ã€ŠI Dream of Spidersã€‹


 Chapter One - Griffin

    Trent didn¡¯t lie or even exaggerate the truth when he told me he lived in East Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania.

    With a population of under two thousand, the town of Quarry Hill is at least three hours away from any major city. Surrounded by miles of woods, lakes, and mountains, one can easily let the Deliverance vibe set in. But I don¡¯t mind it. I like how secluded this town is because here no one except my best friend, Trent Reddick, knows the name Griffin McGuire. No one here is privy to my past or what happened in Philadelphia. And I need it to stay that way.

    ¡°So how do you think your interview went?¡± Trent asks as he rounds his car.

    ¡°You tell me. You were half the interview committee,¡± I say, sliding into the passenger seat.

    ¡°Like I said before, the interview was just a formality. You got the job, shithead. You start next week. That¡¯s if you still want it.¡± Trent turns the key in the ignition and grins. The ¡¯72 Mustang I¡¯m sitting in is his new pride and joy. I¡¯m not into cars, but I can see why he¡¯s captivated. The low hum of the recently souped-up engine promises a sweet ride in a rather dull town.

    I look over at Trent, who still has a smirk on his face. We¡¯ve only known each other for three years, but he¡¯s the best friend I¡¯ve got. He¡¯s also the strongest motherfucker I¡¯ve ever met and loyal to a fault. ¡°So, what do you hicks do for fun out here? Tip cows? Play chicken with tractors? Dance in abandoned warehouses?¡±

    ¡°Does this mean you¡¯re really going to move here?¡± With his wide eyes and a smile that takes up most of his face, Trent looks younger than his thirty-six years.

    ¡°Looks like it,¡± I say with a shrug. ¡°I guess the next thing I need to do is find a place to crash.¡±

    Trent reaches over to the backseat and hands me a blue folder. Inside are printouts from a realtor. Three apartments and one single family home. ¡°I went ahead and did some research on the off chance that you took me up on my crazy offer to move to the middle of nowhere.¡±

    I understand why Trent is attached to Quarry Hill. He grew up here. His parents still live in town and his sister, Carol, is a teacher at the one and only elementary school around the corner from the hospital. But he is a single guy, and from what I have seen so far, there isn¡¯t a slew of women under the age of fifty. The situation works for me because I¡¯m not looking for a woman in the foreseeable future. With what happened in Philadelphia, I¡¯m not sure if I will ever be ready to date again. An image of Miranda goes through my mind, and I curse under my breath. Even after a year just the thought of her makes me see red. ¡°Where¡¯s the closest property?¡± I ask, sifting through the printouts.

    ¡°They¡¯re all a few blocks from here and within walking distance of the center of town and the hospital.¡±

    I look out the window and see the one street that is considered the town¡¯s hub. The view is like something out of a ¡¯50s movie. There¡¯s a post office, a police station, a corner diner, a bakery and a bar. A sign outside of Pete¡¯s Pub advertises the deal of the night: All you can eat wings for $5 and dollar pitchers. How the hell does that place make money with deals like that?

    It seems like a quiet and quaint town, but for me, it¡¯s still too crowded. I¡¯m already going to have to deal with people for four twelve-hour shifts per week as a paramedic at the hospital. I don¡¯t want to socialize any more than that. ¡°Hey, I was thinking a little more off the grid. Have anything like that?¡±

    Trent looks at me like he wants to say something, but then he stops and puts the car in reverse and starts to drive in the opposite direction. ¡°I think I may know of a place. But let¡¯s stop off at my house so you can grab your truck.¡±

    Less than a minute later, Trent¡¯s car is idling in front of his home while I slip into my vehicle. The second my engine roars to life Trent is pulling away from the curb, leaving me in the dust. I press my foot to the floor and tail him as close as I can. He¡¯ll be sweating all the way to our destination knowing I¡¯m just a few feet from his precious bumper. Serves him right.

    Thirty minutes later, Trent turns onto a tree-lined dirt road. About a half mile in I see a small log cabin with a massive lake behind it. We pull up to the cabin and exit our vehicles.

    ¡°You¡¯re such an asshole,¡± Trent grunts.

    I watch Trent zip up his coat and then wipe the sweat from his brow. I just give him a smirk and start walking. I hear him mumbling and uttering a few curse words under his breath. By the time he catches up to me, his grumbling has stopped but his scowl remains. And it¡¯s fucking priceless.

    Trent clears his throat and says, ¡°This was my uncle¡¯s place. He died a couple of months ago and left it to me. Not sure why, though. We weren¡¯t that close. He was kind of a hermit, only saw him on holidays growing up. My dad thinks he gave it to me because I was in the military and Uncle Greg had put twenty years in before he was honorably discharged.¡±

    As we draw closer to my potential living quarters, I notice the screen that encloses the front porch is torn and the steps leading up to it are crumbling. But the roof looks fairly new and the foundation, from what I can see so far, doesn¡¯t have any obvious cracks that scream for me to abort. This could work.

    ¡°Until this moment, I had no idea what I was going to do with this place. It¡¯s all yours if you want to take it off my hands. But before you answer, let¡¯s take a look. I haven¡¯t been back here since we cleared out my uncle¡¯s personal belongings. Hope we don¡¯t find too many critters inside.¡±

    At six-foot-four and weighing over two hundred pounds, Trent is a fucking tank. He also has an obscene tolerance for pain, as I found out in Afghanistan. As a Navy medic, I¡¯m used to blood and the coppery stench that accompanies it. I saw soldiers¡¯ limbs blown off and throats sliced open. Rarely did I let the sight fester, and it never prevented me from doing my job. But when I saw Trent lying in that war-torn village, his renal artery partially severed due to the shrapnel sticking out of his thigh, I knew I had to work quickly. Even as I stitched him up and put pressure on a wound that I knew had to hurt like a bitch, the bastard never even winced. I was a nervous wreck the entire time, praying that the stiches would hold until we got back to base. A little over an hour later, Trent was lying on a table and surrounded by a medical team that was able to continue from where I left off.

    So, the fact that Trent is worried that he will encounter a mouse or some creature that has more of a right to be here than we do is comical. Trent has never verbalized it to me before, but I know the man is afraid of things that scurry. ¡°Such a fucking sissy. Let¡¯s go, princess,¡± I say, gesturing to the front door. Reluctantly, he opens the door and peers inside. I can¡¯t help myself and give him a push, causing him to stumble into what appears to be the living room.

    ¡°Fuck you, Grif,¡± he says, regaining his balance and looking around the room, no doubt scanning it for unwelcome visitors.

    The cabin smells a little musty, but a day of open windows will cure that. I glance around and notice the woodburning fireplace on the far wall and the original but well-kept hardwood floors. Because of the open layout, I¡¯m able to see the tiny kitchen and the pea green appliances. The fridge and stove are definitely trapped in the ¡¯70s, but there¡¯s a stainless-steel dishwasher and a microwave on the counter that appear to be from this decade.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°You¡¯ll need to pick up a mattress and some kitchenware, but the rest of the place is furnished.¡± The tour of the single floor, one-bedroom home doesn¡¯t take long. I¡¯m pleasantly surprised to learn that the cabin has two bathrooms, one in the bedroom and another in the hallway, and a basement that doesn¡¯t smell like it has fallen victim to water damage. I look above the fireplace. ¡°I didn¡¯t shut off the electricity or the gas, but you¡¯ll need to call the cable company. My uncle didn¡¯t even own a television,¡± Trent says, reading my mind. A flat screen would fit perfectly there. We make our way out the back door only to encounter a large lake with a dock leading out.

    I¡¯m sold. This is home. I¡¯ll be spending many mornings and evenings out here fishing and throwing back a few beers.

    ¡°What were you thinking about for rent?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Well, if you just keep up with repairs and take care of it, you can live here rent-free. It would be one less headache for me if I know that somebody isn¡¯t letting it go to shit. If later, after you settle in with your job, you decide you want to live here permanently¡ªwell, we¡¯ll just cross that bridge when we come to it. How¡¯s that sound?¡± Trent asks.

    ¡°I think you¡¯re just happy to have a guy under the age of fifty to have a beer with on a Friday night and watch a baseball game.¡± I¡¯m not one to get mushy. Those days of wearing my heart on my sleeve are gone. I learned my lesson the hard way. And that lesson is to never let your guard down.

    ¡°You bet your ass I¡¯m happy about that.¡± Trent slips a key off his key ring and hands it to me. ¡°I need to get back to the hospital. I¡¯m working the late shift tonight. But tomorrow I¡¯m taking you up on that beer. Pete¡¯s Pub looks pretty run-down, but his wings aren¡¯t that bad and he just added another beer on tap which he, as you will find out, is immensely proud of.¡± Trent punches me in the shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ll call you tomorrow.¡± I nod and watch him walk to his car, but then he turns and asks, ¡°Hey, you sure about this? I mean, we can look at some properties in town. Have you join the land of the living?¡±

    Trent means well. He even asked me to move in with him and share his bachelor pad. His place is definitely big enough to accommodate another dude. But I can¡¯t and he knows why. Why I prefer my solitude these days, why I¡¯m looking forward to having four-legged neighbors instead of nosy ones who have the ability to get into my business. But he also knows that I can¡¯t cut myself off completely from the world. Because if I could, I wouldn¡¯t have agreed to come to Quarry Hill and be near my best friend. ¡°This¡­this is what I need right now,¡± I say. I¡¯m not in the mood to explain and I don¡¯t have to. He knows about Miranda, what she did, what they did.

    Trent sighs and then forces a smile. ¡°Well, at least I have a fishing hole to come to.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll see you tomorrow,¡± I say, ready for this conversation to be over.

    ¡°Oh, I almost forgot. Drive about ten miles south on Route 41 and you¡¯ll come across a shopping complex. There¡¯s a Target, a supermarket, and a few other stores you may want to hit up before it gets dark.¡± I look up at the sky and see that the sun is quickly dipping below the horizon. ¡°You can¡¯t see a fucking thing on these roads at night.¡± I give him a nod and he responds with a salute. Trent enters his car, obnoxiously revs the engine, and takes off.

    I look around at what will be my home. For the first time in over a year, I feel my body exhale. Out here in the middle of nowhere the air is crisp and clean. No one is honking his horn or telling me to get the fuck out of his way. No one knows me.

    As much as I want to relax and explore my surroundings, I decide to take Trent¡¯s advice and head to the store. I imagine that these woods are abundant with deer and I don¡¯t have the money to fix my pickup truck if one decides to dart out in front of me. I¡¯m not poor, but I¡¯m not living the high life, either. The combination of attorney¡¯s fees and Miranda¡¯s debts put a serious dent in my bank account. Luckily, the row home we owned in South Philly sold quickly and I am able to start over with the money I made from the sale. It isn¡¯t much, but it will hold me over until I earn my first paycheck a few weeks from now.

    ***

    Two hours and three stores later, I am back in my truck. I¡¯m a shitty shopper. There¡¯s no rhyme or reason to how I rip through a store, no order, no plan. Which is why it is now pitch-black outside. To make matters worse, the heavens have opened and I¡¯m being pelted by the kind of rain that soaks you through in seconds. At least I have some groceries, a brand-new mattress and box spring, and some pots and pans to show for it. A few miles from my new abode, I flick on my high beams and stay alert as I round the bend.

    And that is when I see her.

