Take Me

by Anna Zaires, Pepper Winters, Skye Warren, Lynda Chance, Pam Godwin, Amber Lin

His face fell, and he went back to rubbing his wrists.

  I stepped toward him and went to the bedside table where the assistant had left the pitcher of ice water. I picked up the plastic cup and poured him a glass.

  I held it out for him to take, but he didn’t react right away. He sat quietly, still meeting my eyes for another lingering moment before he reached out for the cup. His fingers brushed against mine. The warmth and solid feel of him startled me.

  He took a sip without taking his eyes from mine. “Why are you here and why are you treating me humanely? They say I’m dangerous, that I murdered a man.”

  I sucked in a breath of air, forcing my composure to return. “I’m a doctorate student, researching the effects of amnesia.”

  “You’re here to study me,” he said simply. It wasn’t a question and his eyes flicked to mine, challenging me to disagree.

  I saw my actions through his eyes, what he must assume were my motives for freeing him, giving him water, and suddenly my actions didn’t feel quite so genuine. I’d need his cooperation, it was true, but I hadn’t been thinking of my research when I ordered the aide to release his wrists, or poured him a cup of water. I’d been thinking of him as a man who needed comforting, which probably wasn’t wise. It’d be in my best interest, and safer, to think of him only as a test subject. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to view him the way I should while watching him sit on the bed, with his chest bare and a five-o’clock shadow dusting his jaw.

  I could easily rattle off facts like approximately eighty percent of amnesia patients recover their memory, but I couldn’t comfort him, and that left me unsettled. I’d always dealt with statistics, scientific research, facts and figures, so being face-to-face with a guy my age, who I was undeniably attracted to, had completely thrown me off my game. I needed to pull it together.

  “May I sit?” I motioned to the plastic chair across the room.

  He shrugged his indifference.

  Taking it as an open invitation, I pulled the chair closer to this bed and sat, then removed the files from my bag. Just this small act, having the papers in my hands, calmed me. I felt more in control, back to my professional self, and pulled a deep breath into my lungs.

  I could feel him watching me. When I looked up, I noted the curious expression on his face.

  “What?” I asked.

  He shook his head, biting his lip.

  I looked myself over, making sure none of the buttons on my shirt had popped open or something else awkward. “What’s wrong?” I felt too comfortable, more like I was talking to friend than interviewing a mental patient.

  “You look too young to be a doctor,” he admitted finally.

  Oh. I tucked my hair behind my ears self-consciously and glanced down at my lap. “I’m not a doctor yet. I’m still in school.” And I knew I looked younger than my twenty-four years.

  I read over the questions I’d prepared and suddenly, sitting in this hospital room with him, they sounded stupid. Too clinical. Besides, he wasn’t likely to be able to provide the answers just now, so I’d probably only anger him. Not that I was worried about him becoming irate; I already trusted him on some strange level. I just didn’t want to prod him with useless questions that would do nothing but frustrate him. I wanted him to trust me. And if I was admitting it to myself, I wanted him to like me. I closed the folder.

  “I know you don’t remember your name, but I’d like to know what you’d prefer I call you. John Doe just doesn’t seem right.”

  He swallowed and looked directly at me again. His eyes were piercing. I’d always thought the phrase ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul’ was stupid, but with him, that phrase held meaning. His eyes were rich hazel, with flecks of chocolate brown and deep, mossy green, fringed with black lashes. They were so expressive I could read his anguish at having no idea how to answer the most basic of questions.

  He rubbed absently at the tattoo on his arm.

  “Should I call you Logan?” I nodded toward the tattoo.

  He ran his finger over the script, as if trying to decipher its meaning. “Why would I tattoo my own name on me?”

  “I don’t know, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  He nodded in agreement.

  “I just figured it might be more familiar to you than John, though.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Even though there’s nothing familiar about the name Logan to me, I guess I’d still rather you call me that.”

  “Okay. Logan.” I smiled. “Are you hungry, have you had breakfast?”

  His expression betrayed his suspicion over my concern and I immediately felt guilty. “Let’s just get your questions over with, each day has been a parade of doctors, lawyers and investigators coming through here and not a single one of you can tell me what the fuck is wrong with me. The sooner I can get out of here and back out in the real world, the more likely I am to remember something, right?”

  Okay then. That’s a no to breakfast. “It’s possible that certain environmental stimuli could provoke a response…” But I didn’t explain that being under arrest for murder meant he wouldn’t be leaving this hospital anytime soon.

  “Would I know it if I was gay?” he asked out of the blue.

  “I’m not sure. Studies have shown that sexual preferences don’t change as a result of memory loss. Why? Do you think you’re gay?”

  “No. It’s just… Logan is a guy’s name, right? Why would I tattoo the name of guy on my body?”

  It was something I was wondering about, too. “You think maybe Logan was a lover?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what to think about anything.” He lay back against his pillow and closed his eyes. I could see him struggling to keep his emotions in check. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling, waking up one day in a hospital, being told you’re under arrest for murder with no recollection of your life up until that point.

