by Jewel E. Ann
“It would be hard to stomach it.”
I nod. “But if I spend the rest of my life reliving my death …”
Dr. Albright relinquishes a soft sigh. “I’ve had personal experience with this. They were able to use hypnosis to suppress the memory I had of a tragic death. But there’s no guarantee it would work. It’s a really tough decision, however you look at it. That’s why I want you to think long and hard before you make it. I want you to discuss it with family because it could impact them too.”
“The trauma?”
Her neatly-trimmed fingernail traces the rim of her tea cup while honest eyes hold their gaze on me. “Yes, but the way you perceive yourself could change too. If you connect on a deeper level with your life as Daisy, it could change who you are as a person now.”
“Because I will feel more like Daisy?”
“It’s possible.”
“I could feel closer to Nate?”
“Perhaps.”
Do I want to feel closer to Nate?
*
“You’re late.” Griffin slips on his jacket before I get the door shut.
“Late for what?” I deposit my purse on the kitchen chair.
“Bowling.”
“Bowling?”
His eyes widen, disbelief rolling off every inch of his body, which happens to look hot as fuck tonight. Griffin screams filthy sex when he wears those faded worn jeans and that Doobie Brothers vintage motorcycle tee.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead. “Bowling. That’s right. That’s tonight.” Bowling with his work buddies.
“The look on your face says I’m going by myself.”
“No. You’re not going by yourself.” I hustle past him to the bedroom. “I just got distracted at Dr. Albright’s office. Let me change into something less homely than yoga pants and a hoodie.”
“I’m already late. Don’t worry about it. Where are the keys to my truck?”
“My purse. And I’m coming. Just wait!” I hop from one foot to the other, tugging on my jeans. “Where’s my red V-neck shirt?” Riffling through the shirts in the closet, I can’t find it.
“I’ll be home before midnight. Don’t wait up.”
“Son of a bitch,” I mumble, seizing the first shirt I can rip off the hanger and tugging it on while I chase after him. “Just WAIT!”
My plea goes unheard. He’s out the door. I snatch my purse, grab my shoes, and sprint after him. The annoyance on his face when I hop in the truck is no match for my scowl—thanks to my shoeless feet taking the brunt of his impatience.
“Hello? What the heck? I said I was coming.”
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he backs out of the driveway. “Yeah, well you say a lot of things.”
I bite back the what-crawled-up-your-butt-and-died comment because I don’t relish the idea of being locked out of the house later. But seriously, it’s an appropriate question for the circumstances.
“Is this about me being a little late? Or me being a little late because I was with Dr. Albright?” I shove my feet into my ankle boots.
His grip on the steering wheel tightens just like his jaw that’s holding back his answer.
“Whatever.” I glance out my window at the streetlights flickering on like a farewell wink to the last sliver of sun. Too bad I’m not good at playing the cold shoulder game. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my day? No? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Morgan said ‘see’ but I think she meant Z because I’ve been trying to teach her my name. Then I ordered a sub for lunch and they forgot the pickles, and Nate doesn’t have pickles at his house. Like … who doesn’t have pickles? It’s a staple, no different than ketchup and mustard.”
Griffin responds by turning on the radio, a nice little slap in the face.
I continue, only much louder so he hears me over the music. “Dr. Albright discussed hypnosis with me. I’m not sure I can be hypnotized, but I’m considering it.”
Click.
Off goes the radio.
“What did you just say?” Griffin gives me a sidelong glance, much longer than he should since he’s driving.
“Pickles. They forgot my pickles.”
“Fuck the pickles.” His attention returns to the road.
“Well …” I murmur, “it’s an option, but not really my thing.”
My humor falls flat on my audience of one.
“Why?”
I slide my hands beneath my legs to tame the nerves. “Because Doug Mann needs to be in prison. Because I won’t feel safe until he is. Because this patchy memory has left me feeling like I’m anchored to the past and losing sight of my future.”
“This has gone too far. Reincarnation? Hypnosis? Murder mystery? Do you hear yourself?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“I don’t know what to believe!” His knuckles blanch over the steering wheel.
“Then believe me. Trust me. Help me.”
A cynical laugh cuts through the air. “Help you? How am I supposed to help you?”
“By not getting so miffed about me running late to a bowling outing because I have a job and a therapy appointment. By not freaking out every time I mention the past or Daisy or Nate.”
He parks the truck and hops out. I guess this topic is on hold until we’re done bowling a few rounds. This should be loads of fun.
To my surprise, he comes around and opens my door. I unfasten my seatbelt and swing my legs around, but before I can hop out, he wedges himself between my legs. The arms I love encircle my body while he rests his forehead against my chest.
“You drive me fucking crazy.”
I nod several times, even though he can’t see me.
“If I believe you, then I sure as hell don’t want you being hypnotized to remember anything more. If I don’t believe you, then it’s going to piss me off if you waste time and money on something so insane.”
I kiss his head, tickled by the stubbly surface of the tiniest outgrowth of hair. Uncontrolled thoughts of Nate pop into my mind. A kiss on the head isn’t necessarily innocent, it can be intimate like it is when my lips press to Griffin’s head. What does Nate feel when he kisses my head?