    I grab the wheel and swerve to avoid her, which sends my truck into a ditch on the side of the road. I quickly get out. I¡¯ll assess the damage later. The headlights from my truck are the sole source of light, but they are enough to slice the darkness and allow me to see the petite figure standing just fifteen feet from me. As I draw closer, I pray that she is unharmed. ¡°Are you okay?¡± I ask. My eyes zero in on her bloodstained shirt, the tear in her black stretch pants and the crimson stains on her sneakers. ¡°Miss, are you hurt?¡±

    Shaking her head, the woman hugs herself and takes a few steps back. Her hair is completely soaked and matted down; dirt and blood cake her face. Bright blue eyes look me up and down as she shivers. I don¡¯t know if her body is trembling from the cold or if she¡¯s scared. Holding up my hands, I say, ¡°I won¡¯t hurt you. Let me call an ambulance for you¡­the police¡­they can¡­¡±

    ¡°No¡­no police!¡±

    I creep closer. It¡¯s possible she¡¯s going into shock. She¡¯s covered in blood and could fall into a state of delirium from the blood loss.

    ¡°Okay, no police. But let me help you. I¡¯m a medic. I can take care of your injuries.¡±

    She follows my gaze and looks down at her bloody shirt. Her eyes widen, as if realizing for the very first time that she looks like she has just walked off the set of a horror film. She gathers the hem of her shirt and rips it off, leaving her standing there in a soaked through bra. No injury mars her perfect ivory skin. With her chest heaving, her breathing intensifying by the second, she throws the shirt to the ground. ¡°No police! Just¡­stay away from me!¡± she screams.

    As I fear, she takes off running into the woods. I can¡¯t let her go. She isn¡¯t thinking straight. And she isn¡¯t safe out here. She could succumb to hypothermia. Or attract a bear. I chase after her. She is about ten yards in front of me when I hear a loud scream and then a thud. Even over the pounding rain, I know that sound. When flesh and bone meet something they shouldn¡¯t. I sprint faster and find the woman lying on her side. The rock beneath her skull is littered with droplets of blood that are quickly washed away by the rain. I crouch down next to her and feel for a pulse. I find it.

    All my training comes back to me. It tells me not to move her, that she may have a concussion, that I should call for an ambulance. But for whatever reason, I go against everything I was taught, what kept me and countless soldiers alive in battle.

    And replay her words in my head.

    No police!

    She¡¯s in trouble. And whatever she has gotten herself into makes her fear the police. Is she afraid of getting caught for something she did? Or does she simply not trust the authorities? I can understand if it is the latter. At one time, my brother made me question who the good guys are in this fucked-up world.

    Despite my better judgement, I scoop her up and carry her to my truck. I lay her half-naked body in my passenger seat. After several attempts, with my wheels spinning a million miles an hour, my truck successfully clears the ditch. I then call Trent and hope that he keeps his phone on him while he works. He picks up on the third ring.

    ¡°Trent, where are you right now?¡±

    ¡°Working. Why?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m on my way to the hospital. I almost hit a woman with my truck. I must have spooked her because she took off running. She fell and knocked herself unconscious. Her pulse is strong, but she¡¯s still out of it. I¡¯m bringing her in now.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯ll need bloodwork and a CT scan to check for swelling. I¡¯ll alert the ER that she¡¯s coming.¡± I know that is what needs to be done, but something tells me to be careful, that this woman¡¯s identity needs to be protected. The one time I didn¡¯t listen to my gut I was almost killed. I¡¯m not going to ignore it a second time.

    ¡°Trent, can you personally treat her? Something is telling me that we need to keep this on the down low.¡±

    ¡°Shit. I really hate that gut of yours.¡± Trent sighs. ¡°Fuck. But it¡¯s saved more lives than I can count, including mine. Bring her to the south entrance.¡±

    ¡°Got it. See you soon.¡± I end the call and look at the woman in my front seat. I watch her chest rise and fall with each steady breath. The wound on her forehead isn¡¯t deep, but blood continues to slowly trickle out. I reach into my glove compartment and withdraw the small first aid kit I stashed in there for emergencies. I force my attention back on the road while my right hand rummages through the kit until I find what I¡¯m looking for. I grab the pressure dressings and hold them to her wound. I¡¯m not nearly as worried about the blood I¡¯m trying to stop from flowing than I am with what I can¡¯t see, the traumatic brain injury she may have sustained when her head hit that rock¡­while she was running away from me.

 Chapter Two - ?

    The pain is the first thing that registers. In my head, my back, my legs, every fucking where. It also feels like I have a dozen cotton balls lodged in my mouth. I open my eyes, but even that simple action hurts like hell. I peer down and see an IV sticking out of my arm. Panic sets in and I look around the room. My head throbs and my vision blurs at the sudden movement.

    ¡°Good morning,¡± says a deep voice.

    I blink several times to bring the man into focus. ¡°Where¡­where am I?¡± I ask, raising my hand and touching what seems to be a bandage on my forehead. The outline of the man starts to solidify and then slowly his features become more defined.

    ¡°In the hospital. You have a concussion and a gash on your leg that I stitched up.¡± Even through the fuzziness and the mind-numbing pain, I know this man isn¡¯t just handsome, but stunning.

    ¡°Doctor, I¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a paramedic, not a doctor,¡± he says, eyeing me closely.

    My body is completely concealed, but his gaze seems to bore right through the thin blanket that is molded around me. Instinctively, I fist it at my chest and stare at the man. He isn¡¯t wearing scrubs or a white jacket. Sporting jeans, a blue t-shirt, and black boots, he looks like he walked in off the street.

    ¡°Who are you?¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t remember me? That I almost hit you with my truck?¡±

    ¡°When¡­where?¡± My heart is pounding in my chest and my throat feels like it is closing up. I look over at the monitor next to my bed and see several wavy lines start to spike.

    ¡°Last night while I was driving home from the store, I found you standing in the middle of the road¡­¡±

    ¡°Where? I mean¡­where am I? What is this place?¡±

    His eyes narrow and the neutral expression he was wearing wavers. ¡°You¡¯re in a hospital¡­in Quarry Hill, Pennsylvania.¡±

    Quarry Hill? The name of the town means nothing to me. I stare down at my arms and hands. They aren¡¯t familiar. A sickening feeling settles in my belly. Desperate, I throw off my covers and take in my hospital gown and then lower, the bandage on my left thigh. I don¡¯t recognize anything, not the patch of freckles near my ankle, or the small mole just below my knee. ¡°If you didn¡¯t hit me with your truck, then why am I injured?¡± I ask. My heart continues to hammer away, and I struggle for breath.

    ¡°Your clothing was covered in blood, so I assumed you were hurt. I offered to call an ambulance or the police, but you ran into the woods. You fell and hit your head on a rock, which is how you sustained a concussion.¡±

    I barely heard anything after he mentioned the police. The machine to my right starts to ding. ¡°Did you call them? Do the police know I¡¯m here?¡± I have no idea why the mention of the men in blue petrifies me, but I am. So fucking scared that I think I¡¯m going to pass out.

    ¡°You need to calm down.¡±

    ¡°No! Answer me. Did you call the police?¡±

    ¡°No¡­and don¡¯t ask me why I didn¡¯t,¡± he says, his tone gruff. ¡°No one except me and my best friend, the doctor who conducted the tests, knows you¡¯re here.¡± I don¡¯t know why that calms me a little. ¡°You didn¡¯t have any ID on you when I found you last night,¡± he said. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±

    My mouth opens but nothing comes out. ¡°I¡­¡± I search his eyes and shake my head. ¡°I can¡¯t remember¡­why can¡¯t I remember?¡±

    The man stares at me, and for a minute I think he¡¯s going to call me a liar. That I¡¯m faking all of this. But then he breaks the stare-down, withdraws his cell phone and calls someone. Before I can beg him not to call the police he says to the person on the other end, ¡°She¡¯s awake¡­but you better get over here.¡± His voice is steady, but he can¡¯t mask the concern I see in his eyes. He ends the call, slips his phone into his pocket and starts to pace. It is after his tenth lap around the room that a man dressed in scrubs and sneakers, and every bit as built as the man who remains nameless, walks in and introduces himself as Dr. Trent Reddick. His smile is genuine and his eyes are kind, but I catch him flashing a worried look at the man who admitted to almost hitting me with his truck.

    ¡°It¡¯s good to see you awake. How do you feel?¡±

    The tears start to gather and my eyes burn. My head starts to spin, then throb, and then spin once more. Waves of nausea pound me from all sides. ¡°I can¡¯t remember my own name. So, I would say I¡¯m not doing so hot.¡±

    The two men exchange glances. ¡°What do you remember?¡± Dr. Reddick asks.

    It takes me less than a second to answer. ¡°Nothing. My existence might as well have started two minutes ago when I awoke to him telling me good morning,¡± I say, pointing to the man who looks nothing like a paramedic.

    Did he tell me his name and I forgot? How bad is my concussion?

    ¡°Your CT scan showed some swelling but nothing I¡¯m too alarmed about. Your bloodwork also came back normal. But you do have a concussion and that can¡­¡±

    ¡°Cause you to have amnesia?¡± I ask, cutting him off. I¡¯ve had enough. I swing my legs around, which causes blinding pain to shoot to every cell in my body. The doctor approaches with a syringe in hand and pulls off the cap.

    ¡°Shh¡­you need your rest, princess.¡± A prick at my shoulder caused me to wince and then the room¡­and the man who had me positioned between his legs¡­started to fade away, but not before coming face-to-face with a black, fuzzy spider.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    I yank my arm away and crawl back into my bed. What the hell was that? A memory? A daydream while I was obviously awake? How fucked up am I?

    ¡°It¡¯s for the pain,¡± the doctor says.

    I pull the blanket around me. ¡°Who knows I¡¯m here?¡±

    ¡°I told you already. Just Trent and me,¡± Nameless says.

    My face grows warm and my hands shake. Pissed, I ball them into fists to conceal them from the two men who no doubt are thinking that I¡¯ve lost my mind. ¡°I can¡¯t stay here.¡± I peel off the tape that is holding my IV in place and then go to remove the needle when Dr. Reddick grips my wrist.

    ¡°You¡¯re safe here. We won¡¯t hurt you,¡± he says, searching my eyes. He is most likely telling the truth. Why bring me here, conduct tests, stitch me up, and administer pain meds if they are planning to kill me? But common sense doesn¡¯t rule here, fear does. My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in and I tear my arm away. I go to stand but instantly know that it¡¯s a mistake. Those waves of nausea I experienced earlier are now a full-on assault. I feel my legs wobble and the last thing I remember is two arms enveloping me.

    ***

    The sound of a crackling fire wakes me, and I breathe in the comforting aroma. But those milliseconds of bliss end abruptly when I open my eyes and find myself in yet another strange place. No monitors beep and the IV drip is gone. The sterile hospital room has been replaced with one that is cozy and inviting. The sheets beneath me coax my sore muscles to stay put, but I can¡¯t get lured into this false sense of security, even if the down comforter that I am wrapped up in feels like Heaven on earth.

    And then a little slice of Heaven walks into the room.

    I look at the man who admitted to almost ramming into me with his truck. He is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. Standing there, barefoot with his brown hair a little messy, he looks absolutely beautiful. ¡°How do you feel?¡± he asks, drying his hands off on a hand towel and then throwing it over his shoulder.

    ¡°Paramedic, right?¡± I ask, sitting up. The move makes my head ache and I wince from the pain.

