Amnesia, a Psychological Thriller (Centrifuge Duet Book 1)

by Kylie Hillman

  One of the security guard’s kicks Xander in the head and he falls silent.

  “The police are on their way.” A burly man in a suit pronounces as he enters the ballroom.

  He beckons the group crowded around my parents to follow. Jax drags me behind him as we surge forward, slowing and laying an arm over my shoulders when he realises that I’m not fighting him any longer. The rage that I can feel radiating from his stiff body dulls and he murmurs soft words of reassurance in my ear.

  “It’s okay, baby. You’re not in trouble.”

  Agonising shakes have taken hold of my body as the adrenaline that had me running from my fiancé to a murderer evaporates. I’m finding it hard to stay upright, my mind unable to cope with the events that just unfolded.

  This is insanity. My memory loss almost cost me my life.

  “She’s going to collapse,” Seb warns from his spot on my other side.

  Jax sweeps me into his arms, holding me against his upper body with ease. He carries me into the small room where my family has been led by the man in the suit. When the door is shut behind us, Jax whirls around to face our father’s.

  “What the hell was that?” He lowers his chin, motioning toward me. “He could have hurt her. He’s supposed to be in jail, not breaking into private functions and accusing me of murder.”

  “We’ll fix it. He’ll be back inside within the hour.” Henry promises his son. He shoots a look of disgust my way. “Having Amber jump into his arms in front of potential donors and the hospital board is going to be much harder to explain.”

  Raw indignation emanates from my fiancé. It mingles with the hurt and censure that I feel within him. It breaks my heart because I know that my actions are the reason why he’s feeling this way.

  “I’m sorry.” I take hold of his face and pull until he’s looking at me. His eyes are shuttered, no emotion to be seen, but he doesn’t try to resist me. “I don’t know why I ran to him, except that he seemed familiar and—”

  Seb interrupts me. “It’s a side effect of the drug. Sometimes, when a memory is triggered the circumstances can be distorted which can lead you to believe things that aren’t true. That man was familiar to you because you witnessed him killing Charlie and the two women he mentioned. He’s been stalking you.”

  “He tried to kill me, and Charles died saving my life.” Jax takes over explaining when Seb trails off. “Unfortunately, he was able to shoot my receptionist and your day nurse, Belinda, before we could stop him.”

  Holy mother of pearl. My life is like a storyline from daytime television. No wonder my memories are staying lost.

  Who’d want them back?

  “I’m so very sorry.” I offer my apologies again. Although, they don’t feel like enough in the current circumstances. “Is there any way I can help keep him behind bars? If you tell me what to say, I can tell the police that I remember enough to corroborate your story. Would that help?”

  A sharp intake of breath comes from Seb’s direction. Jax smiles at me, the black depths of his gaze warming exponentially. “Baby, that would be a big help.”

  The door opens. The man in the suit pokes his head in. He looks harried, a little red-faced and flustered.

  “He’s been taken away. I’ve told the authorities that you’ll give your statements first thing tomorrow morning. The board will meet with you after that. The limo is waiting at the back entrance, with a decoy idling at the front door to keep the media occupied. Anything else?”

  “That will be all, for now.” Dad answers in a curt tone. “If anything further arises, I’ll be sure to call.”

  The man dips his head, then pushes the door all the way open so we can leave. Jax adjusts his embrace, juggling me so that he can carry me out of here. I indicate my desire to walk, feeling one-hundred percent better now that I’ve found a way to get rid of my stalker. I’ll made a million police reports if it keeps that madman behind bars.

  “Don’t be silly.” He kisses my cheek as we follow everyone else to the back of the hospital and our waiting vehicle. “I promised a reward if you played your part tonight.”

  My eyebrows pull together as I attempt to make sense of his statement. The riddle becomes clear when Jax slips a hand between my knees, running it along my inner thigh until he meets the edge of the G-string he chose for me to wear tonight. He slides the material out of the way and strokes me from tingling clit to wet core, inserting a finger when he makes the journey a second time.

