by Amy Marie
"You don't care if I ever figure out who I am." He looked toward the window, not meeting her gaze. "All you're worried about is me remembering who killed your really important witness."
"That's not true." He heard the words but her tone told a different story. She wanted to be done with the whole mess and head back to wherever she'd come from. Knowing this bothered him more than it should have since he really wanted to be done with the whole thing too.
He slammed his fist against the air-filled mattress. "Why can't I remember? And who thought this poor excuse for a mattress was a good idea?"
Sylvia chuckled. "You're a real prima-donna when it comes to your beds, aren’t you?"
He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "What are you talking about?"
"You complained about the gurney in the ER and now you're complaining about this perfectly good air mattress."
"So, what? I've been shot. Is it too much to ask to not feel every steel bar in the bed frame?"
Sylvia rolled her eyes. "Whatever." She grabbed a small notebook and pen from her bag. "Maybe we should concentrate on what we do know. It might help your memory come back."
Patrick leaned into the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. "I know someone shot me. I don't know why but it likely had something to do with the other dead guy."
He watched as Sylvia made a note on her paper. Two little lines formed in between her eyes as she focused on whatever thought she needed to process.
She looked up from her notes. "We also know that you aren't from around here."
"How do you know that?" he asked.
"If things were familiar to you it would jog your memory."
He could accept that. "Okay, so I'm probably not a local."
"Not a local but definitely royalty, Prince Patrick." She winked at him, a sparkle lighting her emerald eyes that stoked a tiny fire in his sore body.
Closing his eyes against both the burn and the pain, he grunted. "I know for a fact that I'm not royal. I have no idea what that means but it has to be some kind of joke."
"We also know that you have little to no sense of humor."
Patrick opened his eyes and looked at her. "I've been shot, have a concussion, and nearly died from an allergic reaction in less than ten hours. I don't feel much like laughing."
He grabbed the control for the bed and pushed the button to get in to a sitting position and swung his legs to the side. Someone had set a walker beside his bed. He gripped the handles and summoned all his energy to get to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Sylvia jumped up and started to move toward him.
"I'm just going to the bathroom. I promise not to make a break for it."
She stepped back, waving a hand to motion him through. "I'll be right here, anxiously awaiting your return, sir."
Patrick ignored the snarky comment and focused on remaining upright as he took one step and then another. Once he was certain he wouldn't fall flat on his face, he slowly moved toward the small bathroom. Working the walker and dragging the IV pole along took forever. He felt Sylvia's gaze on his back, his skin heating as a fleeting image of her hands on the bare skin skittered through his mind.
"You're a real mess, man," he muttered as he shuffled in to the bathroom, using his pole for support.
Closing the door behind him, he stared in to the mirror. Dried blood ran in a dark shadow along his hair line. He'd need to ask about showering. His hair had to be full of blood and dirt from the ground in the alley. He cringed at the thought of it. Reaching up, he pressed his fingertips to a bruise on his cheekbone, directly under his eye. A quick image flashed through his head. The memory of someone, he couldn't see who, holding a gun aimed at him. The image disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.
He pushed the pole away and gripped the sides of the sink, moving in close enough to the mirror he could see the gold flecks in his blue eyes but couldn't see a single thing that told him who he really was.
A tiny little part of him whispered deep in his brain that it might be okay if it took a day or two for his memory to come back. Marshal Sylvia intrigued him, making him as curious about her as himself.
A loud crash sounded from the other side of the door, followed by a long string of curses. Patrick chuckled. Sylvia's southern drawl she worked so hard to hide slipped out and accented each of the words, making them sound prettier than they were.
Chapter 3
Sylvia watched as Patrick made his way to the bathroom, slightly grateful that it took so long. It gave her the chance to study the way his muscles tensed across his back as he moved. A man built like that took care of himself, probably worked out regularly. Add that to the list of things they knew about the mystery that was Prince Patrick.