    ¡°You¡¯re due for your medicine.¡± He walks out and comes back in holding a large oblong pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other. ¡°Here, take this,¡± he says, offering me the meds and water. I have no reason not to trust him. He stitched my leg up, took me to the hospital for further medical care and tests and now I¡¯m here, lying in bed in a room with a warm fire¡­wait. Where is here?

    ¡°Where am I?¡±

    ¡°In my home.¡± His lips form a tight line and his eyes narrow. ¡°What¡¯s the last thing you remember?¡±

    ¡°Waking up in the hospital. You were there. And so was¡­¡± I have to think for a moment, but a guy with kind eyes and wearing scrubs comes to mind. ¡°Dr. Reddick?¡±

    ¡°Yes¡­that¡¯s correct. You remember the hospital and my friend, Trent. That¡¯s progress.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not so sure about that. How come I don¡¯t remember your name?¡±

    ¡°Because you passed back out before I could give it to you.¡±

    ¡°I fainted?¡±

    The man crosses his arms over his chest. ¡°Let¡¯s just say that you tried to leave the hospital before you were physically ready to.¡± I know I shouldn¡¯t be staring at his muscular forearms or notice how nicely his pants hang on his hips. I¡¯m in no condition for these things to register, but here I am ogling a man and making a piss poor attempt at hiding it. His green eyes darken, and I feel my face flush.

    ¡°So, am I just now waking up from that?¡±

    His nostrils flare and he suddenly looks pissed¡­or is he suspicious? I can¡¯t tell. Because I don¡¯t know this man or his mannerisms. But fuck does he look gorgeous angry.

    ¡°You don¡¯t remember me helping you to the bathroom and giving you a shower?¡± he asks, pointing to what I can only conclude is a master bathroom.

    Oh my God! He bathed me? He saw me naked?

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry, it¡¯s nothing I haven¡¯t seen before,¡± he says, not even looking at me. He sets the pill and water on the nightstand. I don¡¯t know why his words piss me off. They shouldn¡¯t. I was the one who was standing in the middle of the road and then who foolishly ran into the woods and hit my head. I could have died out there. No, I would have died out there if it wasn¡¯t for him.

    I¡¯m humiliated. I have no memory, but I¡¯m pretty sure I don¡¯t make it a daily occurrence to allow men to see me naked. Which gets me thinking. I am aware of the cut on my leg and the concussion, but are there other injuries? Ones that I can¡¯t see or don¡¯t want to know about? I slowly swing my legs around until my feet brush the floor. The movement causes muscles I didn¡¯t know I had to ache, but I don¡¯t sense any discomfort in the nether regions. I don¡¯t want to ask, but I have to know. For my own sanity. ¡°Besides the obvious, were there any other¡­injuries?¡±

    He looks up at me. I hear his breath catch and his jaw clenches. There¡¯s that pissed off expression again.

    ¡°Because of all the blood that we found on your clothes, Trent and I thought a complete exam was warranted.¡± I hold his gaze, but I swallow hard past that lump in my throat. ¡°We found no further evidence of trauma.¡± His answer is robotic, devoid of emotion. I feel the tears beginning to form. Both happy and confused tears. I don¡¯t want to cry here, not in front of him. So, I go to stand and nearly faceplant on the hardwood floor.

    ¡°Where do you think you¡¯re going?¡± he asks, rushing to my side and catching me.

    ¡°To the bathroom¡­alone.¡± He doesn¡¯t release me. In fact, his grip tightens around my arm. ¡°I¡¯ll take it slow¡­I promise. I¡¯ll keep the door cracked if that will make you feel better.¡±

    He glares at me. He isn¡¯t happy.

    ¡°Fine,¡± he hisses, letting go of my arm. I feel his eyes bore into the back of my damaged skull as I hobble to the bathroom like some pathetic invalid. With every step my head screams and my joints cry out in agony, but I keep moving. Once inside, I do as I promised and crack the door so he can hear me if I take a header. I look down at my attire. I¡¯m wearing big, baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt that goes down to my knees. I raise the shirt collar to my nose and take a whiff. It smells like soap and some woodsy masculine scent that immediately makes me think of the man in the other room.

    Feeling like a creeper I release the shirt, take care of business and then go to the sink. It is while I am washing my hands that I look up and see my reflection in the mirror. I study myself: my blue eyes, my long wavy brown hair, the freckles across my nose. I don¡¯t recognize the person staring back at me. She isn¡¯t familiar. And that scares the shit out of me.

    What if I never get my memory back?

    My eyes drift to the bandage at my scalp. I look like a mess. No wonder my rescuer is annoyed. I finish washing my hands and head back into the bedroom.

    ¡°Does the fire bother your eyes?¡± he asks as he adds a log onto the fire.

    I take a deep breath. My airways are clear and my eyes are neither itchy nor irritated. ¡°No, I¡¯m fine.¡±

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s good because I discovered that the heater broke. We¡¯ll have to rely on the fireplace for warmth until I get the part I need.¡±

    I make my way back to bed, but before I can crawl in he is at my side and helping to lower me in. He then covers me up with the comforter. ¡°Why are you doing this¡­helping me, I mean?¡± He rakes his hand through his brown hair and then opens his mouth as if to say something. But when no words escape I say, ¡°I¡¯m not going to sue you or anything, you know, for almost hitting me with your truck. I may not know my name, but I know¡­somehow¡­that I¡¯m not that kind of person.¡± My eyes feel heavy. Sleep is coming for me.

    ¡°We¡¯ll talk later. Get some rest,¡± he says. I want to fight him and push him to speak to me. But I don¡¯t have the strength.

    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± I ask as I drift closer to the other side of consciousness.

    My eyelids droop farther and then I hear him say, ¡°Griffin.¡±

    Griffin.

    I don¡¯t know why I like the sound of his name. Maybe because it sounds strong, like it belongs to someone who can protect me¡­but from what?

 Chapter Three - Griffin

    I wake for the final time just before dawn. I checked on her every hour on the hour throughout the night and took her vitals. So far, she hasn¡¯t spiked a fever, her blood pressure is within normal limits, and her breathing is steady. As a medical professional, I should be happy that my patient is stable after what could have been a deadly fall. But I¡¯m not pleased. I¡¯m frustrated and my worry only seems to increase with each passing second.

    What was this woman doing in the middle of the road covered in blood? Why did she run? Was she the victim of some horrible accident¡­or the assailant in some altercation? I don¡¯t think she lied when she said she couldn¡¯t remember anything. She does have a concussion; the CT scan couldn¡¯t lie even if she wanted to. And my gut is telling me that she isn¡¯t faking and that she harbors a fear that she doesn¡¯t consciously know. I saw the dread in her eyes when Trent approached her with that syringe. How her fingers fisted the hospital sheets until her knuckles turned white¡­just like her face did.

    I stand up from the recliner I slept in last night in the corner of her¡ªmy¡ªroom and walk over to her. She is sound asleep. I watch her wrap herself up in the comforter until she is a tightly bound cocoon. Shit! She¡¯s cold. Around three o¡¯clock in the morning, I heard a strange sound coming from the vents in the bedroom floor. A visit to the basement confirmed that my heater, or hopefully just a part, was busted. I¡¯ll need to fix it and soon. Winter is coming.

    In the meantime, I¡¯ll need to chop more firewood. There¡¯s only a few more logs left in the pile I found behind the cabin. But I¡¯m not worried. There are miles of woods surrounding me. I grab my own blanket and cover her up with another layer. I then toss one of the remaining logs on the fire, throw some heavy clothes on and slip out the back door. About a half hour later, I enter the cabin and stop dead in my tracks. My patient is standing in my living room wearing the sweatpants and shirt I dressed her in after her shower.

    My thoughts go to last night, when I brought her back to my cabin. Although I cleaned her up as best as I could at the hospital with a sponge and a bowl of water, her skin had still been caked with dirt and dried blood. She awoke, at least to the point that she allowed me to guide her into the shower and wash away the grime. With her back to me I was able to keep it together, making sure my focus was on cleaning her soiled skin and matted hair; that was until I turned her in my arms. With her eyes half-shut she stumbled, causing her full tits to mash against my soaked through t-shirt. I felt her nipples pebble as I steadied her. My cock twitched, which surprised the shit out of me since there hasn¡¯t been any movement down there in over a year. Not wanting to be caught with a hard-on, I quickly finished and dressed her in the baggiest clothes I could find.

    My plan, my hope that she would appear significantly less attractive if she wore clothing that didn¡¯t hug every curve that I damn well knew she had, has not panned out. Standing here with my clothes draped over her petite frame, she looks as beautiful as she did when she was covered in suds. I don¡¯t know why I like seeing her in my clothes, her face clean of all makeup, her hair natural and flowing down her back, but I do. And that pisses me off.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Did I wake you?¡± I ask, putting my attention back on the firewood in my arms. I walk in and set a few logs next to the fireplace in the small living room. I take the rest to my bedroom.

    ¡°Um¡­no. My stomach did,¡± she says from behind me.

    I turn around. She is standing in the doorway to my bedroom. The small smile she flashes frustrates me. ¡°You got your appetite back. That¡¯s a very good sign.¡± I also notice that she isn¡¯t wincing every waking second and color has returned to her cheeks. ¡°I¡¯ll make us something to eat. Afterward if you¡¯re up to it, we can take a walk outside and get some fresh air.¡± She¡¯s no longer smiling but beaming. Either it doesn¡¯t take much to make this woman happy or she¡¯s feeling so cooped up that a stroll sounds like paradise.

    I think about Miranda, how she would feel about living out in the middle of the woods. In a one-bedroom cabin with no heat, no television, no bars or clubs within walking distance. I try to picture my ex-wife looking at me like this nameless woman is right now, happy just to go for a walk with me. The mental image I conjure up of Miranda being furious and miserable actually takes the edge off and I feel the muscles in my face relax. I may even be smiling a little.

    ¡°I would love that. Do I have time to get a shower?¡± she asks.

    ¡°Do you feel steady enough?¡± I ask.

    Please say yes, I silently command her. I may be in the medical field, have seen many grown men and women naked over the years as I treated them, but I don¡¯t have it in me to assist her in the shower again. Not without having some very vivid and unprofessional thoughts.

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll be okay. I¡¯ll crack the door again, just in case.¡±

    Why is she so willing to trust me? I don¡¯t understand her. And I definitely can¡¯t comprehend why she makes me angry and confused one minute and horny the next. I need her to get away from me. She¡¯s my patient, nothing more.

    I already checked for a wedding ring when she was in the hospital, but for some crazy reason my eyes drift to her left hand. No band of gold encircles her slender finger, no indentation to show that she may have worn a ring at one time. But that doesn¡¯t mean anything. I was a devoted and faithful husband yet I never wore a ring, and not because I was ashamed to be married, but because I just didn¡¯t like the feel of wearing one. Maybe she is the same way. She could have a fianc¨¦, a husband sick with worry wondering where the hell she is. That agitated feeling is back and so is the scowl on my face. I know that to be the case because the woman¡¯s smile completely fades and her eyes narrow.

    Time to make my exit. ¡°I¡¯ll get started on breakfast. Are you craving anything in particular?¡± I ask.

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what kind of food I like, so I guess I¡¯m up for anything.¡± She shrugs her shoulders and then walks into the bathroom. A couple minutes later I hear the shower turn on. I retrieve some fresh lounge pants and a new t-shirt. I go and knock on the cracked bathroom door. I am just about to call out, but I don¡¯t know what to say. We need to pick out a temporary name. I can¡¯t keep gaining her attention by yelling ¡®um¡¯ or ¡®hey you.¡¯ ¡°I have some clean clothes if you would like them.¡± I hear the curtain rings slide over the metal shower rod.

