And suddenly, I wanted to tell Lucas Caine everything, and more than I'd ever wanted to tell Jared. Back then, I'd been stupid, thought we'd gotten close because were both artists. Because we'd had great sex.
"I trusted Jared. I was young. Stupid. In love."
He pressed his mouth into a firm line. "He's an asshole."
"Yes. And I expected too much from him. It's my fault too."
"Tell me what I need to know to keep you safe."
"What makes you think my past is something I need to be kept safe from?"
"Why else would you be so torn up over Jared's book?" He stared at me. "Do you not remember anything about your past?"
My mouth went dry, my throat tightening painfully even as I managed, "Not even my name."
He frowned. "When do your memories start?"
"How much time do you have?"
"For you, Ryn? The rest of my goddamned life."
Fortified with a full bottle of whiskey, water and an ice bucket, Lucas sat with me in his big bed, with the lights low enough so I could talk without seeing every change of expression on his face. I knew he wouldn't pity me, but just in case…
"Brayden knows about this. And Susan and Arnold, they took me in, after…" I trailed off, realizing the only place to start was at the beginning. Lucas remained patiently waiting, watching me. "My first memory is waking up in the hospital. I didn't know who I was. I didn't know why I was there. I didn't know anything. I should've been terrified. Maybe the pain meds took the edge off." The whole experience of those first weeks was hazy. "I remember feeling like wherever I was, I was much safer than where I'd been." And there had been comfort in knowing I could trust my gut, even in those very early stages of 'Who the fuck am I?'
After a while, that question became less important than the fact that whoever I was might be what was holding me back from living the way I needed to. It ultimately forced my hand.
"At first, the doctors thought I was taking too much pain medication and that was messing with my memories. They knew I'd suffered a trauma—a brain injury—but from what they told me, it shouldn't have affected my memory."
"But obviously, something did," Lucas said quietly.
I nodded. "After about a week, the doctors consulted a shrink, and they began sharing with me how bad my condition was when I was first brought in. What had happened to me." I took a shaky breath and told Lucas about the surgeries that had been performed on me. "They placed my age at seventeen. They were corrective surgeries to my face. Plastic surgeries. To this day, I'm not sure if I was beaten so I could have reconstructive surgery on purpose or…" I shrugged.
I didn't know what to think, and I never delved too deeply on this part. It was too disturbing to know that the person looking back at me in the mirror wasn't someone I could ever hope to recognize.
And that maybe that was the point. "I have scars," I managed.
He swallowed hard, reached out his hands as if to feel for them without realizing he was doing so. When he did realize it, he pulled back, but I caught his wrists and tugged his hands forward…brought his fingertips up to stroke the thin, well-healed scars behind my ears.
"How…" He cleared his throat. "How different did you look?"
"The doctors aren't sure if I had a full reconstruction or not." I just shrugged. "It's not like I remember." He was still gently stroking the sides of my face behind my ears and all I could do was continue. "I was still healing, but since I was young…well, they didn't know how long I'd been healing for, you know? I was out, but they didn't know if I'd been kept drugged to stay out or if I'd been in a coma and the drugs were on board for other, life-saving purposes, or if the drugs and the surgery caused the memory loss. Hell, they can't even tell me if I painted before the memory loss—they think my talent might've been brought on by a traumatic brain injury. I had a ton of rehab in the hospital, with physical, occupational and speech therapy, but because of where the injury was, and my age, I made rapid progress. The weird part was coming back to society and knowing general things—like knowing about the television and how to drive a car—but not knowing about my own life. The doctors weren't sure if my memory loss was because of the TBI or if it was a kind of hysterical amnesia, but they kept telling me that if they had to guess, it was always the latter. They surmised that whatever happened to earn me the TBI was so horrible that my own brain wanted to protect me from it." I stopped my sudden tirade and drew in a deep breath.
He leaned his forehead in to touch mine. "Trouble, Ryn. So much fucking trouble."
"I know. I'm sorry."
He assured me, "I'm not."
I managed a small smile before continuing. "I was in the hospital for a while. A month, I think. No one was sure what to do with me. Missing Persons had no records of me, and I got the feeling that the police were wary of digging too deeply. And the US Marshals got involved."
He looked at me sharply. "Are you in witness protection?"
"No. I mean, not really. I was given a past, but there wasn't any reason for them to take me on. And I was already aged out of foster care, technically, but one of the marshals knew this woman who helped with cases of women who needed help. I was a lot different than the women she usually took in, but Susan didn't care."
I told Lucas about Susan and Arnold. Working at the café. The urge to paint that was immediate, even in the earliest stages of healing.
"I was drawing on everything. Napkins."
"I can see that."
I told him about my apartment in the Catskills. About meeting Brayden years later through Susan. And then I told him about Jared.
At seventeen, I was healed and alive with my art, a wild girl, barely restrained by circumstance. Susan and Arnold knew their hold on me was tenuous and they balanced it well. I'm sure I kept them up nights. I took chances—I was part hermit, part party girl when my art released me for those brief periods of time.