She walked over to the window and stared down at the busy road that ran in front of the hospital. The cool glass fogged up from her breaths. The last time she'd stood at a window in a hospital room, it was to say goodbye to the love of her life.
Patrick reminded her of Wyatt in a lot of ways. The intensity in his stare, the kind that seemed to penetrate straight to her soul. Wyatt had left a huge hole in her heart and life. Her job had become the salve to her pain and sitting still this long in a place that carried too many memories only served to deepen that wound.
Sylvia sighed and turned away from the window.
Eventually he would be missed enough by someone. With any luck at all, his memory would come back first and they'd be able to get the information they need from him.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. As she stepped over to the chair, the heel of her boot caught on a cord turning her ankle and she flew forward, crashing into the bedside table which then slammed into the wall.
A long string of all her favorite cuss words fell from her lips, an image of her southern belle mama listening in horror popping up, as she slammed her arm on the rolling table. She straightened, rubbing her forearm and stretching the ankle that had twisted. "Just what I need."
Sylvia grabbed her phone from her bag and sat down on the edge of the bed, swinging her injured leg up onto the mattress. Leaning back against the raised bed she swiped the screen to see a text from Mack.
Headed back to Raleigh.
She quickly typed her response. I hope your car runs out of gas in Camden County and you have to walk ten miles.
Mack's reply came quickly. I can already hear the banjos. See you on the other side of the river.
I hope you fall in that river and the gators pick your bones clean. Sylvia hit send then turned off her phone. Sighing, she closed her eyes against the tears that threatened. Mack got to go home and she got to babysit.
Yay.
Shifting on to her side, she lifted her other leg on to the bed. She just needed a couple of minutes to rest while Patrick used the bathroom. With a bit of luck, he'd be in there awhile. She yawned. Patrick had been right about one thing. She could feel every single metal bar of the frame.
When she opened her eyes again, the room was considerably darker. She looked toward the window and discovered the blinds had been drawn. Little slivers of orange evening light cut through the plastic blades.
Sylvia tried to roll over but something stopped her. Pushing herself into a sitting position she looked over at the bed and found Patrick laying there, sound asleep, one leg dangling off the side.
Crap! How long had she been asleep?
Glancing at her phone, Sylvia sucked in a breath. Over three hours had passed. Jumping off the bed, she cursed once more as pain shot through her. Damn it, she forgot about her ankle.
"Are you okay?" Patrick asked, his voice thick with sleep.
"You slept with me." She turned on him, hands on her hips.
He opened one eye and peered out at her under impossibly long eyelashes. "This is my bed. You slept with me."
"Semantics." She dropped into the chair, her ankle giving up on her. "You should have just woken me up."
"You looked so peaceful." He smiled. "And when you sleep, you don't talk."
>
Sylvia scowled. "You’re a real charmer."
"I had another motive as well. With both of us on the bed, it balanced the air mattress and made it harder to feel the frame."
A knock sounded at the door, as it pushed open and a short, older man with a full white beard that could have rivaled Santa Claus entered the room. He carried a small tablet computer. "Good afternoon, I'm Doctor Wallis."
"Hey, doc." Patrick gave him a little salute. "Am I breaking out of the joint?"
Doctor Wallis chuckled. Sylvia couldn't help but notice that his belly jiggled when he did. Sort of like a bowl full of jelly. She hid a smile.
"Not tonight, young man. You get one more night's stay in these deluxe accommodations. That was a pretty intense reaction you had in the E.R."
"Everyone keeps telling me that. I don't remember a thing. Not even my own name, it would seem." Patrick frowned and Sylvia heard the sadness in his voice.
"More than likely it was intensified by the other traumas." The doctor set his computer down on a counter and walked over to the bed. "Let's have a look, son." Reaching up to a switch on the wall, he turned on an overhead light and used a tongue depressor to part Patrick's hair. "That's a hefty lump you have. How's your head feel?"