    ¡°Um¡­sure.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll just put them on the vanity.¡± With my eyes glued to the floor, I step into the bathroom. I can¡¯t risk catching a glimpse of her slick tight body behind the opaque curtain. But it doesn¡¯t matter that I don¡¯t even so much as peek. My imagination is alive and well and forcing thoughts and images in my head that have no right to be there. This woman is suffering from amnesia and has no idea who the hell she is or what danger may surround her. Frustrated, I gather the t-shirt and sweatpants she wore last night off the floor and leave the bathroom. But the scent of my shampoo, shampoo that is now being massaged into her scalp by her fingers, lingers and follows me into the kitchen and down to the basement.

    I¡¯m mumbling to myself as I toss the clothes into the washer. Still grumbling words I can¡¯t even decipher, I go to the kitchen and scope out the contents of my fridge. The groceries I bought last night right before I almost took out the woman now in my shower stayed cold in my truck while we were in the hospital. The temperature hadn¡¯t dropped enough to freeze the lake that flanks my property to a block of ice, but it had been chilly enough to keep the food from spoiling. My eyes drift from the bags of chopped lettuce to the pint of strawberries and blueberries.

    As a medic I have seen many head injuries, one too many concussions. Which means I know what my patient may experience in the days to come. Headaches, slurred speech, nausea, loss of balance, fatigue and sleep disturbances are just a few symptoms I need to look out for. While she was asleep, I researched the activities she shouldn¡¯t engage in as a result of her condition and foods that she should ingest. I decide to start with some fruit. The antioxidants in the berries are known to help those suffering from a concussion. For the main meal, I go with something safe and make a grilled chicken salad.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    I¡¯m tossing the chicken strips into the salad when my new housemate emerges from the bedroom. She is wearing the clothes I set out for her and her hair is wrapped in a towel. I try not to stare, but it¡¯s impossible. She is that beautiful. I clear my throat and pretend to focus on the cut I can¡¯t see. ¡°I¡¯ll need to check the stitches on your leg later, make sure that it¡¯s not infected.¡±

    ¡°Thanks, Griffin,¡± she says, taking a seat at the small kitchen table. I bring over the bowl of salad and the fruit and place them in front of her. She dishes some salad onto my plate first and then hers while I go to the fridge for two bottles of water. ¡°And not just for breakfast.¡± Her shoulders slump a little as she picks up her fork. I know that she is most likely feeling lost and helpless. It¡¯s a shitty feeling. I felt that way while I was recuperating. My sister nursed my ass back to health and dealt with my lousy attitude for months before I was able to get back on my feet. I would never forget how humiliating it was to have my sister help me to the bathroom so I could take a shit. But Corinne didn¡¯t care. She just told me to shut the hell up and let her help me, which I begrudgingly did because I didn¡¯t have anyone else. Trent would have helped, but I didn¡¯t want to burden him with my medical and mental problems. I shared a little about what happened to me with Trent, but only Corinne and her husband knew just how much damage Miranda caused and I wanted it to stay that way.

    ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± I say, spearing a piece of chicken.

    ¡°So, I noticed that you don¡¯t have a television,¡± she says. She twists the cap off her water bottle and takes a hearty sip, which makes me happy. She needs fluids. Staying hydrated is critical to her recovery. I know firsthand how important it is for the body to function. I saw grown men, trained killers, physically fit with not an ounce of fat on them fall not from a bullet, but from dehydration. Most soldiers didn¡¯t give me shit when I told them that they needed to keep drinking while out on a mission, but some stubborn bastards didn¡¯t listen, and they were the shitheads who I had to treat when they fainted or their bodies started to shut down.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t had the cable installed yet. But it¡¯s on my list of things to do this week.¡±

    ¡°When did you move in?¡± she asks, taking a bite of her chicken.

    ¡°A few hours before I¡­found you.¡± The color drains from her face at the mention of last night. I know it is going to be difficult to talk about, but we need to discuss maybe not the events leading up to last night because she can¡¯t yet remember them, but what we do know. ¡°Dr. Reddick¡­Trent¡­is a friend of mine. We served together in the Navy. He grew up in Quarry Hill, the town just thirty minutes from here. After he was discharged from the Navy, he took a job as a physician at the local hospital in town. I trust him. So much so, that I called him minutes after I almost hit you with my truck. With my training I could easily have patched up your leg and the wound on your head, but I feared you had a head injury that I couldn¡¯t see. He told me to bring you to the hospital for tests.¡± I watch her closely. The way her breath hitches. How her eyes search mine. ¡°But something didn¡¯t sit right, and I asked Trent to keep your admission to the hospital off the books.¡±

    Her gaze drifts from me to her plate and she sets her fork down. ¡°So¡­no one at the hospital, other than you and Trent, knows I was there? No one else knows I¡¯m here?¡±

    She knows the answers to those questions, yet her fear remains. ¡°I haven¡¯t contacted the police, but do you want me to? Have you changed your mind?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± she says without hesitation. Her eyes are focused on her salad, but I would bet everything I own that her head is somewhere else. I know she¡¯s scared, and probably going out of her mind as she wills her memories free. For a split selfish moment, I wish I was her. I wish my memory could be wiped clean, that I would never remember Miranda or the brother who would forever be dead to me.

    ¡°Okay,¡± I say.

    I¡¯m not in a good place at the moment. I can feel it. My therapist back in Philly would be pissed at me right now. I haven¡¯t started looking for a therapist out here and I am still refusing to take the medication he prescribed when I was first diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At the time, I scoffed and then flat out refused to believe that I had PTSD. I dismissed the nightmares, the irritability, my need to be left alone and isolated from even those I loved and told myself that I was just weak, a pathetic man who couldn¡¯t get over the fact that his wife cheated and tried to kill him. But weeks of feeling that way turned to months and I still couldn¡¯t function. So, I swallowed my pride and accepted that I was human after all and began to see a therapist in the city. Thanks to him, the nightmares ceased and I can now tolerate being around people again, though I still prefer my solitude. But no matter how many therapy sessions I sat through, discussing my triggers and coping strategies, I know I¡¯m still avoiding the one thing that can remind me of the incident, remind me of her.

    Women.

    I haven¡¯t been with a woman since. The thought of trusting one again scares the shit out of me.

    I watch my breakfast companion pick up her fork and resume eating. My focus is back on her, not my horrific past, and that is where it needs to remain. We need to find out who she is and why she fears the police. My thoughts take a darker turn and I grit my teeth. Who was she running from? An abusive husband or boyfriend?

    I don¡¯t like thinking about her with someone else. And I hate thinking that someone may have hurt or wants to hurt her. I shake my head, dispelling the thought. ¡°While you were asleep last night, I checked the missing persons reports and searched the local news outlets. I didn¡¯t find anyone matching your description, but we can continue looking after breakfast if you¡¯re up to it. I don¡¯t have a computer, but we can use my phone.¡± I stab at my salad and I¡¯m just about to take a bite when I see her face grow as white as the napkin that is now clenched between her fingers.

    ¡°Why can¡¯t I remember, Griffin? How is it that I don¡¯t know my name but I¡¯m certain that you, someone I just met, won¡¯t hurt me even though you have a rifle sitting over there?¡± she asks, pointing to the kitchen counter.

    The gesture should make my blood run cold. The last time a woman held a gun in my presence, I almost paid with my life. I¡¯m waiting for my body to shut down, to run and hide and beg me to forget. But miraculously, I don¡¯t do any of those things. Instead, I meet this woman¡¯s gaze and stare into deep blue eyes, not chocolate brown ones. I can¡¯t see the woman¡¯s hair beneath the towel she has wrapped around her head, but I can remember her long, chestnut locks. How soft her hair was, like silk between my fingers as I washed her hair. How different it is from Miranda¡¯s blonde waves.

    She is not Miranda.

    And she could be in trouble.

    I wipe my mouth with a napkin and ask, ¡°I would like to teach you how to shoot that, unless you¡¯re opposed to guns?¡±

    ¡°Do you think someone is after me?¡± she asks, her eyes still fixed on the gun.

    I gently take her chin between two fingers and force her to look at me. Her eyes drift to my lips and I quickly release her and start eating again. My heart is beating a mile a minute and I feel like I¡¯m going to break out into a sweat. But somehow I¡¯m able to say, ¡°It¡¯s very possible. Since Trent grew up in the area and the cabin belonged to his uncle, I asked him what surrounded me. He told me that the closest home that he is aware of is three miles from here, and that it belongs to an elderly woman. Google Maps confirmed the older woman¡¯s cabin is approximately 3.1 miles north of here. It¡¯s likely that there are other cabins, but the woods are pretty dense. Trent did me a favor and took to the woods this morning on foot, close to where I found you. He didn¡¯t find anything, no cabin that you may have¡­¡±

    ¡°Escaped from?¡± she asks.

    That thought had crossed my mind, but I hadn¡¯t the balls to verbalize that theory. I look over and see her fingers tremble against the wooden table. ¡°Possibly. But I did find you in the road. You could have fled from a vehicle or may have been dropped off there. It¡¯s likely you don¡¯t live in Quarry Hill. Trent grew up in town, in a town where everyone knows everybody, and he didn¡¯t recognize you.¡±

    ***

    ?

    What am I doing? This man is helping me and how do I repay him? By possibly leading danger to his front door. I stand from the table. ¡°I need to leave.¡±

    He grabs my wrist. ¡°You¡¯re not going anywhere,¡± he says, his face hard as stone. His grip doesn¡¯t hurt, but it¡¯s firm and I look at how his massive hand easily circles my wrist. Oddly enough it doesn¡¯t scare me, which is confusing. It just pisses me off. Apparently, I don¡¯t enjoy being told what to do, and this realization pleases me. Despite my circumstances, I¡¯m a strong person, not some doormat or pushover.

    But then reality sets in. I have no money, no idea who I am, nothing. Not even the clothes on my back belong to me. ¡°Where are my clothes?¡± I ask.

    ¡°I burned them,¡± he says, his eyes boring into mine, his grip not letting up.

    ¡°You think I¡¯m involved in some type of crime, don¡¯t you?¡± I ask.

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what we¡¯re dealing with, but I do know this. For some reason, you don¡¯t want the police involved. So, for your safety and mine, it¡¯s best that you stay here until we figure out who you are and why you were covered from head to toe in blood.¡±

    I no longer have an appetite. And I sure as shit don¡¯t feel strong and empowered.

    ¡°What if I never remember? What if this amnesia isn¡¯t temporary? What then?¡± I know I¡¯m rambling and on the verge of tears. But I don¡¯t care. This is a living nightmare, one I will only awaken from if something or someone has the ability to unlock my memories. Griffin stands, his hand still wrapped around my wrist, but I no longer mind his touch or the safety I know he can provide. With his free hand, he cups my chin and I watch his eyes try to read mine.

    ¡°We¡¯ll figure this out. But you¡¯re going to have to trust me.¡±

    How? I have no idea who he is. He could be a psychopath for all I know. Why does he live in the woods all alone miles away from the next living soul? Why does a man in his late twenties, possibly early thirties, and looking like some Greek god find the need to live like a hermit?

    ¡°If you can¡¯t trust me, then trust your instincts,¡± he says.

    After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, I nod and his hand falls away from my chin. I hide my discomfort from the loss of his touch, sit back down at the table, and finish my breakfast in silence.

