by L V Chase
I shouldn’t be jealous. He’s nobody to me. For all I know, that’s his girlfriend, and I’ve been acting desperate for someone who’s already involved with another person. Maybe his kindness came out of pity for me, which is why it felt so strange.
A hand presses down on my shoulder. I spin around. Ethan raises his eyebrows.
“Are you ready to go, or would you prefer to go home with Klay?” he asks.
“Oh, no, I’m ready,” I say. “He just helped me find some of my classes.”
He smirks. “Yes, he’s a choir boy.”
Ethan opens the driver’s door as I move toward the passenger’s side. I sneak one more look at Klay. The blonde woman touches his arm.
I’m not jealous, but I’d prefer if this woman kept her hands to herself. I’d prefer if she disappeared, and Klay did all those things that Roman threatened to do to me.
7
Sadie
“Come on, Sadie,” Emmy says, throwing her hands up, as I step into the school.
She’s wearing a tight black skirt over ripped fishnet stockings and a black t-shirt embellished with safety pins.
“Punk Tuesday,” she says. “You’re wearing…regular clothes. None of it is even black!”
I look down at my jeans and white shirt. I’d barely thought about my clothes. I’d spent most of the morning trying to convince myself that Klay was dating that blonde woman, so I should focus on other issues. Like Roman, my tormentor. Or my grandmother stuck in the psych ward. Or finding out who the woman in my grandmother’s house is. Or my memory loss.
“I’m sorry, Emmy,” I say. “I don’t have any punk clothes. It’s not something I’m normally worried about. At least, I don’t think I would be.”
“No, it’s true, you’re usually not.” She reflexively unclasps and clasps one of her safety pins. “Still, it’s so much more fun with two people. And you need fun right now. Did you remember anything new?”
I open my mouth. I could tell her about the man wearing rubber gloves with blood on them, but just thinking about it, it sounds like something a crazy person would say to get attention.
“No,” I say.
She scrutinizes me for three or four seconds before shaking her head, causing her hair to spread out. She’s dyed the bottom of her hair dark purple.
“Well, let’s look on the bright side,” she says as we start walking toward our lockers. “I wish there were things I could forget. Last night, my mom kept going on and on about the importance of family and how disappointing I was. You know how rarely I see my her? I don’t know how she gets the nerve to lecture me. If I could forget my whole family, I would. But, no, they always have to be bitching. I barely had time to finish my physics presentation. Which reminds me, how’s your biology project going?”
I swallow the venom I feel toward Emmy—she wouldn’t be wishing for amnesia if she had it, and she wouldn’t be wishing to forget her family if she’d lost them from a drunk driver’s selfishness. She’s my one salvation in this chaos, so it would be petty for me to be angry about her ignorance. I focus on her last sentence.
“Biology project?” I ask.
She takes a sharp breath, grabbing my arm.
“Oh, shit, I forgot. I forgot that you forgot. I figured Klay would have mentioned it…”
“Klay?” I ask, feeling dumber by the second. “Why would Klay remind me about my biology project?”
“It’s not just your project. It’s a group project for you and your lab partner. You’re doing it together.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I’d been under the impression that Klay and I didn’t know each other well, despite the fact that we’re lab mates. It turns out we had a project together, and Klay didn’t feel the need to mention it to me. He acted like we didn’t know each other at all.
“We have homeroom together,” I say. “I’ll ask him about it.”
Emmy checks her phone. “You better hurry. I should get going, too. See you later, babe.”
She gets on her tiptoes and kisses my cheek before skipping down the hallway. I pass by my locker, heading toward my homeroom. When I walk in, I see Klay right away. He’s eating a breakfast sandwich, a single strip of bacon curling out from under the croissant top.
I walk up to him. “Why didn’t you mention our biology project yesterday?”
He glances up at me, chewing slowly. He swallows and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Why would I?”
“Because we’re working on it together,” I say, exasperated. “It’s something we should talk about. We need to make a plan.”
“We have a plan,” he says. He pushes the bacon slice back into his sandwich. “The plan was for me to complete the project by myself. Therefore, you don’t need to know anything, and we don’t need to talk about it.”
He takes another bite out of his sandwich, giving it his full attention. He wants me to walk away. He wants me to be satisfied with his answer, but the last thing I am is satisfied.
I may not remember the last two years, but I have never been the type of person to agree to let someone else do my work for me. I don’t see any possible way that I changed so drastically in two years.
He’s lying. He must have realized that my memory isn’t completely intact and he’s using that fact to manipulate me. What a colossal asshole.
“That’s a lie, and you know it,” I say quietly. “After school, we’re going to get together at the library and work on this project.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Make it possible,” I snap.
He licks off the driblet of cheese below his bottom lip. It’s highly distracting when I want to be angry.
“You don’t understand,” he says, a mix of condescension and pity clinging to his words. “It’s not possible to do it in the library because the project is based on physical fitness. The librarians won’t allow us to use the space for exercise. I wouldn’t call them Nazis when it comes to upholding the rules, but they’re not Buddhists about it, either.”
