Seeing that I was becoming agitated, Dr. James said, “You must try to calm yourself. This will not help you remember.”
“I CAN’T REMEMBER!” I shout. “If I could remember the rest, I know I could remember my name. I just…I know it.”
Dr. James doesn’t argue. Just nods and pats my knee. “You must not try to be forcing it. As we have discussed before—the memories will come when they are ready to come. You can only help them along so much.”
“I’m trying, but this is just...it’s so frustrating.”
“I know, I realize that. Which is why I think you should take a few days of a break from the writing. I think you are becoming obsessed with it and I don’t think that is healthy for your psyche.”
“I have to remember. I have to. I have to know her. I have to remember more of her. I have to remember what happened.”
Dr. James leans forward, hand on my knee. “Please, put the pens and the notebooks away for a day or two, at the very least. Please. It will help, I promise you. It will give your mind a rest. Your injuries are healing and I think it is time for you to do some walking. Let us focus on the healing of your body, and regaining your mobility. And then you can go back to the writing, and then I think you will have more luck in shaking loose the memories.”
I nod. “Okay.”
He claps his hands, pleased. “Very good! Okay. More walking, more gentle exercise. The staff is here to help you. The weather is very pleasant and I think you will enjoy exploring the grounds and breathing in the fresh air. You will feel like a new man, I promise you this.”
And so, when Dr. James leaves to continue his rounds, I lay aside my writing.
My casts have been off for some time, but for how long? Days? Weeks? I have no idea. It doesn’t seem to matter, either.
How long have I been here? I have no idea. Forever, it seems.
For the next week—I count the days, mark them off in a corner of my notebook—I walk around as much as I can. There is no residual pain any longer, but my muscles feel stiff and sore and weak. I walk around the hospital, and even walk to the shore, under the watchful eye of a nurse, as if I am a child or a prisoner but, in truth, I am grateful for her presence, because I know nothing of their languages beyond a few words.
Once at the shoreline, with the sea in view, something in my heart swells.
Cracks.
Trembles.
I kick off the flip-flops I wear—they are handmade from a piece of rubber and bits of rope, but they protect my feet from the rocks and heat of the earth. I roll up the edges of my trousers, and I wade into the sea. I go in up to my ankles at first, and then my knees, and then to my hips, the water soaking my trousers. The water is cold. I touch a finger to the sea and then to my lips and taste the salt.
A wave slaps unexpectedly against my chest and salt sprays my face, and I am abruptly plunged into memory—
* * *
Black sky above. Lightning flashes, illuminating an angry jade wave cresting over my head, caught mid-motion, the tip becoming a spear as it curls, arching over me. Salt on my lips. I am tossed like a stick. A wave slams onto me, plunges me under the surface and I am twisted and rolled and flipped. I am at the mercy of the Sea. I paw clumsily at the water, trying to paddle for the surface, but there is no surface, no up or down, only the angry waves and the sky and lightning and the clap of thunder and the wind.
* * *
I feel someone pulling me backward, and I stumble and twist to see the face of the nurse. She’s jabbering at me in Susu, scolding me. I am soaked from head to toe and I am shaking from the memory rather than the cold.
She gestures, indicating she wants me to return to the hospital, but I can’t go back yet. Instead, I strip out of the wet clothes and leave them in the sand to dry, and lie down beside them—this nurse washed me when I was helpless, so I am unconcerned about being naked around her. I lie there in the sand, eyes closed, and let the sun beat down on my face.
And for a moment, I have a shred of peace.
Perhaps I doze, I don’t know.
I awake feeling a bit calmer, and I return to the hospital with the nurse. I feel in possession of myself again, not so mad with the need to know.
The dream of Ava continues, but I find comfort in it now—I choose to believe that she is with me in spirit, and that itself is a comfort.
Another week passes and I continue with my explorations in the area around the hospital, and I even convince Dr. James to take me into Conakry itself. We bump along the narrow streets in his rattling old car with the windows down, the radio playing something melodic and bouncing and fun and light, chatter floating in from the streets.
