost painfully sharp. He looks like he was carved from marble and has the features of a model or a Hollywood leading man. He's beautiful to look at in profile. His good looks though, are only amplified when he looks up from his newspaper and smiles at me.
“Looks who's finally awake,” he says, putting the paper down and walks over to sit beside me, taking his hand in mine. “We're going to be landing in about twenty minutes.”
“Where are we going?” I ask him, a thick fog of confusion enveloping my mind.
The man cocks his head to the side like a curious puppy, seemingly surprised by my question. He looks at me as if I should already know the answer to that.
“I've already told you, Sydney,” he says. “We're going to Aspen. I know how much you love skiing.”
“I do,” I say. “Or rather, I used to. It's been so long.”
It has been too long. I should rectify that.
“We'll take care of that,” he says with a playful wink.
It all feels so real, and yet, I can't remember the man's name. He looks so familiar to me, but I can't put a name to that handsome face. I reach out with my mind, trying to grasp is, but it escapes me. His identity is like the moon passing behind some swift moving clouds – there one moment, gone the next.
Our conversation ebbs and flows, as he talks about work – what does he do again? Oh yeah, he's taking over the family business. Business is obviously going well, considering the private jet, the champagne and the expensive suit he's wearing.
He's obviously a man of tremendous means. But who is he? Perhaps, more importantly, how did I end up with him in this jet on our way to Aspen?
The unknown man leans forward and brushes his lips against mine, but I feel nothing. Nothing at all. No butterflies in my belly, no electric charge that usually accompanies a kiss – there's just no sensation at all.
Probably because this is only a dream. Since it's only a dream, I can ask him this question without fear.
“What's your name?”
The man recoils and looks stunned, almost upset at me, but then he smiles playfully. He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze as he looks into my eyes.
“Oh, that's right. You've lost your memory,” he says. “Don't worry, it'll come back to you. That's what all the doctors say, at least. I certainly hope they're right because I can't imagine what it would be like to go through life not remembering anything.”
He still didn't answer my question.
“Who are you?”
“I'm your boyfriend, Sydney,” he says. “Can't you at least remember your boyfriend? I'd like to think I'm a pretty memorable guy.”
My mind flashes to Jack. I see his ruggedly handsome face and those delicate yet piercing blue eyes. As if he can read my mind, the man's face darkens, and he snaps.
“Not him. He's your ex-boyfriend. Keep it straight,” he growls. “Tell me my name, Sydney. Think. Who am I?”
His eyes turn red and his voice causes the plane to shake. I grip the arm rests on my seat fiercely, my knuckles growing white as the plane vibrates and trembles like we're passing through some major turbulence.
A name flashes in my head. Peter.
“Peter?” I say the word out loud.
I pull myself out of the dream, the fear and uncertainty drifting away from me like cobwebs on a gentle breeze. The dream is over, and yet I'm still shaking.
I sit up, trying to figure out where I'm at when a dog clobbers me and covers my face with kisses, knocking me back onto the bed. He is the reason for the shaking and trembling I felt, I surmise. The bed must have been shaking when the big dog climbed onto the bed and got himself situated, his entire body wiggling from excitement when he saw me there.
Gunner. I remember the dog's name better than I can my own boyfriend's. Yes, I'm pretty sure the man from the dream is real, and that he is – or at least was – my boyfriend. But where is he? Why isn't he looking for me? Why is Jack keeping me from him?
Footsteps come rushing down the hallway and Gunner jumps from the bed, rushing toward Jack, wiggling and whining furiously as he enters the room.
“I'm sorry about that, Sydney,” Jack says. “I didn't think Gunner would come up here without me. Guess I was wrong. He's taken quite a liking to you.”
“It's okay.” I wipe dog slobber from my face.
Jack must notice the frown on my face, because he comes forward with a handkerchief and hands it to me.
“He must really like you,” he says softly. “I know you're not much of a dog person – ”
“It's fine, I'm not mad at him,” I say.
The dog is standing beside Jack and giving me the most pitiful look, as if to apologize for waking me up. Or maybe for drooling all over me, it's impossible to tell which. I reach down and scratch his ears, my frown disappearing as I stroke the soft fur.
“It's nothing,” I say. “I just had a dream, that's all.”
“Oh yeah?” Jack asks. “Care to talk about it?”
Jack joins me on the bed, carefully sitting on the edge, Gunner following close behind. “Who's Peter?” I ask.
Jack freezes and the small smile that had been on his lips slides completely off his face. I can't even hear him breathe for a moment, and he just stares at me, studying my face for a very long time. Finally, he looks away and he answers slowly.
