Before & After Page 4

  The cryptic smile and the

  Quiet logic, the cynical amused

  Faces that you show the world.

  (Rike’s poems to Peyton)

  “I think I need to see her.”

  Rike glances at me. We’re in the hospital cafeteria, sitting across from each other in a booth. He’s been sketching for almost an hour while I journal. But I haven’t really written anything. It’s been over a week since I woke up, and my days have a pattern. Morning physical therapy and counseling. Texting with Rike. Afternoons spent playing card games and listening to ridiculous jokes while he stares at me with cloudy blue eyes that are full of secrets.

  I wish I knew why he was here. I wish I didn’t feel like he was hiding something from me. And I wish I was brave enough to demand to know what it was.

  But I’m not. And fighting with my doctors and psychiatrist about my insistence to keep my family at a distance has been consuming me.

  Rike looks distant, nibbling at his lip in a way that is way too fucking distracting.

  “Who?”

  “Lindsay,” I say. We came in together. Maybe I know her. It makes sense. And what if she’s all alone like I am?”

  His eyebrows go up. “I didn't think you were alone,” he says.

  I flush. “You know what I mean.”

  Rike sighs and put his pencil aside, giving me his full attention. “I do know what you mean but I need you to hear me. You aren't alone. I'm here. I’m not going away.”

  We sit in silence for a long moment staring at each other and then, “But I don't understand why,” I say.

  He smiles, that mysterious smile I adore and stands up, “You don't have to understand why. Come on. You’re right: seeing her will do you some good.”

  He helps me into my wheelchair—the doctors want me in it until the casts come off my leg and arm—and tucks a blanket around me, always with that careful caution that I'm coming to expect.

  He treats me with such reverent care, like a strong wind will shatter me. And it might. I know nothing about who I am—sometimes, it feels like he is all that holds me together.

  I catch his hand as he straightens and his eyes flash to mine. Hungry and questioning and so intense it takes my breath away for a moment.

  I want to kiss him. I don't know why, but I do, and I think he can see that desire my eyes. He leans into me, his forehead against mine. "You’re making this so hard, Peyton," he murmurs.

  "Sorry," I say faintly, and his lips twitch a little.

  "No, you aren’t."

  I grin. I’m really not. I fucking love that I’m affecting him.

  Rike sighs, and straightens. “Behave.”

  “You don’t really want me to,” I sass, and he barks a laugh as he pushes me through the cafeteria and into the halls of the hospital.

  The playful mood slips away as we get closer to the ICU. I’m nervous, suddenly, as the doors swing open and the sterile environment stares back at me.

  A nurse offers me and me—Rike, especially—a friendly smile, but he ignores it as he steers me deeper into the unit. Until we come to a stop at unit seventeen.

  There is a steady beeping, the constant hum of machines, and it’s comforting. It means life—maybe broken, but still life.

  Rike pulls open the door and maneuvers me in deftly, and the door swings shut behind me.

  I barely notice. My entire being is focused on the girl in the bed.

  Her hair is chopped brutally short, almost shaved, and she’s covered in bruises. She’s wrapped in bandages, so fucking beat up I want to cry. “You didn’t tell me it was this bad.”

  “You didn’t need to know this, Peyton.”

  “That isn’t your call,” I say harshly. “You aren’t part of my life. You don’t even know me.”

  “Don’t argue,” a voice says. I startle. The movement jars my leg, and I hiss in pain as it slices into me, hot and searing.

  Rike is by my side instantly, his hands catching mine, gentle. His voice is soothing, centering me, and it keeps me in the moment, focused on something other than the pain.

  “Come on, Pey, breathe though it,” he murmurs, and I gasp, tears stinging my eyes. Nod at him as he continues to murmur softly. It takes a few minutes, but when I can breathe again, he sits back on his heels and looks past my head, to whomever is standing behind me. “Don’t fucking do that,” he snarls, and I shiver. There is real anger there, a kind of bone deep dislike that I haven’t seen from Rike before now, and it chills me.