  I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the skin a pale lavender color. I wished there was something I could say, something I could do that would truly help him, but for all my schooling, lectures and textbooks, I was at a loss. I could hold my own in a discussion on the clinical symptoms of amnesia, but I had no idea how to comfort someone who was experiencing it. I wasn’t a psychologist, I hadn’t studied counseling, but suddenly I found myself wishing I had the right words to soothe him, to provide some hope, some semblance of normal. However, asking any of the questions I’d typed up this morning would just insult him.

  “Listen, I’ll let you get some rest. Would it be all right with you if I came back tomorrow?”

  He nodded, and turned his head away from me, closing his eyes.

  The conversation between us had been easy; he didn’t seem uncooperative to me. In fact, his response to this situation seemed very normal.

  I stood to leave, folding the papers into my bag. “Bye, Logan. Sleep well.”

  Just as I pulled the door open, I heard him. “What’s your name?”

  “Ashlyn,” I answered.

  “Logan and Ashlyn,” he murmured before letting his eyes drift closed.

  There was something about his quiet nature, and intense gazes that stayed with me the entire walk home. The way he softly spoke my name together with his, touched me at my core. Like they were something concrete he could catalog and count on.

  Chapter Two

  The next day I returned to the hospital toting a canvas bag full of things for my session with Logan. A CD player and an eclectic selection of music to see if anything roused a memory from him, along with a collection of classic literature, the books most often assigned in high school.

  Logan’s case was not the kind of amnesia that resulted from a neurological disorder or head injury. His was a case of dissociative amnesia, essentially a mental illness involving the breakdown of memory and identity, making it all the more fascinating. I knew that dissociative amnesia was brought on by a traumatic event and occurred when a person blocked out certain information. Treatment opti
ons were extremely limited. They typically focused on relieving symptoms and controlling problem behaviors brought on by the stress and trauma. Now, newer studies were exploring how to help the patient begin to process and cope with the painful memories.

  Since no one had come forward to claim Logan, even after the news outlets had a field day covering his story, I knew that family therapy was out. I decided to focus on art and music therapy, hoping to avoid going the medication route for anxiety and depression that Dr. Andrews seemed to favor. I wanted to see how far I could get Logan on my own. I didn’t think it would be helpful to numb his brain with antidepressants.

  Dissociative amnesia was by far the most interesting to study because the memories still existed inside the mind, but they were so deeply buried they might never be recalled. Sometimes the memories resurfaced on their own or were triggered by stimuli in the person’s surroundings.

  The guard stationed outside of Logan’s hospital room checked my ID and nodded his approval for me to enter. I opened the door only to find an empty room. I dropped the heavy bag on the floor to stop my shoulder’s aching protest and was ready to parade out to the reception desk to find out where they’d taken him, when a door on the side of his room opened and Logan stepped out in just a towel.

  His gaze flicked to mine and he smiled. I was too stunned even to return his smile, with my jaw hanging down by my knees and all. His body was a freaking masterpiece that could easily turn any girl into a drooling sex addict. And glistening with water droplets, with that tiny white towel slung low on his hips, I was no longer thinking of him as a test subject. I was picturing what it would be like to have Logan’s rough hands on my body, to feel the heat of his skin, to breathe in his musky scent and feel the stubble of his jaw against my cheek.

  “Ashlyn?”

  I realized that I’d just been standing here visually molesting him for God knows how long and I was about to stammer out an apology, when he turned to the side and I caught sight of another tattoo.

  There was something familiar about the phrase scrawled along his ribcage. Without thinking, I marched forward and grabbed onto his hips, turning him to get a better look.

  It couldn’t be.

  He chuckled at me, low under his breath. “See something you like?”

  “This tattoo. Do you know what it means?”

  He looked down at the curvy text and shook his head. “Haven’t had access to look it up just yet. Besides I’m not even sure what language that is.”

  “It’s Latin.”

  “You know it?”

  I unbuttoned my jeans and eased down the zipper.

  “Whoa, Ashlyn.” He took my wrist, stopping me, but I could see the heat building behind his gaze, which did nothing to extinguish the jittery excitement I felt. He ignited something in me. I thrust my jeans down just enough so I could show him my tattoo. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam tibi written in Latin over my left hipbone. The font on mine was smaller, but our tattoos were the same, complete with the curvy script written gracefully in black ink.

  He released my wrists, dropped to his knees, and delicately ran a fingertip along the lettering that matched his own. He dipped his fingertips just inside the waistband of my white cotton panties, moving them aside to read the phrase uninterrupted. My stomach jumped at his touch.

  “What does it mean?” His voice was husky and thick.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath and pulled in a lungful of air before answering. “I will either find a way or make one.”

  The phrase had been etched into my mind long before it was permanently inked on my body. It reminded me to challenge myself, to never settle, and to push through my shitty upbringing to become who I wanted to be. It was a saying that would speak to those who had struggled in life and wanted better, and were willing to fight for it. I wondered what would have possessed Logan to have this marked into his skin. By the look on his face, he was clearly wondering the same thing about me.

  He rose to his feet, and after trailing his fingers one last time over the words, he zipped and buttoned my jeans. I stood there completely at his mercy and utterly fascinated by him. What were the chances that we’d have the exact same Latin phrase on our bodies? The similarity was unnerving, but also interesting.