But Jared…he'd come into my life during a period of uncertainty, when Brayden was beginning to sell my paintings for some good money. For a twenty-one year old who'd never had anything like it, the entire experience was odd. I was a paid artist. A recognized one.
I hadn't expected Jared to be jealous, but honestly, he had been. I'd expected too much from him—his first deal had been good but mine had far exceeded his, and after I'd spilled my guts about my past, he was gone.
I'd never expected to have to stand across from him, his book—my life—in his hands. And look what he'd done with it—exposed it to the world. The old feelings rushed back—they were all about how bad he used to make me feel. How inadequate. How had I ever thought I'd been in love with him? Or worse yet, that he loved me? He loved to put me down and for the months we’d dated, that's all he'd done.
I'd blamed the artistic temperament. The book he was writing was taking everything from him. It had always been all about him and nothing that he'd done for me.
The differences between him and Lucas were in such stark contrast that I was sick to my stomach just thinking about it…and when I thought about how badly I'd treated Lucas for a while there. Lucas not only seemed to understand the artistic temperament, but he accepted it.
"I'm a big boy, Ryn," he told me after I'd apologized again. "You don't have to apologize for doing what you love. That's what keeps you happy. I want you happy."
I want you happy.
Jared only seemed happy when I was crying or yelling. He'd fed off it like an emotional vampire, letting it fuel him—when he'd upset me enough so I couldn't paint, he could write. It was all so obvious now, but back then, I was so desperate to make him happy. He was my amazing, tortured artist. My soul mate.
Even though I knew he wasn't the man from my pictures…
Lucas interjected. "I'll make sure Jared keeps his mouth shut."
"How?"
"Let me worry about that. Let me worry about everything," he told me and as much as I wanted that, I couldn't let it happen.
"You don't understand."
> "He wrote about personal things from your relationship," he stated.
I hadn't even thought about that. "Well, maybe." Probably. Asshole scumbag. "But it's not that simple."
"He wrote about you. How many more confidences could he break?"
I sighed. "I'm more worried about Meghan. If she and Jared are dating…well, she might've overheard me talking with Jared."
"I'll make sure she doesn't pull any shit," Lucas assured me.
I didn't want to know how he'd do any of what he was promising. Or how, since by tomorrow night, the book and movie news would be everywhere, plus the books would be in people's hands. Jared was a minor celeb of the moment and there would be questions, people digging through his past…finding our connection.
My life would never be the same. I'd known that, but I'd never expected this, my secret exposed by someone I'd been so intimate with.
It was horrifying, soul destroying and trust destroying.
At the time, I'd thought I could trust Jared with anything. My instincts I prided myself on had served me so wrong, betrayed me, failed me so badly, how could I ever think about believing my gut ever again?
And yet, the man who sat next to me…I'd put so much faith into him so quickly. "I'm sorry to bring you this kind of trouble."
Lucas ran the back of his knuckles over my cheek. "I'm sorry to bring up the danger aspects. To sound angry about them. I get that you can't live in a bubble. But you're not well protected."
"Not really, no. But living with a security team wouldn't be living, Lucas."
"I'm sure you've tried different ways to recall your past?"
"Beyond just giving it time? Not really. I tried hypnosis once and it failed." And I wasn't sure if I was grateful or disappointed by that.
He sighed. "Do you think that Susan and Arnold know more than they’re telling you?"
"Sometimes. But…"
"Maybe they’re protecting you. And themselves."
"Yes," I agreed. And I was equally—and fiercely—protective of both as well. I'd sacrifice my memories for their safety, since Susan especially put my life before hers for so many years. She never came out and told me that, but I knew in my heart it was the truth.
"So you know, in your gut, that there's some reason you need to be protected?" he asked slowly.
"Yes," I whispered. "I've always known that."
"So you've knowingly put yourself in danger by coming to New York and showing your paintings," Lucas said angrily, making me blink myself back to the reality of the future.
"Yes."
"Tell me Brayden's not aware of this." When my only answer to his question was a wince, he muttered, "Jesus Christ, Ryn."
"Brayden's been protecting me for years. He's still protecting me. We figured that if I became well known, it would either bring my past forward or drive it far back into the shadows."
"That's a really big risk."
"I don't look the same."
"How do you know how different you really look?" he demanded, and that stopped me in my tracks.
I'd always assumed my facial reconstruction had been done to hide what I'd once looked like. Had I miscalculated…had the surgery actually been to reconstruct? "I don't want to think about this right now."
"Tough shit. You're in danger. So's Brayden." His eyes blazed fire.
"Probably anyone who spends time with me is in the line of fire," I shot back. "That's what you're really worried about, right?"
He sat back and stared at me. "You think I'm worried about me?" He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Honey, you have no idea how your past doesn't scare me."
"Then what does?" I asked, because I needed to know. I wasn't sure why I needed to know so badly, but I did.
For a long moment, I wasn't sure he'd answer. When he finally did say, "The way I fell for you," I stood and moved into his lap. He gathered me into his arms and held me there against him, and for the first time in a very long time, I felt completely, utterly safe.