  I don’t like this side of him.

  “Then don’t fucking disturb her,” the other man snaps. His gaze skates over me, and I see the flash of fury in his gaze before his expression goes smooth and blank. “What are you doing here?”

  “She wants to see Lindsay.”

  The other man snorts. “Now she does.”

  “Scott,” Rike growls, and I finally shake myself.

  “Can I have a few minutes alone with her? Please?”

  They both stare at me for a moment and I force my chin up, a defiance I don’t actually feel in the face of their anger that makes no sense.

  But I was right. Seeing her helps. If only because it confirms what I knew.

  “Please,” I say again.

  Scott huffs and stalks past me, throwing an order over his shoulder. “Don’t fucking wake her up. She was up all night with the fucking nurses.”

  I wonder if he knows any curse words besides fuck.

  “Shit. And damn. And hell. As in, I don’t give a damn what the hell you want. Your shit doesn’t concern me.” He points at the bed. “She does. Don’t fuck this up.”

  I flush, heat crawling in my cheeks, and he laughs as he walks out of the room. “At least that thinking out loud thing hasn’t changed. “

  I look at Rike, a searching stare, but he’s ignoring me, stalking after Scott and letting the door swing close behind them.

  And there is nothing but the girl sleeping in the bed to distract me.

  I nudge myself closer to the bed, and stare at her.

  I don’t know her. Except—I do. I don’t know who they are, these people, but I know them, or I knew them. And they don’t fit who I imagine I was.

  “What the hell were we doing? Why was I with you and where were we going?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  She’s staring at me and I didn’t even realize she was awake. Her eyes are tired, glassy, a too dull brown, and sad. She winces as she shifts, twisting a little to stare at me.

  Her words are sinking in, slowly. Too slowly. I narrow my eyes at her. “What do you mean, you can’t?” I demand.

  Her gaze darts past me for a minute and she licks her lips. A nervous habit.

  How the hell do I know that’s a nervous habit?

  “Lindsay, what the fuck does that mean?”

  “I promised, Peyton. I promised I’d let him do this his way. I—I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Do I know you?” I demand, and lurch forward. Agony sings through me, but it’s amazing what you can ignore when something else is at stake. Pain is fleeting—it’ll be gone soon. My memory will stay gone, and she knows something.

  “Who am I?”

  She’s sobbing, and I’m clutching her leg, shaking her. “I promised, Peyton. I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

  “Who the hell would you promise that to?” I shout. “This is my life you’re fucking playing games with!”

  The door slams open and she breaks down, sobs shaking her as Scott shoves my wheelchair aside and cradles her against his chest.

  “I told you to leave her the fuck alone.”

  “She fucking knows me,” I scream.

  “Get her out of here, Rike,” Scott yells, and the nurses are all around us. Lindsay’s machines are going crazy, and I can feel Rike pulling me away from her, can hear the apologies he’s almost shouting as we’re all but thrown out of ICU, and I can hear Lindsay crying and Scott cursing, but it’s all distant. A long way away. Muffled and distorted
as I scream after her.

  She knows me. She knows who I am, and where I come from. She knows it all. And the bitch won’t tell me anything.

  I feel a prick in my arm, and the world swims as icy heat flood my veins.

  Rike is crouched in front of me, and I can see the apology in his eyes. He’s murmuring and as the sedative the nurses gave me starts working, pulling me inexorably toward oblivion, I shape the words. Sift through them. I’m so sorry, Fish.

  It doesn’t make sense. Why is Rike sorry? Why is he here? What—my gaze widens and I grit out a curse. “Oh, you fucking asshole. It was you. You made her promise not to tell me anything.”

  Guilt floods his gaze and he looks away. And the darkness pulls me down, with the sound of his betrayal, and flaring alarms all that I can hear.

  Chapter 7: Before

  There are a few defining moments for every relationship. Shit where, afterwards, you know things have changed. Finger banging Peyton on a stage in a bar was one of those points.

