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  I’ll be gone by then.

  We’ll be gone by then.

  * * *

  I finish in the shower. It was heavenly, with quality conditioner and soap that doesn’t smell as if it came from a dispenser at a department store bathroom. After a healthy dose of moisturizer, a thorough shave which would have impressed Chewbacca, and clean pair of lounge clothes, I feel more like myself.

  Or the myself I assume I should feel like.

  I take stock in my appearance, trying to recognize the woman in the mirror. She has dark, thick hair that doesn’t reach her shoulders. Gray eyes that look lost. Empty. Her skin is lightly tanned despite spending nearly a month indoors. Her cheek bones are high, chin small, and nose straight.

  “Who are you, Jerri Sloane?” I whisper to myself.

  Dr. Katherine Hope was right; she is a good looking woman. Not too tall, maybe five-foot-six. Not too curvy but not stick-thin either. I brush my fingers over the tattoo on the shoulder of a black bird in flight before leaving the mirror, the stranger, behind. Perhaps she’ll have more answers for me tomorrow.

  I walk out of the bathroom to find Portia waiting outside with a food tray. “You look much better, babe. Hop back in bed, and we’ll get dinner out of the way.”

  Warily, I move back to the bed, refreshed and a little hungry. I eye the tray she brought in topped with a bowl of soup and half a sandwich before she scurries away back to the kitchen. It doesn’t smell bad. It can’t be worse than hospital food.

  “Don’t worry. It’s from Junior’s, the deli we like,” Portia tells me.

  I open my mouth to say something, but she cuts me off. “I saw that look. And trust me, you have every right to have it there. I’m not a terrible cook, so long as I pay attention to what I’m doing. It’s when I don’t pay attention when shit happens.”

  I smile as she settles onto the bed beside me with her own dinner. “Like burning Cooper’s dinner?” I ask.

  She nods with a gleam in her eye. “Exactly that. That man can be distracting . . . trust me.”

  I test a spoonful of the vegetable soup. It is absolutely divine. “This is really good.”

  “It’s your favorite from Junior’s. We eat there a lot when we’re working; it’s a few doors down from the shop.”

  After eating in silence for a few moments, I broach what I feel is one of many elephants in the room. “I dreamt about him again.”

  Her eyes leave mine. She fiddles with her sandwich. “You wanna tell me about it?”

  I lean back against the headboard, releasing a held breath. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  Soft eyes meet mine. “No, Jer. You’re a lot of things, but crazy is not one of them. You’re meticulous and driven. You’re thorough and loyal. You’ve never been late paying a bill. If my hair looks like shit, you give it to me straight, and you don’t give false promises. You may have lost your memory, but you’re not crazy.” She pauses to take a breath. “I guess the hardest thing is I feel like I’ve missed something, you know? Like, I’ve been so overwhelmed and consumed by the wedding and pregnancy stuff this past year that I feel like maybe I didn’t pay enough attention.”

  I reach out and grab her hand because it feels like the right thing to do.

  “Jer, I could be wrong, and so could you. But I’d be an idiot and a liar if I said I wasn’t curious sometimes. When you go on your hunts for the shop, you’re almost always still around Boston, but there are times you’ll fly somewhere. There are times when I don’t talk to you for a few days.”

  I give her hand a squeeze and gesture for her to continue. She tucks her blonde hair behind her ear and says, “Cooper and I talked last night. And please don’t get upset with him because Cooper and I tell each other everything. But we talked about how you are when you come back. Sometimes, you’re Suzy Sunshine, with deliveries on the way and a truck full of new treasures for the shop.” She looks off, not really at anything in particular. Her eyes are glazed, lost in a moment of the past.

  Softly, she says, “And sometimes, you’re just back, with no extravagant finds, smile on your face, or deliveries coming in. Sometimes, it’s like wherever you went, you forgot your happy. You’ll shrug it off, sleep it off, or take the rest of the day off. I’ve asked—even pushed once—but I’ve never looked much more into it. Sometimes you’d tell me you were a little lonely. Sometimes you’d say you had the flu. And, hell, sometimes you’d say you were remembering little bits from your childhood and the loss of your family. Those memories would put you in a mood.”

