by Snow, Nicole
Nah, there’s no pain in heaven. And definitely no barfing.
I turn to him. “Who are you?”
For a second, he just looks at me. Then he flashes that smile, gives a one-shoulder shrug, and leans closer.
“Flint. Who the hell you think I look like? Elvis?”
“Flint?” I whisper, shaking my head. Doesn’t ring a bell in the slightest. But I do remember the King.
He nods firmly.
Flint. Flint who?
I say the name again. Silently. Let it enter my mind, wait for it to make some neurons fire.
It’s not my lucky day, though.
Everything Flint-related comes back zip, zilch, and zero.
“How do I know you, Flint?” I swallow. “Do I know you?”
“Knock, knock!” Another man walks through the open door from the hall. “How’s our happy patient today?”
“She’s awake. That’s got to mean something.” Flint, I remember his name—but still don’t know if I know him—stands up.
“Yeah, that’s progress,” the new man says. “Now let’s have a looksie at the rest...”
Flint starts to move. His hand slips away. I grasp his fingers before they completely let go of mine.
Maybe I don’t know him, but at least I know his name.
That’s more than I can say about New Guy.
He’s not exactly young or old either, but he has a few more lines than Flint, mainly on his forehead. He’s very tall, muscular, but not nearly as huge as Flint.
Something about him isn’t quite as charming as Flint, either. I’m not sure what because he’s not bad looking.
Maybe it’s his stride? It’s purposeful, deliberate, kind of rigid. Makes me want to start chanting right-left, left-right-left.
No surprise. Probably because Hawaii is full of military men.
Don’t even ask me how I know.
The stiff marching guy arrives next to the bed and stares at me with sharp emerald-green eyes. “How do you feel?”
Crap sandwich still fits the description. Even if it’s not as brutal as before.
I don’t know, honestly. Right now, I feel more confused than like I’m about to go to pieces.
“Just dandy,” I say, resting my chin on one hand.
Flint lets out a chuckle. The other man looks at him.
Flint shrugs. “She told me she feels like shit.”
Heat burns my cheeks. Great. I’m so glad I remember how to be shamed into a hole.
The other man grins at me and winks. “You have some color today. That’s a good sign.”
Sign of what? Embarrassment? And why did he wink at me?
Does he think I’m kidding? I really had felt like utter crap. Maybe I still do and can’t quite process how craptacular I truly feel.
“Have you eaten anything?” he asks.
“Give her a break, Cash. She just woke up a few minutes ago,” Flint says.
The man nods and sets something on the edge of the bed. A leather bag. It’s not a briefcase or computer bag. Almost looks more like an old-timey doctor’s bag.
This just keeps getting weirder. Doctors don’t make house calls, do they?
Apparently, this one does. He opens up his bag and pulls out a stethoscope. “I’m going to have a listen and check your lungs. We can’t risk pneumonia setting in,” he says sharply.
I shudder. “Pneumonia?”
Flint squeezes my hand. “Cash is a good doctor. Thorough as hell. Trust him.”
Like I have any reason to trust anything here. But it’s not like I really have a choice, either.
“Can you sit up?” the other guy—Dr. Cash, apparently—asks.
I think so. I try.
Flint helps me, keeping one hand on my back, still clasping my other hand while the doctor moves the stethoscope around my back, sides, and front. The cold metal disc feels weirdly pleasant after everything else.
I’m wearing a white Waikiki beach t-shirt. No bra, and I’m pretty sure it’s ditto for my underwear.
What the what? Nothing makes sense.
“All clear.” He drapes the stethoscope around his neck. “That’s the good news. Now let me take a look at that cut.”
I look at Flint, unsure about so many things.
He smiles and props the pillows up behind me. “He may not look like it, but he really is a good doctor. I’ve seen him fix up more than a few people on the ropes.”
He’s right about one thing. This doctor who performs house calls sure doesn’t look like any MD I know. And my little memory problem doesn’t change that.