  When I was with her, I could forget for a few minutes that everything we were doing was stupid and doomed to fall apart. Because she was in my arms or holding my hand. But there was something that needed to happen that couldn't wait—a big fucking defining moment.

  "I want to take you out," I say, softly. She's sitting next to me, her fingers flicking lazily through the stacks of records, and her gaze comes up to mine when I murmur those words. Curiosity is bright in her eyes and I swallow hard. This girl fucking undoes me. I don't know how or why, but she can unravel me completely with just a single smile, all sweet innocence and dirty promises.

  "Where are we going?"

  I let out a breath. "Scotty wants to get some new ink. You wanna come with us?"

  She wrinkles her nose, an expression that I love on her pretty face. "You want me to go out with you and Scotty?"

  I nod, and my breath stills.

  She shrugs. "Ok."

  That's it? Her gaze goes back to the stack of records, and some of the tension eases in my shoulders, relaxing some even as I frown at her. "You aren't going to argue with me?"

  "Do you want me to?" she asks.

  "Of course not," I say, annoyed for some reason. Her gaze snaps up, just a little bit warning, and I breathe out, trying to keep from snapping.

  "Look, he's your best friend. I get it. There's something about him that's important to you. We've been seeing each other for almost a month. I'd be more concerned if you didn't want me to hang out with him." She shoves the records at me and stands, and I get a quick peek of pink lace panties as she straightens her rumpled skirt. "But if either of you think you’re going to share me, you can get that shit out of your head. I get that you have in the past, but I'm not into him, and I'm not going to fuck him to keep you happy."

  Without thinking, I catch her hand and drag her back down to the couch. Catch her lips with mine and swallow her startled little noise of surprise as my hands smooth down her luscious curves.

  She comes to life under my hand, arching into my caress and almost purring as I lick into her mouth. Her teeth close over my lower lip, and I swallow my groan as she pulls away, pain flickering through me, chasing the high of kissing her.

  "I won't fucking share you. Scotty gets a lot, but the most he'll get to participate is listening to you scream when I fuck you at our place. Because I know that when I strip you down, you'll be a screamer. Won't you, Pey?"

  "If that's what you want," she whispers as my hand trails up her leg, and she shifts, her legs spreading a little in obvious invitation. "But you have to actually fuck me to find out."

  "You want that. You want me to fuck you until you scream." I lick the shell of her ear and catch it with my teeth. "Does it turn you on that he'll listen to you, that he'll get off listening to me fuck you?" She whimpers and reaches for my hand and I twist, dumping her from my lap unceremoniously.

  “Come on,” I say, rising and adjusting my hard-on. She glares at me, shoving her hair out of her eyes and I grin.

  “No one likes a tease,” she says and I smirk, leaning down to brush her lips lightly.

  “Maybe not. But you, sweet girl, like me.”

  She growls lightly and I slap her ass before steering her toward the door.

  “We’re going now?”

  “You ok with that?”

  She shrugs, nibbling at her lip nervously Something I didn’t expect from her. “Hey,” I say softly. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

  “What if he doesn’t like me?”

  I hesitate. I could tell her that it wouldn’t matter, but this girl knows me well enough to know better. She’s picked up too quickly just how important Scotty is. She won’t buy my bullshit and maybe that’s what I adore about her.

  She’s so fucking different from every girl I’ve ever met.

  “Why don’t—” I say, catching her by the hand and lacing our fingers, drawing her into me “—we figure that out if it becomes a problem? And until then, we agree that neither of us will worry about it. Ok?”

  She bites her lip, and my dick, still hard, twitches in my jean. I nod at the door, and nudge her slightly. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  Chapter 8: After

  Easy doesn't make the lonely

  easier to bear, and less

  Suffocating.

  It simply is.

  I've tried them both.

  And I would rather,

  Fight and laugh and puzzle

  Through the riddles,

  And all the not easy.

