Unravel Me

Unravel Me series Book 1

BY KENDALL RYAN

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by Kendall Ryan Books 2014

First published in Great Britain by Harper 2015

Copyright © Kendall Ryan 2014

Cover photograph © Michael Grecco / Gallery Stock

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Kendall Ryan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781496174505

Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780008133993

Version 2015-04-13

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Read More From Kendall Ryan

About the Author

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Also by Kendall Ryan

About the Publisher

Chapter One

I listened as my best friend, Liz, droned on about her latest fling gone wrong and his deplorable behavior. ‘I’m done with men,’ she declared through the phone.

I choked on my latte, nearly spitting the lukewarm liquid on my computer screen. ‘Sure, Liz.’ She’d yet to understand that taking a guy home from the bar at two in the morning wouldn’t result in a real relationship. I wasn’t about to waste my breath explaining this to her for the umpteenth time. She was a contradiction in every way. Despite being a graduate student, her social life rivaled one of those girls-gone-wild reality shows.

‘I’ll just do what you do. Battery operated boyfriends never let you down, right, Ashlyn?’ She chuckled.

I roughly swallowed my mouthful of coffee. Nice. It was good to know what she really thought of me. ‘I’ll be sure to buy stock in Energizer then,’ I teased her back. If you asked me, Liz’s sexual needs were off the charts. The simple satisfactions of working my way through grad school one crappy lecture at a time and an occasional fling with my vibrator kept me content…for the most part.

A new email in my inbox caught my attention. It was from Professor Clancy, titled Possible Thesis Topic?

I pulled the phone from my ear, cutting off Liz’s rant to read the professionally worded message, inwardly cringing that I’d just been discussing vibrators. The sad thing was, Liz was right. It was the only action I’d had in two years. I just didn’t have time for a relationship and casual sex had never interested me. I needed a connection before I’d get naked and share my body with someone.

‘Liz, I’ve got to go. Call you tonight.’ I hung up without waiting for her response, but could hear her laughter through the line as I ended the call.

I closed my laptop and dialed Professor Clancy’s office number since he could be counted on to be there practically at all hours. Professor Clancy was a legend on campus and in academic circles, and I was lucky to have him as my adviser. He picked up on the third ring.

‘I got an interesting call from Dr. Andrews,’ he said. His calls always began this way--no hello, how are you--just straight to the point. ‘And based on a patient he’s seeing, I might have a lead on a test subject for your amnesia thesis.’

We’d been brainstorming thesis ideas that would also secure me a grant and allow me to work on getting a paper published in behavioral psychology, which was my field of study. Ever since I was a girl, I’d been fascinated by amnesia. Sometimes I fantasized about what it would be like to have amnesia, to forget all the painful memories from growing up. I realized Professor Clancy was still speaking and I listened as he described the man who’d been brought in to Northwestern Memorial Hospital several days before without a single memory..

‘You’re a genius, Professor Clancy. That’s perfect!’ I knew this assignment was meant for me. I could already see it – my name and an amnesia study printed in a medical journal. If that didn’t prove that I’d made something of myself, then nothing ever would.

‘There’s one hitch though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s under arrest for a murder he has no recollection of committing.’

I picked at my nails and waited for him to continue.

‘He was arrested at the scene of a murder, standing over a man who’d been beaten so badly he had to be identified through dental records.’

I shivered involuntarily. ‘Geez.’

‘Yeah… You might want to rethink this, Ash.’

‘No. I want to work with him.’

‘I figured you’d say that. I just wanted to warn you and make sure you understood what you’d be getting into.’

‘Understood. Thanks, Professor. Have they discovered anything else about him?’ I asked, anxious to learn all I could.

‘He recalls nothing of his life before. Not even his name.’

‘That sounds promising.’ We’d been kicking around the idea of studying the effects of amnesia and its psychological impacts, but the access to subjects was limited. I wanted to write about something fresh and cutting edge, not just regurgitate the articles already published in tired old journals.

‘I’ve arranged a visit with Dr. Andrews, who’s his attending physician. You free in the morning?’

‘Of course.’ Even if I’d had plans, I would cancel them to meet the amnesia subject. My stomach tingled with excitement.

I reviewed the file Clancy had emailed over, and prepared myself for my first meeting with John Doe.

I balanced my mug of coffee on the edge of the pedestal sink, and finger-combed my hair. Getting the long, unruly strands to cooperate was a daily challenge. I usually opted for a ponytail, but today I needed to look professional, so I did my best to smooth it down and tucked it behind my ears.

I swiped tinted moisturizer over my cheeks and mentally ran through the information in the file Professor Clancy had sent. The subject was a Caucasian male in his early twenties, six foot one, one hundred ninety-two pounds, and most noteworthy of all, had absolutely no memory. He was suffering from complete amnesia. His file claimed he had emotional issues, which I expected as a result of the trauma. He had above-average intelligence and was articulate, yet had been uncooperative and withdrawn. He bore no distinguishing birthmarks, was in good health, had two tattoos, and was circumcised. It felt like an invasion of privacy knowing so much about him, but the prospect of meeting him excited me.

I had been too nervous to eat, so the slice of toast I’d made earlier sat cold beside my laptop. I tossed it in the trash and grabbed the file I’d printed out before hustling out the door. I might as well benefit from my inability to sleep in and get to the hospital early.

I walked the twelve blocks to Northwestern Memorial on Huron Street. After I’d moved here from Michigan last year to study with Professor Clancy, I’d sold my car, unable to afford the insane parking rates in downtown Chicago. Besides, I could walk or hop on the ‘L’ to easily get where I needed to be.

I took the elevator to the third floor. My legs were too tired to navigate the stairs after my early six-mile run and the twenty-minute walk to the hospital. Plus, it gave me a moment to collect my thoughts before meeting with Dr. Andrews. I hiked the laptop bag’s strap farther up on my shoulder and lifted my hair off the back of my neck, trying to cool down. The doors slid open with a ding and I followed the signs to check in at the registration desk. The receptionist directed me to a consult room to wait for Dr. Andrews.