 Chapter Four - Griffin

    ¡°Get off me! No! No!¡±

    Her screams fill the small cabin, and I shoot off the couch and grab my gun from the coffee table. Medically she doesn¡¯t need round-the-clock supervision anymore, so I decided to sleep in the living room and give her some space. After what we discussed over breakfast, I thought it was best.

    Space between us is good.

    It allowed me to think clearly. Of what needs to be done, like how I have to get my ass to the nearest home improvement store and buy the supplies I need to fix the heater. I also spent the time wondering if I may or may not have a murderer sleeping under my roof.

    ¡°No, no!¡±

    I run into her bedroom, completely prepared to shoot whoever dared to enter my home, when I find her clawing and ripping at her clothes. The hallway light bleeds into the room, permitting me to see that she is completely alone and frantically swiping something off her clothes. Her eyes are open and crazed.

    ¡°Get them off me, Griffin. Help me! Help!¡± she screams.

    I put the gun down, flick on the light and watch her yank off her pants. She must be desperate because she isn¡¯t wearing any underwear and she doesn¡¯t seem to care that I am getting an unimpeded view of her pussy. She continues to scratch at her legs, barely missing the bandage covering her stitches. I sit on the bed, grab her hands and still them in mine. ¡°It¡¯s okay, I got you. Nothing can hurt you.¡± Her eyes have been open this entire time, but now she is looking at me, not through me, like before. ¡°I think you were having a nightmare.¡±

    ¡°Spiders,¡± she says, breathless. She looks at her bare legs, most likely not fully convinced that her bed isn¡¯t infested with eight-legged creatures. ¡°Hundreds of them.¡± Her hands tremble in mine. ¡°Am I going out of my mind?¡± she asks, her eyes wide and pooling with tears. Not only has she lost all her memories, but now she thinks she¡¯s going crazy. Against my better judgement, I take her in my arms and let her cry into my chest. After a few minutes, her body grows exhausted and I lower her into bed. I am just about to get up when she grips my forearm. ¡°Please don¡¯t leave.¡±

    I search her eyes and see true fear there. I know I shouldn¡¯t, but I find myself crawling into bed and positioning her so her back rests against my bare chest. I¡¯m wearing lounge pants, but I intentionally situate myself so my cock isn¡¯t flush against her.

    ¡°I¡¯m scared, Griffin.¡±

    Somehow, I know that it takes a lot for her to admit this, especially to a total stranger. I get the sense that she isn¡¯t used to letting her guard down. ¡°I know. And we¡¯ll figure it out. Together,¡± I say.

    She sighs and then shifts, causing her naked body from the waist down to mold to mine. I resist pulling her closer, locking her in my arms. I pretend that it¡¯s because I don¡¯t want her to feel trapped, especially after having such a horrible nightmare. That I¡¯m not spooning her properly because, although she is scared and doesn¡¯t want to be alone, she needs to feel in control and not confined. These are the lies I tell myself as I lay there, my cock aching. Her breathing becomes steady, and I know she has drifted off to sleep. I contemplate peeling her off me and sneaking out of bed, but I don¡¯t in fear that if she has another nightmare, I won¡¯t be here for her. So, I decide to suffer in silence with the most painful hard-on in recent memory.

    ***

    ?

    I may not know my name, but I am fairly certain that sleeping in a man¡¯s arms isn¡¯t a daily event for me. Because if I do have a boyfriend or a husband, wouldn¡¯t my subconscious tell me that I should feel guilty, that I shouldn¡¯t love how protected I feel in Griffin¡¯s embrace?

    The fire is about to die, which isn¡¯t good since the heater is on the fritz. Griffin must have gotten up a few times during the night to throw some logs on to keep it going. Which means that he left me to tend to the fire just to crawl back in and sort of spoon me. He could have done anything while I was in that state. Killed me in my sleep, violated me in multiple ways. Is it common for me to trust someone so completely?If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    No, says a small but crystal-clear voice in my head.

    The knowledge that I don¡¯t trust easily sobers me. Do I have a rough past? Was I wronged somewhere along the line? Those are the questions I am asking myself when I try to creep out of bed to feed the fire. But my movements only make him wrap his arms around me and press me against his muscular chest. I can feel his warm breath brush against my neck with each rhythmic exhale. My skin goosepimples as heat rushes to my core. It is then I remember that I am lying with this man wearing just his t-shirt and no underwear. I ripped my pants off last night while I was in the throes of a nightmare. It was so vivid, so real that I actually felt hundreds of tiny, hairy legs tickle my skin as those spiders swarmed my bed.

    My bare ass brushes against something hard and I freeze. I don¡¯t need my memories to know what it is. Griffin¡¯s arms retract, and he scoots away from me. ¡°Sorry. It¡¯s¡­uh¡­been awhile,¡± he says. He flings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. I can¡¯t help but look at the tent in his pants. He follows my gaze. ¡°I promise I can control myself. It¡¯s just while asleep it seems to have a mind of its own,¡± he says, his lips curling to form a boyish smile. He looks embarrassed, and I am surprised at the rare grin he is giving me.

    Even now with his cock straining against his pants, begging to spring free, I¡¯m not worried that he will attack me. But I am nervous at what he may see in my eyes if he keeps staring at me. I look away and pull the blanket closer to me.

    ¡°Are you cold?¡± he asks.

    ¡°A little,¡± I say. ¡°I was going to throw another log on the fire.¡±

    Griffin goes to the fireplace and places a log on top. He looks incredible squatting there, barefoot in just his pajama bottoms, his hair messy from sleep. Griffin takes the poker and stokes the fire until it is roaring once again. Satisfied, he returns the poker to the holder and then sits at the edge of my bed. He is still sporting a hard-on. Again, I try not to stare.

    ¡°How are you feeling today?¡± he asks.

    Turned on, aroused as fuck.

    My thighs clench beneath my blanket and I discover that I¡¯m wet. Thank God he can¡¯t see that. ¡°I feel a lot better. My head still hurts a little, but that¡¯s normal, right?¡±

    ¡°As long as it¡¯s not getting worse, a slight headache is normal. I¡¯ll get you some aspirin for the pain.¡±

    I expect him to get up and retrieve the medicine, but he doesn¡¯t. He just sits there, his arms resting on his thighs and blocking my view of his erection.

    ¡°Do you think you¡¯ll be okay while I run to the store? I need to pick up a few things, the part to the heater being one of them. Snow is in the forecast and we can¡¯t rely on the two fireplaces to keep us warm.¡±

    I know what else can keep us warm.

    As if reading my dirty, messed-up mind, his eyes darken and he clears his throat.

    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯ll be fine.¡±

    He stands, gives me a curt nod and leaves the room. I¡¯m all set to follow him when he returns with my medicine and a handgun. He sets the medicine on the nightstand and then sits next to me on the bed. ¡°I¡¯m leaving my gun with you,¡± he says. ¡°To make sure the safety is off, you switch this over,¡± he instructs, flicking his thumb. ¡°Then you just aim and pull the trigger.¡± He hands me the gun, but I can¡¯t dismiss what looks like apprehension in his gaze. He isn¡¯t entirely comfortable with me having a weapon. Does he think I¡¯m going to accidentally shoot myself? Or him? The cool metal feels foreign in my hands. Nothing seems familiar which makes me think that I have never handled a gun before. I take that as a good thing. ¡°I won¡¯t be long, but I¡¯ll leave you my phone. If you need anything, you can call Trent. His name is under my contacts.¡±

    His tone is all business again, making me miss the man I woke up with, the guy who smiled sheepishly and had massive morning wood. I look down and discover he is still hard. How long can it stay that way? Is it still morning wood, or is he legitimately aroused? And that¡¯s when I recall what he said.

    It¡¯s been awhile.

    Awhile since what? Since he slept next to a woman? Since he had sex? I can¡¯t imagine him having trouble finding women. Griffin is rugged and beautiful and so goddamn sexy. My eyes are fixed at his groin when I feel two fingers lift my chin. Blood rushes to my face.

    ¡°Do you need something?¡± he asks with a smirk.

    I can¡¯t speak. I can barely breathe. His eyes drift to my mouth and I see his pupils dilate. That naughty smile of his fades before my eyes and his fingers fall away. Griffin takes the gun from my hands and sets it on the nightstand.

    ¡°I was planning on picking you up some clothes and shoes from the store. Is there anything else that you need?¡±

    ¡°Um¡­no. Thank you,¡± I manage to get out.

    ¡°There¡¯s fruit in the fridge and cereal and oatmeal in the pantry if you¡¯re hungry.¡±

    ¡°Oh¡­yeah. Thanks,¡± I say, holding the comforter to my chest.

    Griffin glances at my breasts and quickly looks away. ¡°Okay¡­I¡¯ll be back soon.¡±

    I barely manage a nod before he is rushing out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

 Chapter Five - Griffin

    I sprint to the bathroom down the hall. Once inside, I strip away my pants and leap into the small shower. I don¡¯t even wait for the water to heat up. I soap up my cock and frantically begin stroking my length from root to tip. I know it won¡¯t take long. Not when I remember how incredible she felt in my arms. And not when I recall how she eyed me this morning. It took the strength of three men not to rip that comforter away from her body and sink into her.

    I steady myself by placing one hand on the tiled wall while the other works my dick. My mind conjures up the sexiest image, of her on her knees as she takes me to the back of her throat. I increase my pace and my balls tighten. In my fantasy, she is looking up at me with those haunting blue eyes of hers as her lips tighten around my cock. I explode all over my shower wall, threads of cum shooting everywhere. When I am drained dry I finish my shower, get dressed and leave without even checking on her.

    I have to get my mind back on track. I have things to do today. I make it to The Home Depot in fifteen minutes. I pick up the part I need for the heater and then I go to the Verizon store and Best Buy, which luckily are all located within the same complex. I end my shopping excursion at Target, which I am dreading. I don¡¯t like shopping for clothes, but there is no way around it. I throw at least a dozen t-shirts, two hooded sweatshirts, a few pairs of yoga pants and some jeans into my cart. I have no idea about sizes, so I make my best guess. As for sneakers, I cheated and looked at her shoe size before I burned her blood-covered pair. I toss a pair of sneakers, boots and some slippers on top before I head over to the lingerie section. Again, I guess on the sizes, but I¡¯m pretty sure she¡¯s a C-cup. When she was in my shower, completely incoherent, I couldn¡¯t help but notice how full her breasts were, how they would fill my hands completely if I cupped them.

    Christ, just thinking of her perky breasts and tight nipples makes me hard again, right here in the middle of Target. Pissed, I continue shopping and throw in some supplies that I hadn¡¯t initially set out for. A pack of pads, tampons, some hair ties and a sketch pad join the mounting pile. Body wash, a hair brush and a blow dryer are next. I am just about to head to check-out when I spot a rack of condoms.

    My hands grip the cart. I haven¡¯t bought condoms in over four years. And not because I didn¡¯t believe in safe sex, but because I was married and didn¡¯t think I had to practice safe sex with my own wife. The thought of Miranda makes my stomach turn. I don¡¯t want to think about how long she was fucking my own brother while I was stationed halfway across the world. Or why I didn¡¯t listen to my gut when I called or Skyped home and felt that something was off. She went from telling me she missed me every other second during those rare times I could contact her, to conversations that left me wondering if she even wanted me to come home to her at the end of my assignments.