  I contemplate before telling her, “Perhaps that is all it was. I don’t know, and I can’t give you the answers now.”

  “I know, Jer. But sometimes I wonder if I should have pushed harder. You never liked talking about your past, and we silently agreed to keep it off-limits, since I didn’t enjoy talking about mine either. But maybe, Jer, maybe I should have pushed. Maybe I could be giving more answers than questions right now.”

  I shake my head. “No matter what, I don’t think it’s your fault. Nor do I blame you.”

  Resolute, she continues with her dinner, and when we finish, she sets the trays aside. “Do you want to tell me what you remember?”

  I settle into the pillows. “Yes.”

  Chapter Eight

  “In my memories, or dreams, whatever you want to call them, his name is Locklin,” I tell her.

  “I don’t know anyone by that name, babe. What else you got?”

  I smile. “He’s big, broad shouldered. He has inky-dark hair and calls me Lass.” I shoot my eyes her way. “Anything yet?”

  She shakes her head. “No. But he sounds delicious. Keep going.”

  I do.

  I tell her about the coffee shop and the ride on his motorcycle. I tell her about the questions and the time I shared with him in bed. She confirms that eggs Benny is my favorite breakfast. I tell her about his tattoos, his love for Ireland, and his accent.

  I tell her about having rough sex against the door to my apartment above the laundromat.

  “Wait!” She jerks upright in my bed, crosses her legs, and looks at me. “When we met, in our night classes, I told you that you always smelled good, and you told me it was because you lived above a laundromat. Everything you owned always smelled like fresh linen.”

  My heart skips a beat.

  Once.

  Twice.

  I whisper, fearing to lose what I feel is the first bit of progress since I left the hospital.

  “Did I have long hair then?” I ask, smoothing my short hair behind my ears.

  Portia looks as though she’s seen a ghost. She nods and says, “Yeah babe, you did.”

  We break into watery smiles. It may not be everything, but it’s definitely something. It’s one step higher on the staircase reuniting my past and present.

  My watery smile fades as I remember my reason for leaving that apartment. “Were you ever there, or do you know where that apartment is?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I don’t. I remember you coming back after taking some time off. I think it was just a few days after a weekend, or something like that. You said moving took longer than you thought it would. I saw the next apartment, typical building near Draco Street, after we became closer. We didn’t share much back then, Jerri. I think that’s why we worked; we didn’t pry into each other’s lives—but we clicked,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.

  I silently agree with her. She’s to the point. No nonsense. I feel much the same way. After only knowing her for a few days, I understand what she’s telling me.

  Some people work, and some don’t.

  Portia and I—we work.

  “Portia?”

  She leans back into the pillows. “Yeah, Jer?”

  “I was leaving him. He was going to leave and come back after a month or two, and I was planning to be gone by the time he would have gotten back.” I swallow against the impending tears. “I was pregnant.”

  “Oh shit.”

  I n
od. “Yeah. Oh shit. Did I give up a child Portia? Did I lose one?”

  Tears glisten in her eyes. She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Jer. I don’t think so. I mean, maybe you lost it? Unless you had it before you met me. But that doesn’t make sense because you told me you moved when we were in class together. You said you planned to be gone before that guy, Lock, would have been back?”

  “Yes. At least, that’s what happens in the dream.”

  “Did you have a belly in the dream?” she quietly asks.

  I shake my head. No.

  “The only thing I can think of is getting ahold of your medical history. Who’s that doctor? . . . The head doctor . . . The one who you’re meeting with again?”

  “Dr. Katherine Pope. She told me to call her when I was ready.”

  Portia agrees. “Well that’s the first thing we’ll put on the to-do list tomorrow. Even if you aren’t totally ready, she should have your file. We’ll go from there.”