I sat down and grabbed the file from my bag, arranging the pages neatly on the table in front of me. The doctor was probably busy and would most likely keep me waiting for a while. Whether doctors were truly that busy or playing head games to make them seem superior, they always seemed to keep you waiting.

I needed to adjust to the fact that the doctor title would be added to my name in a year or so. Of course, there’s a big difference between an M.D. and a Ph.D. I had no desire to be a medical doctor. Blood and bodily fluids? Ugh, no thanks. I cringed at the thought. No, I just enjoyed academics and studying. I hadn’t really intended to get my doctorate, but I enjoyed college so much that I continued on after getting my undergrad in sociology and my master’s in psychology. Then because I wasn’t ready to do anything different, I applied for a Ph.D. program and here I was.

I smoothed down the edges of the papers to review the file again—even though I had it nearly memorized—just as the door swung open. I leapt to my feet and offered my hand to Dr. Andrews. He was dressed in a white lab coat and, with graying hair at his temples, he fit the conventional image of a doctor.

‘Miss Drake?’ He returned my handshake, pumping my hand twice.

‘Yes, please call me Ashlyn.’

After exchanging pleasantries and a few stories about Professor Clancy, who Dr. Andrews knew quite well from their undergrad days at Loyola, he removed his glasses and rubbed his temples.

‘I understand you’re studying the psychological effects of amnesia and would like access to one of our patients.’

‘Yes, that’s correct. My goal is to complete a thesis proposal by spring term and I’d like to gather all the information I can through interviews and…’

‘Slow down. I doubt Bob--excuse me, Professor Clancy--explained it you. He could barely contain his excitement over the phone last night, but this is a very sick young man. My advice is to not make him the subject of your project. He’s dangerous, unpredictable and best left to the professionals.’

The condescending nature of his comment was like a bucket of cold water thrown in my face. All my life I’d battled people who underestimated me. People like me, who grew up in Detroit with an alcoholic, blue-collar father, didn’t go on to become doctors by the age of twenty-five. That perception was exactly what drove me so hard--to prove everyone wrong.

‘With all due respect, Dr. Andrews, I’m a Ph.D. student, not a high schooler working on a book report. I’ve interviewed prisoners before.’ He didn’t need to know that it had been for a project in graduate school and had been done via email. ‘I can handle myself.’

He looked down at the floor, now aware he’d offended me. When he glanced back up, his eyes were clear, his face softer. ‘Listen, Bob speaks highly of you and your work, and I want to help you out, but I just wouldn’t advise studying this subject.’

‘I know he’s been arrested for murder, and that doesn’t scare me. I have a thick skin, Doctor. I want to see him.’

‘Very well.’ He nodded. ‘I doubted you’d be persuaded to walk away, but I had to try. It’s clear working under Bob has rubbed off on you.’ He offered a forced smile.

Professor Clancy was one of the most dedicated professors I had. He lived, ate and breathed his work. I respected the hell out of him for that.

‘Here are his records, updated since he’s been in my care.’ Dr. Andrews handed me a manila file folder, already thick with papers. ‘He’s calm right now, but we’ve had some trouble with him.’

‘Trouble?’ I glanced up from his file.

‘He was transferred here three days ago from the county hospital. His first morning here he attacked a male orderly who was attempting to give him an injection.’

‘What provoked the attack?’

‘He was shouting, demanding information about why he’s being kept here, who he is, what we know about him. He has absolutely no memory of the murder. When the police came in to question him and showed him the crime-scene photos, he broke down. After that he didn’t talk to us for two days. Then he just lost it.’ He shook his head like it was that hard to believe this man would have trouble coping with a new reality. ‘The guy he attacked was twice his size. Needed eight stitches in his face.’

I swallowed a lump rising in my throat.

‘He’s got some pent up anger and aggression. Consider that a warning about being in the same room as him, but somehow I doubt you’ll heed that advice.’ He smiled at me but his concern was obvious.

‘Take me to him.’ My voice sounded calm, even though this situation was rattling me. I reminded myself that if anything happened at least I was in a hospital, but the thought didn’t provide any comfort.

Dr. Andrews opened the door and I gathered up my papers. ‘He’s resting now, but since you’re every bit as stubborn as Bob, I’ll take you in to meet him. I have no idea if he’ll cooperate with you, seeing as how he’s not my biggest fan.’

When we reached room 304, it was guarded by a uniformed officer. I stopped and faced Dr. Andrews before entering. ‘Pardon me, Doctor, but I’d like to go in alone.’ I had no idea where that idea had sprouted from, but somehow I figured the patient might be more willing to cooperate with me if I weren’t with Dr. Andrews, since the patient didn’t care much for him.

Dr. Andrews studied me, his eyebrows pulled together. He was old enough to be my dad, and I could see his concern was genuine.

‘I’ll be fine.’ I placed a hand on his forearm.

He nodded reluctantly and signaled the guard to open the door for me.

I stepped inside the cool, dimly lit hospital room. Directly across from me, the man lay sleeping on a narrow bed, nude except for the white sheet covering him from the waist down. He had an erection in his sleep; his tense cock rested against his stomach and tented the fabric covering him. Aside from that, he looked peaceful.

I stepped closer, wanting to get a better look. He was strikingly handsome with messy brown hair, a chiseled jaw, full mouth and well-defined torso. His body was cut with long, lean muscles--not bulky, yet completely toned. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks and he let out a low moan.

It felt like an invasion of privacy standing here viewing him. My stomach danced with nerves, like I was about to be caught doing something wrong. Lying in the hospital bed like that, he could have been posing for a cologne ad. Scent de insanity. I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling, but that thought helped provide some much-needed levity to the situation.