    I attributed her standoffish, almost cold attitude to frustration because we were apart. Many of the guys in my unit received similar responses from their wives or girlfriends. Being separated from your loved ones is difficult and can often make those on the home front feel lonely and abandoned. For the sake of my marriage, I knew that I would have to make a concerted effort and give her the attention she seemed to need. After my tour was up I returned home, excited to surprise her. But instead I received a surprise of my own¡­

    Miranda didn¡¯t take me into her arms and shower me with kisses. No, she just asked me how long I would be home this time and then told me that she had to leave for work. I wanted to tell her to call out today and lock us both in our bedroom. But I had to respect that life couldn¡¯t just stop because I had come home after six months away. I also didn¡¯t want to piss her off. With what appeared to be a forced smile, one that I had unfortunately grown accustomed to during our infrequent Skype sessions, she gave me a chaste kiss on the lips, grabbed her purse and phone and left for work.

    Frustrated, I went to see my brother. When I entered the police station, the guys all shook my hand and welcomed me home. Colin gave me a smile that mirrored Miranda¡¯s, one that left me cold and my gut telling me that something was wrong. But instead of calling him out on it, I decided to enjoy my first day back in the States and grab a beer that was well overdue. Still in his blues, my older brother of two years took me out for a burger and a beer at our favorite bar down the street from the precinct. Afterwards, we went back to his rowhome and watched the Phillies game on television. I was nursing my second beer of the day when someone knocked on his door. Colin answered the door but kept his voice low. Curious to who it may be, I leaned back in my chair but could only see a sliver of a man through the cracked door. I saw the veins in Colin¡¯s neck bulge and his grip on the door tighten. The sight disturbed me, and I went to see if there was a problem.

    ¡°Everything okay?¡± I asked.

    A Latino man with a shaved head and a tattoo of an inverted cross on his right cheek looked at me and then at Colin. My brother nodded and introduced me to Raymond and told me that he was an undercover cop. ¡°Yep, Raymond came by with an update on one of our cases.¡±

    It wasn¡¯t the man¡¯s tat or the fact that he didn¡¯t look like a cop that bothered me. No, it was the man¡¯s inability to look me in the eye that made me suspicious. Regardless of that gut feeling, I shook Raymond¡¯s hand and told Colin that I had to get going. Despite my lackluster reunion with my wife, I planned on taking Miranda out to a nice dinner and then end the night at the Ritz. The fancy hotel room was more than I could afford, but we needed time to reconnect, start over, and remember better times. I grabbed my keys and wallet, said my goodbyes and headed out the door. Raymond didn¡¯t even give me a nod, which I thought was strange. As I walked to my car, that annoying-as-fuck feeling settled in my stomach.

    Something was wrong.

    I walked back into my brother¡¯s house without knocking. I could hear talking coming from the kitchen. I quietly drifted into a spare bedroom and listened. What I heard floored me and made me want to heave the burger I had ingested at lunch. Raymond wasn¡¯t an undercover cop. And he definitely wasn¡¯t here to shoot the shit and have a beer.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    I stayed hidden until Raymond left. ¡°So how long have you been skimming off the top? How long have you been playing both sides, agreeing to look the other way as long as you¡¯re paid, while thugs like Raymond move their shipment of cocaine?¡±

    Colin¡¯s eyes widened as I stood in the doorway of his bedroom.

    Growing up, just two years apart, we had had our share of fist fights and bloody noses. He was always competitive, always trying to one-up me. But I had surpassed him in size and strength years ago and I knew that bothered him. Because he was the older brother, the son who had stayed close to home, followed in his father¡¯s footsteps and become a police officer. Although I respected my father and his profession, I had always known, even before I picked up my first GI Joe action figure, that I wanted to join the military. That decision, as it turned out, seemed to piss Colin off even more.

    But no matter how much my brother and I fought, or how easily I could unintentionally get under his skin, we had remained close.

    Until now.

    ¡°I¡¯m so fucking sick of your holier-than-thou attitude. You have no right to judge me. You think you¡¯re so perfect? That you¡¯re better than me?¡± he spat. As jealous as my brother could be of me, I never thought I was better or more successful, or more anything. And up until two minutes ago, I had thought he was happy with his life. That he had a job he loved, his own home and living as a bachelor and fucking a different woman every weekend. He had even bragged over burgers that he was getting so much pussy these days and felt sorry for me because I was tied down. ¡°I¡¯m tired of living paycheck to paycheck while the other half lives it up.¡±

    ¡°What the fuck happened, Colin? This isn¡¯t you.¡±

    ¡°You think you know me? You think because you¡¯re some decorated soldier, you can come home after six months and preach to me?¡±

    ¡°I know that you¡¯re a dirty fucking cop. That you¡¯ve changed.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not the only one who has had a change of heart,¡± he said. A sick, twisted smile formed on his face.

    What the fuck did that mean? I couldn¡¯t think straight. My brother had turned into a criminal while I was away. For the first time, I was happy that our parents were dead and didn¡¯t have to learn the devastating truth that their oldest son was worse than the scumbags he locked up. Because the truth would come out. I couldn¡¯t let my brother flood our streets, the neighborhood we had grown up in, with drugs.

    ¡°Get the fuck out of my house,¡± he said.

    I wanted to stand there and scream at him, shake some sense into him, make Colin remember the boy who had dreams of being like his dad when he grew up. But what I really wanted to do was break down and cry. Because it was at that moment I realized that I didn¡¯t know him, at least not anymore. And who the hell could say if I ever really knew him? I had taken our childhood skirmishes and his snide comments that dripped with jealousy as sibling rivalry on steroids. What if it hadn¡¯t been run-of-the-mill sibling rivalry but something else? I didn¡¯t want to think that my own brother could despise me, but from the way he just looked at me, with his eyes dark and so full of hate, it was impossible not to come to that conclusion.

    I returned home and found Miranda on the phone. She quickly ended her call, smiled, and asked me if we could go to Fininzio¡¯s for dinner. I was in no mood to wine and dine my wife anymore, but I couldn¡¯t stay home and sulk. I kept my thoughts and fears to myself and went to dinner. After we finished our meal, we left the restaurant and decided to walk the two short blocks to the hotel. I couldn¡¯t wait to get lost in my wife, to forget my worries for the night. But just a half a block away from the hotel, a man wearing a ski mask appeared from an alleyway with a gun drawn. I positioned Miranda behind me and offered the man my wallet.

    The fucking coward laughed. ¡°They don¡¯t want your money¡­they want you dead,¡± he said.

    I kept my eyes on that gun, but I saw Miranda in my peripheral vision, no longer behind me. I was on the man before he knew what hit him. I knocked the gun out of his hands and beat him until my knuckles were bloody and I was breathless. ¡°Who? Who wants me dead?¡± I asked between pants. Before he could answer, I heard the cock of a gun and I looked up to see Miranda holding the thug¡¯s pistol.

    ¡°Want to tell him, sweetheart? Or should I?¡± the bastard choked out.

    ¡°Shut up. Shut the fuck up,¡± she said through gritted teeth. Miranda pointed the gun at the man at my feet and fired, hitting him squarely in the chest. I knew she could handle a gun. I had taken her to the firing range at least a dozen times. I reached for the gun, but she backed away from me. Her hands were trembling as she pointed the gun at me. ¡°If you would have just minded your fucking business¡­¡± She pulled the trigger.

    The pain didn¡¯t register at first, giving me precious seconds to rush her and wrestle the gun away. She kicked and clawed. She even went for the gaping hole in my chest which blood was pouring from at an alarming rate. I knew I was close to passing out, which meant that Miranda needed to be subdued. I couldn¡¯t risk her finishing me off while I was out cold. With the blunt end of the gun I knocked her unconscious. I then slumped to the ground. With the last of my energy, I withdrew my phone, dialed 9-1-1 and told the operator my location. I dropped the phone and tried to apply pressure to my wound, but I didn¡¯t have the strength. The sound of sirens was the last thing I heard before I drifted off¡­next to the woman who had wanted me dead.

    ¡°Can I help you find something, sir?¡± a tiny voice asks. I look over at the young girl. Her cheeks turn the color of her red Target shirt. She can¡¯t be more than eighteen. Fucking great. I probably look like a pervert standing here and staring at boxes of condoms and tubes of lube. Like the pathetic bastard that I am, I shake my head, grab a box of condoms and rush out of that aisle.

    I need to get laid. It¡¯s time. This morning¡¯s explosive orgasm against my shower wall is evidence of that.

    Because of Miranda, what she did to me, I haven¡¯t had the desire to be with a woman for over a year. Because of Miranda, I subjected myself to a round of blood tests just to ensure that I hadn¡¯t contracted anything from her. My bloodwork came back clean, thank God, but my trust in women was broken and so was my libido¡­that was until one nameless woman came into my life.

    I don¡¯t want to think of her. Maybe Trent can tell me where I can find a woman who also wants sex without strings. A sex-filled night with no emotions in play. Yep, that¡¯s what I need. A random, safe fuck. Not the woman staying at my cabin. She¡¯s off limits. She has a brain injury and is basically my patient. I also have no idea who she is or if she is even single.

    Frustrated, I pay for my things and start for home. I make one last impulsive stop at a wilderness store and pick up a couple fishing rods and some bait and tackle. Being cooped up with a beautiful woman is dangerous. Maybe if she is feeling up to it, she might want to try fishing off my dock. That would keep my mind off other things, like getting her naked and sucking on her taut nipples. I grip my cock through my jeans as I drive the last ten minutes home. I¡¯m going to have to take care of this soon. Being around the woman in my cabin with a loaded cock is dangerous. Yes, another shower is in my immediate future.

 Chapter Six - Chief Brady Sullivan

    ¡°That cunt saw our faces! Not yours¡­ours! Is that why you¡¯re not doing more to find her?¡±

    I feel my hand twitch, aching to take Raylyn by the throat and squeeze the life out of her. I won¡¯t allow Raylyn to insult my girl. She will be punished, but first I need to assess the damage and act accordingly. ¡°She did see your face,¡± I say, caressing her cheek with my fingertips. Her skin is so soft and smooth¡­deceptively angelic. When I reach her chin, I take it and force her to look at me. Her eyes grow wild, tempting me to inflict the punishment she deserves. ¡°They have all seen your face, sweetheart.¡±

    Her head snaps to the side, out of my grasp. She stands, crosses her arms over her perky breasts and faces me. ¡°They were as good as dead when we handed them over to their new owners,¡± she hisses.

    She¡¯s right. The fifty-eight girls we took possession of, trained and sold would never talk about the time they spent with us. We broke them beyond repair and any residual fight left in them would have been beaten out of them by their new owners. And because we were so thorough, we never had to worry about being exposed.

    I walk over to the bar and grab a tumbler from the cabinet. I drop a few ice cubes into it while I eye the bottles Raylyn had lined up, though I already know what I favor today. As I pour the expensive amber liquid over ice, I think about my girl.

    Where could she be hiding? Who is helping her? And more importantly, why hasn¡¯t she gone to the police yet?

    My internal monologue is interrupted by Steele. ¡°She could be dead. You saw how much blood there was. Maybe it wasn¡¯t all Mace¡¯s. Maybe Mace got a piece of her before she took him out and ran.¡±

    The man I hired for his muscle and because Raylyn found him attractive walks into the kitchen and helps himself to a beer from the fridge. ¡°Her wounds could have attracted a bear or something.¡±

    My beautiful girl isn¡¯t dead. Fate wouldn¡¯t allow it. I have finally found her. After all this time, she will be mine again.

