Читать книгу Unravel Me - Kendall Ryan, Кендалл Райан - Страница 5

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.