by Jamie Knight
They told me it is also good to not only identify things, but familiar brand names as well. All of these associations help the healing process.
They advised me to pay attention to what I do daily. It might jog some of my memories; it was almost as if they were saying that brushing your teeth might unlock the secrets of the universe.
They gave me a notebook to write things in: my thoughts, feelings, notes on what I’m learning. This morning I scribbled: I just want things to feel normal.
But what does normal even feel like? I’m not sure.
I’m told I had an accident while cliff diving off the coast. According to friends of mine that they interviewed, I frequently do such things.
Apparently, I have quite the adventurous lifestyle. Bungee jumping, skydiving, jet skiing –– I even saw an electronic receipt in the bank app on my phone, when I was looking through it for some clues as to how I had gotten injured, or who I even was, for a Zero-G experience.
I don’t remember any of what happened, though. Floating in midair for thirty seconds? Seems like that’s something that would stick in your mind.
The doctor told me that case studies of amnesia are usually associated with damage to the medial temporal lobe. It can take days, weeks, months – years, even, to recover your memories. Sometimes, though rarely, I’m assured, the memories never come back.
All the technical medical talk is Greek to me, and that is exactly where the word “amnesia” derives from, the Greek language. And the type that I have is the retrograde variety, where I can’t recall memories from before the accident.
Everything still feels a bit fuzzy. I need to be able to focus so that I can piece my life back together, but I just can’t seem to do so. It’s all very frustrating. I have to show patience. Because if my mind won’t cooperate, what else can I do?
The nurses tell me that I’ve stayed here long enough, and I’m well enough to continue recovering at home. I think this means that they don’t know what else to do for me, and that I should quit taking up a bed that someone who needs it more could start occupying.
They also tell me that someone named Charles Williams is coming to pick me up. But who is that? And where am I going?
I don’t even know where “home” is. It’s all very discombobulating. Ever since I woke up, every move I make is monitored, recorded, analyzed, processed. I am given instructions, poked by needles and prodded by hands.
I’m sick of people showing me things and telling me what to do. I want whatever life I had back. If only I knew what that life was.
I just have a small bag with me when the orderly arrives to escort me out. He wheels me down to the lobby in a chair. It feels awkward.
Despite the bandage on my head and some cuts and bruises elsewhere on my body, I am physically fine. The wheelchair must be for insurance reasons. But I have to say, I feel like a jerk, letting someone push me around when I’m perfectly capable of walking.
At the nurse’s desk, they ask me to sign some paperwork. I put down the name they told me I have – that Devon Dennington one. But it feels unfamiliar as I move the pen on paper to scribble as I’m told.
Is this my actual handwriting or a facsimile? All of this is freaking me out a little bit.
“Your friend is here to take you home,” one of the nurses says.
She points over to a man with sandy-blond hair who is wearing tan slacks and a white button-up shirt. He definitely works out and has a confident air to him. I can tell he gets his shoes polished, since the fluorescent lights from above reflect off of them.
I thank the nurse and walk towards him.
“Hey there, Devon,” he says.
My name still sounds odd to me, when I hear it spoken aloud.
“Hi. You’re Charles?” I ask.
I say his name in an unfamiliar way. As if he’s an Uber driver who just arrived to pick me up at the airport.
“Yeah, buddy. It’s me,” he answers.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am, but it’s just not registering.”
“It will.”
He gives me a look that is a mix of sympathy and reassurance.
“They tell me we’ve been friends for years?” I ask.
I have many more questions, but I know I won’t get them all at once.
“Ever since elementary school,” he confirms. “We practically grew up on the same street.”
“As far back as being little kids?” I ask, rather astonished.
I wish he would just give me a piece of paper with all the bullet points of my life on it. Instead, he is delineating the information slowly.
“Yep, we used to build forts together. Ran around all summer, from sun up to sun down. We even had a treehouse. We were practically inseparable.”
“Wow.” I’m somewhat taken aback by this vision of our youth. It sounds lovely, if only I could fucking remember it. “Okay. Well, I believe you. Wait, we had a treehouse?”
“It was pretty sweet,” he starts to explain.
He pulls his glasses from his face and thoughtfully chews on the ear piece. It seems like a common gesture of his; one that I feel I should remember, but I don’t, just like the rest of what he’s telling me about him and us.
“You climbed a ladder up and entered from a cut-out hole in the bottom,” he continues. “We even had a top-level look-out post. No way would they let kids build something like that today. Eventually, lightning hit the tree though, and we had to tear it down.”
“That’s a fucking shame,” I lament.
“Sure is.”
Charles produces his phone, swipes to bring a photo up on the screen, and shows it to me. It’s a tall oak tree in a backyard. It must be over a hundred years old.
From the base, a wooden ladder is nailed into the trunk and runs up to a sturdily constructed treehouse made out of plywood 2 x 4s. And up in the look-out post the two of us, who were just young boys back then, are waving down.
