"Nothing," I say, and force my tone to stay casual and even. "Anything. Nothing. We don't come looking for anything in particular, we just take what we find. That's the beauty of Keegan's; you never know what you'll come across, so you take what you find."
"When did you find this place?" she asks as I pull out a stack of records and begin flipping through them.
"When I turned sixteen. We grew up around here, and we both loved music. We had the freedom to roam then, so we'd meet here and flip through shit until it was time to go home. Keegan sold Scotty his first guitar—a broke ass piece of shit he picked up with a few dozen boxes of broken records. It was the only thing I've ever seen him give away, and I think it was mostly because Scotty offered to take the rest of the junk to the dump. We loved this place."
"You still do," she contributes, leaning over and snagging a bright purple record from me and examining it. She sips her coffee and shudders, before she sets it aside and studies the album artwork intently. I try to ignore her focusing on the stack in front of me. But it's hard, especially as she relaxes and more of her slight body weight leans into me, warming my side in the best possible way.
Her breath brushes against my neck as she leans across me and puts her selection in the keep pile.
"How did you get started on the drum?"
Keegan found a set of drums, a few weeks later. Looking back, we knew what he was doing. Keeping us together and off the streets. Out of the shit that was our reality. But at the time, it was just a weird coincidence that gave us another outlet. And as long as we weren't asking for money, no one really cared what we did.
It was one of the few bright spots of our life growing up.
"The drums showed up a little laterand the rest was history. We played all the time. I didn't really care; it was for Scott"
She examines me for a moment, and then, "You are very close to him."
I nod, not bothering to argue or justify it.
Most chicks don't really get my friendship with Scott. Most either like us because we're into sharing, or they get annoyed because we have no boundaries. I'm pretty sure Peyton isn't into kinky shit, but I don't know that she's sitting in the second category either. And that's something I'm not sure I know what to do with.
"You’re thinking again. Stay with me," she murmurs, squeezing my hand, and I flash her a smile before I drop a stack of records in her lap. She makes a little noise of surprise, and I grin.
"Help me."
Chapter 4: After
Quiet. The darkness
Presses against me, the
Distance yawns between us.
Quiet. And in the stillness,
space melts away. And
there you are.
(Rike’s poem to Peyton)
The shrink the hospital sends me to is a fucking joke.
She wants to try meditation and hypnosis. Because either of those will help. I’ve spent three days here and I know nothing about who I am or why the hell I’m here.
There’s a tap on my door and I stop punching the pillow to look up as the door swings open.
He’s back. He’s been gone for most of the past three days, and I’ve wondered. I shouldn’t have, but I’ve found myself pulled back to him despite my best intentions.
“What did the pillow do?”
I smooth it and flush. “Nothing. It didn’t do—where have you been?”
He arches an eyebrow and grins at me, and I look away. He doesn’t answer immediately, stalking deeper into the room and dropping into the chair next to my bed. He sprawls there, ridiculously comfortable, and I almost want to dislike him for it. There’s a confident air that wraps around him. He’s covered in tattoos—I can see them more with the tshirt he’s wearing—and he smiles as if the world is waiting for him to grace it with his presence. “Did you miss me, sweetheart?”
The term of endearment confirms what I’ve begun suspecting—he isn’t a nurse.
“I don’t know. I don’t know you so I don’t suppose I could miss you,” I answer honestly. His smile falters, and I feel like I said the wrong thing. Like he is waiting for something from me. “Do I?” I blurt, suddenly. His eyes dart up to mine and his grin fails completely.
“Do you what?” he asks hoarsely.
I almost ask. I think he want me to. But there is something terrifying and deep in his eyes, something I’m not ready to face. So I make a face, and shake my head. Twitch my blanket over my cast.
The accident that stole my memory also shattered my leg, my left arm, and four ribs. I’m told I’m lucky. That the amnesia might pass, that the leg will heal, and my bruises will fade. I’ll walk, and I’ll lead a normal life.
“The girl who came in with me. Do you know anything about her?”
“She’s still touch and go,” he says, and something about his voice jerks my gaze up to him.
There’s grief there. Surprising.
“Why are you here?” I ask, abruptly.
For the first time, he looks nervous. He rubs his hands on his jeans, and then leans forward, digging into the bag he carried into the room.
“I brought you some stuff. Books. Music. A couple movies are loaded on the tablet. And you can google shit if you want. I know that it’s not your memory, but I want to help you. I want to do what I can to help you figure out who you are and where you come from.”
He’s staring at me, his face open and earnest, hopeful.
“What’s your name?” I whisper.
Why does he look so sad? “Rike. Riker Johnston.”
I smile and extend my hand, the one that is still hooked up to IVs, my fingers splinted and half-healed. For a moment, I feel a flash of embarrassment. But his hand, covering mine, is warm and impossibly careful, and I want to bask in the feel of it.
“I’m Peyton Collins,” I says softly. Almost shyly.
“Hi, Pey,” he murmurs, and it soothes me. I don’t want to think about why.