I watched him sleep--this living, breathing, attractive man, who was so incredibly male. This contact with him provided a completely different experience than when I read his case file at my dining room table. This man was someone’s son. A friend. A lover. Were they looking for him? Except, I knew from Professor Clancy that there’d been no missing persons reports filed matching his description. Whoever he was before had disappeared into thin air.

I felt something pinch inside my chest. No one had filed a missing persons report? Who was this man? And what had caused him to block out his memory so completely?

I noticed one of the two tattoos documented in his file. The name Logan was scrawled in cursive writing along the inside of his bicep. My mind immediately jumped to figure out who Logan might be. Maybe Logan was his brother or a friend, but really, who tattooed a friend’s name to their body? Perhaps he was gay, and Logan was his lover. I pushed away the hypothesis that had no basis in reality.

His physical injuries had pretty much healed. His concussion was the only thing still lingering, along with a faint scar under his chin that was just barely visible.

The door opened behind me and I turned to give Dr. Andrews another earful about wanting to be left alone. Instead, it was a nursing assistant dressed in blue hospital scrubs carrying a tray with a plastic pitcher of water. I rolled my eyes. The doctor had sent this poor guy in to check on me, I was sure. The assistant set the tray on the bedside table and turned to leave. The man in the bed lifted his head from the pillow to survey what was happening around him. Perhaps uninterested in what was happening--or because he was drugged, I wasn’t sure which--his head fell back again and he shifted to his side, cradling his cuffed hands in front of him. He flexed his wrists against the metal bonds.

The assistant looked from the patient back to me, and I offered a nod, signaling to him that I was fine and he was free to go, though my heart pounded steadily against my chest and I felt anything but calm.

I hadn’t realized they had him handcuffed since his hands had been covered by the sheet when I first walked in.

‘Wait.’

The assistant paused at the door and faced me.

‘Remove his cuffs.’

For the first time the man in the bed opened his eyes and looked directly at me. I hadn’t realized such a brilliant shade of hazel could exist until his eyes fixated on mine. I blushed at the obvious attention he directed only to me despite the aide hovering nearby.

Referring to him as John Doe didn’t seem right. I’m not sure why, but with that name tattooed on his arm, I started thinking of him as Logan.

‘Miss, I can’t do that,’ the assistant said, drawing my attention back to him.

‘Do you have the keys?’ I asked.

‘Well, yes,’ he admitted.

‘Then yes, you can. Now unlock him.’

He shook his head, as if realizing he was in a room with not one crazy person, but two. ‘He gave Terry a nice gash on his face, and you’re too pretty, you don’t want him unlocked.’

I turned to Logan. ‘You’re not going to hurt me, are you?’

He shook his head.

‘See, he’s fine. Now uncuff him.’

My dad was ex-military and had taught me how to throw a punch. I rarely got intimidated, even riding the train through the sketchier areas of town, and I wasn’t about to back down now. I could take care of myself, and besides, I didn’t believe he would harm me. There was something about him, some nudging feeling that told me I was safe with him. Even as I decided all this, I knew it wasn’t logical. Clocking in at barely over five feet, he would tower over me by almost a foot, and if his muscular arms were any indication, he could take care of himself and anyone else in his general vicinity.

The assistant glanced at the door, seeming to wonder if he should go and check with Dr. Andrews regarding my request, or just do what I asked and get out of this room as quickly as possible.

I considered speaking up again, but he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and quickly unlocked the handcuffs before shuffling from the room.

Logan sat up in bed and rubbed at his wrists. ‘Thanks,’ he croaked, his voice deep and rough from sleep.

‘You’re welcome.’

I stepped closer and he drew the sheet up higher on his waist, concealing the trace of soft hair trailing down his belly. I felt mesmerized watching him.

My response to him was startling. Was I that starved for male attention that I was attracted to a good-looking prisoner? Damn, maybe my friend Liz was right--I needed to go out more, to get laid, instead of relying solely on my vibrator to do the job.

This certainly wasn’t the most professional of me. I needed to speak up, explain who I was, why I was there, just as I’d done countless times before during the other studies I’d been part of. Of course, those had always been led by Professor Clancy, and I’d just followed his lead, easily explaining that I was Ashlyn Drake, a Ph.D. student studying behavioral psychology and I wanted to ask a few questions. But my mouth refused to form the words, and instead I just stood there staring at him.

He seemed to have a question on the tip of his tongue, but he stayed silent as well, looking me over for a few long moments. ‘Do…do you know me?’ he finally asked. His voice was soft, inquisitive and I immediately relaxed at the sound of it.

The meaning of his question took a minute to resonate. He thought I was here for a visit. There was something innocent and sad in his eyes. Like they were filled with hope and wonder as he looked me over. Did he think I was his girlfriend? A friend? ‘No,’ I answered.

His face fell, and he went back to rubbing his wrists.

I stepped toward him and went to the bedside table where the assistant had left the pitcher of ice water. I picked up the plastic cup and poured him a glass.

I held it out for him to take, but he didn’t react right away. He sat quietly, still meeting my eyes for another lingering moment before he reached out for the cup. His fingers brushed against mine. The warmth and solid feel of him startled me.

He took a sip without taking his eyes from mine. ‘Why are you here and why are you treating me humanely? They say I’m dangerous, that I murdered a man.’

I sucked in a breath of air, forcing my composure to return. ‘I’m a doctorate student, researching the effects of amnesia.’

‘You’re here to study me,’ he said simply. It wasn’t a question and his eyes flicked to mine, challenging me to disagree.

I saw my actions through his eyes, what he must assume were my motives for freeing him, giving him water, and suddenly my actions didn’t feel quite so genuine. I’d need his cooperation, it was true, but I hadn’t been thinking of my research when I ordered the aide to release his wrists, or poured him a cup of water. I’d been thinking of him as a man who needed comforting, which probably wasn’t wise. It’d be in my best interest, and safer, to think of him only as a test subject. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to view him the way I should while watching him sit on the bed, with his chest bare and a five-o’clock shadow dusting his jaw.