  There were lots of things about him that were beginning to intrigue me. The way his green eyes followed mine, his musky, male scent. It also probably didn’t help my libido that both times I’d seen him, he’d been shirtless. There was no way not to notice how attractive he was. My two-year sexual dry spell might have also contributed, but my body’s response to him could only be described as primal…needy.

  He appeared just as intrigued by me. He hadn’t yet moved, and was still gripping my hips. I looked down at his hands, which he quickly dropped away. I took a step back trying to ease the sexual tension that crackled in the air between us.

  He cleared his throat, mumbling something about getting dressed and disappeared into the bathroom again.

  When he closed the bathroom door, I realized our encounter had left me light-headed and dizzy. When he’d leaned in close, the warmth of his skin and the light scent of soap had invited me forward, and I couldn’t help but notice the way his sculpted abs and trim hips had barely held the towel in place.

  I gave my head a quick shake. Now was not the time for fantasizing. I was not some hormonal teenager, I was a doctorate student, but I’d never been quite so taken with a man before. The experience was unnerving. I’d practically whimpered when his fingertips touched me. And I sure as shit shouldn’t have unbuttoned my pants. This was completely unlike me and totally unprofessional. I rushed from the room as a sudden wave of panic hit.

  I needed to get a hold of myself. I slipped into the ladies’ room before my nerves overtook me. I looked at my pale skin and wide set blue eyes in the mirror. A frail frightened girl stared back at me. I splashed cold water onto my cheeks, hoping to add some color back to my face.

  I took a few deep breaths and the color in my cheeks slowly began to return.

  I had a decision to make. I could move past my obvious lapse in judgment of allowing myself to become attracted to him, or I could back out of the assignment and let Clancy know that I wasn’t cut out for this. Then what would I do? Move home to Detroit? Find a job in the city? Work in an office from nine to five every day in a boring job I didn’t care about? No, I had worked too hard for that. I was passionate about this research. Quitting now would be silly. I wasn’t that impulsive. It would be fine.

  I straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath. I would just have to do my best to keep things professional in his presence. At home later was a different story—I couldn’t be held responsible for the Logan-induced fantasies that were likely to haunt my dreams.

  After giving myself a much needed pep talk, I went back to Logan’s room and slipped into the plastic chair near his bed. When I finally looked up at him, I knew my mistake instantly. I hadn’t allowed myself to become attracted to him. I had no say in the matter. It was simple chemistry. A primal attraction that couldn’t be controlled or turned off simply because I willed it so.

  I took a moment to clear my head and focused on our work for today. I needed to maintain utmost professionalism with him. I had to set the tone and parameters of our relationship. He was in a fragile emotional state, and the last thing I needed to be doing was fantasizing about having sex with him. But God, I knew it would be good. That he would be good. He was entirely fuckable, and brought out my inner vixen in a way no man had before. I remembered his fingers on my skin, and mentally chastised myself for not wearing sexier underwear. A trip to the lingerie store at the mall was long overdue. I pushed the last lingering thought of his fingertips brushing across my belly from my mind and put on the most professional face I could manage.

  After the fascinating discovery of our matching tattoos, we spent the afternoon listening to the various genres of music I’d checked out from the library. We discovered that he preferred
rock music and blues over classical or country. He’d cursed when I put on rap and crossed the room to turn it off, which was funny. He made me replay a particular blues song three or four times, saying he was sure there was something familiar about it, but ultimately he couldn’t recall anything specific.

  Despite the lack of progress on producing any memories, the afternoon hadn’t felt like a failure. It had actually been sort of fun. Logan had lain across the bed, his eyes closed, deep in concentration as I played the music, skipping through songs, or turning it up based on his preferences.

  He asked me to leave the books behind for him to read, that way I was guaranteed to return to see him, he said, at least to pick up the books. If only he knew I was already anticipating my next visit.

  The smile on my face had not faded when I ran into Dr. Andrews in the hallway.

  “Have you been here all afternoon?” He frowned, looking down at his watch.

  It was amazing that several hours had passed without my noticing. “Um, yeah. We got a lot done.”

  “Did he recall anything about the murder?”

  Well burst my bubble. My stomach dropped. “No. I’m not working with him on remembering that.”

  He scoffed at my direct admission.

  “Dr. Andrews, you’re the one who diagnosed him with post-traumatic or dissociative amnesia. You and I both know that he’s distanced himself from important personal information about himself and his life. His memory can likely be restored over time, but the events leading up to the trauma will likely be the last to be remembered. Or never remembered at all.”

  Dr. Andrews shuffled his feet, still frowning.

  “Besides, that’s what the police-assigned psychologist is for.”

  “Listen, Ashlyn, I’m only trying to look out for you. He’s dangerous. You haven’t read the police file.”

  My belly danced with nerves, both wanting and not wanting to know what the police records contained.

  “They’d found him in an abandoned warehouse, covered in blood, a sledgehammer nearby and the dead body of another man lying beside him. He’d beaten the hell out of him. Gruesome stuff.”