  I moan.

  He groans against my hair.

  “I like it when you’re a good girl.”

  Two deep voices rouse me from my slumber. I roll onto my side in search of Jax, only to find that he’s not in bed with me anymore. The light from the hallway is on. A sliver shining under the door.

  Lying back on my pillow, memories of last night hit with dizzying intensity, followed by a pang of guilt. The delicious soreness between my legs ramps my regret up another level, reminding me that I shouldn’t be resting my satiated body in the bed I share with my fiancé. I should be on my knees, begging for forgiveness for my epic failure in front of the hospital board and the potential investors who attended the ball last night. I let him down and I put myself in danger by doing so.

  Running from my safe harbour to a madman.

  My amnesia has a lot to answer for.

  “I know you’re not on board with Centrifuge.” Annoyance coats Jax’s declaration, although it’s laced with appreciation. “But, I wanted to say thank you for covering my ass last night. I could see my carefully laid trap snapping shut on my own ankle instead of my intended prey. You saved the day with your reasoning. Amber and I truly connected last night. I think it’s safe to say that she’s finally ready to admit that she belongs to me.”

  My stomach churns with dismay at the smugness with which Jax discusses me. I sit up, ready to stomp out of the room to confront him. My indignation is at an all-time high until I identify who he’s talking to.

  “Well, you know what they say.” Seb sounds as pissed at Jax as I feel. “When lying, you should always try and keep the story as close to the truth as possible. So, I took your sins and blamed them on the good guy.”

  “Ha. One day, you’re going to fall off your high horse.” Jax pushes our bedroom door open, the light from the hallway illuminating his tall frame. I slowly shuffle my way back under the covers, holding my breath as I feign sleep. “I’d like a front row seat when it happens. It’ll prove to Amber that you’re not her knight-in-shining-armour.”

  “Don’t count on it. But, in the off-chance that it does happen, I’m hoping Amber is a million miles away from you by then.”

  The bedroom door swings closed again. A thud fills the hallway. The pictures hanging on the wall shift. Then, a series of thumps and the sound of heavy breathing follows.

  “That damn will is the only reason I haven’t gotten rid of you.” Jax is breathless; irate and demanding. “Stay away from Amber or I’ll change my mind about the money.”

  “Don’t threaten me.” Seb chuckles. “We both know you don’t have the balls to follow though. One-hundred-and-thirty-million is a lot of money to kiss goodbye when you’re a greedy fucker with a taste for breaking the law. Covering your tracks isn’t cheap.”

  “Fuck you.” Jax stalks into our room, slamming the door shut behind him.

  “Yeah, pass.” Seb’s retort is barely audible over Jax’s furious pacing.

  I sit up, rubbing my eyes and pretending that I’ve just woken. “What’s wrong? Are you fighting with Seb?”

  “Come here,” Jax motions me to him with an angry flourish. I scramble from the bed, unheeding of my nakedness, and walk to him. My nerves are clanging with alarm after what I just heard. My legs trembling as I approach. I’m not sure what to expect when I reach him. Although, even knowing his volatile mood, what happens next wouldn’t have crossed my mind in my wildest dreams.

  Jax pushes me to my knees in front of him. He unzips his pants, pulling his coc
k free. Then he slaps my cheek with it. I’m about to let my displeasure be known when he takes his assault one step further and shoves his hard dick between my lips.

  With one hand on the back of my head, he holds me still and violates my mouth at a frantic pace. The head of his cock hits the back of my throat, making me gag. I slap my hands against his thighs to try and make him stop. I can’t breathe and I’m scared I’m going to throw up when he forces his way to the back of my throat again.

  “Nothing you do can stop me.” The words are said without inflection. A monotone promise backed by his current actions. “I own you. You’re mine. You can run. You can hide. But, you’ll never manage to escape.”

  My mind revolts at what he’s saying. I’m ready to sink my teeth into his cock—repercussions, be damned—when I feel him swelling. His grip on my head becomes painful, the frenetic pumping of his hips losing all rhythm seconds before his cum fills my mouth. This time, I don’t gag. I’m too afraid of his reaction to let him see how he’s broken me so I stay still and wait for his next move.