“I believe he's your boyfriend,” he says. “But, I honestly don't know exactly who he is.”
“So, you know of him?”
I arch my eyebrow at him, accusation flashing through my eyes. Jesus. So, I have a boyfriend after all. “I met him, briefly, yes.”
“You met him?” I ask, confusion and anger warring within me. “And you didn't think to tell me about him?”
My rage is suddenly amplified, stamping out all traces of confusion. I roll over, getting up and out of the bed and pace the bedroom. As I walk back and forth in a huff, I pick up my pants and throw them on hastily. It's hard to be taken seriously or hold onto your righteous indignation when you're half-naked. Gunner watches me from the bed, his tail wagging and that doggy smile crossing his face every time I step close to him.
“Sydney, he was the last person to see you before I found you walking down the street with that gash in the back of your head,” Jack says evenly. “I was afraid he might be involved. More afraid that since he hurt you once, he might come back and try to do it again.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“Of course.”
“But you couldn't tell me?”
He sighs, and I assume he's going to fight me on this.
�
�Yeah, maybe I should have said something before – last night,” he says, sounding miserable. “But, you know what? I tried to stop it. A couple of times, and you begged me – ”
“But I didn't know I had a boyfriend!” I shriek. “That kinda changes the entire equation, doesn't it?”
“A boyfriend who probably put you in the hospital, Syd!” he shouts back. “A boyfriend who left you for dead in freezing temperatures! You were in that hospital for over a week and not once did he try and find you!”
He stands up from the bed and walks over to me, and I stand my ground, narrowing my eyes and gritting my teeth. Jack doesn't scare me, not in the least. Hell, maybe that's stupid of me, considering the fact that he's three times my size and built like football player. I seem to recall him telling me that he was a Marine once, which might help explain his rock-solid body.
Something tells me though, that Jack isn't the person I need to fear. Something tells me that I'm safe with him; that he'll never raise a hand to me, and he'll never hurt me. Those thoughts though, lead me down a path that comes to one inescapable conclusion. If Jack won't hurt me and I have nothing to fear from him, then...
“Do you really think he hurt me?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Peter?”
“I'm pretty sure he did, yeah,” he says. “But I can't prove anything. I ran into you at Daisy's that night. Things were awkward and uncomfortable, so I left you two there. Later, I swung by the cafe again and found you walking down the street like I told you before. Daisy says you left with Peter, and only Peter, and so far, the police can't locate him to ask what happened. So, I'm just filling in the pieces that seem to fit logically, and it doesn't look good for him. But, only you can tell us what happened for sure, Syd.”
Great. Just fucking great. I'm the only one who can solve this mystery. Which is going to be no easy feat since my memories are scrambled inside of my head like the world's messiest omelet.
Jack reaches out to comfort me, and I let him. I want to be in his arms again. Closing my eyes, I relax into him, feel his hard, strong, warm body pressed to mine, and listen to his heart beating steadily. It's comforting and makes me feel safe and protected. Somehow, I feel like this is where I've belonged all along.
“I'm scared, Jack,” I whisper.
“You have nothing to be afraid of, Sydney,” he says. “I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise you that.”
I'm not sure how I can explain to him that Peter doesn't scare me. Maybe he should though, but I can't remember. No, the fear is about not remembering anything. The fear is never getting my memory back. The idea that I might lose entire parts of my life and never be able to recover them again scares me more than anything in the world.
Even big, strong Jack can't save me from that.
ooo000ooo
Neither one of us mention what happened between us again. Which is probably for the best since I really need to try and figure out what the hell happened to me. I don’t need emotions complicating the process.
All we have now are suppositions and speculations; nothing concrete, and certainly nothing we can convict Peter on. I will say though, even though I can't remember anything from that night, I don't have any good feelings toward Peter. When I think of him and recall the face I saw in my dream, I feel – nothing. Only cold. Numb. In fact, the bits and blurbs that come through the haze in my mind aren't happy memories. It all feels so forced and strained.
“Did you ever call my parents?” I ask Jack later that evening as he prepares dinner.
“No, I figured you would, when you were up to it,” he says.
“So, they don't know about the accident?”
Jack shakes his head as he washes his hands. “No, not yet. I don't have their number, for one thing,” he says. “And two, your parents never liked me very much. Figured I'm the last person they'd want to hear from.”
“Do you mind if I call them, after dinner?”
“Call them now, if you can remember their number,” he says.
Oh yeah. I don't know their number either, and the reminder hits me like a ton of bricks. I stare at my hands, an overwhelming feeling of helplessness washing over me again. Tears well up in my eyes and I look down at the floor, shaking my head.