  Feeling good about that, and our talk, I agree. There’s nothing more I can do.

  “I feel better, knowing that I know something that makes a little bit of sense.”

  “I get it, Jer. Well, not completely. But I’m happy something is coming together, even if I can’t give you all the answers.”

  “Me too,” I breathe out. “Now, how about you show me these photo albums before I call it a night.”

  She smiles and grabs the first one. “Prepare for some laughs my friend. We’ve captured some good moments in these babies.”

  So that’s what we do.

  We laugh.

  At pictures of Portia and I dressed up as nuns on Halloween. At poor Cooper with dozens of lipstick kisses all over his sleeping form. Portia tells me his response was that she can take advantage of him anytime she wants.

  We laugh at a picture of Cory—our part-time shop worker and best, gay guy friend—pleading, in the prayer position, to Cooper to leave Portia and run away with him.

  She informs me this is a common occurrence and that Cory is devoted to his partner, Mark, so it’s all in good fun.

  I take it all in—the smiling faces, the laughter—hoping that one day I remember first-hand what is caught in this album. My past looks welcoming. It looks warm. It looks as though I enjoyed myself in much of it, even if some photos remind me that I was alone, that the man from my memories is not included.

  I recall the stories Portia told me in the hospital about a man named Tom Black.

  “I don’t see any pictures of that guy you told me about in the hospital. Tom?”

  She snorts. “Be grateful, Sweets, be grateful. I can’t believe you heard me.”

  I nod. “I did. Even about the waxing.”

  She laughs. “God, we were dumb. Anyway, Tom was an asshole. Hot, but an asshole. About a year after school, we were both still working at Ménage, which was a cross between a gentleman’s club and a classy restaurant. Dancers—not nude, tasteful—worked there. Plus, the tips were killer. Anyway, he was one of your regulars.”

  I cut her off. “Whoa, did I dance?”

  “Ha! No! Neither of us did, not that there’s anything wrong with it. Like I said, not a nudie bar. Anyway, he always sat in your section when you were working. One thing led to another and then you two were dating. We were both saving money. Your dream was always the shop. Mine was always being around people and interior design. That’s part of the reason why we fit so well. Anyway, you left Ménage and went to work for Tom. He’s in real estate. His secretary quit. Total cliché, I know. But you really liked him. Hell, we all did, except Cooper. But Cooper doesn’t like any guy who tries to get in your pants.”

  I laugh with her. “So what happened after?”

  She sighs. “He was an asshole. Soon, you and I barely hung out. You were working twelve hours a day and were always going to dinner with him and his clients. You wore pant suits, which I’ll tell you now is so not your style.”

  She gestures to the flying bird tattoo on my shoulder and my pierced nose.

  I get the picture.

  “He just ruled you, Jer. He tried to turn you into someone you’re not. Long story short, one day you woke up, had enough, and left.”

  Turning my head, I ask, “Did he come after me?”

  She nods. “Yes. But one thing about you, Jerri, is that once your mind is made up about something, there’s no changing it. Good news is you had enough money at that point, which helped get your pride and joy started,” she says, pointing to where the shop sits below this apartment.

  My pride and joy.

  So why do I feel so empty?

  “Because I’m not with you, Lass.”

  His words echo through my mind. They’re a stark reminder of what I have and what’s not here. I tell Portia I’m tired, and she takes the dishes from the room. I don’t ask if she’s sleeping here.

  I’m not sure if that’s because I want to be alone, or because I hope she stays.

  Chapter Nine

  “Sing to me, Jerri girl.”

  I close my eyes to absorb my surroundings. His warm chest against my naked back. Strong arms around me. Our legs tangled in the sheets.

  My heart at peace. My mind clear.

  I feel the breeze filter through the open patio doors at the end of the bed. The sun is setting on the other side of the lake. I dread when it goes down, knowing it’s our last night together before he has to go away again—our last night in this cabin, our meeting spot.