  Jax lets go, pushing me to the floor. My mouth is still full of his cum, the excess starting to dribble down my chin. Hard eyes filled with contempt regard me, then he smiles. It’s glacier-thin, as cold as ice, filled with ownership and promises of more ill-treatment to come.

  “Swallow it, baby.” An involuntary flinch is my only reaction to his endearment. I force my throat to work, making his release slide down my throat a moment later. “Good girl.”

  Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, I draw my knees to my chest and hug them. Jax tucks his cock away, zipping his pants, before he enters our walk-in-robe. He emerges hardly half a minute later with a medical box in one hand and a vial of Centrifuge in the other. I observe, without a word of protest, as he prepares the medication.

  “Arm.”

  I hold it out. He swats the anti-bacterial wipe across my veins, then injects the reddish-brown liquid into me without further preamble. I barely feel the sting of the needle or the coolness of the drug as it enters my body. Instead, I concentrate on the wave of ecstasy it brings and the dizziness that I usually hate when it follows. The informal ceremony behind the injection of Centrifuge heralds an onslaught of peace.

  And, the promise that tomorrow is a new day.

  One without the shadowy remnants of Jax’s despicable behaviour or memories of the way he just made me feel. One where I can live in blissful ignorance of the deal I’ve made with the devil.

  “Turn around, Amber,” my mother directs me from her spot at the base of the platform I’m standing on. “Let me see the ruching at the back.”

  I dutifully perform as requested. The “ooh’s” and “aah’s” that fill our private showroom spreading hope through me that this incarnation of the dress will be the one that meets Mum’s exacting standards.

  Finally.

  It’s been a long day filled with dozens of design changes and more than a couple of pins jabbed into my skin by the frazzled seamstress. “The Wedding of the Century”, as the gossip columns have taken to calling my upcoming nuptials, means that an ordinary dress will simply not do. We’re creating a custom-made gown of the highest quality, crafted by an up-and-coming designer whom nobody else within our circle has used to design their dress, that will be talked about for years to come as the epitome of the perfect wedding gown. I believe that was the exact words to leave my mother’s mouth—give or take an adjective or two—when she tasked her personal assistant with finding someone who could design and create my wedding gown within three weeks.

  Of course, my position as the obedient daughter means that I have little say in what I’m wearing down the aisle in less than a week. My lack of memory coupled with my simple tastes make my suggestions unsuitable. My history of reckless decisions, as my father so delicately terms my long-forgotten attempts to have an opinion, disqualifying me entirely from all wedding preparations.

  “Perfection.”

  A chorus of glee meets Mum’s declaration. I’m pulled from the platform, my hands seized by the tiny, Stepford-looking, strawberry-blonde who declared herself my childhood best friend when we were introduced this morning. She forces me to jump up and down on the spot with her. Our mouths open as we whoop it up like a “woo girl” at a One Direction concert.

  “You look like a princess,” Shannon cries with joy when she stops jumping long enough to get a word out. “Although, I can’t believe you’re marrying Jax. Not after everything he did to you.”

  One of the women standing near us—another “old school friend”—makes a cutting motion with her thumb across her throat. Shannon’s face turns red. She drops my gaze and fumbles with the clasp of her handbag, while she pretends that she urgently needs something out of it.

  “What did he do?” Jax has a prickly nature and moods that can swing on a dime. However, he’s never struck me as more than what he professes to be. My high school sweetheart. An overly ambitious man who’s happy to do whatever it takes to get where he wants to go. To use every ounce of influence he wields to sucker punch his competition. To break any rule—or person—he needs to, in order to get ahead of the game. With me as the only exception to his all-consuming lust for power. His weak spot. The one person he’d never sacrifice for a deal.

  Stunned silence falls over the group. Everyone becomes enthralled with the floor or the ceiling, any way to avoid answering my question as it stays hanging in the air like a bad smell.