I could easily rattle off facts like approximately eighty percent of amnesia patients recover their memory, but I couldn’t comfort him, and that left me unsettled. I’d always dealt with statistics, scientific research, facts and figures, so being face-to-face with a guy my age, who I was undeniably attracted to, had completely thrown me off my game. I needed to pull it together.

‘May I sit?’ I motioned to the plastic chair across the room.

He shrugged his indifference.

Taking it as an open invitation, I pulled the chair closer to this bed and sat, then removed the files from my bag. Just this small act, having the papers in my hands, calmed me. I felt more in control, back to my professional self, and pulled a deep breath into my lungs.

I could feel him watching me. When I looked up, I noted the curious expression on his face.

‘What?’ I asked.

He shook his head, biting his lip.

I looked myself over, making sure none of the buttons on my shirt had popped open or something else awkward. ‘What’s wrong?’ I felt too comfortable, more like I was talking to friend than interviewing a mental patient.

‘You look too young to be a doctor,’ he admitted finally.

Oh. I tucked my hair behind my ears self-consciously and glanced down at my lap. ‘I’m not a doctor yet. I’m still in school.’ And I knew I looked younger than my twenty-four years.

I read over the questions I’d prepared and suddenly, sitting in this hospital room with him, they sounded stupid. Too clinical. Besides, he wasn’t likely to be able to provide the answers just now, so I’d probably only anger him. Not that I was worried about him becoming irate; I already trusted him on some strange level. I just didn’t want to prod him with useless questions that would do nothing but frustrate him. I wanted him to trust me. And if I was admitting it to myself, I wanted him to like me. I closed the folder.

‘I know you don’t remember your name, but I’d like to know what you’d prefer I call you. John Doe just doesn’t seem right.’

He swallowed and looked directly at me again. His eyes were piercing. I’d always thought the phrase ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul’ was stupid, but with him, that phrase held meaning. His eyes were rich hazel, with flecks of chocolate brown and deep, mossy green, fringed with black lashes. They were so expressive I could read his anguish at having no idea how to answer the most basic of questions.

He rubbed absently at the tattoo on his arm.

‘Should I call you Logan?’ I nodded toward the tattoo.

He ran his finger over the script, as if trying to decipher its meaning. ‘Why would I tattoo my own name on me?’

‘I don’t know, I suppose you wouldn’t.’

He nodded in agreement.

‘I just figured it might be more familiar to you than John, though.’

‘I suppose you’re right. Even though there’s nothing familiar about the name Logan to me, I guess I’d still rather you call me that.’

‘Okay. Logan.’ I smiled. ‘Are you hungry, have you had breakfast?’

His expression betrayed his suspicion over my concern and I immediately felt guilty. ‘Let’s just get your questions over with, each day has been a parade of doctors, lawyers and investigators coming through here and not a single one of you can tell me what the fuck is wrong with me. The sooner I can get out of here and back out in the real world, the more likely I am to remember something, right?’

Okay then. That’s a no to breakfast. ‘It’s possible that certain environmental stimuli could provoke a response…’ But I didn’t explain that being under arrest for murder meant he wouldn’t be leaving this hospital anytime soon.

‘Would I know it if I was gay?’ he asked out of the blue.

‘I’m not sure. Studies have shown that sexual preferences don’t change as a result of memory loss. Why? Do you think you’re gay?’

‘No. It’s just… Logan is a guy’s name, right? Why would I tattoo the name of guy on my body?’

It was something I was wondering about, too. ‘You think maybe Logan was a lover?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to think about anything.’ He lay back against his pillow and closed his eyes. I could see him struggling to keep his emotions in check. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling, waking up one day in a hospital, being told you’re under arrest for murder with no recollection of your life up until that point.

I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the skin a pale lavender color. I wished there was something I could say, something I could do that would truly help him, but for all my schooling, lectures and textbooks, I was at a loss. I could hold my own in a discussion on the clinical symptoms of amnesia, but I had no idea how to comfort someone who was experiencing it. I wasn’t a psychologist, I hadn’t studied counseling, but suddenly I found myself wishing I had the right words to soothe him, to provide some hope, some semblance of normal. However, asking any of the questions I’d typed up this morning would just insult him.

‘Listen, I’ll let you get some rest. Would it be all right with you if I came back tomorrow?’

He nodded, and turned his head away from me, closing his eyes.

The conversation between us had been easy; he didn’t seem uncooperative to me. In fact, his response to this situation seemed very normal.

I stood to leave, folding the papers into my bag. ‘Bye, Logan. Sleep well.’

Just as I pulled the door open, I heard him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ashlyn,’ I answered.

‘Logan and Ashlyn,’ he murmured before letting his eyes drift closed.

There was something about his quiet nature, and intense gazes that stayed with me the entire walk home. The way he softly spoke my name together with his, touched me at my core. Like they were something concrete he could catalog and count on.

Chapter Two

The next day I returned to the hospital toting a canvas bag full of things for my session with Logan. A CD player and an eclectic selection of music to see if anything roused a memory from him, along with a collection of classic literature, the books most often assigned in high school.

Logan’s case was not the kind of amnesia that resulted from a neurological disorder or head injury. His was a case of dissociative amnesia, essentially a mental illness involving the breakdown of memory and identity, making it all the more fascinating. I knew that dissociative amnesia was brought on by a traumatic event and occurred when a person blocked out certain information. Treatment options were extremely limited. They typically focused on relieving symptoms and controlling problem behaviors brought on by the stress and trauma. Now, newer studies were exploring how to help the patient begin to process and cope with the painful memories.