  If it means being with you.

  (Rike’s poems to Peyton)

  I’m leaving the hospital.

  That’s what they keep telling me. That I’m leaving, and I’ll be going—where?

  Rike keeps trying to come back, and I keep refusing to see him. He’s not offering me anything and he’s holding all the cards. The fucking bastard is holding my memory hostage. It’s psychological warfare and I don’t care how he might make me smile, how sweetly he treats me—nothing can excuse that. It’s indefensible.

  But there’s nothing more that the hospital can do for me. I have money—plenty, according to the ATM I use with the debit cards I find in the purse the EMTs brought in with me. So I make a plan.

  And when my doctor discharges me, two weeks after I wake up with no memories and a shattered leg, I wheel myself out of the hospital. Alone. I think, very briefly, about going to see Lindsay before I leave, but the truth is I’m not sure what the point would be. She’s got her own set of problems, recovering from the internal organ damage and the broken bones. They’ve moved her from ICU, but no one is even starting to talk about her going home. It’s completely quiet on that front, and I’ve asked.

  I think something is going on with her that no one wants to let me in on. Because I’m so fucking fragile. I huff a breath at the thought.

  I hate being weak.

  It takes the better part of two hours to get myself to a hotel, and settled in. It’s not terribly nice. As much as I have in my bank account, eventually it’ll dry up, and I’m pretty sure that whatever job I might have had is long gone. So this little nest egg will have to last until I can find a new one or remember who the hell I am.

  The hotel doesn't have a bellhop, but there is a big black man from maintenance sitting behind the counter, and he offers to help me carry my stuff up to my room. There isn't much—three bags from the hospital with meds and clothes, a bloody purse that came in from the accident, and the stuff that Rike brought to me. Which I should get rid of. I've tried to, a few times. I almost left the bag of his gifts on the bed when I left, but at the last second, I chickened out. I'm furious and I don't think I'll ever forgive him, but I also can't seem to bring myself to break ties completely.

  I'm clearly an idiot.

  "You shouldn't be here alone, ma'am," the guy rumbles at me as we take the elevator up to the third floor. I glance at him, and he's staring at his feet. The man is a giant, but he's got a shy gent
leness about him that sets me at ease.

  "Why?"

  "Dangerous. And you're a lady," he adds, flushing a darker shade of brown.

  I glance away to hide my smile, and shrug. "Beggars and choosers. You know the drill," I say.

  “What happened?” he asks, nudging the wheelchair.

  “Car accident. It left me a scrambled memory—I’m trying to put the pieces back together.”

  He frowns thoughtfully but doesn't say anything else as he pushes my wheelchair off the elevator when the doors slide open. I sit quiet while he opens the door to my room and wheels me in, laying my bags across the bed. Without giving me a chance to say anything, he crosses to the desk and scribbles on the pad of paper there. Taps it with his pen while giving me a serious look.

  "I'm Tommy. I work here to fill my time—since my wife died, I don’t like being home alone. You need anything at all—food or a ride to the store or help downstairs. You call me. I'm here every day but Sunday." He says sternly. I nod quietly and his gaze, so very fierce, gentles into the concern that looks like what I imagine my father would look like, if he could be bothered to care. "You should not be here, alone. I will help, if you'll let me."

  "Thank you," I whisper, and he grins. Bobs his head at me and ducks out the door. I let out a breath and stare around the little room.

  A TV. Two beds. Three bags. A view of a city I've never been to, and that I live in.

  A cell phone that has been silenced, blinking with unread messages.

  It's not much to build a life on. Not nearly enough.

  I shove that thought aside and work on getting out of the wheelchair, and on to the bed.

  I don't know who I am. Rike holds the keys to everything, but he's not giving them up and I'm not going to wait for him to tell me. So it's time to research.

  ***

  I'm lost in Facebook when I hear a tap on the door. My head jerks up and then, muffled, I hear Tommy calling to me. "Ma'am?"