by RC Boldt
The way she sang, with abandon and unbridled emotion. How she tipped her head back with her eyes closed. How she derived joy from something as simple as a song.
Had I ever been like that? If I had, it’s so long ago that it’s been buried beneath all the bad shit.
Why the fuck am I so drawn to her? The question reverberates through my mind on a punishing loop with no answer in sight.
At least, not one I’ll admit to.
She’s a flame, and I’m the goddamn moth. Somehow, she’s ensnaring me more each day.
I anticipate seeing her each morning when she’s fresh from the shower, the scent of shampoo and bodywash clinging to her.
I look forward to seeing her work in my kitchen, watching her take pride in what she prepares.
Christ, I even get antsy each night, aching for the moment she says, “Good night, Liam.” Every goddamn time, like a fucking bastard, my dick hardens at her sweet, soft voice uttering my name.
Each night, it takes every ounce of my self-control to walk away from her and head to my office. I’d give anything to corner her against the wall and taste the mouth that’s been haunting me, making me wonder if she’d kiss me back.
I’d get my hands on her bare skin, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be in a clinical sense. I’d learn every curve of her body before I sank my cock balls-deep inside her.
Closing my eyes, I grind the heels of my palms against them with a silent groan. Christ Almighty. She’s got me wound so damn tight. But I’m powerless to stop the images from flitting through my mind. Imagining how she’d feel once I was buried inside her pussy.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I shove back from my desk, the wheels on my chair sliding against the hardwood floor. I’m getting too deep, and I can’t afford this. It’s a goddamn mistake.
You’ve never been like this before. That inner voice needs to fuck off.
I’m not sure what it is about her that ekes past my defenses, but it needs to be fixed.
Lusting over this woman, who has no memory of who she is, isn’t only idiotic.
It’s fucking dangerous.
Fifteen Years Old
It’s been a while since I’ve written in this. That’s probably because we’ve been moving around a lot.
I’ve seen so many amazing places and learned so much. Papa took me to Hong Kong, and we saw the big Buddha. I may not pray to Buddha, but I loved learning about him and how the people worship there.
Then we went to the southwestern part of Thailand. I still can’t believe how many Buddhist temples there are here. They are all so beautiful and ornate.
The best part, though, was when Papa took me to Nai Hard Beach to meet a friend. Papa doesn’t trust people, so when he said we were going to meet one of his oldest friends, I knew it was a big deal. What I didn’t expect is for his friend to be a Buddhist monk.
He was a nice man, and I could tell he missed Papa because he yanked him in for a big hug. He insisted we stay with him and visit, and thankfully, Papa agreed.
Keido prefers to live alone and not in a monastery with other monks. When I (politely) asked him why, he laughed and told me that he brews his own beer and that means he gets to keep it for himself. Papa shook his head and said that Keido has always been a loner. He sells the beer to a nearby pub and donates the proceeds to the local Buddhist temple—the Wat Nai Harn temple—to help with their upkeep.
Keido is almost eighty years old, but man, is he in great shape. He told me his secret is running on the beach each morning and drinking one pint of beer each evening.
On our last night there, I had trouble falling asleep. It wasn’t that Papa and Keido were having a loud conversation or that my bed mat was uncomfortable. I was just sad about having to say goodbye to Keido in the morning. I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest, and at some point, I realized I was eavesdropping on their hushed conversation in the other room.
Keido’s words have stayed with me. He told Papa, “A life controlled by fear is no life worth living.”
I still think about that, even now. It’s already helped me a few times when I was nervous about trying something new.
But it’s how Papa responded that made my heart hurt a little. “It’s difficult, my friend. She is everything to me. The mere thought of anything happening to her… It guts me.”
I’ve always known that he worries about me. That he does everything possible to keep me safe. And maybe it’s dumb because even though I know he loves me and he tells me so, I hadn’t quite realized how much he really cares for me. How afraid he is of something bad happening to me.
I wonder if angels really do exist and one sent Papa to me that day. If they knew how badly I needed a father—one who truly cared for me and loved me unconditionally.
If that’s the case, I hope those angels know how grateful I am and that I love my papa more than anything in the world.
Chapter 28
ALEXANDRA
As I sit alone at the table, the house drenches me in a near-deafening silence. I’ve drawn out my dinner longer than is respectable, hoping that Liam might return soon.
Like a prisoner on death row intent on savoring every nuance of their last meal, I’d carefully sliced my seared tuna steak with more care than necessary as the sun quickly disappeared from the horizon.
I shouldn’t be disappointed, especially because he owes me nothing. And he’s out doing something noble and seeing to his patients.
Absently, I trace my finger along the rim of the dinner plate, and the sight of my bare hand serves me with a sobering reminder.
I was rescued with no identification, no wedding ring, or identifiable tattoos. There haven’t been any reports of missing persons matching my description.
No one is out there looking for me. No one misses me. And that revelation shackles me with both fear and sorrow—with the knowledge that I’m more alone than I anticipated.