“Hey now,” Jack says, wiping his hands on a towel hanging on a bar near the sink. He comes over and gently rests a hand on my shoulder. “It's okay. We can look them up. Anything can be found online these days. It won't take much. We'll figure it out.”
“I hate this. I hate my brain right now,” I moan. “I can't even remember my parent's telephone number. I'd be hopeless without you.”
He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, then turns his laptop around to face me. “Here, let's look them up.”
I shake my head and wipe my eyes. “No, we can do it after dinner.”
“No, right now. You need to talk to them,” he says. “Dinner can wait a bit.”
He starts typing their names into Google, and after clicking a few different links and following a few dead ends, their information finally comes up. Jack hands me his cellphone.
“You can go into my office for some privacy,” he says. “But maybe not mention my name or that you're here at my place?”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Like I said,” he says and shrugs, “they never liked me much.”
I nod, slowly, and stare at the phone in my hand. I can call them, maybe get some answers.
“What should I tell them?”
Jack doesn't answer me. He can't answer me. If I can't tell them I'm with him, what is there to say? That I lost my memory and I'm stuck in Redstone with a man I can't remember, but they apparently hate? I put the phone down on the table and shut the laptop.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I say. “It's already getting late and I need to figure this all out before I talk to them.”
“You can call whenever you like, Syd,” he says, going back to the stove. “Just be prepared. You might not like what they have to say. If I remember correctly, they never were ones to let you live your own life without their interjections.”
I wonder why my parents would dislike him so much. I find it hard to believe anything could sway how I feel about Jack. Even though I've technically only known him a few days, at least as far as my memory goes, he seems too perfect to be true. Maybe that's a bad thing. Maybe I'm clinging on to these warm feelings he's inspiring in me now, but there's something dark and sinister in the past.
Of course, the only way to find out would be to call my parents and ask. But, something also tells me I won't like what they have to say. Not just about Jack, but about everything else in my life.
My parents are one thing I haven't forgotten. Probably because the mark they've left on me and my life is indelible. Not even amnesia can wipe it all way. As I think about it, I recall that they've always been up my ass about everything. I love them dearly, but I remember they stress me out on a good day. When I'm far from home, suffering from amnesia and staying with a man they don't approve of, I can only imagine the hell they'll give me.
“Like I said, maybe tomorrow. Maybe a good night's rest outside of the hospital will help,” I say.
The dream from earlier had offered me some pieces; bits and scraps that maybe will help me unlock my memories. Maybe, with a good night's sleep, I'll have more dreams, something that will help me put the pieces of the puzzle back together.
“Hopefully so,” Jack says.
He doesn't sound convinced at all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JACK
“There's a spare room down here, if you'd prefer,” I say.
I walk her down the end of the hallway, past my office. There are actually several spare rooms, some of them sitting empty. I have more house than I need for just me and Gunner, rooms I don't think I've stepped into except when I bought the place.
They just sit there, unused. Most days though, I don't think about the emptiness. The quiet
and solitude, the absolute peace I find up here, is well worth dealing with a little wave of loneliness now and then.
“It has a private bathroom room,” I say. “And, it's already made up.”
I can see the look on her face, as she weighs the options in her mind. Down here, she's by herself on the ground floor. My bedroom is upstairs, and if there's trouble – not that I expect there will be – I won't be right next to her. I can see in her eyes that she’s weighing her feelings. I’ve already surmised that she feels safe with me, and she’s trying to figure out whether she wants to be positioned that far away from me during the night.
Still, I want to put her mind at ease.
“I'll sleep on the couch,” I say. “You have nothing to worry about here, Syd. You're safe.”
“You won't be comfortable down here.”
“Have you felt that couch?” I ask and give her a lopsided smile. “It's more comfortable than most beds.”
“Not better than your bed,” she says with a mischievous smile.
“Do you want to share a bed with me?” I ask. She bites her lip, and looks perplexed, but eventually nods. “I mean, we can share a bed and not – you know – sleep together.”
My raging erection says otherwise, but I can force myself to behave if I have to. Right now, I have to. Dammit.
“It's up to you,” I say.
“I'd feel safer,” she admits.
“That settles it then.”
I turn off the light in the guest room and shut the door behind us. She hesitates at the end of the hallway, as if she's thinking about staying there after all. I turn and look at her, giving her a chance to make up her mind. I don't want her to feel forced or pressured into anything. I want her to feel safe and comfortable.
“Mi casa es su casa, Syd,” I say. “You can sleep where ever you like.”
Her footsteps are light and gentle on the hardwood floor, as if she's trying to tip-toe on purpose. She joins me in the living room, and together, we walk upstairs. She pauses in the library for a moment.
“Want to read before bed?” I offer.