Patrick shrugged. "A little achy, I guess."
The doctor nodded as he moved to the bandages on Patrick's shoulders. He pulled the front one open first then the one on the back side of his shoulder. "The concussion is basically a bruise to your brain. You're going to feel it for a bit. How's your eyesight? Any double vision? Floating spots?"
"Not really. If I stand or sit too fast, it takes a minute to adjust but that's it."
Doctor Wallis nodded again. "That sounds about right. These wounds actually look really good. You are a very lucky man."
"I'm not feeling so lucky."
"Yeah, poor guy can't even remember his name," Sylvia said. "Is the concussion responsible for that?"
"Could be." The doctor ran his fingers through his white beard. "Could also be a defense mechanism protecting his brain from the traumatic experience of someone attempting to murder him."
She sighed. This was not what she wanted to hear. "How long until it comes back? I need to get back to Raleigh, sooner rather than later."
"It's hard to say. You can take him home tomorrow to Raleigh. Just make sure he sees his own doctor for follow up."
Sylvia nodded once. "Once we figure out who he is, where he's from, and who his doctor is, we'll be sure to do that."
"Well, good luck with all of that." Doctor Wallis closed his little laptop and smiled at Patrick. "I'll be back in the morning. As long as you have an uneventful night, I'll release you."
"Thanks, Doc." Patrick gave a little wave then covered his eyes with his uninjured arm. When they were alone, Patrick sighed, the loud breath laced with frustration. "Where do I go?"
"What?" Sylvia asked, lifting her leg with the injured ankle up and resting it on the bed.
"Where do I go? I'm being released in the morning but I have nowhere to go."
"We are going to check in to a seedy motel down by the beach and stay incognito until you remember you who are."
"You've seen way too many episodes of Supernatural."
She laughed. "What makes you say that?"
Patrick turned his head and peered out at here under his arm. "The Winchesters always stay in seedy motels. The seedier the better."
"For your information, the Marshal service likes them too. Less chance of standing out in a crowd. But, yeah, I'm a fan of the show too."
"Dean or Sam?" Patrick asked.
Sylvia relaxed in to the chair, with a happy exhale of air. "Neither."
Patrick sat up in his bed. "Now, I call bull shit on that one. Every woman in the world is either Team Dean or Team Sam."
She shrugged. "Sam's too whiny and Dean's too the world is ending and I'm the only one who can save it. Personally? I'm a Crowley fan. Now that dude is bad ass."
Patrick laughed. "He's the King of Hell! He's just bad."
"You say tomato, I say tomahto."
"I'm surprised you don't go for Castiel." Patrick relaxed against the pillow again but didn't cover his eyes this time. "You seem like a gal that would go for the strong, simple type."
Sylvia leaned forward in her chain. "Are you calling the angel Castiel simple? Oh yee, of no biblical training, how wrong you are. He could kill you with a snap of his fingers."
"You do realize we are talking about a fictional character on a fictional television show, right?" The amusement in his voice annoyed the crap out of her.
"I'm done with this conversation." Sylvia waved her hand in dismissal. "I'm hungry. How do I call room service in this joint?"
"You haven't eaten since yesterday, have you?" Patrick sounded concerned but she waved it away. "You don't have to babysit me. It's not like I have anywhere to go."
"My job is to protect you, not guard you. You're not under arrest. However, we do believe your life is in danger."
"So, you have to starve? Go to the cafeteria. What could happen to me locked up in here?"
Sylvia sighed. "You'd be surprised."
Her stomach chose that very moment to let out a loud protest to its hunger. Patrick laughed as her face heated with embarrassment. He waved toward the door. "Go. Feed the demon. I'll be fine."
She looked around the small space and then at the door. There was no direct line of sight from the hallway to the bed. If she grabbed some food and brought it back to Patrick's room, she'd be gone ten minutes, tops. Five if she moved fast. Strike that. Her sore ankle might make it fifteen. Every ounce of her soul said not to go, she had a job to do. Her stomach growled again, sending out another loud warning.
