WASHED AWAY

by RC Boldt

  Yet I also understood it. I, too, hate being indebted to others and avoid it at all costs.

  It’s why I hate the goddamn situation I’ve gotten myself into.

  Emblazoned in my memory, the damning conversation I had with him replays once again.

  “You realize you’ll be indebted to me.” The smug quality in his voice grates on my damn nerves.

  Fuck. “I’m retired.”

  “Mm.” His tone holds mirth as if he’s enjoying this far too damn much. “Not for much longer.”

  “How long?” I force out the words from between clenched teeth. Because I hate this—I fucking despise being indebted to anyone. But it’s the only way.

  “Once you take care of the little problem, we’ll go from there.”

  I scowl because he’s fucking around again. Christ, I knew better than to get tangled up with the likes of him.

  “Why me?” I demand. “Why’d you come to me?”

  He clicks his tongue as though I’m some naïve little schoolchild. “Come, now. Don’t play dumb. Having you indebted to me is like possessing the Trojan horse against the enemy.” There’s a brief pause. “Plus, I have the information, whereas you do not.”

  The taunt is evident in his voice, and if we were in the same room, I’m not sure I could hold back from beating it out of him.

  Every inch of my body tenses, revolting at the idea of agreeing to this. Coming out of retirement and being at the mercy of this motherfucker has all the hairs along the back of my neck standing on end. Because I already know I’m fucked.

  But I have to do this. I have to lay things to rest however I can. So, with a muttered response, I seal my fate.

  As if I need an additional reminder of the fuckery I’m embedded in, my phone vibrates with a text message notification.

  Ensuring no one is behind me now that the cows have successfully ventured across the road, I pull my phone from my pocket and read the text.

  Consider this a courtesy warning.

  That’s all it says…but it’s all that’s needed.

  I clench my fingers into tight fists, agitation building within me. But it’s my own damn fault. I know how they operate better than the average person. I’m the asshole who put myself into this situation.

  Now, I have to determine what the fuck I’m going to do about it.

  Before it’s too late.

  Chapter 15

  HER

  Once again, in my deep sleep, my mind veers from blank imagery to replay another memory from my past.

  In this one, I’m only a small child.

  Mama tickles my sides, and I giggle. Her smile is beautiful like the sunshine, and I tell her this.

  “Oh, my sweet girl.” She drops a kiss to the tip of my nose. “You are a gift that I treasure.”

  Suddenly, he appears at my side, squatting down to look me directly in the eyes.

  “Hello there.”

  I feel stiff like my body is ready to run away from him. Something’s wrong with his smile because it never makes me feel safe or warm inside.

  His eyes are mean, too, even when he smiles. I wonder if I’m the only one who can see it.

  I lean away from him, and Mama rubs my back soothingly. “It’s okay. He’s just saying hello.”

  I might be a little kid, but I can tell that her voice is different. Like she understands how I feel.

  “I know it’s been a while. Perhaps you don’t remember him.”

  He holds out a hand to me for a handshake. But the second his fingers close around mine, I know I never want anything to do with him. His touch makes me feel like I’ve rolled around in rotten trash in a dumpster.

  I force out the words Mama taught me to say. “Nice to see you.”

  His smile grows wider, and it makes my skin feel prickly. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again.” He straightens and adds, “Soon.”

  Soon.

  That word and his voice replay in my head for days after. And it makes me think those Bible stories Mama reads to me are true.

  The devil can disguise himself in other forms.

  I blink my eyes open, instantly rendered frozen by panic. Where am I? As soon as the faint sound of music drifts beneath the closed bedroom door, my tense muscles slowly relax.

  Most evenings, Dr. King works in his office reconciling paperwork and updating patient records. I’m certain that being a one-man show and being responsible for every aspect here is a feat in itself. I’ve noticed that he enjoys listening to music while he works.

  Sometimes, I lie here in my bed and wait for the traces of music to drift softly beneath his closed office door. Tiny wisps of the music curl under my bedroom door, ambling my way.

  I usually have to strain to hear it, but it’s something I look forward to because I’m granted—in a roundabout way—a glimpse at another side of him.

  He listens to music I’m not entirely familiar with, but it sounds older. On nights like this, I tend to close my eyes and let my imagination take hold.

  I wonder if his hair is loose and if he rakes his hands through it from time to time while he works. I wonder if it’s as soft as it appears. If he hums along softly to the music or silently mouths the lyrics.

  I shouldn’t yearn to know the nuances about this man. Perhaps I’m experiencing something with loose similarities to Stockholm syndrome, minus the kidnapping aspect. Being in proximity with Dr. King day in and day out without other human interaction may be the root cause. Yes…that must be it.

  Liar, a voice in my head whispers. There’s more to it than that.

  I roll over in bed and press my face into the pillow to stifle my frustrated groan. It hasn’t escaped my notice that my inner voice can’t help me recall my name, but it sure as hell wants to draw more attention to the man I’ve become oddly fixated on.

  But as I drift back to sleep, the remainder of my dreams isn’t plagued by grief or fear. They hold only curiosity and female interest.