  Warm lips kiss my shoulder and my neck before latching on to my ear. Lightly, nibbling. He doesn’t wait for me, not that he ever does. He begins the song, softly singing the haunting tune about love and loss.

  It’s heartbreaking and beautiful.

  It’s everything we are.

  His hand slides up my abdomen, over my naked breast, and up my neck, completing its journey at my chin. Pushing with his hand until my head is tipped back, he covers my lips with his own.

  “Sing, Jerri girl.” He breathes into my mouth before kissing me.

  And like a sucker for punishment and agony, I do as he asks.

  I sing.

  “I know you have to leave,

  But let me beg you to stay.

  This agony, you’re my heart’s reprieve,

  I’ll still love you anyway.

  Don’t make me ask,

  Don’t make me choose,

  My soul’s run down,

  You’re too much to lose.

  But I’m beggin’ you today,

  Please, please just choose to stay.

  I’m on my knees,

  To do as you please,

  Please take me anyway.”

  Lock guides me down to the bed, hovering over me so he can begin his goodbye. It starts with his mouth, where he kisses my face—my cheeks, my nose, my lips, my chin. I keep my eyes closed, lost to the sensation. Sometimes it’s easier, sometimes it’s not.

  This time, I just want to feel.

  I don’t think I could ever forget what Lock looks like. He’s too beautiful for that to happen.

  My pretty and reckless.

  So, sometimes, I just lose myself to the sensations. I get lost, feeling his mouth on my breasts, feeling his hands dance over my body, claiming it. I get lost listening to his Irish brogue, which is always stronger when he’s turned on or pissed off.

  “Tell me, Lass,” he groans, reaching the juncture between my legs.

  I know what he wants.

  He craves my voice just as much as I crave his. “Devour me, Lock.”

  He groans against my wet heat before devouring me with his tongue. His fingers clench my hips. Tomorrow, the bruises will be the only evidence he was here.

  Owning me.

  Not just my body, but my heart.

  He plays my body like a well-tuned instrument. Owning and mastering every note. Making me his own. I have no choice but to bend when he guides me. Move when he touches me.

  I let out a gasp as his tongue swirls and teeth nip. Those depraved, s
trong hands leave my hips, allowing his fingers to delve into my body.

  Forcing me to fly.

  “Lock!” I cry out, trying to push him away and pull him closer at the same time.

  He gives me no break. He never does. His mission doesn’t stop until he leaves me.

  Broken.

  Bruised.

  And breathless.

  He pulls out his fingers, grabs my thighs, and flips me onto my knees before entering from behind.

  “Shh, Jerri girl. Hold on.” He groans as he wraps his left arm around my stomach and his right arm between my breasts so that he can hold onto my neck.

  It’s possessive.

  It’s bliss.

  I rest my head on his shoulder, hands clasped behind his neck. All I can do in this position is hold on, take what he gives, and hope to hell he never lets go.

  But he will.

  He always does.

  “So tight, my Lass. So beautiful. Watch.”

  I open my eyes to see our reflection in the mirror above the dresser. His scarred, dark arms beautifully contrast my pure-white flesh.

  But we fit.

  We always fit.

  Moving his hand from my waist to my center, I watch as his fingers complete one torturous circle after another on my already-too-sensitive clit.

  “I’m g-gonna come!” I pant.

  Lock’s strong fingers tilt my head to the side. His mouth latches onto my neck. Kissing. Sucking. Marking. He thrusts into me hard enough that I know I’ll ache for days.

  But it’s a sweet ache.

  “Come, Jerri girl.”

  And I do. Like every other time, it’s more explosive than the last.

  He buries himself to the hilt, following me into the heavenly bliss that only he and I can create together.

  It’s soul binding.

  It takes the breath from your lungs and the words from your mouth.

  Holding me close, still inside me, Lock lowers us gently to the bed, my back held to his chest. His arms clutching. Our legs entwined.

  He draws the blankets up to cover our sweat-cooled bodies before squeezing me close and kissing the top of my head.