by Tara Brown
I wake with a gasp. Pain hits first, not warmth or the sound of my mother, or the feel of Binx getting pissed because I moved. No, it’s pain, and there’s plenty of it. A truckload. It starts at the back of my head. I twitch from it as I attempt opening one eye. The pain immediately shifts from the back of my head to my eye. I wince from the burning and pressure.
There is no light blinding me like I expect, like there was the one time I got drunk with my brother to care for me when I passed out. I woke naked and wet, apparently having taken my clothes off, and spilling the water Simon had brought me.
That was not even close to this level of hell.
I wince and open the other eye, letting the consequences hit me with a baseball bat of pain. A sound escapes my chapped lips as I glance around the dimly lit space. It isn’t my house.
I live at college.
But this isn’t my room. I don’t know where I am. It takes a second to remember we went out. The room is small, not a bedroom and not a sitting room. I’m on a couch in what looks like an office or den. I wipe my pasted hair from my forehead and make an attempt at standing.
At first I think it’s me just sweating, detoxing from the shots, but then I realize it’s the heat from the vent in the ceiling above me. I’m in a stranger’s house, and they have the heat cranked during the worst dehydration I have ever faced.
On shaking legs and a tense stomach, I push myself up, trying to piece together the last details, but they’re the hazy ones. I recall the bar, the shots, the dancing, but the rest is gone.
Voices come from the cracked door opposite the windows.
Angie?
Where’s Angie? Is that her?
The voice sounds deeper. I stagger to the frame, peeking through the cracked door, hoping to catch the talking again, but it’s a laugh I hear. I think it’s Angie’s so I step out into the hallway where there’s light and a smell—bacon. It calls to me, dragging me down the hallway on my stiff limbs.
I round the corner of the hall, feeling instantly better when I hear her laugh again, certain it is Angie. Her flash of red hair brings an attempt at a smile to my lips. “Angie?”
She spins, wincing when she sees me. “Ash, darling, you look hideous.” She looks back at the guy standing next to the stove. His dark-blond hair reminds me of someone, but I’m not sure of whom until he turns. Then it all comes back. He’s the guy from the alley. He smiles, shaking his head. “You poor thing. Here!” He hands me a glass of orange juice as he stirs it.
I give Angie a look but she nods, so I take the glass and lift the glass to my nose and fight the urge to be sick. From the feeling in my mouth I have to assume I have already been sick, several times.
Not smelling or even thinking, I lift it to my lips and drink as much as I can of the sweet juice. It stings a little on the way down, but eventually the gulping becomes less forced and more desperate. I lower the glass, gasping a little, and pass it back. “Thank you.”
“Derek.”
Angie waggles her brows. “Professor Derek, actually.”
My eyes widen, but he chuckles like she’s lying, or it’s just a title and he’s not really one of my professors about to have me kicked out of school for—for—for things I don’t remember.
“It’s just Derek.” His green eyes and tanned skin are a perfect contrast to his dark-blond hair and wide smile. His lips are a little crooked, lopsided. When he smiles I see he has vampiric fang with just one of his canines. The oversized look of it makes his lip stick out a bit there. Something that encourages me to stare and daydream about sucking his lip or dragging it slowly in my teeth.
I cringe, looking away. He’s got something about him that makes my insides twinge in a good way, but just a little. I’m too hungover to feel anything else.
Angie giggles, giving me a look that would suggest she might have read every inappropriate thought I’d just had. My cheeks blush as his eyes lower, but I can tell he saw. The way the corners of his lips play with a grin that he won’t let himself commit to makes the blush darken. I can feel it spreading across my face, and I don’t even know why. Beyond being caught thinking lewd thoughts, I’ve committed no crime.
Angie gives him a wry grin. “You owe your night to Professor Derek. He saved us in the alley.” Her eyes find their way back to me. She winks and excuses herself. “Be back in a moment.” She exits the room, leaving me leaning on the counter, praying I don’t fall over from exhaustion and dehydration. Not that I would mind being carried by him, though I suspect I have been already.