Since no one had come forward to claim Logan, even after the news outlets had a field day covering his story, I knew that family therapy was out. I decided to focus on art and music therapy, hoping to avoid going the medication route for anxiety and depression that Dr. Andrews seemed to favor. I wanted to see how far I could get Logan on my own. I didn’t think it would be helpful to numb his brain with antidepressants.

Dissociative amnesia was by far the most interesting to study because the memories still existed inside the mind, but they were so deeply buried they might never be recalled. Sometimes the memories resurfaced on their own or were triggered by stimuli in the person’s surroundings.

The guard stationed outside of Logan’s hospital room checked my ID and nodded his approval for me to enter. I opened the door only to find an empty room. I dropped the heavy bag on the floor to stop my shoulder’s aching protest and was ready to parade out to the reception desk to find out where they’d taken him, when a door on the side of his room opened and Logan stepped out in just a towel.

His gaze flicked to mine and he smiled. I was too stunned even to return his smile, with my jaw hanging down by my knees and all. His body was a freaking masterpiece that could easily turn any girl into a drooling sex addict. And glistening with water droplets, with that tiny white towel slung low on his hips, I was no longer thinking of him as a test subject. I was picturing what it would be like to have Logan’s rough hands on my body, to feel the heat of his skin, to breathe in his musky scent and feel the stubble of his jaw against my cheek.

‘Ashlyn?’

I realized that I’d just been standing here visually molesting him for God knows how long and I was about to stammer out an apology, when he turned to the side and I caught sight of another tattoo.

There was something familiar about the phrase scrawled along his ribcage. Without thinking, I marched forward and grabbed onto his hips, turning him to get a better look.

It couldn’t be.

He chuckled at me, low under his breath. ‘See something you like?’

‘This tattoo. Do you know what it means?’

He looked down at the curvy text and shook his head. ‘Haven’t had access to look it up just yet. Besides I’m not even sure what language that is.’

‘It’s Latin.’

‘You know it?’

I unbuttoned my jeans and eased down the zipper.

‘Whoa, Ashlyn.’ He took my wrist, stopping me, but I could see the heat building behind his gaze, which did nothing to extinguish the jittery excitement I felt. He ignited something in me. I thrust my jeans down just enough so I could show him my tattoo. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam tibi written in Latin over my left hipbone. The font on mine was smaller, but our tattoos were the same, complete with the curvy script written gracefully in black ink.

He released my wrists, dropped to his knees, and delicately ran a fingertip along the lettering that matched his own. He dipped his fingertips just inside the waistband of my white cotton panties, moving them aside to read the phrase uninterrupted. My stomach jumped at his touch.

‘What does it mean?’ His voice was husky and thick.

I realized I’d been holding my breath and pulled in a lungful of air before answering. ‘I will either find a way or make one.’

The phrase had been etched into my mind long before it was permanently inked on my body. It reminded me to challenge myself, to never settle, and to push through my shitty upbringing to become who I wanted to be. It was a saying that would speak to those who had struggled in life and wanted better, and were willing to fight for it. I wondered what would have possessed Logan to have this marked into his skin. By the look on his face, he was clearly wondering the same thing about me.

He rose to his feet, and after trailing his fingers one last time over the words, he zipped and buttoned my jeans. I stood there completely at his mercy and utterly fascinated by him. What were the chances that we’d have the exact same Latin phrase on our bodies? The similarity was unnerving, but also interesting.

There were lots of things about him that were beginning to intrigue me. The way his green eyes followed mine, his musky, male scent. It also probably didn’t help my libido that both times I’d seen him, he’d been shirtless. There was no way not to notice how attractive he was. My two-year sexual dry spell might have also contributed, but my body’s response to him could only be described as primal…needy.

He appeared just as intrigued by me. He hadn’t yet moved, and was still gripping my hips. I looked down at his hands, which he quickly dropped away. I took a step back trying to ease the sexual tension that crackled in the air between us.

He cleared his throat, mumbling something about getting dressed and disappeared into the bathroom again.

When he closed the bathroom door, I realized our encounter had left me light-headed and dizzy. When he’d leaned in close, the warmth of his skin and the light scent of soap had invited me forward, and I couldn’t help but notice the way his sculpted abs and trim hips had barely held the towel in place.

I gave my head a quick shake. Now was not the time for fantasizing. I was not some hormonal teenager, I was a doctorate student, but I’d never been quite so taken with a man before. The experience was unnerving. I’d practically whimpered when his fingertips touched me. And I sure as shit shouldn’t have unbuttoned my pants. This was completely unlike me and totally unprofessional. I rushed from the room as a sudden wave of panic hit.

I needed to get a hold of myself. I slipped into the ladies’ room before my nerves overtook me. I looked at my pale skin and wide set blue eyes in the mirror. A frail frightened girl stared back at me. I splashed cold water onto my cheeks, hoping to add some color back to my face.

I took a few deep breaths and the color in my cheeks slowly began to return.

I had a decision to make. I could move past my obvious lapse in judgment of allowing myself to become attracted to him, or I could back out of the assignment and let Clancy know that I wasn’t cut out for this. Then what would I do? Move home to Detroit? Find a job in the city? Work in an office from nine to five every day in a boring job I didn’t care about? No, I had worked too hard for that. I was passionate about this research. Quitting now would be silly. I wasn’t that impulsive. It would be fine.

I straightened my shoulders and took a deep breath. I would just have to do my best to keep things professional in his presence. At home later was a different story —I couldn’t be held responsible for the Logan-induced fantasies that were likely to haunt my dreams.

After giving myself a much needed pep talk, I went back to Logan’s room and slipped into the plastic chair near his bed. When I finally looked up at him, I knew my mistake instantly. I hadn’t allowed myself to become attracted to him. I had no say in the matter. It was simple chemistry. A primal attraction that couldn’t be controlled or turned off simply because I willed it so.

