The pain is the first thing that registers. In my head, my back, my legs, every fucking where. It also feels like I have a dozen cotton balls lodged in my mouth. I open my eyes, but even that simple action hurts like hell. I peer down and see an IV sticking out of my arm. Panic sets in and I look around the room. My head throbs and my vision blurs at the sudden movement.
“Good morning,” says a deep voice.
I blink several times to bring the man into focus. “Where…where am I?” I ask, raising my hand and touching what seems to be a bandage on my forehead. The outline of the man starts to solidify and then slowly his features become more defined.
“In the hospital. You have a concussion and a gash on your leg that I stitched up.” Even through the fuzziness and the mind-numbing pain, I know this man isn’t just handsome, but stunning.
“Doctor, I…”
“I’m a paramedic, not a doctor,” he says, eyeing me closely.
My body is completely concealed, but his gaze seems to bore right through the thin blanket that is molded around me. Instinctively, I fist it at my chest and stare at the man. He isn’t wearing scrubs or a white jacket. Sporting jeans, a blue t-shirt, and black boots, he looks like he walked in off the street.
“Who are you?”
“You don’t remember me? That I almost hit you with my truck?”
“When…where?” My heart is pounding in my chest and my throat feels like it is closing up. I look over at the monitor next to my bed and see several wavy lines start to spike.
“Last night while I was driving home from the store, I found you standing in the middle of the road…”
“Where? I mean…where am I? What is this place?”
His eyes narrow and the neutral expression he was wearing wavers. “You’re in a hospital…in Quarry Hill, Pennsylvania.”
Quarry Hill? The name of the town means nothing to me. I stare down at my arms and hands. They aren’t familiar. A sickening feeling settles in my belly. Desperate, I throw off my covers and take in my hospital gown and then lower, the bandage on my left thigh. I don’t recognize anything, not the patch of freckles near my ankle, or the small mole just below my knee. “If you didn’t hit me with your truck, then why am I injured?” I ask. My heart continues to hammer away, and I struggle for breath.
“Your clothing was covered in blood, so I assumed you were hurt. I offered to call an ambulance or the police, but you ran into the woods. You fell and hit your head on a rock, which is how you sustained a concussion.”
I barely heard anything after he mentioned the police. The machine to my right starts to ding. “Did you call them? Do the police know I’m here?” I have no idea why the mention of the men in blue petrifies me, but I am. So fucking scared that I think I’m going to pass out.
“You need to calm down.”
“No! Answer me. Did you call the police?”
“No…and don’t ask me why I didn’t,” he says, his tone gruff. “No one except me and my best friend, the doctor who conducted the tests, knows you’re here.” I don’t know why that calms me a little. “You didn’t have any ID on you when I found you last night,” he said. “What’s your name?”
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. “I…” I search his eyes and shake my head. “I can’t remember…why can’t I remember?”
The man stares at me, and for a minute I think he’s going to call me a liar. That I’m faking all of this. But then he breaks the stare-down, withdraws his cell phone and calls someone. Before I can beg him not to call the police he says to the person on the other end, “She’s awake…but you better get over here.” His voice is steady, but he can’t mask the concern I see in his eyes. He ends the call, slips his phone into his pocket and starts to pace. It is after his tenth lap around the room that a man dressed in scrubs and sneakers, and every bit as built as the man who remains nameless, walks in and introduces himself as Dr. Trent Reddick. His smile is genuine and his eyes are kind, but I catch him flashing a worried look at the man who admitted to almost hitting me with his truck.
“It’s good to see you awake. How do you feel?”
The tears start to gather and my eyes burn. My head starts to spin, then throb, and then spin once more. Waves of nausea pound me from all sides. “I can’t remember my own name. So, I would say I’m not doing so hot.”
The two men exchange glances. “What do you remember?” Dr. Reddick asks.
It takes me less than a second to answer. “Nothing. My existence might as well have started two minutes ago when I awoke to him telling me good morning,” I say, pointing to the man who looks nothing like a paramedic.
Did he tell me his name and I forgot? How bad is my concussion?
“Your CT scan showed some swelling but nothing I’m too alarmed about. Your bloodwork also came back normal. But you do have a concussion and that can…”
“Cause you to have amnesia?” I ask, cutting him off. I’ve had enough. I swing my legs around, which causes blinding pain to shoot to every cell in my body. The doctor approaches with a syringe in hand and pulls off the cap.
“Shh…you need your rest, princess.” A prick at my shoulder caused me to wince and then the room…and the man who had me positioned between his legs…started to fade away, but not before coming face-to-face with a black, fuzzy spider.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
I yank my arm away and crawl back into my bed. What the hell was that? A memory? A daydream while I was obviously awake? How fucked up am I?
“It’s for the pain,” the doctor says.
I pull the blanket around me. “Who knows I’m here?”
“I told you already. Just Trent and me,” Nameless says.
My face grows warm and my hands shake. Pissed, I ball them into fists to conceal them from the two men who no doubt are thinking that I’ve lost my mind. “I can’t stay here.” I peel off the tape that is holding my IV in place and then go to remove the needle when Dr. Reddick grips my wrist.
“You’re safe here. We won’t hurt you,” he says, searching my eyes. He is most likely telling the truth. Why bring me here, conduct tests, stitch me up, and administer pain meds if they are planning to kill me? But common sense doesn’t rule here, fear does. My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in and I tear my arm away. I go to stand but instantly know that it’s a mistake. Those waves of nausea I experienced earlier are now a full-on assault. I feel my legs wobble and the last thing I remember is two arms enveloping me.
