I knew that I was prepared to handle it… but was he?
It had been a long five years, and every second I’d been wanting to tell him.
Five years of togetherness. Five years of silent secrecy.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
And he was so intuitive. At the exact moment his name crossed my mind, he looked up at me, languidly standing taller from where he leaned against the old, stained wood that bordered the bar.
His eyes fixed on me, I felt he could see right into my brain. When he walked over to my table and placed his hand on mine, I was almost certain that he could.
But like every night before this one, we barely exchanged words.
Plastering on smiles, we said our goodbyes, gave our common courtesies, and made our exit.
Hand in hand, we’d stopped outside of the Regency Hotel with tension simmering on the surfaces of our skin. Our black car pulled up, the young valet hopped out, and the minute I let his hand go, I knew I’d made a mistake.
He looked at me, his stubble-lined jaw growing solid under the glow of the humid night’s city lights, and when he reached for the door handle to open the passenger side door, all fucking hell broke loose.
And that was when the rain started.
Holy shit.
I let go of the deep breath that I’ve been holding in my sleep. I awaken from the dream before even opening my eyes. My heart still pounding, I try to let the real rain outside my window beat me back to sleep.
Most people enjoy the sound of rain; they find it calming.
I am not one of those people.
For some reason, the rain has never given me peace.
The sound of water, slow, steady and rhythmic, parades through my bedroom, making it pulsate, and as I awake from the deep sleep, I reach my hands across the mattress—searching…
What I’m searching for, I have no idea… but my hands pause when they feel emptiness—nothing.
Just the coolness of the bedspread.
Just the solace of an empty spot.
I feel cold—inexplicably so, and when I turn over to face the window, I see a cloudy sky, scarlet curtains…
And no rain.
Not a single drop from the sky, at least as far as I can tell. The windows seem to be heavily fogged.
But maybe not…
I take a closer look.
The window is thinly veiled, a tinted film outstretched over the poorly framed glass.
Grey light filters in through its thin layer, and at this point, I can’t even tell if the sun is shining.
I can still hear the rain.
But not on the outside, no.
It’s inside somehow, trickling just beyond my bedroom wall.
I sit up straight, bracing my open palms on my bedroom pillows when it occurs to me that the pillows aren’t even mine.
In fact, as I take a closer look at the bedroom sheets, I slowly realize… I’ve awakened in a bed that also isn’t mine.
What the flying fuck…
I vault out of the bed, practically diving sideways.
My bare feet land on the cold ground near the edge of the bed. I pace, taking in the remainder of the room with sluggish eyes and an unsettled mind.
I don’t recognize the silk robe draped over my shoulders. I’ve never been introduced to the floor rug beneath my feet.
Nothing is familiar. None of it.
Not the room. Not its two rust-colored doors. Definitely not the high ceilings, nor the darkened hardwood floors.
I seem to have gone asleep in one world and awakened in another.
Where the fuck am I, and how in the hell did I get here?
I walk over to the nearest door, but, oddly enough, it doesn’t open.
I walk to the window, in front of the thick glass separating me from the world, and I realize that everything around me—the buildings, the people, the marketplace just outside…
I don’t recognize any of it.
And I’m all alone.
How did this happen?
Everything, everyone, appears to be moving with a natural purpose, in a motion that speaks of everyday life.
It seems like a normal goddamned day for the rest of the world… but not for me.
I am the single oddity.
I press my forehead against the hazy glass, prepared to scream, and just when I begin to… the rain that seems to pulsate in the room suddenly stops.
The sound of heavy footsteps follows in its wake, matching the thundering of my now pumping heart.
My heart seems to have leapt between my ears, beating at a panicky pace, and I see the doorknob turn, the door opening in slow motion as a bare foot emerges from beyond.
Through one of two closed doors, a man enters the room, half-naked, a white towel in one hand and another wrapped tightly near his navel.
And in that instant, my mind goes numb.
He is gorgeous beyond fucking belief.
Gold-green eyes peek beneath a darkly soaked head of hair, and he looks straight at me—his hazel irises expectant, one strong, tattooed arm outstretched as he dries the wet mane that drips onto his naked shoulders.
Strong broad shoulders.
Shoulders that sit upon a body made of olive-colored stone.
The look in his eyes is intense, and he stares at me as if he is incapable of doing anything else.
I don’t know why… but it thrills me, sets my senses ablaze… and scares me half-to-fucking-death.
This is the guy—the man from last night’s dream… and I have no fucking clue who he is.
He takes a step towards me from fifteen feet off, and I recoil.
“What?” he asks roughly. “What’s wrong?”
He looks towards the window. “You ok? You see somethin’? Did someone…”
But he doesn’t even finish the question.
Before he can utter another word, I am running, my bare soles thudding against the wood underneath as I make a break for the other door, sprinting towards it without a second thought.