Even if I find out who I am, what is there waiting for me? What kind of life did I previously have if no one cared enough to try to find me? If no one’s concerned about my disappearance?
“Fear is revealing, Little One. It brings out a person’s true nature. When you allow fear to rule you, you give up control. You end up handing over that power to other sources, be it another person, group of people, or even a circumstance.”
Out of nowhere, the memory of a gentle but firm voice recites this in my mind. This voice is a constant in my memories. It’s calming and nurturing, the way a father’s would be.
A suffocating layer of quiet stillness weighs heavily on me. With it comes the jarring reminder that I’ll eventually have to be on my way, leaving Liam and this house that’s become a home to me. Hell, the knowledge is downright unsettling.
The prospect of not seeing him each day has my heart cleaving off part of itself. Recognizing that I might never witness him drag a hand over his scruff or rake his fingers through his hair when it seems like he’s trying to avoid looking at me.
It’s likely wishful thinking on my part to presume those habits are attempts at resisting the pull of the invisible tether linking me to him.
Regardless, it will happen—I’ll leave this all behind. I’ll leave him behind. And the finality of that notion gnaws away at me with rabid ferocity.
Washing my plate and utensils, I’m relieved that I cleaned as I cooked dinner and have already washed everything else. Weariness settles deep in my bones as I prepare a plate for Liam, carefully covering it and placing it in the fridge.
Once I wipe down the table and ensure the countertops are clean, I pad over to the hallway where the dry-erase board adorns the wall. Liam continues to label it with the date each day.
And each day, none of my memories are sparked by the written date.
Plucking the dry-erase marker from the board’s tray, I uncap it and write a quick message to let him know there’s a plate for him in the refrigerator.
When I replace the marker and step back, once again, I’m slammed with the possibility t
hat this could very well be the final time I do this.
The last time I make dinner for us.
The last night I spend in my designated room.
Because tomorrow could deliver a revelation of my identity, bringing my time with Liam to an abrupt close.
Anguish burns a furious path through me, and I cover my mouth with my hand as a sob rises from deep within. It’s useless to think I can try to stop it, though.
My movements are stiff and robotic as I reach out to flip the light switch in the hallway. Now cast in shadows, the dark brings a vague memory of a conversation with a man with a comforting voice.
“Darkness is the counterpart of light. It merely requires you to look at it differently. Focus not on the lack of light, but on the shadows and the way they blanket your surroundings.”
My stomach contracts as a whimpering cry breaks free, and I rush to my room, shoving the door closed behind me. Crawling onto the bed, I curl up on my side with my knees drawn tight against my chest while tears trail down my cheeks and sobs are ripped from me.
It’s as though I’ve stifled my grief—imprisoned it deep within—for so long that it’s now revolting against me, taking firm hold.
Papa. The name slams into my mind as an onslaught of agony wrenches my heart. I bring my hand to my chest, hoping to soothe the pain the memory brought with it.
The voice I keep recalling belongs to my papa, and I miss him. Other than my name, it’s the only thing I’ve been sure of since I woke up in Liam’s exam room.
My papa loved me, and I loved him—I know it. And this grieving ache in my chest tells me he’s gone now...and I’m all alone.
God, how I wish I had someone who cared enough to miss me and look for me. I wish I weren’t plagued with so many unanswered questions.
Hell…I wish I knew even a little bit about who I was.
Chapter 29
LIAM
The sun has already sunk low beneath the horizon by the time I return home.
Once I left my last patient, Mariposa, I tugged my hair free of the tie. None of my patients care one iota about little nuances related to my appearance, but I feel like I owe it to them to at least attempt to look semi-civilized and appropriate.
I park the ATV beneath the small carport and unlock the back hatch, withdrawing the “payments” I received. Granted, a few of the patients I saw today had been insistent on paying me in cash, but I never press any of them for it. They’re proud people, and I accept any payment they’re able to provide.
It’s not like I need the money. That combined with what I’ve made—and continue to make from investing in cryptocurrency—is how I funded this life and how I can afford to have some of the modern technologies like an X-ray machine and other supplies that these people can’t access without making a considerable trek.
With my bag strapped across my chest, I grasp the small reusable cloth bag filled to the brim with green beans from one patient and tuck the bottle of homemade wine from Mariposa under my arm to leave a hand free for the door.
As soon as I step inside my house and toe off my flip-flops, the smell that greets me has my mouth watering and stomach rumbling. Arriving after a long day of work to a home-cooked meal is something foreign to me.
A part of me resents that Alex is doing this because whether I want to admit it or not, I’ll end up missing it once she’s gone.
You’ll miss her when she’s gone. That annoying voice in my head pipes up again. Fucker.
But it’s the truth. The struggle gets more intense every day, trying to stay closed off to her. It gets harder not to do what I should.
I head down the hall, passing by the dry-erase board outside the first patient room. The feminine scrawl on it catches my attention.