It’s his turn to blush. “You don’t owe me. I didn’t save you. I just didn’t want you to be alone. Angela was also incredibly drunk, and it was either the hospital or here.”
I flinch.
“You weren’t that bad, just sick.” His hands lift with his eyes, defending me, but I can see the exhaustion all over his face. He’s stayed up watching me, worried I would die on his spare-room bed. The thought of him in the room doesn’t even bother me; the fact he’s a teacher does, though. I almost heave again, hating myself, and Angie just a little. “I swear, you were just throwing up so much, I didn’t want you to choke and die. It’s no bother. We’ve all been there.”
He doth protest too much.
“Thank you.”
He shakes his head, really only making me feel worse because I know it was so bad he’s making it seem like nothing. But I know my truth: I’ve likely barfed from one end of his house to the other. And more than likely in his car. And instead of being pissed and getting me kicked out of school, he’s cooking bacon. If he were ten years younger I’d ask him to marry me. He grins, glancing at the bacon, and gives me a wry look from under his lashes. “A greasy breakfast will fix you. It’s a scientific fact based on years of studies.”
He makes me smile, even through the sickness in my pounding head. “You have read of these studies, I assume?”
“Yes, I enjoyed being part of the initial case study during my freshman year. We worked hard to prove something greasy cured all that ailed you.” He lifts a plate, adds a couple of pieces of bacon, and nods at the oven. “There are pancakes in the warming drawer.”
I take the plate, feeling exhausted and dizzy as I spin and bend to get the drawer. I pause, hating the sensation washing over me in heavy waves.
He bends next to me, making a warm jolt replace the nausea. He reaches and opens the oven drawer and grabs two pancakes and my plate. “Just go sit; I can make this for you.”
When I turn my head his face is close, too close, and yet just enough to get a waft of his deodorant. He reminds me of a guy I dated, but his name slips my lazy tongue. A shadow crosses his face, changing his look completely, but only for a second. He looks like the guy I dated once, the one who wore the deodorant I can smell.
I nod, lost for the entire second he reminds me of that other guy, but when I back up a bit he looks like himself again.
I shake my head, wondering if I am actually too hungover to survive, and push myself up. My legs shake on the walk to the table, as I plunk down into a seat.
He places the plate in front of me and turns back to the fridge. “You need the whole array, trust me. This science is based upon a careful balance.” He brings orange juice, coffee, cream, sugar, a stack of sausages, and a bowl of fruit salad. He winks at the fruit. “Stops the scurvy.”
I laugh again.
He places two pills in front of me, next to my orange juice glass. “For your head.”
“Thank you.” I don’t hesitate; I gulp them back, savoring the sweetness of the fresh-squeezed orange juice. “How is it we ended up with you?”
He sits across from me and starts serving himself. “Your friend Angie and I have been friends for a couple of years.”
I cock an eyebrow, taking a piece of bacon in my hand and chewing slowly. The flavor of the salty meat takes over everything. My world becomes entirely about the meal. The butter is soft and real, not margarine. The syrup is Canadian maple syrup, the kind you find
at a souvenir shop. The bites of bacon and sausage become coated in maple syrup, making the meat that much tastier. All the while he laughs and tells me funny stories about being a freshman.
“Then this one time we thought we were so clever, we went across the Canadian border and bought fake identification. I was from Hawaii, a state no one had really seen an ID from, and my roommate, Glenn, was from Missouri. We tried them the first time at the campus bar in Portland. Of course we were figured out instantly. The bartender was from Missouri, apparently. He spotted the defects before he even held it.” He laughs to himself, chuckling like my father does, and shaking his head. “So both IDs ended up on the wall of shame, right behind the bar. They’re still there, in fact. I was on campus a couple of years ago, and they were the older of the bunch for sure, but there nonetheless.”
We both laugh, and I immediately notice I am feeling human again as Angie comes strolling in. She stretches and yawns. “Sorry about that. I ended up needing to lie back down a little. It was a late night.” She gives me a grin. “You look better.”
I beam at Derek, unable to fully contain the crush I am developing. “Science saved me.”
He laughs, but she gives me the strangest look, totally unaware of my meaning.
