WASHED AWAY

by RC Boldt

  I squint in concentration, internally cussing at myself to finish shaving her damn leg and stop gawking at her like a creep. As I draw the final sweeping motion of the razor, my fingers encircling her delicate ankle, something compels me upward, and that’s when I see it.

  Through the fabric of the gown, her nipples prod urgently as if vying for my attention. And I know it’s presumably the simple reaction to being clean and cared for that elicited this from her, but goddammit… It’s fucking with me in a way I’ve never experienced.

  Her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. Up. Down. Up—nipples pressing firmly against the fabric. Down—depriving me of their full imprint against the gown.

  Jerking away from her, I hold both the bedpan of water and razor in a white-knuckled grip and rush to the counter to dispose of everything.

  “Hopefully, that helps.” My voice is sharp with a hint of iciness. Defensiveness. Because I need to get out of here—away from her. Putting my hands on her more than is necessary has royally screwed with me.

  It’s much too risky.

  And what the fuck is my deal, acting like a goddamn prepubescent teen over this woman?

  She clears her throat. “Thank you, Dr. King.” Gratitude colors her voice, though it holds a slight touch of huskiness. “I feel more human now, thanks to you. A lot less woolly mammoth-like.”

  She emits a tiny, self-deprecating laugh, but her words are laced with a nervous quality. “What you did for me would probably have me envied by a lot of women out there. I’m not sure if you’re spoken for, but if so, she’s a very lucky—”

  “I need to get some work done in my office down the hall. Let me know if you need anything.” I offer a curt nod, not allowing my eyes to linger on her more than briefly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Of course.” Her softly spoken words greet my back because I’m already stepping past the threshold.

  For the first damn time in my life, I’m running away from a patient. Because I desperately need to put space between us.

  My top priority is to keep my goddamn hands off her as much as possible.

  Yeah, good luck with that.

  And I also need to ignore that little fucker inside my head that mocks me.

  Chapter 12

  HER

  My mind veers from the blank imagery of my dreams to replay a memory from long ago.

  We sit perched on the large boulders in the midst of the woods behind where we live.

  Due to weathering, these boulders have become more flattened on part of the top, allowing us to sit more comfortably. It might not be the softest surface, but I’m not here for that.

  I’m here for the talks we have. In the forest where we’re the only humans for miles is where Papa and I have our most important discussions.

  They’re not always the same; sometimes, they’re about boys.

  “Do not settle for anything less than you deserve, Little One.” His brows slant together fiercely every time he reminds me of this. “And never, ever let anyone tell you differently.”

  Other times, he recaps how well I’ve done on my target throwing, all the while instilling the importance of patience and focus.

  “Shut out everything else—the buzzing insect annoying you, the bird-calls, and even my voice—to focus on your target. Nothing else matters in this instance aside from hitting it.”

  At other moments, he shares part of his past. Memories from his life before me.

  But today, he seems more pensive, and I wonder if part of the reason is that I’m heading back to campus for my second year at the university.

  “I was not a good man before.”

  His confession has my head snapping around to stare at him in both surprise and shock.

  Those familiar blue eyes soften as soon as I frown and part my lips, ready to protest. Because this can’t possibly be true. My papa is the best man there ever was.

  He settles his palm over the top of mine. “It’s true, Little One.” Tone resigned, he stares straight ahead into the forest. “I don’t make excuses for myself, and I did many terrible things, but I pride myself on one thing.”

  “What’s that, Papa?”

  He gives my hand a quick squeeze, the tiniest hint of a smile teasing at his lips. “You.”

  “Me?”

  He nods. “I had already made the decision to leave that life behind me. But when I saw you, I knew it was the right thing to do. That for once, I would truly be operating with honor.”

  His eyes grow uncharacteristically misty as they skim over my features. “You are my biggest accomplishment in life. My most honorable act.”

  He gently taps me beneath the chin with his fingers. “You have taught me the power of unconditional love. That it might be possible for someone like me to be redeemed.”

  His words might confuse me, but like always, I know that Papa will eventually explain everything. He’s nothing if not methodical. Everything he does is with a purpose.

  He looks away, his throat working, voice shifting to something huskier. “I may not be a religious man, but I believe that someone or something out there sent me to you. And every day, I give thanks.”

  Silence hangs between us before he adds softly, “But with every day comes the fear that my bad deeds will return to haunt us.”

  When he turns to face me, I bite back a gasp because a trace of fear lines his features. It’s an emotion I’ve never seen him have. “That you will be hurt…” A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Or worse, because of me.”

  I take his hands in mine and hold them tight. “Papa, nothing will happen to me.”

  He focuses on our joined hands, his voice drifting over me softly. “There are no guarantees in this life, Little One. This is why I prepare you, little by little.”

  When the scene grows hazy, a surge of anguished panic ripples through me. I try to squeeze Papa’s hands, but nothing is there. I’m merely grasping at air.

  No! Please don’t go, Papa! Come back to me!

  Suddenly, my eyes flash open. My heart thunders wildly within my chest, and my forehead is coated in a sheen of cold sweat.