He’s wearing a yellow Maui t-shirt, khaki shorts, and white socks. I do a double take.
No one in Hawaii wears shoes inside their house, except for tourists, but socks...seriously? People only wear socks around here when they’re hiking or running or heading off for a fancy dinner.
Chalking that up as another odd tidbit, I lean back against the pillows, turn my head slightly, and hold my breath, preparing for more pain.
There’s a little stabby discomfort as Dr. Cash examines my injury, but nothing severe.
“Good,” he says. “Looks like the butterfly stitches are doing the trick.”
Hoping he’s as good as Flint says, I ask the sock-wearing doctor, “Okay, but there’s a problem. Why can’t I remember anything?”
The way he slowly cranes his head and glances at Flint gives me chills.
Flint gives my hand another tense squeeze—or maybe I squeeze his for dear life, I’m not sure—as the doctor slides his bag out of the way and sits down on the edge of the bed.
“What do you remember?” he asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Just...odd little things. Fragments. Like I really hate barfing, for one. We’re in Oahu. I think I enjoy the water when I’m not having mysterious accidents that try to tear my face open.”
Oh, and I totally adore sea glass. I keep that thought to myself. The last thing I need is Mr. Sea Glass himself finding out and giving me that slow burn smirky-smile.
It’s all just hard to explain. Maybe that’s something else I don’t recall. How to describe things well.
“Do you still know your name?” he asks. His eyes search mine.
Okay, think. Here’s your chance to stop making a total fool of yourself.
I close my eyes, focus, and remember that’s what woke me up.
Flint saying my name. It was distant and hazy, sure, but it left an impression.
“Valerie?” I say, unsure if I’m right.
He nods and looks at the way Flint and I are holding hands.
“What about your last name? Do you remember that?” Cash asks.
I try, but there’s just a blank, so I simply shake my head.
“Do you know what day it is?”
Ha. If I knew that, I feel like I’d be able to leap up and walk away.
“No. Sorry.”
“What month?”
I glance at the window for a clue, but seasons and months aren’t all that different in Hawaii, so I shake my head again.
“Do you know how old you are?”
I bite down on my bottom lip as it starts trembling and my breathing goes shaky.
God, I can’t remember any of those things. It’s beyond surreal. It’s scary.
“Cash,” Flint snaps. “Enough. Don’t badger the poor girl.”
“I’m hardly badgering her,” Cash throws back. “It’s part of a routine exam, vital questions to determine the extent of her amnesia.”
“Amnesia?” I say, my eyes popping wide.
No freaking way. That’s movie stuff. Not real life.
“You took a hard blow right to the head, dear,” Cash says. “Temporary amnesia isn’t as rare as people believe.”
My stomach drops. I don’t know if that makes me feel better.
Amnesia. Even temporary, that’s pretty freaky.
“How temporary are we talking?” I ask, snatching nervously at the blanket.
“Hmm, wel
l...hard to say. It could be hours or it could be months. Every head trauma case is as unique as its victim, I’m afraid. We just don’t have reliable models for this sort of thing.”
“Months? Jesus. You’re telling me I might be in for months of not knowing anything?” My trembling increases, and ice-cold panic grips my chest again.
“Cash,” Flint growls. “I’m telling you, she’s had a fucking ’nough.”
The sharpness of his tone has me looking up at him. There’s enough steel in the gaze he’s leveled on Cash to filet a barracuda.
Cash nods and pats my leg. “Fine. Let’s get you cleaned up in a bath and some food in you. Maybe it’ll help jog your memory.”
“A bath and food?” I can’t hide my skepticism. That seems way too easy.
“Sometimes, believe it or not, that’s all it takes. A normal routine helps get the brain working properly,” he says. “I’ve heard of cases where elderly patients only needed to smell a cup of coffee or hear a favorite song to recall plenty about their lives.”
Whatever. I’m willing to try anything, I guess.
I glance up at Flint again. I’m not sure why I feel like I want his approval.
His bright eyes soften as he looks down at me and nods.