I slept for a little while, all the emotion of the evening taking over better than any sleeping pill. But all that emotion needed more of an outlet than I'd given it, and I found myself standing on the beach in the dark. I heard the violence of the waves, the crack of thunder that broke above my head right after the flash of lightning illuminated the house I faced.
The house I'd been painting. I walked closer to it in the dark. When the sky lit up again, I saw the blood smeared on the siding, the porch.
I screamed. And I didn't stop.
"Ryn, come on—wake up. You're safe. Come on, sweetheart…you're safe."
Lucas's deep voice crooned to me through the storm and finally—finally—I was able to surface. I croaked, "I'm okay." So far from it.
"You are," he reiterated.
I sat up, the sheet wrapped loosely around me. "Sorry—"
"Don't be. You've been through hell and back." He rubbed my shoulders, handed me water.
I took several deep breaths and stared out the window into the night. I didn't want to talk about the dreams, the nightmares. Not tonight. But one thing I didn't doubt was that I needed protection.
From who, though?
Maybe from myself. "I need to tell you something else. Something more immediate. I've been getting flowers."
His eyes narrowed. "From Jared?"
"What? No." But I'd never actually considered that. Jared knew my sparse memories, so would he be trying to freak me out to coincide with his book-to-movie adaptation?
"Then who?" Lucas prompted.
"I don't know."
"Ryn…"
I took a deep breath and started at the beginning. "At first, I assumed they were from Bray. I wanted them to be from him."
"How do you know they're not?"
"Because he brought me other flowers." When Lucas looked confused, I clarified. "Someone's bringing in daffodils…and then taking them away."
Instead of scoffing in disbelief, Lucas's expression hardened. To my ultimate relief, he not only believed me, but was angry on my behalf, telling me, "You’re not going back to your apartment."
"Lucas, I need to know who's doing this." I heard the danger bells ringing as I pulled back just short of blurting out the whole truth.
"You want to come face to face with whoever's breaking into your place?"
"Yes. Because they're connected to my past. At least, they might be."
He glossed over that for a second. "Or maybe it's a stalker who likes pretty artists." That was something I hadn't considered. "Now tell me what Turner has to do with this?"
"At first, he said he was investigating my stolen painting for insurance purposes," I explained. "But then he seemed more interested in you. Specifically, warning me away from you."
His expression didn't change this time, but I swear, his eyes darkened. "You let Brayden deal with him. He calls, you don't answer."
"That's what Brayden told me to do."
"Well look at that—Brayden and I agree on something." He paused. "Can you sleep?"
I shook my head. Sleep was the last thing my body asked for now with such close proximity to his. The ache between my legs intensified.
My nipples tightened against the soft cotton of my tee. He circled one with his thumb before flicking the tip hard enough to send a jolt of pleasure to my sex. I fought—failed—to stifle a moan, arched into him, wanting skin brushing skin.
He tugged my tee off, then slid down my body, painting me with kisses. My body shuddered with an erotic charge
This would be the first time I'd be with Lucas as the girl with no memory.
He slid down my body, pressed his face between my legs and licked my cleft through my underwear. I shivered. I was ready to give myself over to his rough touch. There was no way it wouldn't be good.
He slid my underwear off, his tongue finding an inexorable rhythm. My fingers pressed against his shoulders, running along the ink because I'd memorized it. The tension built in my belly from the friction, my climax a slow,
delicious build until I looked down and saw him, watching me.
I shattered.
Chapter Twelve
As the sun rose, I started to draw on a pad of paper I'd found on Lucas's bedside table. He stirred an hour later and found me scribbling furiously.
"Don't move," I told him and he simply blinked and stayed still, falling back to sleep for a bit until I put the paper down, exhausted.
"Do I get to see it?" he asked.
"I thought you were sleeping."
"Hard to sleep when you're being watched," he pointed out.
"You did a good job of faking it," I said, disgruntled as I showed him the pad. "Sorry, I used all your paper. When I need to draw…"
"It's fine." He flipped through the pages. "You're amazing. You have to know that."
"I know I love to draw. That's all I need," I said quietly. "Plus, you're a good subject."
"You just like me naked."
"There is that." I stretched and he caught me and pulled me down with him.
"Listen, I can move your painting stuff here if you'd feel better about it."
I studied his face. "I wouldn't mind having some of it here, but I can't move here. I can't just give up all my freedom because of Jared…or whatever else is out there."
He nodded, like he'd expected my answer. "You've met Grant before."
"Yes."
"I'm going to have him come over to wire your apartment."
"It's already alarmed."
"This is different. This would let me or Grant or you and Brayden check on rooms in your place whether you're there or not. It's a different level. I can do the hallway too."
That would help me feel better. It would be like looking over my shoulder without having to actually look over my shoulder.
I knew Lucas and Grant worked security together, but I had my suspicions that it was more than simply installing alarms. Lucas never elaborated on his work or travels. I didn't push, because part of me didn't want to know. He worked at night, fought like a cross between street kid and pro. I'd thought about asking Brayden for more specifics about what Lucas did, but maybe he'd be too honest…or not honest enough.
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