I took a moment to clear my head and focused on our work for today. I needed to maintain utmost professionalism with him. I had to set the tone and parameters of our relationship. He was in a fragile emotional state, and the last thing I needed to be doing was fantasizing about having sex with him. But God, I knew it would be good. That he would be good. He was entirely fuckable, and brought out my inner vixen in a way no man had before. I remembered his fingers on my skin, and mentally chastised myself for not wearing sexier underwear. A trip to the lingerie store at the mall was long overdue. I pushed the last lingering thought of his fingertips brushing across my belly from my mind and put on the most professional face I could manage.

After the fascinating discovery of our matching tattoos, we spent the afternoon listening to the various genres of music I’d checked out from the library. We discovered that he preferred rock music and blues over classical or country. He’d cursed when I put on rap and crossed the room to turn it off, which was funny. He made me replay a particular blues song three or four times, saying he was sure there was something familiar about it, but ultimately he couldn’t recall anything specific.

Despite the lack of progress on producing any memories, the afternoon hadn’t felt like a failure. It had actually been sort of fun. Logan had lain across the bed, his eyes closed, deep in concentration as I played the music, skipping through songs, or turning it up based on his preferences.

He asked me to leave the books behind for him to read, that way I was guaranteed to return to see him, he said, at least to pick up the books. If only he knew I was already anticipating my next visit.

The smile on my face had not faded when I ran into Dr. Andrews in the hallway.

‘Have you been here all afternoon?’ He frowned, looking down at his watch.

It was amazing that several hours had passed without my noticing. ‘Um, yeah. We got a lot done.’

‘Did he recall anything about the murder?’

Well burst my bubble. My stomach dropped. ‘No. I’m not working with him on remembering that.’

He scoffed at my direct admission.

‘Dr. Andrews, you’re the one who diagnosed him with post-traumatic or dissociative amnesia. You and I both know that he’s distanced himself from important personal information about himself and his life. His memory can likely be restored over time, but the events leading up to the trauma will likely be the last to be remembered. Or never remembered at all.’

Dr. Andrews shuffled his feet, still frowning.

‘Besides, that’s what the police-assigned psychologist is for.’

‘Listen, Ashlyn, I’m only trying to look out for you. He’s dangerous. You haven’t read the police file.’

My belly danced with nerves, both wanting and not wanting to know what the police records contained.

‘They’d found him in an abandoned warehouse, covered in blood, a sledgehammer nearby and the dead body of another man lying beside him. He’d beaten the hell out of him. Gruesome stuff.’

My skin broke out in chill bumps. I just couldn’t imagine Logan being dangerous.

‘He’s a young man who doesn’t even know his name, and though I appreciate your concern, I know what I’m doing.’ I turned and strode towards the elevator, faking a confidence I so did not feel. I stabbed the down button several times for good measure, and when I turned around, Dr. Andrews was gone.

That night I lay in bed, looking over the curving script scrawled on my hip in the dim moonlight seeping in through the blinds. I ran my fingertips lightly along my skin, just the way Logan had. A low throbbing ache built between my legs, needing so much more. I let my fingers dance just below the waistband of my panties and imagined it was Logan’s palm that was laid flat on my stomach. I closed my eyes and let myself imagine what kind of lover he would be. Through our visits, I was able to read his emotions almost better than my own. He felt entirely alone and craved comfort and closeness. Feelings I couldn’t even let myself explore with him.

My fingers dipped lower, finding myself already wet. I stroked the swollen bud softly, as I imagined Logan would and moaned as pleasure rocketed through me. I never touched myself like this, preferring instead the efficiency of my vibrator, which quickly got the job done. But tonight as I daydreamed of Logan, I wanted to draw it out, to make the sensations last. To have his face in my mind and his name on my lips when I came.

Chapter Three

‘The amount of time you’re spending at the hospital isn’t healthy, Ash,’ Liz said, stepping forward to get in line for coffee. ‘It’s not normal.’

I opened my mouth to respond, and she held up one hand, stopping me. ‘And don’t say it’s for your thesis. I talked to Clancy and he said you have plenty of outside material, and that your thesis outline is nearly done.’

I closed my mouth, unable to use the defense I’d been about to employ. I had a draft of my thesis outline complete. Logan’s situation was only a small part of it, a real-life reference point in all the other data. It hadn’t felt right to make his case front and center, dramatizing his pain that way.

I followed Liz towards the counter, needing much more caffeine to even consider discussing my relationship with Logan with her.

Over the last few weeks, I’d managed my schedule so that I could swing by the hospital and see Logan every day, even if it was only for thirty minutes between classes. My attraction to him hadn’t begun to fade. In fact, it only seemed to intensify each time I saw him. But knowing I’d never be able to act on it, my feelings stayed bottled up. He was safe in the hospital for now, which made me feel the tiniest bit better. If he were to get out, though…I had no idea what might happen between us. Our sexual chemistry was ready to combust.

I had avoided elaborating on my visits to Liz, harboring a sense to guard what was developing between Logan and me.

‘Tell me what’s going on, Ash. This isn’t like you to get so obsessed about a test subject.’

I swallowed hard. I needed to come clean about Logan. He wasn’t just some test subject. He hadn’t been from the beginning, and now after spending several weeks with him, talking music and literature, tasting all kinds of foods, I knew we had grown close. Too close as far as doctor-patient relationships went, even if I wasn’t a doctor yet.

I suppressed a grin at the thought of Logan, struggling to keep my game face on in front of Liz. She’d jump on me at the first sign that something was off.

Even though my visits hadn’t helped Logan to remember anything, spending time together brought him a sort of peace, he’d said. I provided a brief escape from his pain, and a break from the investigators who still questioned him, but were running into roadblocks as they tried to build their case.

I stepped up to the counter to place my order. ‘Small skim latte.’

Liz barked her order to the cashier and handed him her card. ‘I know I’ve been encouraging you to get laid, but I didn’t mean with him. I don’t care how good looking he is. He’s a mental patient for fuck’s sake.’