***
We watch a movie and it’s interesting, but when it’s over, that’s all it was. Interesting. Not a clue to who I am. But Rike laughs and it’s relaxing, just hanging out with him. There aren’t questioning stares from doctors and nurses, barely veiled sympathy that makes my stomach hurt.
He’s just present.
When the movie ends, the night is dark outside my window. He stretches and stands. “I should go. I’m surprised they haven’t kicked me out yet.”
“Do you have to go?” I ask, and then slap a hand over my lips. I shouldn’t have asked that. His eyes are watching me, assessing, and I make a half-smile, half-grimace. “Sorry. I appreciate you being here. That’s all. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart. Would you like me to come back tomorrow?”
I want to say yes. Because there is nothing familiar, in my world. There is only him. He is becoming a touchstone of familiar.
“If you’d like to,” I answer, trying not to be demanding.
His head tilts to the side. “I’ll make a deal with you, Peyton. If you will tell me something you learned about yourself—I’ll come back. But you have to learn something. About who you are or who you were. Deal?”
I blink at him. Rike is staring at me, and there’s a wild hope in his eyes. He wants me to do this. It matters.
And it’s a helluva a lot better than trying dream therapy with an idiotic shrink.
“How do I tell you?”
A wide smile spreads across his face, and he pulls out a phone. “It’s cheap. Just a prepaid thing. I programmed my number in here. I want you to text or call when you’ve figured it out. One thing, ok?”
“What if you’re busy?”
His eyes darken, and my breath catches in my throat. “I won’t be. I won’t ever be too busy for you, Peyton.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just bob a quick nod and his tension eases a little. He hesitates, and then hands me a small, leather-bound book. “This was in your purse when you were brought in. I wanted you to have it.�
�
I take it from him with numb fingers and he leans down, brushing a kiss over my hair. It takes everything in me to keep from shivering.
“I hope I see you tomorrow, Peyton,” he murmurs. Then he walks to the door. Pauses there and grins over his shoulder at me. “Knock, knock.”
A silly smile tugs my lips. “Who’s there?”
“Cows go.”
“Cows go who?”
He smirks. “Cows go moo, not who.”
I giggle, and he winks at me, and then he’s gone.
And I’m alone. With my thoughts and a tablet.
I could Google. I can’t imagine I was a girl who didn’t like social media. But I think using that to get a fact is cheating. The notebook is sitting in my lap, with the cell phone. It was mine. Why is that terrifying?
I take a deep breath and flip it open.
The pages are covered in neat, tiny script, looping little letters. I stare at it for a moment, my gaze skimming the page before I flip to the next. And the next. Page after page.
Poetry.
And it's gorgeous. I flip through the book slowly, reading the poetry. It's everything from Thoreau and Frost to people I've never heard of. I'm tempted to Google them, and I finally reach for my own notebook. Jot down a few things to look up tomorrow, before I settle into the pillows and read.
It’s hours later when the nurse comes in to check my vitals. Her gaze tracks over me and the array of books and the open notebook. Her gaze brightens and she gives me a smile. “Remember anything, Peyton?”
I make a face and shake my head. She clucks softly. “The doctor is talking to your parents tomorrow.”
I shift and straighten. “I would really prefer he didn’t.”
Her eyes widen, and I bite my tongue. Why the hell did I say that? I don’t know. But the mere idea of him discussing my medical condition with my parents makes me want to crawl into a hole and hide from everyone. And fire him immediately.
“Please let him know I want to be consulted before he reaches out to anyone. I’m sure that I’m protected by privacy laws.” I say it evenly, but I’m seething. Just because I’ve lost a chunk of my memory doesn’t mean I don’t remember basic privacy.
Her face goes white and she bobs a nod as she goes quiet and finishes taking my stats. Then she’s gone and I’m left staring at the notebook of beautiful words, and the unshakable feeling that I don’t—didn’t—like my parents.
The why is a lot harder to figure out.
I pick up the phone and text quickly:
Peyton: I know my one thing.
Rike: Tell me. Blow me away.
Peyton: Don’t be pushy. You said one thing. Not blow-you-away revelations.
I can hear him laughing even though he’s not here. I grin, and tap out quickly.
Peyton: I’ll tell you tomorrow. Thanks for keeping me company tonight.
I wait a moment for a response, but none comes. And I’m okay with that.
I lean back on the bed and lose myself in the words on the page, until my eyes are too heavy to stay open, and all I can see is beauty.
I fall asleep with two truths ringing in my mind.
I don’t like my parents. And I absolutely adore poetry.
Chapter 5: Before
Scotty is watching me from a barstool as I tap at the drums nervously. It's been two weeks since that first date in Keegan's record store, and I still haven't brought Peyton home. She's flirted, and we've done dinner, and constant texting. She still comes by to listen to us play, but she scooted out before I could talk to her last week, texting quickly that she had a class early the next morning.
Which might be true. It might be she doesn't want to get serious enough that she's meeting Scott
"You need to get laid," Scott says, and I flick him a dirty look.
"Have you even kissed her yet?" he asks, and I duck behind the drums. He barks out a startled laugh, half choking on his beer. "You haven't. Shit, bro, you're losing your touch."