He points things out places and people of interest. “My cousin, he live there. He sells mobile phones…That is a restaurant which is very good, maybe we go there soon…I had my first flat in that building…My first wife, she grew up just there—oh, she passed on, many years ago, from an illness…”
We drove until we came to a market; he parked and we browsed the market stalls, speaking together like friends; he told me of his second wife, to whom he was married for twenty years, and of her death in the Guinean political protests in September of 2009. I spoke of Ava and shared some of the things I remembered. Speaking of her seemed to jar loose more memories, little ones, which I tuck away for later.
Dr. James drives us back to the hospital, and now the radio is off and we are both silent. The air billowing in from the open windows is warm, smelling of dust and food and exhaust. Dr. James parks near his office and, for a moment, we just sit in the car, listening to the engine tick and pop, watching a group of boys and girls play stickball in the shade of a huge tree.
A thought occurs to me—a question. “Dr. James?”
He glances at me. “Yes? What is it?”
“How long have I been here? In this hospital?”
“Seven months. Almost eight. You came to us in the beginning of May, and it is now the middle of November.” He checks his watch, a cheap, digital thing. “Today is November 19, 2016.”
Eight months? That is a long time.
“What if—what if I never remember anything else?” I ask. “What then? What will I do? Where will I go? I can’t stay here in the hospital forever.”
Dr. James sighs. “No, you cannot. But we cannot just send you out alone without even your own name. What if someone is looking for you? Surely this woman you remember, your Ava—surely she is looking for you, missing you. But where is she? How do we find her? We have very little by way of resources here.” Another sigh. “What will you do if you do not remember yourself? I do not know. Begin again, somehow, somewhere, I suppose.”
Begin again.
Choose a new name? Forget Ava? Just…start life anew, from scratch?
How could I do it?
No, no. I must remember.
I will remember.
When we return to the hospital, I write once more, for the first time in two weeks.
I write feverishly, with renewed desperation:
[From a handwritten journal; November 20 2016]
A memory, which has bubbled to the surface:
I am sitting at a computer, typing—I was a writer, then, I believe, which is consistent with what I feel in myself. It is late at night, the sky beyond the windows dark. Lightning plays far out on the water, visible through the sliding glass door to my left. I wear faded jeans, the knees ripped and fraying, a gray T-shirt, and a thin, faded black hoodie, which I wear superstitiously whenever I write. I am stiff, sore. I have been at this desk many hours. Cans of soda are clustered, empty, on one side of the desk, and a bag of pretzels sits open nearby, mostly gone. Music plays from a sound system, tiny square speakers installed in the corners of the ceiling—solo piano music. The only light is from a pair of floor lamps in opposite corners of the room.
I hear something behind me—the door opening. I know it’s you. I don’t turn, but I’m smiling at my screen.
“Hey, babe,” I say.
I hear you clear your throat meaningfully.
“Yeah, I’m just finishing up.”
“You’ve been working since six this morning. Have you even eaten?”
“I’ll grab something. I’m done now.” I still haven’t turned around, instead saving my work and backing it up to a thumb drive.
I feel your hands on the back of my office chair, pulling me away from my desk and spinning me around.
“Hey!” I protest. “I wasn’t done—”
You stop the rotation of the chair with your foot, and my words die on my lips. “I have something for you to eat,” you say, your words low and your voice sultry.
“Oh yeah?” I ask.
You tangle your fingers in my hair, and pull my face toward your leg, your foot propped up on the chair between my thighs. You’re wearing a set of lingerie I got you a few months ago, a just-because gift. It’s a black lace bodysuit, which obscures and reveals and emphasizes every curve of your breathtakingly sexy body. Stockings, garters. Your breasts are pushed up, and your cheeks are pink with excitement. I can smell your desire.