At the top is still the date I continue to write for her…and each day I do, the pit of my stomach clenches as I wonder if it’ll trigger a memory. If it’ll draw this to an end.
Beneath the date I wrote earlier today is her neatly printed message.
There’s seared tuna and roasted asparagus on a plate for you in the fridge.
Hope you had a good day.
Heading past the kitchen, I notice by the small, dim light over the sink that everything is spotless. All the dishes are washed and drying in the dish rack. Well maintained and cared for, the countertops and floors gleam. It feels like…a home.
An invisible weight presses on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. This is what it could be like…
Setting down the bag of green beans and the bottle of wine, I force my feet to move and head toward my office to dump my bag. Hunger has me moving swiftly, and I twist the doorknob and set my bag on my office chair. I’ll unpack later. Right now, that food is calling my name.
I make it outside the office door when the sound stops me dead in my tracks. Standing frozen, I wait, my ears trained.
There it is once again.
My eyes land on Alex’s closed door, and my fingers twitch as I war between barging inside her room and leaving her the fuck alone like I should.
Christ. When it comes to her, I haven’t once played by the rules and done what I should. Why the hell should I start now?
When the muffled keening cry drifts beneath her door once again, I channel my restraint and place my tense palms flat against the surface.
“Alex?” Silence greets my words while unease penetrates every fiber of my body. It’s what has me throwing open the door of her room.
She’s lying facedown on her bed, both her hands fisting the pillow on either side of her head.
“Alex?” Urgency colors my voice, and her head snaps up, startled eyes finding mine.
Gutted. That’s the first description that hits me full force. Her damp lashes and flushed, tearstained cheeks perpetuate the sensation of someone carving out my insides with a dull knife.
As abruptly as she turned toward me, she averts her gaze, ducking her head and letting her hair fall to hide my view of her face. She clears her throat and swiftly moves to a seated position, hugging that pillow to her chest as though it were armor protecting her from bodily harm.
Uncertainty plagues me because she obviously doesn’t want me to witness this moment, but I need to know if she’s somehow hurt.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
She clears her throat again to say, “No,” but even that single word is weighed down with heavy emotion.
I clench and unclench my hands even while I know it’s pointless to try to resist the urge to go to her. To try to ease her pain. I’m at the side of her bed before I even register the movement.
Easing down on the edge of the mattress, I wrestle with whether to lay a hand on her knee or arm. Aside from my patients, I’ve never comforted anyone. I’ve never had to or wanted to.
But right now, the driving need to soothe this woman is all-encompassing. It’s more necessary than taking my next breath. The need to fix whatever it is that has her looking so goddamn broken.
“Please. Alex…tell me what’s wrong.” I find myself pleading—fucking begging, if I’m being honest—for her to tell me what’s wrong so I can solve this. So I can make sure she won’t cry again.
You fucking bastard, my inner voice pipes up again. You’re lying to yourself if you think you won’t be the one to make her cry again.
I quickly dismiss it and give in to the urge to settle a hand on her knee. Her skin is incredibly soft beneath my hand, and I internally grimace, knowing how callused my hands can be.
“It’s stupid. I’m sorry for bothering you,” she finally says. But she still won’t look at me.
“Hey.” I try to gentle my normal tone but nearly roll my eyes at my futile result. I’ve made it my mission in life—in my business—to appear impervious to emotion, to disguise any reaction, to appear placid. It’s all become one amalgamated quality of me. One that’s been permanent for so long that I’m not sure it can be removed, even partially.
But for her—for Alex—for the first time, I wan
t to try.
Chapter 30
ALEXANDRA
With the pillow’s plush firmness stifling my crying, I compromise with myself that I’ll allow this weak moment and then move on. Because crying won’t solve anything. It won’t magically cure my amnesia.
It won’t magically make Liam open up to me.
That stray thought sneaks its way into my mind, and it makes me want to bash my head against the wall. I don’t know why I’m drawn to him.
Perhaps it’s a temporary fixation, but there’s no denying my yearning to determine why he’s so gruff all the time. Why he masks his emotions so carefully—or if he even feels emotions.
My throat is dry and scratchy, eyes irritated, but eventually my crying jag tapers a bit.
“Alex?”
I whip my head up, my startled eyes finding Liam’s. Ohgodno. Why? Of all the times for him to come home and find me…
I turn away, letting my hair fall and disguise my face. Clearing my throat, I straighten into a seated position, drawing the pillow to my chest. I’m not sure why I feel the need to hold it tight, but it gives me comfort. Perhaps it’s the saddening reality that I have nothing and no one to hold.
I have no one to hold me. And regardless of how strong I try to be while I attempt to piece together who I am, I’m very much alone. Acknowledging that reality settles like a ton of lead plummeting to the pit of my stomach.
“Did you hurt yourself?” The rough, gravelly quality of his voice betrays nothing—no true emotion from him, per the usual. But I welcome it because it’s the one constant I can count on. A man who remains calm, his expression unreadable, with an impenetrable exterior.