  Because of the man—a certain doctor—featured in them.

  Chapter 16

  HER

  One week later

  “Thank you, Dr. King.” The breathless quality of my voice has me inwardly cringing, but there’s no stifling my excitement.

  Granted, it’s over getting real clothing, but this is a big deal after practically living in a hospital gown for weeks on end.

  He responds in his usual cool, aloof manner. “No problem.”

  Even though he keeps an assortment of donated clothing on hand for emergencies, I’d needed a bit more than the secondhand soft, cotton tank tops and loose-fitting sundresses.

  He went above and beyond, making a special trek hours away into the nearest city to purchase some panties and cotton shorts and shirts for me.

  The secondhand tank tops are perfect even though they’re smaller because they serve as the ideal alternative for a bra for a smaller-breasted woman like me. Plus, they don’t aggravate the freshly healed skin on my wounds.

  I still feel bad that he’d had to make that long drive into the city for me—and to buy my underwear. Talk about a humbling experience, although at this point, the man has seen every inch of me already.

  With the bag in hand, my eyes soak up the sight of the new clothing he’d purchased for me like a child on Christmas morning. Dr. King rakes an agitated hand over his head and grips the back of his neck, averting his eyes.

  He goes eerily still, gaze boring past me to the kitchen.

  “What have you been doing?” How a simple softly spoken question can hold a plentitude of iciness amazes me.

  With the bag of clothing dangling from my fingers, I turn to see what has him so disgruntled.

  The kitchen is spotless, not that it was a god-awful mess beforehand, but I mopped the floors and cleaned the counters. With the windows always open to allow the fresh breeze to pass through, dust and sand tend to gather on surfaces.

  Along the gleaming counters are the two cutting boards with freshly chopped zucchini and fresh b
roccoli I sliced into florets.

  “I can’t sit still and do nothing, and I noticed a few things could use a little TLC.” A flush spreads across my cheeks when he remains silent, his eyes staring at the food prep like it’s personally offending him.

  I shift on my feet nervously and my words emerge slowly, ever so cautiously. “I apologize if I made it weird.” Impulsively, I attempt to lighten the mood and offer, “I promise I didn’t go through your unmentionables or anything.”

  His eyes snap to mine. “My what?”

  Ohshit. I did, in fact, make it weird. Is this how I normally am?

  “You know…your underwear drawer.” My words are stilted. “I didn’t go through that, I mean.”

  In an attempt not to disintegrate from complete embarrassment, I rush out with, “I’m marinating the chicken in the fridge and figured I’ll make that for dinner with the broccoli and zucchini—”

  “You don’t have to do that.” His words cut like the sharpest knife. “It’s unnecessary. Especially since you’re my patient.”

  Is it just my imagination, or did he place emphasis on that last word? And does he think I’m trying to embed myself in his life as though I’m his wife or girlfriend?

  I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin stubbornly. “I know it’s not necessary, but I’m earning my keep. You’ve done all this”—I lift the clothing bag in my hands—“for me, and I can’t bear to sit still all day and do nothing productive.

  “The least I can do is help around the house and prep food when you’ve been out all day working and running errands.”

  I run out of steam, my shoulders slump, and his eyes flicker with dismay before it quickly vanishes. My voice is subdued when I add, “I don’t mind it. In fact, it’s really good for me.”

  Chapter 17

  DR. LIAM KING

  “I don’t mind it. In fact, it’s really good for me.”

  I scrape a hand down my face, my scruff rasping beneath my palm, and avert my eyes to the food on the counter.

  Fuck. When I handed her those clothes, she lit up like I’d given her some priceless diamond. But the moment I noticed what she’d done with the place—how she’d taken the time not only to mop the floors but also start prepping for dinner—it got under my damn skin. I feel like I’m bombarded by a swarm of burrowing ticks.

  Now, though, she looks like I’ve slapped her. She’d been so excited and happy, and I smothered every bit of it.

  That voice in the back of my mind rears its ugly head.

  None of this should matter. After all, you’re not responsible for her happiness.

  She’s a woman who washed up on my shore with gunshot wounds. She has no goddamn memory, and everything surrounding her is riddled with suspicion.

  “Can we maybe forget I did any of this?” Her response is hastily spoken, and I fucking hate that her eyes are dim now. That I’ve snuffed the light out of them. “And just pretend I know my place from now on.”

  My hands tighten into fists, my short nails digging into my palms. “No, it’s okay.” The words emerge before I realize it. And I’m powerless to stop them. “Thank you.”

  What. The. Fuck? I’ve been trying to put distance between us, and now I’m rolling out the goddamn red carpet for her to be Susie Homemaker?

  I turn swiftly, my work bag still slung over my shoulder, and edge away from her. The door to my office shines like a damn beacon of safety.

  “I just can’t guarantee I’ll be available for dinner each night.” My feet carry me down the hall to my office, and I toss over my shoulder, “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Okay.” That’s all she says, but the disappointment in it weighs on me heavily. “Thank you again, for the clothes, Dr. King.”