  My mother tries to change the subject, clapping her hands and announcing cheerily, “Well, I’d like to thank you all for coming. I’m delighted that we’ve finalised everyone’s dresses. I’d appreciate it if you all could stop by my assistant on your way out and confirm your details for the rehearsal dinner.”

  Nobody moves so she claps her hands again. It’s enough to jolt them from their stressed-induced stupor and send them filing with a robot-like efficiency toward the exit.

  “What was that all about?” I ask when only the two of us remain.

  “Shannon likes to talk out of turn. Ignore her.” She fusses with the ruffles on my skirt before making her way to the refreshments table and draining a full glass of champagne. As always, she seems nervous in my presence.

  I don’t spend a great deal of time with my mother. My days are usually taken up with the little tasks that Jax leaves for me to complete while he’s at the hospital, by accompanying him to meetings and fundraising events, or with sex. My fiancé has a ferocious appetite, one you’ll never hear me complaining about because the man is talented. Every day is full of something that keeps me with Jax and away from everyone else who should matter in my life. There’s little time spent helping me regain my memory, while a lot is consumed by talk of the upcoming “merger” of our family dynasties and the progress of Centrifuge toward the pharmaceutical market.

  “Are you keeping something from me?” I sit on the viewing platform. Swinging my legs under the heavy skirts, I keep a keen eye on Mum, while I wait for an answer. I’m left hanging until she’s drained another flute of champagne.

  “No. Of course not. Why would you ask that?” She doesn’t shift her attention from the glass in her hand.

  “The way everybody acted when Shannon said she’s surprised I’m marrying Jax. You never try to help me remember my childhood.” I hold a finger in the air for each observation I list. “No one seems to care what I think about this marriage. My amnesia isn’t getting better, yet nobody is the least bit surprised or suggesting that I see a different doctor. I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture?”

  “Amber, sometimes it’s better to let things go. Your father is over-the-moon that you’re marrying Jax. I am, too. This marriage will set you up for life, especially once you’ve had your first child. Why on earth do you think I would want to discuss anything that might stop that from taking place?”

  “Because I’m your only child. Because you’re my mum and you should put me first.”

  My mother sets the glass dow
n on the table and walks to where I’m sitting. She takes a seat next to me. I wait for her to speak, but she says nothing. When the silence drags on, I’m left to wonder if she actually has anything to say. Is her inability to respond my answer? Is it her way of saying that I should let it go?

  “I love your father.” Her voice is soft; barely audible, even in the stillness of the room. Not that the lack of volume detracts from the obvious truth in the sentence. “He’s not the easiest man to live with. Sometimes, he does things that I don’t understand. Things that hurt people for no reason other than he likes to inflict pain. He’s a complicated man who craves power and money to the exclusion of all else.”

  A shudder runs the length of my body. I can’t remember what my father was like when I was growing up, but I don’t have to. His disdain for ordinary people coats everything he does. The permanent sneer that creases his face lets the world know, without a doubt, that Malcolm St. George believes himself to be above everyone he meets.

  Not because he’s a better person than most.

  Because he has more money.

  “That doesn’t make him a bad person. It makes him a shallow person. And, when you love a shallow person, you’re forced to make exceptions for their behaviour. They don’t possess any empathy so they’re unable to put themselves in other people’s shoes. Therefore, when they make choices for us that seem to disregard our hopes and dreams, we must remember that they don’t realise that it is hurting us. They believe they’re doing it for our own good.”

  I bite down on my tongue so that I don’t point out the contradiction in her two statements. First, she basically labels my father a power-hungry tyrant who hurts people because it’s fun, then she says he doesn’t mean to. I’m about to throw caution to the wind and call her out when it hits me.

  She’s not just talking about my dad.

  She’s describing Jax, as well.

  “Are you telling me to put up and shut up?” I regret the wording of my question the second it leaves my mouth. Mum stands, striding to the refreshments once again and draining another glass like it’s her salvation. She slams it back onto the table, then places her hands on her hips, and glares at me.