“I need to feel safe. Don’t you want that for me?”
His head lifts, sincerity resolute in his expression. “I would never let anything happen to you.”
“I know, but you’re not with me all of the time. He was inches from me in a parking lot and you weren’t there. I don’t want this life, Griff.”
My eyes close on a heavy blink when his hands press to my cheeks.
“You won’t have this life. I promise.”
I love him for making this promise, even if it’s one he might not be able to keep. There’s a reason I’ve always felt safe with Griffin. I just hope when I need his safety the most … he’s close enough to hear my cry for help.
“Let’s go.” He takes my hand and helps me out before tucking me under his arm—my hero.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Griffin
Swayze is a terrible bowler. She’s also a skittish bird whenever one of the guys from work gives her shit about something. On the surface, she doesn’t fit into my world. But in a way that lungs need oxygen and a heart needs blood, she’s vital to my life.
I don’t know for certain that Doug Mann killed Erica, nor do I know that he killed Morgan Daisy Gallagher. What I do know is that he got too close to the oxygen in my lungs and the blood in my heart.
“Can I say your little fiancée is sexy as fuck without you slashing my throat?”
I take a swig of my bottled water, lean back in the chair, and watch Swayze’s perfect ass as she throws another ball in the gutter. “If you weren’t my boss, I’d say no. But I’ll let it slide because you’re right, and I want to keep my job. But if you say a word to her, look at her for more than five seconds at a time, or let your hand so much as graze her hand … fuck the job. I’ll end you.”
He chuckles, taking a slow pull of his beer. “Fair enough.�
�
“Griff, I suck at this.” She shoots me a pouty face with her lower lip protruding as she waits for her ball to return.
“Maybe it’s all the cheap wine. Should I cut you off?”
Her head jerks back, face sour. “No. I haven’t had that much … uh …” Wrinkles form along her brow.
“Wine, Swayz. We’re talking about wine. And the fact that you can’t remember that long enough to finish a sentence just proves that you’ve had too much. I’m cutting you off.”
A few of my friends and their significant others snicker.
She grabs the ball and swings it back. We all flinch because it would be the third time she’s released it in the wrong direction. Thankfully, she holds on to it. “Then I’m cutting you off too.”
I smirk. “Of water?”
She heaves it. Two seconds later, the ball clunks in the gutter. Looking over her shoulder, she scowls at me like it’s my fault she’s sucking ass at bowling tonight. “Sex, buddy. No wine for me, then no sex for you.”
The snickers return for a second round of the Griffin and Swayze Show, but this time they’re muffled behind fisted hands because they know better than to make fun of me. Payback is my favorite game.
I crook my finger at her as Breanna, Derek’s date for the night, stands up to take her turn.
Keeping her drunken gaze locked to mine, Swayze wobbles toward me. “Yes, Mr. Alcohol Police?”
Holding out my hand, palm up, I wait for her to take it. After a few seconds of staring at it with apprehension, she takes it. I give her a firm jerk, and she stumbles forward onto my lap. I drag her knees up to straddle my legs.
Jett clears his throat. “There are young kids ten yards away. At least take her into the bathroom. Not that I personally have issues watching.”
I ignore him. Swayze? Not so much. She turns pink clear to the tips of her ears.
“I’m not having sex in the bathroom,” she tries to whisper but misses the mark by a few decibels.
“No?” I grin, lifting a single brow while sliding my hand around the back of her neck.
Her head shakes a half dozen times, eyes wide like the idea alone has sobered her up a good fifty percent.
Those wide eyes dart side to side several times before meeting my gaze again. “Uh uh.”
I’m joking, even if my dick at the moment feels rather enthusiastic about the idea. Leaning closer, I whisper in her ear, “I love you. You suck at bowling, but I love the hell out of you.”
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you tell me what he said.” Jett winks at Swayze.
“A hundred bucks?” Her back snaps ramrod straight. “He said, ‘I love you. You suck at bowling, but I love the hell out of you.’”
Jett lifts his fisted hand to his mouth and coughs. “Bullshit.”
I grin at Swayze and shrug. She frowns.
“I want my hundred bucks. Tell him, Griff.”
All I can do is chuckle.
Jett lumbers to standing for his turn. “I’m firing your pansy ass if that’s what you said to her.”
“That’s bullshit!”
Okay, she’s not all that sobered up after all.
“I want my hundred bucks. I just shared …” She points a finger at him as I hold onto her waist before she attacks my boss, who’s grinning like an idiot. “Dammit,” she mumbles before sinking her teething into her bottom lip. “What was I saying?”
This gets more laughter from the rest of the drunks. I’m the only completely sober one in the group.
“Yes!” Her same accusatory finger shoots up in the air. “I just shared something personal with you only because you offered me a hundred bucks.”
Jett bowls a strike and turns, stroking his goatee. “Swayze, darling … Griff saying you suck at bowling is quite public. We’ve all seen you.”
Aaannnd it’s time to go. Swayze digs her nails into my arms, trying to pry my grip from her waist.
“We’re taking off. Swayze hasn’t had dinner yet.”