You pull me closer yet, and my lips graze your inner thigh, just above your knee. “Start there and work your way up,” you murmur. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
I kiss the creamy skin of your thigh, lapping and licking and nipping upward until I reach the apex of your thighs. I inhale deeply, sniffing along the seam of your pussy, covered in lace, soaked with your need. “Smells delicious.”
“It does, huh?” You’re breathy, now. Your thighs tremble with anticipation—you crave my mouth on your clit.
“So good. It smells so good I think I might just—” and instead of saying it, I do it.
I hook a finger in the gusset of your bodysuit and pull it aside to reveal your slit. Your pussy is soaked with desire, and you smell delightfully, arousingly, of anticipation.
I love that word—pussy; I think of your sex like a pink flower, two delicate petals and a tiny, hard little bud.
I slide my tongue up the damp opening of your pussy, and you gasp.
I flick my tongue against your swollen clit, and you moan.
The sounds you make, Ava…they’re intoxicating. I am drunk on you. I devour you. Work you with my tongue into a thrashing fervor, your hands in my hair clutching me hard against you, and your hips pivot and flex and you grind your clit against my swirling tongue, against my suckling mouth. You cry out as you come, hunching forward, legs trembling.
And then you drop to your knees. Gaze at me, still breathless. Keep your eyes on mine as you unhook the clip of the garter from the stocking and peel it off. You use the stocking to tie one of my hands to the arm of my chair. Then the other stocking is removed, and my other hand is bound.
“This is a fun game,” I say. “I like where this is going.”
“You’re going to love what I have in store for you,” you say, mischief in your eyes. “I was reading some erotica earlier, and I got a really fun idea.”
“What’s that?”
You just grin. “Now why would I tell you when I could just show you?” You huff. “Dammit. I forgot to take off your shirt before I tied you up.”
I laugh as you untie me, roughly peel off my hoodie and T-shirt, toss them aside, and then retie me. “Now. Where was I?”
“About to tell me what your plan is?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“I think you were about to bring that sweet, juicy peach of a pussy of yours over here so I can eat it some more.”
Your cheeks flame and you step closer. “Hmmm. Tempting.”
You sidle up to me, and I frame you between my knees. I kiss your breasts, over the lace, and nibble at the bump of a nipple, until you pull away with a gasp, and I bend lower, dip my mouth closer to your mound.
You let me get a teasing whiff, a brush of lips on lace, and then you pull back. “Tempting, but no. I have other ideas. And I’m not going to tell you. You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“I trust you,” I say, immediately. “Obviously. Go on, then, wife. Have your wicked way with me.”
“I think I should blindfold you, though. It’d be more fun.”
“If you insist.”
So I find myself blindfolded by my own T-shirt, and then I’m truly helpless, which is how you want it. Usually, you like it when I’m in control, when I pin your hands over your head and take you, when I guide your hips with my hands as you ride me, when I bend you over our bed and thrust into you and spank you as I fuck you, when I roll you to your stomach and pull you into doggy-style position and pound into you.
This time, though, is different. You’ve got a spark in your eyes, a heat in your gaze that tells me this is going to be about you taking what you want—me. How you want me. What you want from me.
I like this. A lot.
I sit, bound and blindfolded, waiting. My cock is bent and throbbing inside my jeans. I smell you, feel you near me.
You spin my chair around a few times, disorienting me. And then I smell you, feel your presence at my shoulder, and then your lips close around my earlobe and your breath is hot and loud, and then you’re gone. A nip at my nipple, sharp and sudden. A fingertip trailing from hip to knee over denim, your fingernail tickling my skin in the rip of my jeans. Another spin, then another. I’m truly disoriented now. I feel lace brush against my hand. I hear rustling.
“Know what I’m doing?” I hear you ask.
“No.”
“I’m taking off the bodysuit.”
“I want to see.”
“I’m naked, now.”
“Take off the blindfold.”
“Nope. You’ve seen me naked a million times. Use your imagination.” You slide between my knees. “This time, just FEEL me.”