“I had my mom find pictures of us hanging out as kids and she scanned them in. Supposed to help with…” He pauses for a moment. “Well, you know. It’s to help you restore your memory and get back on track.”
“Well, hopefully I’ll be able to remember everything one day,” I mumble.
This Charles guy, who seems like a cool dude and is my best friend, after all, even if it doesn’t feel that way because I can’t remember him one bit, looks a bit sad for a moment. His eyebrows crinkle together as he sighs.
This has to be hard on him, seeing me this way. If we’ve been friends forever, and he’s the one who showed up to pick me up from the hospital, then surely, we have a powerful bond.
“It will all come back to you,” he reassures me, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder.
As we head to the door so that we can leave and go to… well, who knows where… I can only hope that he’s right.
Click here to read I Hate You, Remember Me
She hates me.
But I can't remember why.
An accident nearly takes my life and does take my memory.
I can't remember who my temporary roommate is.
But I do know she's the hottest woman I've ever seen.
A single mom, she's a redhead with tempting curves.
Being with her would help me heal, body and soul.
But she hates my guts.
I guess we knew each other in high school and have quite a twisted past.
No one knows exactly what happened between us and she won't tell me.
She just wants me gone, until she needs my help.
I agree to babysit but I'll need her to do me a favor in return.
One little hate f*ck never hurt anyone, right?
We'll get it out of our system.
And it might even help me remember some things.
But do I want to know what made me hate this feisty beauty?
Are some things better left in fantasy?
Or could I really have a happy ever after with someone I started off h
ating?
I Hate You, Remember Me is a full-length standalone romance novel. Jamie Knight promises to always bring you a happy ever after filled with plenty of heat. And never any cheating or cliffhangers!
Click here to continue reading I Hate You, Remember Me
Sneak Peak of My Father’s Best Friend’s Secret Baby
The first book in my His Secret Baby series is My Father’s Best Friend’s Secret Baby. Here is an exclusive sneak peek!
Prologue
Bradley
I shouldn’t have been doing this. Shouldn’t have these thoughts about James’s daughter.
But, she was so damn hot. And she had been practically throwing herself at me. Those hips, those lips, those eyes… it was as if she was begging me to do what I wanted, which was to bend her over my lap and spank her ass for being such a bad girl, and then thrust my dick deep inside her mouth.
Her father James was the only good friend I had these days, and he had been ever since I so desperately needed one. After I was injured at war and discharged from duty, he’d taken me to his house and let me stay with him even though he had only been my commanding officer. We’d grown close, both due to the gratefulness I’d felt for him and the bond we’d shared as he’d helped me get back on my feet.
Fucking his daughter was no way to repay him for his kindness— even though it was clear she wanted me to take her for her very first time. Sure, she was an adult and seemed to know exactly what she wanted— which was very obviously me. And I wanted to take her— every which way I could.
From behind, while she was on all fours calling out my name and I was pulling her hair. From on top, while I was looking into those pretty eyes she liked to bat so innocently at me. From underneath her, so that she could spread those legs wide and let me all the way into her tiny, tight, wet little pussy.
I couldn’t do it. Could I? It could have all sorts of negative consequences. James would no doubt kick me out of his house. And what if I knocked her up? She had her whole life ahead of her, and mine had just been unexpectedly derailed.
I had to fucking control myself. But could I? Not with those curvy hips of hers walking in front of me, while she was dressed only in her bikini, begging me to come for a swim with her. Swim with her? I wanted to swim in her. And I always got what I wanted.
Chapter 1
Bradley
“Hope the chicken isn't too spicy for you,” said James, looking over at me while I absentmindedly scraped my food around on my plate. I was so lost in thought, I almost forgot where I was.
I was still trying to process everything. So much had happened. I knew that, all things considered, I was very lucky. Too bad that lucky felt so fucking shitty.
I shifted in my chair to try to relieve some of the pressure from my hip. I winced at a sharp pain shooting from my toes up my leg.
I had been an aircraft mechanic in the Air Force for about eighteen years. Some people have looked at that as “not shit” since I wasn't in direct combat much, but for me, it let me do what I loved while still serving our country.
I was a self-taught mechanic, learning everything I knew as a young kid working on the cars of friends, family, neighbors, basically anyone within a ten-mile radius who would let me near their car. People would remark with amazement when their car was fixed using little or no parts, and drove better than it had before it needed work done on it. News traveled fast about the teenage boy who could fix cars and did it for next to nothing, sometimes even for free.
I vividly remember a lady walking up to my house, looking nervous and afraid.
“B-Br-Brad?” she asked quietly.
“'Yeah,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
Wringing her hands and glancing around nervously, she continued, but in a language I did not understand. It wasn’t Spanish or French or any of the languages I’d heard in school. Might’ve been Hungarian.