“I think we might need to find a ride back to school, Jane.”
I scowl. “Ang, you called me Jane last night too. Who is this Jane?”
She struggles with her thoughts. I can see the confusion on her face. “I have a friend from back home who is named Jane, and you are very similar. You remind me of her.”
Derek sits back, sipping his coffee. “I like the name Jane. I always think of Austen or Lady Jane.”
Angie rolls her eyes. “Before you go thinking too much of him, he teaches literature. He isn’t just some nancy who likes chick flicks.”
He nearly chokes. “I do like them; every man likes them. We just aren’t fond of feeling things in front of you ladies. It makes us look weak. No man wants to look weak.” His eyes dart to me. “Not in front of ladies we want to try to date, anyway.”
A stupid grin slips across my lips. “We sort of like it when you put up a fight about those movies. The fuss guys make is kind of cute.”
His lips lift even more, setting a dazzling glow in his green eyes. “That’s because you always win. We always cave.”
“That is my favorite part.” Angie laughs. She serves herself a plate of food and starts eating, but my eyes are locked on his as if we are telling each other secrets without speaking. She doesn’t see it, but I know he does.
I just don’t know what it means.
4. Why do I have to be the bad guy?
Binx’s purring and rubbing against me as I fill his food bowl brings a smile to Angie’s lips as she climbs into bed after her shower. “Look at all that love and affection. Even Derek didn’t rub against you quite that much.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. He was being polite. He’s a prof, not a student.”
“No, he wasn’t. He likes you. I can tell. And he isn’t an instructor at our school, so the whole teacher-student thing isn’t applicable.”
That perks my ears up. “What?”
She sighs, smearing lip gloss over her lower lip. “Were you not listening when I said that he teaches literature? That’s not a class here, dumbass.”
I bite my lip, giving way to some unsavory thoughts, but Binx disturbs them with his after-meal grooming. Something feels off, but I ignore it, petting his fur. I glance at Angie, puzzling at the way things feel in my head. It’s still fuzzy from the drinking, I think. “How did we end up with him?”
She shrugs. “You started getting sick, and he came and carried you to the car, saying you needed a doctor. I told him you just needed to sleep it off. So he said we should stay with him.”
“And you agreed?” The whole thing makes no sense.
She sighs. “I know him—he’s a good guy, so of course I did. It was better than going home in a cab with us girls both being drunk.”
I close my eyes and snuggle into my surly cat. “Still seems like a risky idea over a cab ride alone.” The purring of the cat and the warmth of my bed make the swirling in my brain cease, and I feel a deep sleep on the horizon. My mind wanders like water flowing down a drain, and it’s then I realize I am losing her. No, I’m pulling away. I’m leaving on purpose. I’m staring into the wooden box with the clovers, getting lost in the darkness.
I blink three times and the room is no longer my dorm. I whisper to the crumbling walls and cracked ceiling, “Tell me about the swans, the way the swans circle the stars and shoot across the sky.” It becomes like a painting as I step back somehow, moving away from the world that Ashley Potter belongs in. It becomes smaller, twirling and swirling in my mind like a top. It gets smaller and smaller as I leave it all behind, leave her behind, trapped in the awful painting that was her life.
When I blink for real in the warm room, I am Jane, and Ashley is next to me.
Angie is there, wearing her white coat, but there now are the beginnings of laugh lines on her face, reminding me she is in her thirties and not at the end of her teens. We are not freshmen, and I am not Ashley Potter. I blink as whatever I ate last crawls around in my throat.
She smiles but there is worry in her eyes. “Ya all right? It’s only been fifteen minutes since the last time you woke up.”
I swallow the acrid taste in my throat, shaking my head.
“Can ya talk yet, or do ya need a minute?”
Immediately anger wells inside of me, adding to the fire burning in my throat as I rip the headphones from my ears. The soft voice in my mind is not the right one. “Where is he?” I know Dash has somehow meddled with the subliminal messages and hints and pictures I am meant to be seeing in my mind. The whole point of the recording is to bring me to the places she’s been, get me comfortable. The series of words spoken, including Dash’s name and the description of his face, are meant to help me bring my triggers with me. If we have anything on the patient, it is whispered in my ear with a series of subliminal messages, helping me to find the keys in her mind.