The dreadlocked cashier raised his eyebrows, looking between Liz and me. Great. I dropped my loose change into the tip jar and marched to the end of the bar to wait for my drink, clenching my fists at my sides.

We sat down in the cushy chairs in the back of the café, sipping our drinks. Liz’s knowing gaze never left mine. ‘Tell me what’s going on. Since you met him, you’ve become even more of a hermit than before.’

I ducked my head, sucking in a sip of my latte. Damn, too hot. I knew she was right, but I couldn’t explain the pull that Logan had over me. Maybe it wasn’t healthy spending so much time at the hospital. I almost laughed at the obviousness in that statement. But Logan wasn’t crazy. I knew that for sure. I also knew with absolute certainty that I’d be the one to go insane if our sexual chemistry got any hotter.

‘I’ve got it under control, Liz.’

Each day I entered his room he lifted me into his arms and held me tight before setting my feet on the floor. I couldn’t help but think that he was craving the physical affection after the weeks alone.

Dr. Andrews had seen us hug once and I’d instantly felt ashamed and embarrassed for letting myself grow so attached to a patient. Of course, it hadn’t stopped me from visiting Logan every day. I just tried harder to avoid Dr. Andrews.

Over coffee, Liz tried to convince me that I needed to take a break from my work with Logan, that I was becoming obsessed. When she dropped me off afterwards, and saw the embarrassing state of my apartment, I started to think maybe she was right. Stacks of textbooks and a small mountain of notes had spilled from my overstuffed bookcase just inside the entryway, providing an obstacle to even getting through the front door. I had thought nothing of stepping over the heap the last several days, but watching Liz clumsily navigate it embarrassed me. I led her farther into the apartment, where at least the sofa was free of clutter.

She tossed her purse onto the couch. ‘Seriously gal, you need to reel it in.’ She waved her arms, motioning to the state of my apartment.

Despite any evidence to the contrary, my life was neat and logical. My piles of books and papers were concrete, things I could grasp. My kitchen contained only the essentials--coffee always left out on the counter and cupboards filled with cups of instant noodles. I didn’t have time for fluff, for boys and their nonsense, and certainly not for the one I was studying who had more baggage than a celebrity’s luggage cart.

But maybe my life needed the excitement Logan could provide. Things had gotten damn predictable--classes, boring professors, a drawer full of vibrators and romance novels dog-eared at my favorite scenes.

Still, against all common sense, I couldn’t seem to keep Logan off my mind. With the criminal case against him weakening with each passing day, and the likelihood that he would soon remember his former life, I knew he’d be moving on and I needed to let it go. Heck, it’d occurred to me more than once with how good looking and charming he was that he probably had a girlfriend waiting for him, wondering what had happened. Although in my opinion, any girlfriend who didn’t scour the city, search the hospitals, and jails and even under the overpasses for her boyfriend didn’t deserve a guy like Logan. Period.

Still, it probably wasn’t healthy to ignore my friends, and my poor apartment hadn’t seen a vacuum in weeks. That realization smacked me in the face when Liz wrinkled her nose in disgust, weaving her way through the clutter.

‘Okay, it’s decided. We’re going out tonight. Cocktails, mancandy, it’s happening. Because, this--’ She gestured to the wreck that was my home. ‘--is concerning. You need to move past Logan. I know you think you feel something for him, but it’s only because of how passionate you are about your work.’

I’d told Logan I’d be back to see him after my coffee date with Liz. I hadn’t missed a day since we’d met. Even though I didn’t like the idea of standing him up, I knew there’d be no dissuading her. Besides, one night out wouldn’t kill me. I could call the hospital and ask that they pass a message on to Logan that I wouldn’t be able to make it today. That way, at least he wouldn’t be waiting for me.

‘Fine. I’ll go.’

She smiled. ‘Go shower. And I’ll do my best to clean this mess up just in case you get lucky and bring a guy home tonight.’

‘I won’t be…’

She silenced me with a slap on the behind. ‘Oh yes, you will. Now go.’

I took a brief shower and quickly shaved my legs, unsure of what Liz might be doing to my apartment. Despite being cluttered with textbooks and papers on every available flat surface, I knew where everything was. I didn’t need her meddling with my system. When I emerged from the shower, pink and scrubbed clean, I found Liz sitting on the sofa, texting.

The apartment looked the same as it did before my shower. ‘Gave up?’

She glanced up from her phone. ‘Oh, yeah.’ She waved a hand absently. ‘There’s no hope for this place. Just wear some damn sexy underwear, and hopefully the lucky guy won’t notice or care that you live like an animal.’

I sent a quick email to the hospital receptionist on Logan’s floor and dressed in jeans and a tank top. Liz helped me dry my hair pin straight and did my makeup, too, and then I hobbled on my seldom-worn heels to her apartment for some pre-drinks.

Around ten-thirty, we finally stepped inside a sleek lounge, an off-campus favorite that I hadn’t been to yet. Liz kissed the bouncer on both cheeks and he swatted her backside, leading me to believe she was here more often than I’d thought.

We sipped on cosmopolitans in sleek martini glasses, and the combination of vodka and liqueur went straight to my head. Before long, Liz and I were gyrating on the dance floor to techno music, writhing together to the delight of a group of guys observing us from across the room.

When I could no longer stay steady on my heels without spilling my drink from the rim of the martini glass, I made my way to the side of the dance floor and slid into a booth. I slipped off the heels underneath the table and stretched my aching feet. I watched Liz continue to shake her booty and grind into the lap of an overeager frat boy.

I ordered a water and rested my chin in my hands, watching Liz enjoy herself. Sometimes I was jealous of her ability to embrace the moment and live life to the fullest. She didn’t have a care in the world. Besides working, school, studying and reading, there wasn’t much else to my life. Until Logan came along.