Breanna jerks her head to the side. “There’s food over there. Pizza, hot dogs, nachos—”
“Nachos? I love nachos! Griff, nachos!”
I lift her off my lap now that food has distracted her from attacking Jett. “I’ll take you to a Mexican restaurant. You don’t want stale chips and fake cheese.” After changing my shoes, helping her with hers, and saying our goodbyes, I take Swayze’s hand and pull her toward the exit.
“I think I do want stale chips and fake cheese,” she murmurs as we step outside. “I’m so hungry I could eat anything.”
I grin, shaking my head. “I can offer you a shot of cum on the way if you need something to tide you over.”
“A shot of—wait, is that code for a blowjob?”
Everyone else in the parking lot hears the lingering echo of blowjob. Well done, Swayze.
I open her door. “It’s code for get your ass in the truck.”
She lifts her leg but misses the step.
“You’re a fucking mess.”
She giggles as I grab her waist and hoist her up. “But you love me.”
I help her fasten in. “I do.”
“But you were piiisssed about me being late for bowling.”
I shut the door, get in on my side, and start the truck. As we pull out of the parking lot, she slips off her boots and wiggles around to get her feet tucked under her off to the side.
“Why does everyone look at you like you’re meat and they’re starving carnivores?” She slurs a few of her words either from the alcohol or plain old exhaustion.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on … the women. They are so nonconspic spic not conspic … no that’s not right. Inconspic … fuck!”
Biting my lips together, I shoot her a quick glance. “Conspicuous?”
“That’s it! You’re so smart, honeybuns.”
Honeybuns is a new one.
“All those filthy women want you. They have no shame.”
“Alcohol makes you paranoid, Swayz. What do you want to eat? Mexican?”
She leans on the console between the seats and drums her fingers together. It’s a little weird. “I’m thinking a Griffin hotdog.”
Scratch that. It’s a lot weird.
“Never heard of that brand. So, yes to Mexican?”
Her hand cups my crotch. “I think I’m ready for that cum shot.”
“I think you’re too drunk, I’m too sober, and the speed limit is too high.”
With a click, she unfastens her seatbelt and positions herself on her knees facing me.
“Swayz, fasten your ass in the seat.”
“Tell me you don’t want me sucking you off.” She unfastens my jeans.
Sucking you off and honeybuns in the same night. Drunk Swayze has a different filter than sober Swayze.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel while I should be tightening my grip on her hands to keep her from doing this. But as she slides her hand along my length, I stop giving a fuck about safety and all things that require optimal brain power.
“Swayz …” I make a weak attempt at stopping her.
Too late. A rush of adrenaline shoots through me, restricting the air in my lungs a bit when her warm, wet mouth first makes contact. In seconds I go from hard to really fucking hard as she shows a lot more eagerness than sober Swayze.
Focus on the road. Focus on the road.
“You taste so good.”
Yet another phrase that’s new tonight. I don’t care how rich, educated, or sophisticated a man is, no guy turns this down. Except … the guy who loves a woman like I love Swayze. I can’t have my future wife—mother of my children—die in a car accident before we ever get the chance to say “I do.”
But it feels so fucking good.
I pull into a vacant parking lot of an office building and shove the truck into Park. Gathering her hair in my hands, I hold it away from her head so I can watch her in what little light filters in from the streetli
ghts. It’s a beautiful sight.
She hums.
I bite my bottom lip, letting my head fall back. My plan when we got home was to talk about this therapy of hers and the crazy idea of hypnosis. But as her fingernails dig into my thighs and she takes me deeper, I decide it can wait a day or two—the approximate amount of time it takes to get over a good blowjob, and Swayze’s giving me a damn good blowjob.
“Easy, babe …” I tug her hair a bit as she gags.
I fight the urge to push into her mouth more as I get close. So close.
“Fuuuccck!” Every muscle tenses as I release.
Future wife. Mother of my children. Keeper of my cock … gags. Not a you-just-tickled-my-gag-reflex-but-I’m-good gag. This gag is a strong two-second warning.
One second.
Two seconds.
Blah!
Two coughs and one more upchuck.
“Oh my gosh …” she whispers, using the back of her hand to wipe her face covered in sweat, saliva, and humiliation.
A permanent cringe affixes itself to my face as I feel the warmth and wetness of wine, stomach acid, and cum covering my cock and absorbing into my jeans, clear to my ass as it runs between my legs along my leather seat.
Another first. One I could have done without tonight.
“Are you okay?” I press my hand to her cheek as she catches her breath.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
My attention returns to the mess between my legs. I nod slowly. “It’s okay, Swayz.”
“It’s not okay.” She shimmies half of her body between the seats. “Here.”
I stare at the plastic tube with the rolled up shammy I use at the carwash.
Swayze shrugs. “It’s very absorbent.” She pulls it out of the tube and unrolls it. “Do you want to do it or should I do it?”
I yank it out of her hand and ruin a relatively new shammy. After I get things cleaned up enough to tuck myself back into my jeans, I toss the rag out my door and start the truck again.
“That’s littering.” Swayze scrunches her nose.
I give her a look.
She zips her lips and fastens her seatbelt. “I uh … have a bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse.”