Cash stands, unhooks the stethoscope from around his neck, and stuffs it in his bag. Then, with a parting smile for me, and a nod at Flint, he says, “I’ll meet you in the kitchen after you get your wife settled in the bathroom.”
My entire body freezes over.
What did he just say? Wife!
2
What Friends Are For (Flint)
I’m so fucking pissed I want to wring Cash’s neck, and barrel toward the kitchen with half a mind of doing just that.
I should’ve known he’d screw me over. The smart-ass grin on his face when I come striding in doesn’t soften the urge in my fists.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask, keeping my voice low. “Wife? Why the hell would you lie?”
Leaning against the counter smugly with a coffee mug in hand, Cash takes a long, loud slurp before answering. “She has amnesia. She’s scared half out of her wits. If she believes you’re her husband, her anxiety level won’t be quite as high, and she’ll feel safer staying here. We should try to keep her comfortable if we want a swift recovery.”
I’m so frustrated I can barely think.
It’s even worse that he’s throwing his smarmy MD logic in my face.
“Comfortable?” I shake my head. “Goddammit, for the last time, she’s not staying here.”
“Oh, yes, she is.” Cash lifts another cup off the standing rack on the counter and holds it up. “You agreed to that last night, my man. Remember?”
Snarling, I nod, urging him to hurry it up and pour me a cup of Kona coffee.
“One night, you said,” I tell him. “One damn night. That’s all I agreed to.”
He eyeballs me, amused.
I rip the cup of coffee he holds out to me from his hand.
“One. Frigging. Night.” I emphasize each word.
“She has to stay here, Flint, especially with this amnesia state. She’s a sitting duck who doesn’t know what happened. I’ve seen amnesia cases before. It’s just like I said—the memory might return in a few hours, or a few months. There’s no real medical consensus why. A sharp blow to the head can often cause this kind of self-resolving forgetfulness.”
I’ll self-resolve you, asshole, I think to myself.
But Cash isn’t done. I’m not that lucky. He takes another slurp off his coffee and holds up a finger, the only warning I get before he goes into professor-mode.
“Listen, bucko, even in famous cases of transient global amnesia, about eighty percent of patients simply...”
I grind my teeth together as he starts rattling off statistics. He’s done his homework, sure, I’ll give him that, even if this is far from his specialty.
He’s a fine doctor. A damn good one.
I’ve personally seen him work miracles, saving the lives of men who never would’ve made it home without him during our time in the service together. I’ve watched him shed tears over the guys he hadn’t been able to save because they were too far gone before he got to them.
Yes, he’s cocky. Yes, he has a really fucked up sense of humor. Yes, he’s a royal pain in my ass so often it’s a wonder why we’re friends.
But one thing Cash Ivers isn’t is a quack.
In my mind, if he’d gotten to the men who didn’t make it sooner, they would’ve lived. He would’ve made them. And that woman in Bali, if we’d just been a few minutes sooner...
Valerie’s amnesia crap, though? I shake my head.
He’s a field surgeon turned general practitioner. Not a neurologist.
His lecture finally tapers off, and he takes another swig of coffee. “She can’t go home, Flint. Her condition aside, you know the risk. We don’t know if her troubles have legs to follow.”
“Then take her to your house,” I snap.
“I can’t. You know I live in a condo, and with my nosy neighbors—”
“And I have a son to look after,” I remind him.
“Right. A plucky little boy who isn’t here right now. He’s with his grandmother.”
“Who’ll be bringing him home in two days,” I snarl back. “This isn’t gonna work.”
My mother took Bryce on their annual week-long trip to Aulani, the big resort on the other side of the island. Having turned twelve earlier this year, I thought Bryce might buck going this year, but he hadn’t.
Instead, as soon as she’d arrived, he’d rattled on about how they were going to ace the scavenger hunt in record time this year. He’s a good kid at heart. He doesn’t need to come home and find a strange woman living here who thinks she’s my goddamn wife.