If someone tampers with that, they can change the entire outcome, including the patient’s experience.
“Where’s Dash?” I ask again in my croaking voice.
She pauses. “What the bloody hell are you on about?”
“Dash!” I shout with my croaking voice.
The door opens, revealing his worried gray-green eyes. “Jane?”
“What did you do?”
He blushes, and I can see the guilt all over his face.
I glance over at the wall of two-way mirrors and manage to speak about the facts I have gleaned thus far. “The bad guy might be a professor, but I suspect he was never her teacher. The man we are looking for could be a teacher at the university in Seattle—start there. Literature maybe. Or associated with the lit department.” I turn back, glaring at Dash. “You messed with something. You made a change in my story. Your face flashed, and one second you were Rory and the next you were you. I made up a lie in her mind to cover, but she could close up on me if she gets scared.”
He winces—so subtle that I barely catch it. He licks his lips, and I see the guilt everywhere, plastered across him. Even the way he leans against the door frame and nods at Angie, like he’s dismissing her, lacks all of his usual confidence. She hurries out, shooting me a look and brushing past him. I struggle with the strength in me coming back after a fifteen-minute slumber that felt like days.
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie.” I climb off the bed and stagger to him. “I have a setup. I have a way it goes. I let her lead me, and this made it more like it was me leading her.”
He wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I hate being the bad guy. You make me the bad guy every time. I hate it. In your mind I have raped and killed and been a full-fledged psychotic. Imagine if I made you some kind of evil in my mind?” He offers a soft look. “I don’t want your sub
conscious to see me, your future husband, as a murderer or a pedophile or a serial killer. I don’t want to be that in your head.” His eyes lower to the floor. “Or your heart.”
I wince too, far more annoyed that he knows the secret to my success. It’s as if he’s seen behind the curtain. He’s seen the friggin’ wizard. In a tone that expresses the level of my annoyance, I mutter, “You’ve basically wasted my time. Now I have to go back in and try to convince her that everything is normal in her changing mind. If she panics, she shuts it down. Not to mention, she isn’t exactly getting healthier here. She needs to go back to the hospital.”
“We have a better medical team here than any hospital. She’s fine.” He sighs. “Pick someone else to do the dirty work.”
“No. How did you even do it?”
He grins. “I didn’t.”
“How?” I growl.
“Changed the recording.” He chuckles like it’s nothing, but we both know it’s something.
I nod. “I gathered, jackass. When I woke to your voice in my head, I knew instantly the recording was changed and it was your fault, but how did you change my plans and her visions at the same time?”
He clears his throat and glances at the girl on the bed next to mine. “Changed both of your recordings to a different repetition. For you we read the triggers and the hints you knew, describing the scenery and campus and city, just like we always do. But then we added Rory’s name in like a subliminal message the way you do with mine. It switches between me reading and Rory reading to confuse you. In the part where you describe him, I described Rory. It works every time to get you into the person’s mind and to ensure they open up to you. So I figured, why not subliminal messages to you to pick a different bad guy? I thought about using a random guy you don’t even know, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to send you in blind. Then you could panic inside of her. But when we started making the new recording, Rory volunteered. It was a subtle change, my description for Rory’s. It didn’t seem like a big deal.”
“Messing with my head isn’t the big deal. But you said you messed with her recording, the one that has soft sounds and makes my voice a comfort and lets her relax and let me in? You know better than I do that her recording is the key. Hers lets me in and makes her trust me. She has to hear my voice, hear me speaking and describing myself, so when I get inside of her mind I am a familiar face.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “You changed the words to change my plans, but really all you did was show her new faces to pin the crime on. I have to be able to see who she’s trying to show me, which is why I use your face. For me it’s the constant. Rory is always a brother or a side story. I need her to show me the bad guy. And guess what, genius? She doesn’t want to see his face. She doesn’t want to let me see. Can’t you imagine why?”