One of the frat guy’s friends slid into the booth next to me, smiling at me with a drunken grin. ‘Hey,’ he called over the thumping music.

‘Hey,’ I returned. I was so not interested, but managed to engage him in conversation, mostly to please Liz who offered me encouraging looks from the dance floor now and then.

About ten after one, I was exhausted, tipsy and ready for bed. Alone.

I said goodbye to Liz, who was practically attached at the face to frat boy number one. She waved and made me promise to call her in the morning. As if she’d even remember this conversation, I vowed to call her first thing.

I stumbled to the street and began walking toward my apartment, confident that I could hail a cab on the way if I didn’t feel like walking the eight blocks. And in these shoes that was a distinct possibility. At least I felt safe here. The streets were well lit with streetlamps every dozen feet and the sidewalks were fairly well populated with college students out looking for a good time. Not to mention a police officer or two could be spotted fairly easily if you were looking.

I passed by a Thai restaurant, glancing up at the sign above me with a gilded golden elephant. I wondered if Logan would like Thai food, or if tasting it would spark a memory for him. A smile pulled at my lips at the thought of bringing Logan here, watching him lick spicy peanut sauce from his lips. I felt lighter in his presence, incredibly alive and carefree, something that was rare for me since most of my days were spent worrying about my mounting student-loan debt, the endless research papers that needed writing, and even my dad who was all alone back in Michigan. At least tonight the alcohol left me with a fuzzy buzz and I could daydream about Logan on my walk home.

I passed by the small park I often sat in to read or study. It was little more than a cluster of trees and some park benches, but in the heart of downtown, you couldn’t be too picky with green spaces.

The evening air was cool and felt great against my overheated skin and the nearly full moon made it a beautiful night. It would have been a nice night to walk home, if it weren’t for these blasted shoes. I stopped to lean against a lamppost and removed my heels.

A policeman prodding a homeless man on a park bench caught my attention. The man sat up, and rubbed his hands across his face. It was the same mannerism Logan used when he was tired or frustrated. It had to be a guy thing. But then the streetlight caught on his bicep and a tattoo…. Logan.

It couldn’t be. Yet I found myself jogging toward them all the same, heels dangling from my hand.

The police officer had roused the man onto his feet and was urging him along. Like a slap to the face, it hit me that this was indeed Logan. I didn’t understand how or why he’d been released, but there he stood, in my neighborhood park in the middle of the night.

‘Logan!’ I called.

He turned suddenly, his gaze locking with mine. He looked tired, weary and untrusting. My heart sank. There wasn’t even a question; I had let him down by not coming today. Had he snuck out to see me? Why did that thought make me deliriously happy? Sick, Ashlyn, sick. I was becoming obsessed with him and Liz was right, it wasn’t healthy. But seeing Logan here, the feelings he roused within me, I just didn’t care. I needed to see him.

I jogged the last few paces and stopped in front of him. He didn’t greet me with his customary hug, but instead stood coolly observing me. A pang of regret flared up inside my chest. I shouldn’t have ditched him to hang out with Liz tonight. Especially when she was ditching me for guy right now.

The police officer cleared his throat. ‘You know him?’

‘Yes, I know him,’ I said, without taking my eyes from Logan’s. His gaze softened just the slightest bit.

‘Just move it along, folks. No sleeping in the park.’

‘No problem, officer.’ I nodded, not breaking eye contact with Logan.

A moment later the cop turned and left, leaving us alone in the dark, silent park.

Seeing him outside the hospital was throwing me off more than I cared to admit, like he only existed within the walls of that tiny hospital room. ‘What are you doing out here?’

Logan rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, looking down at the ground. ‘They dropped the charges against me today. And then you didn’t come…’

‘I’m sorry,’ I interrupted. I knew from overhearing hallway conversations in the hospital there was no case against him.

‘And since they couldn’t legally hold me in the hospital anymore, I signed myself out.’

‘Oh.’ Oh was all I could come up with. He’d chosen to be homeless rather than stay another night in the hospital. It didn’t make any sense. ‘Well, do you have anywhere to go?’ I reached for his forearm and he stepped back, out of my reach.

‘I’ll be fine, Ashlyn. You got what you wanted for your paper. I heard Dr. Andrews say something about your thesis being nearly finished. I figured that was why you didn’t come back today. You’re free to go on with your life. Forget about me. Everyone else has,’ he added under his breath.

I stepped in closer, placing my palm on his cheek. ‘No, Logan. You’ve got it wrong. My paper’s been done for several days. I couldn’t come tonight, but I left a message for you with the hospital staff.’

He raised his eyebrows, like he was deciding if he should believe me. ‘I never got a message.’

‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t ditch you. Come back to my apartment for the night. We can figure things out in the morning.’

He removed my hand from his cheek, lowering it to my side. ‘I don’t want your pity, Ashlyn.’

‘Logan, we both know there’s something between us. This isn’t pity. Please come with me. You need somewhere to sleep tonight. Let me be there for you.’ Those last words seemed to soften him, because he closed his eyes for a moment then nodded.

‘Okay. If you’re sure it’s no trouble.’

I looked at the ground, my throat tight, and my stomach a bundle of nerves. ‘I promise it’s no trouble.’

I led Logan the few blocks to my building in silence, while the tension rolled off him in waves. I hated that he thought I’d abandoned him once I got what I needed for my paper. Couldn’t he see that it was so much more than that for me? We walked up to the third floor, which I’d grown used to and no longer left me winded. I unlocked the door, and grimaced when I remembered the state of my apartment and Liz’s warning about bringing a man home tonight. Who could have known she’d be right and that it’d be Logan? It seemed impossible, but he really was here, stepping inside my crowded one-bedroom apartment, his large frame making it look even smaller than it was.

I flicked on the foyer light, illuminating the crazy mess that was my apartment. ‘Home sweet home,’ I murmured, tossing my keys onto the side table.

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