  With a curt nod, I step inside and shut the door behind me.

  And I wonder why the hell I’m so bent out of shape over this situation when I know how it has to end. How it will end.

  And it will. Sooner than later.

  Ten years old

  I haven’t written in a while because it’s been busy, so I guess I should recap. Mama, if you’re still watching me from heaven and reading this, you’ll be so proud that I’m already doing advanced algebra.

  Papa’s teaching me so much, and we have lots of adventures together. He took me on an African safari, and I surprised him when I started to sing that old Toto song “Africa.” He made this rough sound in his throat that I think was a laugh—probably because Papa’s rusty at laughing, but I’m working on that. Anyway, it was the best moment.

  I wish you were down here so you could really see that he loves me just the way I am. He still doesn’t smile like regular people, but I can tell when I make him happy because his eyes crinkle at the corners.

  And do you know what he tells me every night at bedtime when he tucks me in? He says, “I love you, Little One. Forever and always.”

  I like that a lot. He’s made a lot of that ache in my chest go away. I hope you don’t think I don’t love you anymore because you’re gone, because that’s not it at all. Just like Papa says, I love you, Mama. Forever and always.

  Papa’s calling me, so I have to go. We have to work in the little garden because I think the lettuce, tomatoes, and carrots are ready to be picked.

  I’ll try to write more often.

  Chapter 18

  HER

  Three weeks later

  Not knowing who I am or recalling anything about myself, I’ve discovered that trying to figure out others is a useful distraction.

  Obviously, recovering here in his home means my attention is centered on the man I currently live with. The man who’s caring for me and seeing that I fully recover.

  Now that I’m well enough to take walks along the deserted section of the beach, I’ve been bestowed with a fresh dose of freedom.

  Dr. King always stands at the corner of the deck, lean body braced against the railing, as he waits for my return. He watches me so ardently out of concern for my well-being, and knowing that envelops me in comfort on each walk I take.

  And I can’t help but hope he’s proud of my progress and that I’m not letting his hard work go to waste. Especially since it’s evident Dr. King is one of those physicians who holds a high regard for health—and his body shows it.

  He runs barefoot on the beach each day before going through sets of push-ups, ab crunches, and chin-ups. I have yet to see him slack off from his workout routine and admit to covertly watching him do chin-ups on the bar installed on the outside of the house near the deck.

  Not only that, but the man is quite strict about what he puts in his body—only fresh, organic produce and free-range, grass-fed meats from local farmers.

  From what I’ve determined by the other framed certificates and degrees displayed on his office walls—I peeked inside while he was away on house calls, clamoring for more clues about him—he’s likely in his late thirties or early forties. I’ve also noticed that he doesn’t wear a wedding band but is never without his watch.

  No photographs of himself or his family members are displayed in any part of his home. If it weren’t for the locals gifting him with various trinkets or artwork, I’d venture to say this would be quite a plain, utilitarian environment.

  If only my intrigue ended there so innocently. But it doesn’t.

  His golden-brown skin glistens with sweat as he draws near, bare chested and finished with his daily beach run.

  And my eyes feast on the sight.

  His body doesn’t indicate his age in the least, not with the lean, corded muscles flexing while he stretches his arms and neck to the side during his post-run cooldown.

  His chest and back are peppered with scars, some jagged cuts while others are rounder and more puckered, further piquing my curiosity.

  He usually ties his dark brown hair at the back of his head, especially when he goes running or leaves for house calls. When he frees it, though, it falls in a straight, smooth curtain, the ends grazing his jawline.


  He’s quite tall, and that’s saying something coming from a woman who’s five ten. His hands, speckled with old scars and calluses, have touched me with more gentleness than I would’ve expected.

  His eyes, however, are what I find most enchanting. They border on a golden hue depending on the lighting and perhaps even his mood. At times, though, I swear they possess an almost haunted quality, as though he’s been dragged through the bowels of hell and lived to tell about it.

  Though Dr. King may come off as gruff at times, he possesses the patience of a saint and has been nothing but professional in his care. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t recognize that he’s undeniably handsome, rugged in a way that living in a remote area partly surrounded by the jungle might make a man.

  “Healthy sun exposure is critical to the human body, especially for healing,” he’d told me. So, each day, I sit, soaking up the vitamin D on his orders…and also soak up the vision of a virile man whose body is an utter work of art.

  I'm also envious, though, because my muscles twitch with the urge to exercise.

  Did I work out regularly? Gently, I smooth a hand over my stomach. It's not gaunt, but it's flat, and there's muscle tone there. The muscles in my thighs and calves are firm as well.

  "I know that look."

  My head snaps up in alarm, and our eyes clash. "What?"

  He tips his chin in my direction. "You want to start incorporating more exercise than just walking on the beach."

  Hopeful anticipation has me sinking my teeth into the bottom of my lip. "I do."

  Grabbing the spare towel from where it hangs over the deck railing, he uses it to dry the sweat from his face and chest before draping it around his neck.