"Fine. I'll be back in a flash though. Don't do anything crazy while I'm gone."
Patrick mock saluted. "Yes, ma'am."
Sylvia slowly stood, testing her sore ankle gently. When it appeared to hold her weight with the minimum amount of discomfort, she picked up her bag and left the room.
The second Sylvia left the room, it felt cold and empty. Patrick hated to admit it to himself but she'd been growing on him. She had the posture of a debutante and the grace of a rhinoceros. She tried to hide her injury but he knew that crash he'd heard had been all Sylvia. Her quick wit and dry sense of humor appeared to complement his own quite well. Add that to the list of things he knew about himself.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts of those sharp green eyes that seemed to pierce him to his soul.
"Come in."
The door opened and the scent of fresh coffee and a hot meal filled his little room. "I've brought you dinner, sir."
A tall, thin woman dressed in green scrubs carried a tray in and set it on the rolling bedside table.
"Thank you so much. I'm starving. And, I have no idea how long it's been since I've had coffee."
She gave him a sweet smile. "It's hospital food for sure. Bland as can be. I put some salt, pepper, and hot sauce on the tray for you. Anyone under the age of sixty-five is gonna need them."
He smiled back. "You're the best. At this point, I'm so hungry stale bread and warm water would be amazing."
"Your standards are just low enough, you might enjoy tonight's meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Enjoy your evening, sir." With another quick smile, she exited the room.
Everything smelled so good, his head swam with excitement. It had to have been well over twenty-four hours since he'd eaten since he'd slept through breakfast and lunch. As he shifted the table to his bed, his elbow knocked the nurse call button and television remote contraption on the floor. Groaning in annoyance, he pushed the tray away and got out of the bed, taking care to move slowly. The remote had slid under the bed a bit. He leaned down to grab it and his concussed head protested loudly. Little stars filled his vision, quickly replaced by spinning darkness.
Determined not to pass out and whack his head on the floor, he quickly shifted so that he could move from his knees to
his backside. Once he'd managed to rest his bottom on the ice cold linoleum, he leaned against the bed and closed his eyes.
The dizziness took a lot longer to subside than he'd expected. The door opened again and footsteps sounded.
"Patrick?" Sylvia called out. He could hear the fear in that single word.
Lifting his uninjured arm to wave to her, he answered, "I'm over here."
The heels of her boots smacked against the floor as Sylvia closed the distance between them. In a few seconds she stood over him, looking down and shaking her head. "Are you okay?"
"I dropped the remote."
Sylvia chuckled as she leaned down to retrieve the contraption from under the bed. "Isn't that just like a man. Even a gunshot wound and a head injury can't come between a man and his remote control."
She set the remote on the bed, then offered a hand to Patrick. "Can you stand up if I help you or should I call a nurse?"
The nurse on duty had that take no prisoners attitude that might get him shackled to his bed if she knew what he'd done. He'd take his chances on his own. "The room has stopped tilting so I think I can get up myself."
"At least let me help you." She stepped over and tried to grab his hands but Patrick pulled away.
"I said I can do it myself."
Sylvia stepped back, her hands raised in mock surrender. "I guess losing your memory didn't affect your ego. Do it yourself then." She turned and walked away, not looking back at him.
When he heard her sit in the vinyl covered chair, he realized what he'd done. Somehow, he had to get up off the slippery floor, using only one arm and not letting his dented brain make him dizzy.
"Damn it all," he murmured as he rolled to his good side.
Sylvia started to whistle. His blood almost literally boiled with his anger—at her, at the situation, and most of all because he had no damn idea who he was.
"Are you absolutely sure you don't want my assistance?" Sylvia asked, her foot tapping the floor.
"Fine. If it means that much to you, you can help me."
She got up and walked over to where he still sat. "Scoot forward. I'm going to get behind you and grab you under the arms."