I cross my arms over my chest, avoiding looking at his lips. “Where can we do it then? The school gym will be busy with intramural sports.”
“We don’t need to—”
“Don’t tell me we don’t need to do it together,” I cut him off. “I’m going to put my half of the work in this, and if you don’t like it, then you can leave me to do the work. Spend your time beating people up or eating your egg sandwiches.”
“There isn’t a single second I’d trust you to finish this project on your own, especially considering I already have the first five data points.”
My pulse speeds up at the sliver of aggression in his voice.
“Well.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “You only have one choice, don’t you?”
He surveys me for a second before shrugging and turning his breakfast sandwich in his hands. “I’ll take you to the country club’s gym. Meet me in the parking lot after school by 2:20 or I’m leaving without you.”
I let out a slow breath. “Thank you. I’ll see you then.”
I awkwardly return to my desk as the teacher rushes in. I gave him the ultimatum, but it feels like I’m the one facing someone else’s demands.
After school, Klay doesn’t say much as I get into his Jeep. He starts driving with the top down, and my hair lashes my shoulders and arms. It feels liberating. It fits the way I feel around him.
I glance over at him. He’s wearing an old, battered leather jacket, but I can’t be certain if that’s for punk Tuesday or if it’s part of his regular outfits. He’s the type that would look good in anything, but the jacket fits him better than any of the other students I saw wearing leather jackets today.
When he looks over at me, I give him a hesitant smile as my hair whips in front of my eyes. The expression on his face is soft, almost vulnerable, and the way his eyes spark to life, I know he sees something in me.
I know he wants to put his hands on my face, my breasts, my thighs, because I know I have a similar
look on my face. I want to burn together with him, two flames combining into one wildfire. It’s overwhelming, but only because I can’t indulge in what I want.
A car honks. We’re crossing over into the other lane. His hand jerks on the wheel, swerving us back into the right lane.
My heartbeat skyrockets. I press my hand over it, taking several breaths as Klay focuses on the space directly in front of him. I should be terrified out of my mind, especially considering how my parents died, but watching Klay’s steady hand helps me catch my breath.
It’s easy to fall into lust, but he’s not a safe place to fall. He’s hiding some part of himself—the violent, volatile side that attacked Roman and the guy named Greg, and other parts I haven’t caught a peek of—and I can’t risk letting that part of him catch me by surprise.
“Was the blonde woman from yesterday your girlfriend?” I ask, looking out the window.
“Miranda?” he asks. “No. She’s not my girlfriend.”
The wave of relief is followed by a twinge of uncertainty. The way he worded it, it sounded like he was surprised that I thought Miranda was his girlfriend, not that he had a girlfriend.
If I ask, he’ll know how pathetically desperate I am. I won’t let that happen.
“Oh,” I say. “She seemed into you.”
“That would cause a huge controversy in school.”
I nearly roll my eyes. “Because you’re both so desirable that everyone would be angry that you’re off the market?”
“No,” he says, pulling into a long driveway. “Because her last three girlfriends are certain she’s gay.”
I nearly laugh in surprise. I look out the window, twirling a strand of hair around my finger. “Well, you never know. Things are always interesting around you.”
He doesn’t say anything. I peek over at him. He’s tense again, his upper lip nearly curled up into a snarl. An ache unfurls between my thighs. I don’t want him to feel stressed. I want to be lying beside him, massaging his shoulders until he falls asleep. I want to feel him between my legs, moving over me with a feral urgency.
He’s tense. He’s always tense, a rubber band pulled too tight for too long. We decided to meet up tonight at the school a few days ago, but I feel his lingering doubt the way I feel all of his emotions. Usually, our adventures in the school are tinged with a sense of adventure—we’re bandits, Bonnie and Clyde, but less violent and less dead—but he sits in the principal’s chair and keeps looking out the window like the tree outside will give him some clarity.
I sit down on the desk in front of him. I rest my right foot on the edge of his chair’s armrest, and my left one dangles near his knee. Three months ago, I couldn’t imagine being this forward, but he grows courage inside me. Before him, I never thought I’d visit my parent’s grave, but he stood several feet behind me as I cried in front of the headstones. While it was difficult and painful, it didn’t seem so bad afterward.
Any woman would throw themselves at his feet, but, for the moment, he’s chosen me. I’ll throw myself at his feet a thousand times if it helps ease his bad thoughts.
He runs his hand up the back of my left calf. Heat continues to travel past where his fingers end at my knee. I pull my legs up, lying across the desk on my back. My head rests on the principal’s laptop while my feet nudge against a small potted plant. The desk creaks as he joins me, straddling my waist. His mouth covers mine, sending a warm, endorphin-laced sensation under my skin.
When he’s inside me, I grip onto his shoulders, my fingers flexing with every thrust. Every time I try to focus on some detail of his face, I’m overtaken by the expanding ecstasy that remains just out of reach. I’ll never admit that I love him because I know I can never keep him, but I’ll admit all night that I need this. This is Heaven and Hell. This is purgatory, and I’m waiting to see whether I elevate or shatter.