    I stare at the leather-wearing, skin-headed shit for brains and wonder how I have restrained myself all this time.

    I will not miss him. Mace, on the other hand, I will be eternally grateful to. Because he found her.

    Mace was tech savvy, conducting risk assessments on every woman we targeted for abstraction, and keeping our lucrative operation running like a well-oiled machine. It was Mace who would tell me with confidence, after weeks of research, if a girl was too connected, too important, too diseased, too easy to miss. He was also the one I put on constant lookout. To scour college campuses, bars, malls, parks, everywhere¡­looking for her. There had been women who had resembled her, laughed and cried like her. Some even had the same patch of freckles on their noses. But they weren¡¯t her. Until #59. Mace had been certain #59 would make me happy, that she was who I was searching for. I couldn¡¯t wait to see her again¡­and ruin her.

    I set my tumbler on the counter, withdraw my revolver and shoot Steele between the eyes. He doesn¡¯t fall right away, which I find interesting. Instead, he looks at me with that typical dumbass expression on his face, points to his head, and sways in Raylyn¡¯s kitchen. A few seconds later, he drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

    Raylyn doesn¡¯t scream. She doesn¡¯t even flinch. She simply goes to the bathroom where she retrieves a towel and begins soaking up the blood. I return to my drink. I¡¯m sucking back the rest of it when I see her secure a plastic bag over Steele¡¯s head. When she is finished, she walks to the sink, scrubs her hands, and dries them thoroughly. I pour her a glass of whisky for her trouble and hand it to her. She accepts it without hesitation and downs it in two gulps.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    ¡°Her father is dead and her one and only friend moved back to Japan to take care of her sick mother. Which means she has no one. No one to miss her. No one for her to run to¡­except for the police¡­to you,¡± she says.

    I watch Raylyn lick a droplet of whisky from her bottom lip and I feel my cock move. I¡¯m surprised that even after all this time she can still provoke that response. From the moment I met Raylyn in that club, I knew we had similar needs. Not an exact match, but enough to make it work. She likes the money, but what she craves, what she needs, is the pain and¡­the power.

    Raylyn is so close to perfection. She loves to watch the women break. She is a devil hidden in plain sight. Just like me. To the world we are ordinary. She lives in a tiny Cape Cod in even a smaller town than Quarry Hill about twenty miles north of our haven. Her offshore bank account, like Mace¡¯s, Steele¡¯s and mine, is impressive, but we have been careful not to showcase our wealth in fear of drawing attention. Before I met her she was a nurse in a residential mental health facility tending to patients, taking their vitals, administering the meds their psychiatrists prescribed and assisting the doctors during procedures.

    All skills that have come in handy.

    ¡°Did Steele do what I instructed?¡± I ask.

    ¡°Yes. Steele took care of Mace¡¯s body and the cabin has been stripped, cleaned, and boarded up. Nothing can tie us to that place.¡±

    I set my gun next to my empty glass. ¡°But that¡¯s not exactly true, is it?¡± I cup her face. ¡°My sister is missing and she needs to come home.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ll find another,¡± Raylyn hisses. ¡°We always do. It may have taken Mace four months to find this one, but I¡¯m sure I can do better. Give me a few weeks. I¡¯ll find you an exact replica of your precious¡­¡±

    My control snaps and I grab her by the neck. ¡°I don¡¯t want a replica. I want her. My angel,¡± I hiss.

    Raylyn gasps and tears form in her eyes. My cock grows hard at the sight. ¡°We wouldn¡¯t be in this situation. I wouldn¡¯t have had to silence Steele. Mace wouldn¡¯t have bled out if you had been more careful. You underestimated my girl and now you¡¯ll need to be punished.¡± I watch her eyes dart back and forth. Her pulse races beneath my thumb. Such a shame that this is going to be our last time together. ¡°On your knees, Raylyn. You¡¯re going to suck my cock until I¡¯m convinced that you¡¯re sorry for causing so much trouble.¡±

    She glares at me, which only gets me harder. I grip her shoulders and force her to her knees. ¡°Now.¡± My zipper is down and my dick is in her mouth within seconds. But no matter how much she struggles in my grasp, that her eyes are filling with tears, I know she¡¯s aroused, that if I dip my fingers into her cunt right now, she will be wet and ready for me. Such a dirty little whore. I grab my gun and hold it at her temple. She groans when I fist her hair. She moans even louder when I tell her that if she bites me she will join Steele, who is currently lying only inches from where she is kneeling. I fuck her mouth, never once lowering my gun. One, because I don¡¯t trust her, and two, because I know she wants the blunt head of my revolver against that pretty little head of hers. She needs the fear. She craves it more than her next breath. Several hard thrusts and I come down her throat. She swallows it all and looks up at me.

    The moment is bittersweet. I started this venture to make money, fulfill my needs, but most importantly to find my precious angel. And I have succeeded. I now have more money than I know what to do with and I will soon be reunited with Bree. There¡¯s not a doubt in my mind that she will turn up. I let out an easy sigh. I wonder what my uncle would have thought about my accomplishments. My mentor would probably have lectured me for involving outsiders, that I had brought Raylyn, Mace and Steele along for the ride. He would have told me I was foolish to rely on those outside the family. Because that is how you get caught.

    But I didn¡¯t get caught, did I? I¡¯m here, and he¡¯s six feet under, which means the only family I have left is my sister.

    I picture my sweet girl. Her chocolate brown hair. Her deep blue eyes. I envision those eyes filling with tears and fear. I can almost hear her whimpers turn into screams. Feel her fragile body writhe beneath me.

    I stare down at Raylyn as she tucks my cock back into my pants and zips me back up. How I will miss those lips and deep throat of hers. I squeeze the trigger and watch my partner crumble before me. I take a few steps back, avoiding the puddle of blood that is making its way over to my shoes. I¡¯m not looking forward to the hours of cleanup ahead of me, but then I think about my girl and I smile. She¡¯s worth it.

 Chapter Seven - ?

    After an hour of surfing the internet, looking at missing persons reports, anything that could trigger my memory, and coming up empty, I decide to make myself useful and cook dinner. I don¡¯t think Griffin will mind, and really, he deserves a homecooked meal for helping me. I don¡¯t have any money, nothing to offer him for allowing me to stay with him while I figure out who the hell I am, so making dinner is the least I can do. I find some leftover chicken from the day before in the fridge and all the ingredients I will need to make homemade chicken noodle soup and fresh baked biscuits.

    I¡¯m feeling productive and happily chopping the last of the veggies when I realize that I know how to cook¡ªsoup, at least. Although I¡¯m pleased about this, I am left with new worries. Is this how it¡¯s going to be? My subconscious mind still intact and allowing me to remember how to do things like taking a shower and knowing I will have to shave my legs soon or I will be giving Griffin a run for his money in the leg hair department? When will my memories return? What do I have to do to make my brain work again?

    I throw the cooked chicken into the large pot on the stove and set the lid on top. I hope Griffin likes chicken noodle soup because I have made enough to feed a family of five. While the soup simmers, I go back to my internet search. My eyes are growing heavy and I am developing a serious case of computer head, which isn¡¯t good for someone who has a concussion, when I hear a vehicle coming down the long dirt driveway. My spine goes ramrod straight and I retrieve the gun Griffin gave me. I walk over to the front window and see Griffin¡¯s pickup truck.

    You¡¯re okay. It¡¯s just Griffin. Get it under control.

    I take a few deep and needed breaths, return to the kitchen and put the gun back down on the counter. I decide to give the soup a couple of stirs when in walks Griffin. He is carrying at least a dozen plastic bags in his hands and looking pleased with himself. I stare at the red emblem on one of the bags and immediately recognize it. Why do I know that the bullseye logo belongs to Target? Why do I know that and not something important like if I am allergic to certain foods, like peanuts, something that could cause me to go into anaphylactic shock? The human mind is fascinating, but it¡¯s also frustrating as hell.

    ¡°What smells amazing?¡± Griffin asks.

    ¡°I hope you like soup.¡±

    ¡°I do,¡± he says, giving me one of his rare smiles. ¡°And I hope what I bought you fits.¡± I follow him into his bedroom, and he places the bags on the bed. ¡°If they don¡¯t fit or you don¡¯t like something, I can always take them back.¡±

    I¡¯m at a loss for words. I can¡¯t believe this man, this stranger, can be so generous, this selfless to a woman he has just met. He gestures to the bags and I quickly regroup and dump the shirts, pants, toiletries, and an array of other things that he thought to get me on top of the comforter. I stare at the enormous pile and notice that he¡¯s bought me pads and tampons, which makes me think that he has lived with a woman before.

    A sister? A girlfriend? A wife?

    The last two make my heart clench for some reason and jealousy brim to the surface. Does he have a girlfriend or wife? Is he seeing someone? There is no evidence in his cabin that he is dating someone, but then again, he did just move in. It¡¯s also possible that he has a significant other living elsewhere. He did say this morning as he pitched a tent, fresh from sleep, that it has been a while. What did he really mean by that?

    I stop theorizing the moment my attention is snagged by a box of condoms lying amongst the toiletries. He must have noticed them at the same time because his face immediately turns red and he swipes that square box off the bed, opens his nightstand drawer and tosses them inside. ¡°Um¡­it¡¯s not what you think¡­I just¡­they¡¯re not for you¡­I mean us¡­shit!¡±

    I have never seen a man blush so hard in my life. Or at least I don¡¯t think I have. He looks so fucking sexy flustered. ¡°Griffin, you don¡¯t need to explain why you bought condoms.¡±

    But I so want him to. Is he planning on going out and getting laid? Does he have a girlfriend? Or did he buy them because he is hoping to have sex¡­with me? That last thought makes my own face heat up. I need to change the subject before my crimson cheeks tip him off.

    I clumsily pick up a pair of slippers and a bottle of body wash. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you got me all this. It¡¯s too much, Griffin. I can¡¯t repay you, at least not until I get my memory back and then hopefully, I have a bank account with some money in it.¡± I set the slippers down and then sniff the body wash. The coconut vanilla scent smells heavenly.

    ¡°It¡¯s no big deal,¡± he says, his tone abrupt. He no longer appears embarrassed and flustered but pissed. Griffin turns and leaves me with all my Target treasures. What the hell just happened? He seemed almost happy when he came home and saw me cooking in his kitchen and now he looks irritated, angry even. I shouldn¡¯t want to figure this man out or attempt to even try to get into his brain, but I do. I want to know why this sexy ex-Navy medic is living in the middle of nowhere and helping me.

    It isn¡¯t like he is trying to get into my pants. He hasn¡¯t made a move on me and lord knows he¡¯s had the opportunity. I slept next to him, naked from the waist down last night, and to my knowledge he didn¡¯t even cop a feel. He either isn¡¯t attracted to me, which wouldn¡¯t be that surprising since I look like shit wearing baggy clothes, no makeup and sporting a nice gash in my scalp, or he has a girlfriend, wife or a fuck buddy.

    That¡¯s why he bought the condoms, you nimrod.

    I close the bedroom door and change into a pair of black yoga pants, a gray t-shirt and a blue hoodie. I slip on a pair of socks and then give myself a once-over in the mirror in the bathroom. Everything fits perfectly. I go back to the pile on the bed and fish through it only to discover that he bought me a pack of black hair ties.

    He bought me hair ties. He had to have had or has a woman in his life.