"Shut the fuck up," I growl. "I'm not fucking this up because I'm horny."
Scott laughs again and I stand abruptly, glaring at my brother. Amused blue eyes meet mine, red hair framing a private smile that tells me I'm not in trouble, but I'm skating close to it.
Peyton reaches out and snags Scott's Redd’s, sipping from it as she saunters up to the stage and climbs up. She's wearing a tight little jean skirt that rides up a little when she steps up, and I get the quick flash of her smooth thigh, the hint of bright blue of her panties before she's on the stage and stalking toward me.
She moves with a prowling grace that make me hard, and I swallow, watching as she closes in on me.
"You’re horny and you won't touch me?"sShe murmurs, soft enough that even in the still quiet of the bar, only I hear her words. "I must be reading your signals wrong, Jokes. I thought you were in this."
Disappointment shimmers in her bright eyes, and I move without thinking. For once, the voices hissing that she's too good for me are silenced as I drag her into me. Her body is hot and soft under the jean skirt and a tight-fitting tank that caresses every fucking curve. I drop my head down, skimming along her skin as I murmur, "Sweetheart, I've gotten off every day for the past three months, thinking about your tight little body in my bed. Thinking about kissing you until you can't think and watching you fall apart while I'm buried in your perfect pussy."
She makes a tiny gasp against my ear and I lick a line across the curve of her neck and she shudders, her hand coming up to clutch my shoulders, nails digging in.
"You like that, don't you? That I've spent months hung up on you. That I've come all over myself thinking about you."
She whimpers and I swallow my smile as I pull back. Stare in her eyes as she struggles to breathe evenly. "How wet are you right now, Peyton?"
She licks her lips and my dick twitches. I swallow a groan as she comes up on tiptoes and leans in, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispers, "Fucking soaked."
I have her against me before I realize I moved, and her lips are against mine and it's every fucking thing I expected. Wanted. Fantasized about for months. Her hands are on my shoulders, nails digging in, and I fucking love it. I lick along the seam of her lips, my hand coming up and framing her face as the other finds her waist, the smooth band of skin between her skirt and her top. I catch her bottom lip, tugging softly, and her nails bite down as she gasps. I shift her, twisting and pushing her back until she hits the wall. One leg hitches up around mine and I groan as her tongue slides against mine and her skirt rides up between us.
I’m about a minute from dragging her into the back stockroom and fucking her against the cases of beer. She grabs my hand, and brings it between us as her leg drops. I pull back a hairsbreadth, startled, and her blue eyes are fierce and hot on mine as she guides my hand down the front of her skirt.
I’m too aware of the people behind us, and the girl in my arms, the way she’s pushing me past every fucking boundary I know.
Then I feel her, her pussy smooth and soft and so, “Jesus, you’re so fucking wet,” I hiss, my fingers slipping through her folds. Her eyes are closed, and her mouth is slightly open, as she moves against me in the tiniest thrust, her clit rubbing against my palm.
It might be the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
“Rike,” Scott yells, but he seems very far away. The bar is impossibly quiet, and she’s shuddering in my arms. I twist, coming in front of her a little more, pushing her deeper into the shadows of the wall and my fingers sink into her.
I swallow my curse as her nails dig in again, pain flashing through me and slamming into my cock, and her lips open.
I kiss her, taking the scream as she spasms around my hand, wet heat and shuddering silky muscles and the scent of sunshine and sugar all around me as I drink down her screams and kiss her like I’m dying.
Slowly, slowly, she settles, her body relaxing against the wall, and I slip my hand from her skirt, straightening it.
I jus
t finger-fucked Peyton in the middle of a bar. A not empty bar.
What the actual fuck is wrong with me?
She grabs me by the jaw as I step away from her and her eyes are furious and hot, and my mouth goes dry. “Don’t you dare regret this, Jokes. Don’t you fucking dare.” She pushes past me before I can protest, before I can say anything, and I wait a second, trying to get my composure and to get my fucking hard-on to go down before I turn to face the entire room.
I feel someone at my back, and glance at Scotty.
“I got the room cleared,” he says. “Before you guys went at it like fucking rabbits.”
He grins, and I want to punch him for seeing that even as I’m glad he had the presence of mind to clear the room.
“I wasn’t thinking,” I mutter.
“No, but going without sex will fuck with anyone’s head. And Siren looks like she was into it.”
“Quit calling her that. Her name is Peyton.”
He glances at her from the corner of his eye. Peyton is settling into her booth in the corner of the bar, opening her computer and going to work like I didn’t just molest her onstage.
For the first time, my heartbeat settles.
She wanted it just as bad as I did.
“Of course she did, you fucktard. You might be horny but you don’t fucking assault girls. Just keep that shit off the stage—we’ve got people coming in.” He says, answering the thought I didn’t realize I’d voiced.
I glance at him and nod. He point at the back bathroom and I follow his wordless directive.
It’s tiny and stinks and I close the door behind me, leaning on it.
I can fucking smell her on my skin, and I groan.
Because I’m fucking hard. Again.
Chapter 6: After
I want to peel back
Before & After Page 3