***
The sound of a crackling fire wakes me, and I breathe in the comforting aroma. But those milliseconds of bliss end abruptly when I open my eyes and find myself in yet another strange place. No monitors beep and the IV drip is gone. The sterile hospital room has been replaced with one that is cozy and inviting. The sheets beneath me coax my sore muscles to stay put, but I can’t get lured into this false sense of security, even if the down comforter that I am wrapped up in feels like Heaven on earth.
And then a little slice of Heaven walks into the room.
I look at the man who admitted to almost ramming into me with his truck. He is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt. Standing there, barefoot with his brown hair a little messy, he looks absolutely beautiful. “How do you feel?” he asks, drying his hands off on a hand towel and then throwing it over his shoulder.
“Paramedic, right?” I ask, sitting up. The move makes my head ache and I wince from the pain.
“You’re due for your medicine.” He walks out and comes back in holding a large oblong pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Here, take this,” he says, offering me the meds and water. I have no reason not to trust him. He stitched my leg up, took me to the hospital for further medical care and tests and now I’m here, lying in bed in a room with a warm fire…wait. Where is here?
“Where am I?”
“In my home.” His lips form a tight line and his eyes narrow. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Waking up in the hospital. You were there. And so was…” I have to think for a moment, but a guy with kind eyes and wearing scrubs comes to mind. “Dr. Reddick?”
“Yes…that’s correct. You remember the hospital and my friend, Trent. That’s progress.”
“I’m not so sure about that. How come I don’t remember your name?”
“Because you passed back out before I could give it to you.”
“I fainted?”
The man crosses his arms over his chest. “Let’s just say that you tried to leave the hospital before you were physically ready to.” I know I shouldn’t be staring at his muscular forearms or notice how nicely his pants hang on his hips. I’m in no condition for these things to register, but here I am ogling a man and making a piss poor attempt at hiding it. His green eyes darken, and I feel my face flush.
“So, am I just now waking up from that?”
His nostrils flare and he suddenly looks pissed…or is he suspicious? I can’t tell. Because I don’t know this man or his mannerisms. But fuck does he look gorgeous angry.
“You don’t remember me helping you to the bathroom and giving you a shower?” he asks, pointing to what I can only conclude is a master bathroom.
Oh my God! He bathed me? He saw me naked?
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says, not even looking at me. He sets the pill and water on the nightstand. I don’t know why his words piss me off. They shouldn’t. I was the one who was standing in the middle of the road and then who foolishly ran into the woods and hit my head. I could have died out there. No, I would have died out there if it wasn’t for him.
I’m humiliated. I have no memory, but I’m pretty sure I don’t make it a daily occurrence to allow men to see me naked. Which gets me thinking. I am aware of the cut on my leg and the concussion, but are there other injuries? Ones that I can’t see or don’t want to know about? I slowly swing my legs around until my feet brush the floor. The movement causes muscles I didn’t know I had to ache, but I don’t sense any discomfort in the nether regions. I don’t want to ask, but I have to know. For my own sanity. “Besides the obvious, were there any other…injuries?”
He looks up at me. I hear his breath catch and his jaw clenches. There’s that pissed off expression again.
“Because of all the blood that we found on your clothes, Trent and I thought a complete exam was warranted.” I hold his gaze, but I swallow hard past that lump in my throat. “We found no further evidence of trauma.” His answer is robotic, devoid of emotion. I feel the tears beginning to form. Both happy and confused tears. I don’t want to cry here, not in front of him. So, I go to stand and nearly faceplant on the hardwood floor.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, rushing to my side and catching me.
“To the bathroom…alone.” He doesn’t release me. In fact, his grip tightens around my arm. “I’ll take it slow…I promise. I’ll keep the door cracked if that will make you feel better.”
He glares at me. He isn’t happy.
“Fine,” he hisses, letting go of my arm. I feel his eyes bore into the back of my damaged skull as I hobble to the bathroom like some pathetic invalid. With every step my head screams and my joints cry out in agony, but I keep moving. Once inside, I do as I promised and crack the door so he can hear me if I take a header. I look down at my attire. I’m wearing big, baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt that goes down to my knees. I raise the shirt collar to my nose and take a whiff. It smells like soap and some woodsy masculine scent that immediately makes me think of the man in the other room.
Feeling like a creeper I release the shirt, take care of business and then go to the sink. It is while I am washing my hands that I look up and see my reflection in the mirror. I study myself: my blue eyes, my long wavy brown hair, the freckles across my nose. I don’t recognize the person staring back at me. She isn’t familiar. And that scares the shit out of me.
What if I never get my memory back?
My eyes drift to the bandage at my scalp. I look like a mess. No wonder my rescuer is annoyed. I finish washing my hands and head back into the bedroom.
“Does the fire bother your eyes?” he asks as he adds a log onto the fire.
I take a deep breath. My airways are clear and my eyes are neither itchy nor irritated. “No, I’m fine.”
“Well, that’s good because I discovered that the heater broke. We’ll have to rely on the fireplace for warmth until I get the part I need.”
I make my way back to bed, but before I can crawl in he is at my side and helping to lower me in. He then covers me up with the comforter. “Why are you doing this…helping me, I mean?” He rakes his hand through his brown hair and then opens his mouth as if to say something. But when no words escape I say, “I’m not going to sue you or anything, you know, for almost hitting me with your truck. I may not know my name, but I know…somehow…that I’m not that kind of person.” My eyes feel heavy. Sleep is coming for me.
“We’ll talk later. Get some rest,” he says. I want to fight him and push him to speak to me. But I don’t have the strength.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I drift closer to the other side of consciousness.
My eyelids droop farther and then I hear him say, “Griffin.”
Griffin.
I don’t know why I like the sound of his name. Maybe because it sounds strong, like it belongs to someone who can protect me…but from what?