  “Papa.” I breathe the word in a barely audible whisper.

  Staring around the darkened room, I place a hand on my chest, overtop what feels like a gaping wound filled with grief. Instinctively, I know he’s no longer alive, and that knowledge sends scorching agony lancing deep.

  This fragment of my memories doesn’t help me determine my identity, but it’s no less valuable. I cling to it with desperate need.

  Closing my eyes, I try to relax enough to fall back asleep and recall that memory once again in hopes of determining his name—something I can use as a tool to find my own identity.

  It proves fruitless, of course, dangling just out of reach and taunting me. Instead, I fall into a dreamless sleep, no closer to my goal.

  I fall asleep once again as a nameless woman.

  Chapter 13

  HER

  Two weeks later

  I’m healing well, thanks to Dr. King, and even though I’m too stubborn to acknowledge it, his hovering and stern advisements have prevented me from re-injuring myself.

  But even now, I find myself grasping at the most random occurrences, trying to gather clues from them.

  When I automatically cycle through a mental checklist to verify that my wounds aren’t infected…how do I know to do that?

  I was aware—even before Dr. King had informed me—that my ribs would take up to six weeks to heal.

  That my gunshot wounds would take longer to heal internally while the stitches along my left side and the skin at the surface would likely mend within two to three weeks.

  Perhaps I was a nurse? But that doesn’t explain my injuries. Had some drug dealers needed me to patch them up but hadn’t wanted any loose ends left behind?

  God, I hate feeling out of control. Being vulnerable in any way eats at me like a pack of starving wolves feeding on the flesh of wounded prey.

&
nbsp; Now, as Dr. King stands at the doorway of the spare bedroom, I take in the spartan room with nothing but genuine appreciation. Because this is a vast upgrade from being in one of the two patient exam rooms down the hall.

  “This way, you’ll be more comfortable. It’s a less sterile environment.” He must mistake my silent gratitude as disappointment because he tacks on, “It’s not much larger, but—”

  “It’s perfect,” I rush to say with a smile. “Thank you.”

  And it is perfect. He told me that he had done some major work on this house, including renovating the original master bedroom into two patient rooms with a shared bathroom. Then he made the bedroom at the far end of the hall, which faces the ocean, the new master suite.

  He regards me in his usual serious manner before offering a curt nod. “I’m heading out to make my usual rounds.”

  He backs away before turning and disappearing, likely entering his office to collect the necessary equipment for his house calls.

  My shoulders slump in silent defeat because ever since that day—what I now refer to as “the shaving debacle”—he’s appeared withdrawn. He’s been ever so careful when tending to me these past few weeks.

  It’s as though I pushed him out of his comfort zone that day without realizing it. Without intending to.

  The other possible reason is much more mortifying, however. Because the thought of him noticing my physical reaction to his touch when he shaved my body fills me with the most potent mortification.

  I couldn’t help it, though. His callused hands had felt decadent and comforting all at once, and my fingers still tingle with the impulse to trace his lips bordered by that brown scruff. It doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes in a rugged sort of manner. But the last thing I need is to develop a crush on a man when I don’t even know my own damn name.

  Moving toward the bed, I lower myself onto it and nearly moan at how much more comfortable it already feels compared to the hospital-grade one in my former room. Knowing I’ll be a bit closer to him at night—two doors away now instead of four—serves as a soothing balm to my nerves.

  Not that I was concerned before, but this man…he possesses a quality that comforts me. Perhaps it’s simply because he’s a physician and seems confident and knowledgeable.

  As I stare at the floor, my whispered words are barely audible. “I’m a mess. I don’t know who I am. But I’m fascinated by the doctor who cares for me.” I scrunch my face in disgust. “Get it together, girl.”

  At the sound of his bare feet padding closer, I glance at the open doorway and find him with his well-worn leather messenger-style bag strapped across his broad chest. His hair is smoothed and tied back from his face, drawing more attention to his chiseled cheekbones.

  “I’ll be back.”

  I nod. “Okay. Hope everything goes well.”

  He hesitates as if he wants to say more but must decide against it. Tapping a hand against the doorframe, he gestures to me with a chin lift. “Be safe, and don’t overdo it.”

  Without another word, he strides down the hall. I hear the telltale sound of him sliding on his flip-flops before he pulls the door shut behind him, leaving a lonely silence in his wake.

  For some unknown reason, a distant part of me bristles at how bereft I feel by his absence.

  I long for the man who writes the date on the dry-erase board affixed to the hallway wall near the patient rooms. It grants me a constant, and I hope it might trigger a memory of a birthday or an anniversary one of these days. Anything at all that might provide insight to my identity so this kind doctor won’t be saddled with me any longer.

  I need to remind myself that this arrangement isn’t permanent. That once I regain my memory, we’ll go our separate ways.

  Regardless of the odd connection I feel between us.

  Regardless of how his careful touch while he inspects my wounds sends shivers coursing through me.

  Regardless of how I yearn to learn more about him. To learn why he seems so guarded, so gruff. Why he lives alone, only occasionally visited by patients.