I gulp as you press your lips to my chest, and I gasp as you trail kisses down my stomach. I hiss as you pry open the button my jeans, and then hold my breath, tensed, as you tug down the zipper. I dressed quickly this morning, in a hurry to get to writing, and didn’t bother with underwear.
“You’re commando.”
“Yep.”
“Normally I’d say that’s kind of gross, but in this situation, I approve.” You grasp my shaft in your hand, sliding your fist up and down my length. “Easier access.”
“God, that feels good, Ava.”
“Mmm-hmmm?” I feel you between my thighs, feel your body descending as you sink to your knees; you tug at my jeans, and I lift my butt up off the chair so you can tug them off of me. “You like the feel of my hand on your cock?”
“So much.”
Now your naked skin slides against my thighs, and I feel your breasts swaying and brushing against my stomach as you lean close to kiss my chest, both of your hands around my erection. I’m wild with need, groaning and flexing my hips unreservedly into your touch, gasping and huffing laughs as you pepper my flesh with kisses, from chest to stomach, stomach to ribs, ribs to waist, and then to my hipbone and over my thigh. You’re not really stroking me yet, just sort of toying with my cock, petting it, caressing, rubbing your thumb across the tip, and I’m shaking with anticipation of your touch, of your mouth.
You do not disappoint me.
There’s no warning, no buildup, no teasing. Just your mouth dancing from thigh to hip, hip to stomach, and then the warm wet suck of your mouth on my cock, and my expulsion of breath in ecstatic relief.
“That feels good, too, right?” You pull away just long enough to say this, and then take me into your mouth again.
I laugh. “Fucking amazing.”
“Probably don’t want me to stop, huh?” Again, you say this and then fill your mouth with my erection.
“No—god no.”
“You wanna come in my mouth?” You whisper this to my cock, the words huffing hot on my wet, sensitive skin.
“Fuck yes.”
“I might just let you, since you made me come so hard.”
“Oh fuck, Ava.”
“But
not yet.” You punctuate this by releasing my cock so it springs free of your hand and slaps back against my belly.
“Aw hell, babe…I was getting close.”
“I know.” I can hear the grin in your voice. “But…I think I might need one more orgasm before I give you yours.”
I hear my desk creak as you sit on it, and then feel your toe hook around the back of my leg and you haul me across the hardwood floor, the casters loud as I roll toward you. Your thighs are velvety soft as they come to rest on my shoulders, and I nip the flesh hard enough to make you squeak and jump, and then your hands are in my hair and you’re guiding me to your slit, pulling me against you. I feel your body arch as I begin lapping at your clit, feel your fingers tighten in my hair. You’re on a hair trigger, already gasping wildly, and I’ve only licked at you a few times, and when I pause to suckle the hard little button of your clitoris into my mouth, you whimper and shift and thrust against me, and then when I return my tongue to you, circling faster and faster, you cry out and gasp and tell me, “YES! YES! Right there! Don’t stop!”
As if I would stop—as if I COULD stop. The sounds you make, the erotic whimpers and breathy groans, they’re enough to make my cock throb without even being touched. And when you clutch me hard against you and scream wordlessly in your thrashing climax, I nearly do come just hearing the sounds you make.
And then you kick me away, one foot pushing at the chair so I roll backward, and I hear your feet hit the hardwood floor and I feel your hair tickle my thighs and that’s all the warning I get before I’m in your mouth and you’re sucking hard and pumping my shaft with both hands, and I’m groaning and thrusting.
You don’t let me finish, though.
You stand up and I feel you twist around between my thighs, and then your hand clutches my cock and bends me away from my body and you sink me into your slick wet tight heat and you’re straddling me, facing away, the angle delicious and tight and taut, and your walls squeeze around me and your ass slaps down on my thighs and I’m trying to thrust but I have no leverage.
There's No Place Like Home (The One Series Book 3) Page 12