    I wrangle my hair into a ponytail and then go to the kitchen to check on dinner. Griffin is walking back into the cabin with more bags. He sets them on the couch and looks me up and down. For the briefest moment I think I see lust in his gaze, but then his annoyance swallows it up and again I feel like shit for intruding on his life.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be in the basement installing the new motor in the heater,¡± he says, walking to the door just off the kitchen.

    ¡°Uh¡­okay. I¡­¡± He doesn¡¯t wait for me to finish my thought, so I can apologize for being such a burden. He just slams the basement door behind him. A half hour later I hear him coming up the basement steps. I peer from my bed and see him tinkering with what I believe to be the thermostat in the hallway. Seconds pass and I hear a swoosh come from the vent at my feet and a gust of air penetrates my thin yoga pants.

    ¡°The cabin¡¯s small. Shouldn¡¯t take too long to find out if the heater is working properly now,¡± he says, still eyeing the thermostat. He pushes a button and then walks toward the kitchen. I sit on my bed and resume my search on his phone to see if any missing persons in the area match my description. After a few minutes, Griffin strolls into the bedroom with a beer in hand. He doesn¡¯t offer me one, not that I should accept a beer since I am still recuperating. In his other hand is a Verizon bag and he lays it on my lap before taking a seat at the foot of my bed.

    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± I ask, putting his phone down on the bed next to me.

    ¡°I start work next week. I would feel better if you had this¡­if you needed me while I was gone.¡±

    I look in the bag and pull out an iPhone identical to his. ¡°Griffin, I really can¡¯t accept this.¡± I watch him swig from his beer bottle. His lower lip is glistening from the hearty sip he took. I struggle not to stare at his full lips and imagine what I want him to do with them.

    ¡°I already programmed my number and Trent¡¯s into your phone. I also went ahead and downloaded a music streaming app. I read somewhere that music can trigger memories.¡±

    ¡°Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? I could be a killer for all we know.¡± I put the phone down and walk over to the fireplace. I stare at the blazing fire and find myself getting lost in the flames.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to check on dinner,¡± he says. He grabs his phone off the bed and walks out. I hear him take the lid off the pot and set it on the counter. Frustrated, I follow him.

    ¡°Why, Griffin?¡± I am met with silence and then the sound of metal clanging against metal. He is stirring the soup with a ladle when I ask, ¡°Griffin?¡±

    He slams the ladle down on the counter and looks up at me. ¡°Because I know what it feels like to lose everything, at least everything I thought was important.¡±

    I don¡¯t know what to say to his admission. To this rare glimpse into his life. He retrieves two bowls from the cabinet to his right and picks up the ladle. I watch him dump a ladle full of soup into each bowl and take them to the kitchen table. He kicks a chair out and sits down. Feeling helpless, I go to the oven and take out the biscuits I have warming. I toss them into a basket and bring them to the table along with two spoons. Mumbling, he grabs the spoon and dips it into his soup.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I say. I don¡¯t know what I am apologizing for. For infringing on his life? For making him feel like he has no choice but to help a pathetic stranger?

    ¡°Christ!¡± he yells. He grabs his bowl, a biscuit, and the Best Buy bag from the couch and escapes to the basement. I jump at the sound of the basement door slamming behind him.

    I no longer have an appetite.

    I need to leave. I¡¯ve overstayed my welcome and it¡¯s obvious that my presence is pissing him off. I have to get my memory back. I cover up my bowl with tin foil and place it in the fridge. I then go to my room, change into a pair of boyshorts and a tank top, more clothes that Griffin bought for me, and I get to work on my new phone. Like I did before, I check the news outlets and again come up empty. Growing more agitated by the second, I decide to try something new and search female names, hoping that popular girl names will trigger something. Maybe if I see a list, I can pick my name out or recognize the name of someone, a female who is important to me. Do I have a mother or a sister?

    No, says a voice in my head.

    The realization brings tears to my eyes. Because I know that voice isn¡¯t lying to me. It has just told me the cold, but much-needed truth. I don¡¯t have a mother or siblings. But I have to have someone. Someone I trust. Someone I laugh with. I can¡¯t picture myself being content to live completely isolated, not when it is so easy for me to trust Griffin. I pull up more lists, but nothing grabs my attention until I stumble onto the J names.

    Jessie.

    Sitting on the couch with a folded-up piece of pizza in her hands, Jessie was talking with her mouth full and being completely disgusting. ¡°You¡¯re such a pig, Jessie.¡± A pillow came flying from across the room and hit the raven-haired beauty in the gut, which only made her laugh harder. I looked to see who had tossed the pillow and saw a brunette sitting on a breakfast bar stool and drinking beer straight from the bottle. The woman took a swig and then smiled at her friend.

    The woman was me.

    I drop my phone in my lap. I remembered something. Jessie. She¡¯s my friend. I care for her. Then why can¡¯t I remember more? Like her last name? Do we live together? Are we roommates? I will myself to recall more. I go back to search more lists, hoping that another name will shed some light. But it doesn¡¯t and after a while I grow angry and discouraged.

    I decide to take Griffin¡¯s advice. I reach into the Verizon bag and pull out the set of ear buds that came with my phone and pop them in. I look for the music app Griffin downloaded for me. I tap the P icon, shut off the lamp and lie back in bed. I go directly to featured music since I have no idea what I like. I skip a few songs and am all set to skip another when I hear a voice that resonates with me. I close my eyes and listen to the throaty, sexy female voice. Her voice is mesmerizing and¡­arousing. It makes me think about the guy who has holed himself away in his basement. What would it be like to kiss him¡­to feel his weight on top of me, covering me?

    My legs shift uncomfortably under the covers. My hand drifts over my t-shirt and beneath my cotton shorts. I¡¯m not wearing any panties, so my fingers slip through my wet curls to my clit. I know how to swirl my fingertips over that tight bundle of nerves. My legs fall apart and I cup my breast in my other hand and pinch my nipple. My back arches and I suppress my moan by biting my lower lip¡­hard. I may not know my name, but I know I¡¯ve done this before.

    ***

    Griffin

    I escape to the basement to set up the computer I purchased at Best Buy. I¡¯m impatiently waiting for certain software installations to take place. The moment I¡¯m given the green light, I use my iPhone as a hotspot and connect to the internet. My iPhone allowed me to surf and investigate, but the bigger screen is a lot easier on the eyes. However, after several minutes, I¡¯m aware that my focus is shit and I can¡¯t stop thinking about the woman upstairs. I stand and head over to the punching bag I found hanging from a bar in the ceiling. I start pounding away, praying that the activity will take the edge off.

    I¡¯m still angry and now sweaty when I finish. I steady the bag in my arms and think about the past two hours. I behaved like an idiot, throwing a tantrum and storming off with my dinner in hand, a dinner she made me. When I came home from shopping, I didn¡¯t expect to see her up and around, looking so healthy and so goddamn right in my kitchen. She looked like she belonged there. Like she didn¡¯t care that her mind has been erased, that neither of us know her name. I stopped breathing when she smiled at me and told me that she made me soup.

    And then I showed her the things I bought her. I never saw someone act so appreciative over receiving yoga pants and toiletries. Although Miranda grew up in a single-mom household with little money, she developed expensive tastes in the last year of our marriage. Where I was perfectly content with shopping at Target, Miranda wouldn¡¯t have been caught dead in there.

    When I first met Miranda, she was going to college to be a nurse and working her way through as a waitress because she couldn¡¯t count on her mother¡¯s minimum wage job to support her. I was on leave, in between assignments and having a beer with my brother when Miranda waited on us and took our order. She was cute and funny and flirted with me shamelessly¡­right in front of my brother. Colin had to jet prematurely because he was called into work, leaving me alone. I left the bar that night with Miranda. She took me to her small apartment where we had marathon sex all night long.

    We kept up that pace for the two weeks that I was home and then I was shipped off again. When I returned six months later we picked up from where we left off, in bed and fucking like animals. A month later, I proposed, not because the sex was so great, because it was, but because she was down to earth and real. She didn¡¯t have things handed to her like other women I had met along the way. She took care of herself and that was one reason I thought our relationship would work. My job would ensure that we would go months without seeing each other and I needed to be with someone who was strong, self-sufficient and could handle being lonely from time to time.

    But as time went on and my assignments became more frequent, she started to change. Her excitement at receiving my phone calls and Skypes dwindled. And when I was home, she appeared distracted, like I was intruding on her life somehow. In the beginning, when I would come home, we would usually spend most of the time in bed and catching up. We didn¡¯t want to go out and be around other people. We wanted to be selfish and make up for lost time.

    But in the last year of our three-year marriage, she wanted to go out every time I came home. To dinner, dancing, to clubs. She wanted to be around her new friends, not the ones I knew. I noticed that her wardrobe changed. Lord and Taylor and Nordstrom, not Target, were more her speed. I also noticed that she had started to wear more makeup and had begun to wax her nether regions, something I was okay with, but it did make me question why she was reinventing herself. I didn¡¯t want to think that there was somebody else, but my mind went there, especially when I broached the topic of having kids the last time I was home. She told me that there would be time for that, that she wasn¡¯t ready. But I knew that she wasn¡¯t telling me the whole truth, that something else was preventing her from wanting to have children with me, something we had talked about and agreed upon before we even got married.

    I shake my head and punch the bag. The sudden movement makes my chest ache a little, just beneath my scar. It¡¯s a reminder of what happened and a warning for me not to repeat the mistake.

    Don¡¯t ever trust another woman with your heart again. It isn¡¯t worth it.

    I give the bag another round of punches before I decide that I should apologize to my nameless housemate for being such a prick. I climb the basement steps and find the living room empty. I look over and see that the door to my bedroom is closed. I go to the door and knock. After a few seconds, I knock again. Still no answer. I grow nervous. If she is angry with me, wouldn¡¯t she at least tell me to fuck off and leave her alone? I haven¡¯t known her for very long, but I don¡¯t take her as one who opts for the silent treatment when ticked.

    What if she has relapsed? What if her head is still cloudy from the concussion and she has fallen? What if she¡¯s passed out in there, unconscious? Unleashing her wrath for barging in is the least of my worries and I open the door. And feel all the air from my lungs escape me. Lying there, writhing on the bed, with her eyes closed, one hand fisting the sheets, her back arched, I watch her. The faint sound of music and her increasing pants fill the room as she releases the sheets. She cups her bare breast and rolls a nipple between her fingers while her other hand goes to work beneath her shorts. I imagine her fingers spreading her folds and dipping into her tight heat. My cock grows hard as a rock. I picture my fingers there, my tongue, as I make her back bow. I want her whimpers, I want her groans, I want her to unravel because of me. She twists her nipple and then gives the same attention to the other one. Her breathing intensifies and then she explodes. Her body is shaking as she rides out each wave. Her eyes remain closed as she slowly comes back down to earth, as she takes in much-needed gulps of oxygen. Although I fight the urge not to grip my dick and join her, I can¡¯t walk away. I just continue to stare at her, as her body recuperates from such a powerful release.

    Her eyes shoot open and meet mine. The moonlight from outside allows her to see me, to see the lust in my eyes, the want, the need. What I haven¡¯t desired in so long. She rips off her ear buds. Her chest is heaving because she is still out of breath. I have never wanted to fuck a woman so much in my life. I want to sink into her, get lost in her. I want her to erase my memories so we can both have a clean slate. But we can¡¯t. She isn¡¯t mine. And there is a pretty good chance that she already belongs to someone else. With my fists clenched at my sides, I turn and walk out.