  Some juvenile urge has me moving to the doorframe and placing my hand over where he’d tapped his own to it.

  It’s pointless to wonder how it might feel to have him touch me willingly and not out of concern as a physician, but as a man to a woman.

  But I’m simply a wounded woman he rescued and is putting up with until my identity is no longer a mystery.

  With a sigh, I lower my hand to my side. Carefully, I step toward the bed and ease onto the soft mattress. Lying back, I stare up at the ceiling fan spinning above me.

  My body relaxes almost immediately, muscles releasing their tension and going limp. My eyelids grow heavy, and when I drift off for a short nap, I welcome not only a dream that’s calm and doesn’t wreak havoc on my emotions like my nightmares often do, but I also welcome the man featured in them.

  The same man who will now sleep only two doors away from me.

  Nine Years Old

  Today is my ninth birthday, and he actually made me a cake! He was disappointed with it because it didn’t turn out perfect and up to his standards, but I think it was the coolest cake I’ve ever seen.

  I wondered what he’d been working on the past few weeks. I saw him sketching something on papers, and he would mutter under his breath, always frowning. I didn’t know he’d been working on how to build my princess castle cake.

  Let me tell you, this cake was amazing. It might have been a little lopsided, but it was HUGE. Way bigger than any of the cakes the mean kids from my old school ever had at their parties. I don’t think they would’ve made fun of me if they had seen this cake.

  Also, I’m really glad I don’t have to go to their birthday parties anymore. I know their parents made them invite me, but all I ever did was sit by myself. They mostly ignored me or whispered and laughed at me. It was awful.

  Anyway, he even made a little princess girl out of the fondant stuff, and I think that was what had made him scowl more because she looked kind of chubby and not anything like me.

  I told him how much I loved it, but I don’t think he believed me. At least not until I told him that I never had a dad who would do things like that for me. That made his eyes look a little sad. He told me that I should have a dad who would always do things for me.

  When I told him that I do now, he almost looked like he would cry. But when I said so, he told me he got some frosting in his eye, and it was still bothering him. I’m not sure I believe him, though.

  I miss you, Mama, and I wish you were still here. I started to call him Papa, and I don’t think you’d mind. Especially because he is so good to me. Even though I think he’s not sure what to do with me at times and looks a little nervous, I can tell he cares about me.

  Actually, I think he already loves me a lot, but maybe he’s afraid to say it. Papa’s the kind of guy who looks like he never had people tell him that. That’s so sad to me.

  I’m going to show him that he should never be nervous to say I love you if he means it. I’m going to love him and show him that having a daughter is the best thing ever.

  Anyway, Papa sang to me, and I blew out all nine candles in one breath! My birthday presents were a set of throwing knives (because Papa’s been showing me how to throw them at a target) and a small stuffed animal.

  Somehow, Papa knew I would love to have one that’s a white-faced monkey. There are a ton of these monkeys here where we’ve been living in Nicaragua, and they love to eat the bananas that grow wild all over.

  I’ve learned to speak Spanish, too. Papa already knows so many languages, so I’ve been practicing with him a lot. One thing I found out was how some people say Te amo (I love you) to their moms, dads, or kids, but in some Spanish-speaking countries, that’s a more romantic love.

  When I said it to Papa and asked him if it was okay, he told me it was fine. But, Mama, his eyes got that look in them when I said it. Like he couldn’t believe someone really loved him.


  Papa might not be perfect, but I’m not either. But together, I think we’re doing okay as a family. He’s a good man, and he’s trying hard to be what he thinks I need.

  The more time I spend around him, though, I don’t think he realizes he doesn’t really have to try hard. He’s already what I need.

  He’s the best papa ever.

  Chapter 14

  DR. LIAM KING

  My ATV makes quick work of the road’s rough terrain. Having four-by-four capability is a must around here, and it’s far quicker to get around on than with my SUV.

  I draw to a stop, waiting for three roaming cows to move out of the way on a narrower section of the dirt road. Since they’re in no hurry as they amble along, I’m stuck in place for the moment.

  Which means my mind instantly goes to her.

  Though I know full well my time is quickly ticking away, I’m fucking drawn to her. I crave to find out if that potent innocence she possesses is truly real.

  When I try to keep my distance, I fall victim to the sensation of a gaping hole spreading in the center of my chest. Because I want more time with her.

  I want to learn all I can about her.

  My memory flashes to earlier when I’d shown her to the spare bedroom. By the way her face lit up with appreciation at the small room, you would’ve thought I’d presented her with some luxurious penthouse suite. She looked even more beautiful, especially now that she’s not as pale from blood loss.

  The way she seems to draw me in like some sort of human tractor beam has me twisted in fucking knots. I can’t afford to feel anything like this. But this strange connection makes me aware that, in some ways, we’re very much alike.

  An example of that is how I’ve been encouraging her to eat more at mealtimes. At the first meal when she’d been mobile enough to sit at the kitchen table, her hesitance showed. She’d been afraid to eat too much food, and it had pissed me off.