“Sadie?”
I turn to see Klay looking at me. He’s standing outside of the passenger side of the Jeep, the door open. I force a smile, ignoring the slickness in my underwear. I jump out of the Jeep.
I was involved with someone at some point in the last two years. I loved him, but he didn’t love me. He eroded all of the old, rotting parts of me. He gave me safety and new, explosive feelings that gripped me even when we were apart. This is my first, concrete memory, so it must have been important to me. I’ve forgotten his face, though.
Also, apparently, I’m not a virgin.
The country club gym spreads out like a garden. Rows of treadmills, ellipticals, and rowing machines sprout on the right side, while the left side is fertilized with dumbbells and weights, giving nutrients to the various gym equipment that all resemble torture machinery.
Klay greets the clerk at the desk to the right of us. He shows his ID and introduces me as his guest. After we’re signed in, he leads me over to the left side of the gym.
“If you’re taking me on this side because you think I can’t use any of this equipment…” I gesture around us as Klay nods to some of the men we pass by. “Well, you’re right, but I can learn how to use it fast enough.”
“We’re not here for you to exercise,” he says. “It’s for me. All the data points are based on my muscle growth. If we start using you, my past data points either become worthless or unreliable. Mr. Miller will inevitably ask if we think that the weather or the beginning of the school year affected my data points when they wouldn’t have affected yours.”
I fold my arms over my chest, pretending to be annoyed, as I squeeze my muscles. If our project is based on muscle growth, I’m going to be entering a battle without any weaponry.
“I get it,” I say. “But then I might as well not be here.”
He stops at a weight training bench.
“I’m glad you reached that conclusion,” he says, sitting down on the bench. “But I wish you’d reached it back when I told you that during homeroom.”
I scowl at him, but as I watch him pull a notebook out of his bag and lean over to start jotting something down, the memory I had in his Jeep returns.
The hitched breathing. The sweat-stained skin. The rising temptation as his body rubbed between my legs and awakened every part of my body.
Or, no, it’s not quite that memory. I can imagine lying on this bench, my sweat coating the leather, and my spine pressed hard against the padding. I can feel a man’s weight as he fills me nearly to the point of pain. But he starts moving inside me, and all I feel is indulgence.
As Klay looks up, I shift my gaze away from his groin. I hadn’t even realized I was staring. I’m so aroused by this mysterious memory, I’m ready to throw myself at anyone. And, apparently, my brain has a kink for gym equipment.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this today,” Klay says, slipping his pen and notebook back into his bag.
“No, no,” I say. “I’m sorry, I had a moment where I zoned out. Anything else…it was accidental. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he mutters, ruffling his hair. “Maybe we’ll use you as another subject. Mr. Miller will likely prefer that. Do you know how to use the cable pulley machine?”
“I don’t even know what that is,” I confess.
He leads me to a machine that looks like a pull-up bar attached to a cable. He pulls out the pin for the weights and moves it upward. He pulls down the bar for me. I take it. He moves my hands, so my wrists are facing upward while I’m gripping it.
“You want your arms to be in line with your shoulders,” he says.
I adjust my grip a little farther apart. “Focus on your biceps as you slowly bring the bar to your shoulders.”
His breath sweeps against my shoulder. I slowly raise the bar up.
“Exhale when it’s at your shoulders,” he orders. “And lower it back to this position.”
I follow his instructions. He grabs onto my shoulders, pulling them back slightly. As I pull up the bar a second time, he puts his hand on top of my head, forcing me to look forward.
I turn my head
to look at him. “You don’t need to manhandle me.”
“If you do it wrong, you could injure yourself.”
“And you might break my neck,” I say. I itch the back of my ankle with my other foot. “You can just tell me what to do with words—”
He kicks apart my legs. “You need to keep your legs wider apart.”
I let the bar jerk up and let go. I turn around to face him. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
He surveys me with a half-assed smirk. “You wanted to be part of this experiment. You need to do it right.”
He’s so arrogant. He’s the antithesis to everything I need. But the memories have me desperate and confused. A steady pulse has been growing between my legs. I lean forward, prepared to tell him to fuck off. Our mouths are so close. I can breathe in his heady scent. I’d settle for him over the one in my memory. Quite honestly, anything would do right now.
His eyes are on my mouth. Heat rises between us. A faint bruise on his left cheek is evident from here. He’s breathing hard enough that it causes his arm to slightly sway, and his thumb brushes up against my hip.
He breaks his gaze with me and takes a step back.
“We should have measured your muscles first,” he says. He turns away from me. “I need to make a phone call. I’ll be back.”
He walks away, leaving the gym. Of course. He must be calling his girlfriend. I don’t know why I forgot about her. I should know better than anybody that forgetting important truths is a detriment to a person’s identity. If I never remember who I am and I’m forced to rebuild my identity, I don’t want it to start as someone who tries to sleep with other women’s boyfriends. It’s a blessing that he stepped away from me.
Or that’s just another lie that I’m going to tell myself to get through this amnesia.