My gaze flicks to Cash, still mighty pissed at him for that little joke.
“We might not need more than two days.” Cash sets his cup on the counter. “They tried killing her, Flint. I saw it.” He opens the fridge and takes out an egg carton. “And I saw Cornaro men scouring the shore for her body this morning.”
The muscles in my neck tense when he mentions that name.
Bad fuckin’ news.
Hornet sting to the eyeball kind of bad.
The Cornaro Outfit has been a leader in high crimes and smuggling ops across the Pacific for decades. Now led by Joel Cornaro, the syndicate has taken over legitimate businesses on all eight major islands, especially anything that makes it easier for them to haul illicit cargo around the South Pacific.
Every asshole who wants to do dirty deals halfway across the world can depend on them to play mule.
Everything from guns to drugs to human trafficking, Cornaro gets it done.
“I know you want to catch the bastard as bad as I do,” Cash says, still pulling more stuff from the fridge.
“That was a long time ago, Cash. We’re not SEALs anymore and we both retired from the security racket,” I tell him. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your memory, too? It’s not our job to go gallivanting around for the government, taking out the trash.”
The fact that it’s even a question also pisses me off. But Cornaro money runs deep, both locally and all the way to Washington DC, Manila, Tokyo, Jakarta, Singapore. He’s got a whole heaping lot of assholes willing to help cover his dirt. It’d probably take a multinational effort to bring them down.
“Technically, you’re right. We’re no longer paid to put our lives on the line.” Cash shuts the fridge door and turns around, facing me again. “But you’re also wrong. Once a SEAL, always a SEAL. You see what kind of damage Cornaro does every time your back is turned and you’ve got a mirror, Flint. And that didn’t happen while you were a SEAL.”
Not in the mood for a bitter stroll down memory lane, I spear him with my eyes. “We have other commitments now. You have a private medical practice and I—”
“You’re bored,” he interrupts. “Bored out of your skull.”
I blink, my fists tightening.
He waves a hand around the massive kitchen. “Now that you’ve finished crafting this lovely island penthouse, you don’t have a fucking thing to do all day except run around with Bryce, and that’s driving you crazy.”
I glare hot death at him. Even though it’s only been a few months, I know he’s right.
Damn!
Worse, I’m just in time for another lecture, this time on me.
“Don’t give me that look. Ever since you sold your patent to the government, for more money than the GDP of some small countries, you’ve been bored. Let’s not pretend you haven’t been. Building this place took time, but now what?” He points to the hall, the one that leads through the house to the master bedroom. “Your answer’s waiting.”
“Cash...”
“I’m not done. That girl in your bed is Valerie Gerard. Cornaro knew her father before he died, mysteriously, and they’ve had their hooks in her family business for some time. King Heron’s fishing routes are massive out here. What if they just need Ms. Gerard out of the picture to seal the deal? Maybe she got wind of some illegal stuff daddy dearest was involved in. Who knows?”
“Who knows,” I echo numbly. “Who, Cash. Not you.”
“What I know is they tried to kill her. I saw it happen, and you know as well as I do Cornaro men don’t give up once they’ve got a target. They’ll kill her if we don’t do something about it.”
Fuck.
I rub the back of my neck. The muscles are so tight they’re burning.
“We’ve seen what they do, Flint. First hand. How can you just say no when a huge piece of the puzzle falls right in your lap? We can stop it this time. We have to stop it, if we can, because no one else will.”
Damn it all, he’s right, and he knows it. I don’t have an argument to bark back.
Still, I squeeze my temples with a thumb and forefinger of one hand.
Letting out a flustered growl, I ask, “That doesn’t explain the rest. Why the hell did you have to say she’s my wife? You couldn’t have come up with something else?”
“As I said, that story gives her peace of mind until her memory fog lifts. And it just might help that little lump of coal you call a heart do the right thing.” He rolls his green eyes. “What did you think I’d give her? The truth? Telling her you’re a hard-ass son of a bitch stranger would only panic her more.”