“I’m sorry, ma’am…” I remember extending out my hand slowly, with caution.
She was so scared. It was then I realized her body was wrapped in some unusual garment I’d never seen before. I couldn’t tell if it was one of those fashionista things or one of those National Geographic things. The sadness in her eyes touched my heart.
“C-Caaar? Car? Help?” she asked in an unsure voice.
“Sure, I'll help you. Let me give you a ride to wherever your car is.”
As I said it, I made a motion with one of my arms as if I was using a steering wheel to drive, while gesturing at her with my other arm to come with me. She understood what I was saying and lit up right away, smiling.
We drove the mile to where her car was and I saw what was wrong right away. Her car had overheated and needed coolant. I drove her over to the gas station and she bought some. I put it in her car, had her start the car, and after a few minutes, her engine sounded better and she was ready to go.
“Tank you,” she said, bowing her head deeply, holding my teenaged hand between her two hands, clasped as if in prayer.
“You're welcome.”
She looked up into my eyes, hers welling with emotion. “God… God repay you,” she said.
“It's okay. Really. I'm just glad that I could help,” I told her.
I saw two car seats in the back of her car and wondered where her children were. I didn't bother asking her. But, I was happy that I could help.
That was when I realized that my interest in being a mechanic was more than just a hobby. I wanted to make it my profession.
I worked hard and put myself through trade school, paying for it by working at a fast food joint. Those were long, hard days, going to school during the day and working at night. Sheer will got me through those nights when the restaurant was slow.
But, I knew that if I had any hopes of doing anything with my life, I would have to keep going. I came from a dirt-poor family. Most of them had barely gotten through grade school, let alone had any real profession to speak of.
So, when I graduated from trade school as a mechanic, I felt like I was on top of the fucking world. Unfortunately, though, there weren't very many opportunities in the town where I lived. And I didn’t have the money to pack up and move.
When an Air Force recruiter came around and asked if I wanted to join, I signed up right away. I knew that this was it—my ticket to freedom.
And I was right. Being a mechanic in the Air Force opened my eyes to a whole new world. Honestly, it was an entirely new level of existence. I never even knew anyone who worked that hard, with focus, in order to accomplish—and to be accomplished—as the guys in my unit did.
I’d kind of always been a bit of a daredevil. I just couldn’t “keep my booty still,” as my old great-aunt Birdie diagnosed at my fifteenth birthday party. (It was a great time—we were jumping off the roof into a kiddie pool filled high with shredded foam from a mattress I’d ripped up by hand.) I didn’t like trouble, you see, I just had a nose for action—a thrill for the outdoors, that sort of thing.
So when I discovered that I had this natural bent for fixing things, I was so excited. I was also relieved—my brain could be the one making me a living, not my brawn or bravado. I mean, sure, being a mechanic involved using my hands and muscles, too, but working on planes also involved figuring out problems and thinking about the best way to fix things.
This new direction of mine was a major step up for my family. It meant I might live to see old age, unlike practically every male in my bloodline.
Plus, none of us had ever served our country in the Armed Forces. Me joining up was an even bigger step forward for us. For me personally, joining up meant my freewheeling, garage experiment antics might have a constructive, positive outlet while I learned more skills and grew in my abilities.
More, I completely relished the traveling part of Air Force life. Mercy, the world had never seemed so big. Or beautiful, honestly.
Obviously, combat was what it was. But as things changed in all those long years, I found newer and cooler methods to indulge m
y thrill-seeking ways. When I was a kid, I never would’ve imagined rock climbing in the Swiss Alps would be just one of the many adventures life brought me.
But most of all, I loved the culture of performance. Of excellence. Oh, of course, there were jerks, wimps and assholes, as there are in all aspects of life, but I had the best of luck in all my deployments. The people around me inspired like nobody’s business. And so, that was my world, a world where I had a place, a duty and a status no one could take away from me.
That world all came crashing down, though, when I got into an accident that forced me to retire.
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I shouldn't want her.
But I do. And I always get what I want.
I was injured at war and discharged from the military.
My commanding officer invited me to stay with him while I get back on my feet.
I'm grateful for his help, and we've become close friends.
There's just one problem.
His daughter lives with him, and she's off the charts hot.
So is the chemistry between us, even though I try to ignore it.
She's inexperienced, but her long lashes beg me to change that.
Her curvy hips taunt me as she walks by wearing only a bikini.
She invites me to take a swim with her while he's out of town.
Swim with her? I want to swim in her.
But I can't touch her.
And I certainly can't put a baby in her.
Can I? Too late.
What will her father do when he finds out I knocked her up?
My Father's Best Friend's Secret Baby is a full length 75,000 word standalone novel. Jamie Knight promises to always bring you a happy ever after filled with plenty of heat. And never any cheating or cliffhangers!
Click here to continue reading My Father’s Best Friend’s Secret Baby on Amazon!