And I nearly make it… before the man reaches out and grabs my wrist.
“Dani, what the hell are you doing?” he growls at me. “What are you…?”
But I swat at him, pushing him away.
He stumbles backwards, and before he can recover, I am jetting across the shadowy hallway outside the bedroom, my silk robe flapping as I approach the staircase leading to the story below.
I am falling more so than running, but my steps never stop. I stumble my way down the stairs, my heels stinging with every landing as the man from the bedroom—now recovered—makes his way after me, closing in from just a few feet behind.
How I manage to make it to the floor below, out of his grasp, I don’t really know, but I am relieved. My lungs fill with renewed air as my eyes scan around an oversized kitchen, past the counters and to a doorway that leads to an outside street.
I run to it… just as the man’s large hand find its grip on the waist of my robe.
My body slams backwards into his, crashing into the slippery, wet front of his brick-like abdomen.
“Dani!” he grunts, trying to control my now flailing arms. “What the fuck is the matter with you? What are you… I’m not trying to hurt you! I just want to…”
Whoosh! A slip of my arms, and I am out of the robe.
The man can’t finish a complete sentence. Unexpectedly, to him and also to me, I am now twisting in his arms, turning to face him as my fists fly at him, striking near his nose and eyes.
Bare forearms raised, he blocks them, his taut skin dulling the sound of my tight-fisted rage. I use the opportunity to kick between his legs, and he skillfully dodges my foot without so much as dropping the tightly wound towel hanging below his hips.
We are engaged in a battle, my long golden hair whipping as I throw my full body weight into each swing, each kick, each blow at the mysterious man.
A man—a stranger—who wards them off with heavy legs and sturdy hands.
I barely hurt him… but I don’t need to.
I just need to move him enough to… There.
I kick over a stool by the counter, blocking his body from mine, and I grab for a set of keys atop the granite-covered counters.
He reaches for them but it is too late. Now in my hands, I fumble the keys with one free hand to unchain the heavy brass locks barring the front door.
Just as his grip finds me once more, I pull my final stunt, lashing my hand out to snatch off the towel at his waist, slinging it to the floor.
I won’t even let myself look at what I’ve uncovered.
Shocked, the man’s hands grapple for the towel that’s landed on the floor, seeking to replace it around his waist, and when he does, I finally throw open the door.
Cloudy skies and a cobbled alleyway greet me as I take my first step outside onto a grey stoned street.
A man on a moped passes by and just as I begin to yell to him, a hand—damp and large—clamps over my moving lips, pulling me backwards. I am dragged back into the house, nearly planted ass-first onto the solid floor.
His sturdy arm catches me, breaking my fall, while the other lands on top of me, bracing over my chest.
Hand still over my mouth, the man still sopping wet, he covers the length of my body with his, his discarded towel now secured again, his heavy body pressing mine into the ground.
His hazel eyes, now morphed into a golden flame, drill into my widened green ones.
He rumbles, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You stop this shit right the fuck now, Dani, I swear to God…”
His voice, if it weren’t so angry, would be low and molten, but is instead grating, rough and huffing as his minty breath blows across my face.
My breath emits in spurts—frenzied and short, blustering out of my quivering nostrils and onto his unmoving hand.
He brings his face within centimeters of mine. Hovering.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’d better fix it. Right now. And when I take my hand away, you’re going to calm the fuck down. Understand?”
I don’t even try to speak.
“Nod if you understand me,” he commands.
I can barely move my head, but he gets the hint.
Removing his hand—slowly, he lets me lick my lips. I check to make sure they’re not bleeding, but as if he knows my thoughts, he runs a finger there, rubbing.
It is almost as if he is checking for the same.
I steady my gaze onto his dark hair, his eyes and full lips. I know my first question before it even hits my tongue.
“Who…” I bite down, steadying my slightly chattering teeth. “W-who are you?”
The color drains from the man’s face, his deep-set frown darkening into a scowl. The fine sheet of stubble across his face suddenly stands out like a shadow.
“What…? Dani…” He jerks backwards in disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about? It’s me,” the man emphasizes. “Bishop.”
The name doesn’t ring a bell, but his next words do.
“Your husband…”
He draws the last word out carefully, almost as if I’m too slow to understand.
But he’s right… because I don’t.
I don’t know how an imaginary man has suddenly come to life. I don’t know how a dream has become real. And I certainly don’t want to even think about how the hard body of this hallucination is now making me feel.
STRANGE DEVOTION
DANI
For the next two hours, I learn two more things about my dream/nightmare man, Bishop.
For one, he is no doctor.
And from what I can see, he is no saint, either… though the name might give someone the wrong impression.
With eyes half-sleepy, half-wild and one-hundred percent ferocious, he stands as still as stone, watching me—watching the man who is a doctor watch me, and with every minute that passes, his hazel eyes darken by another hue.
I can see the growing impatience in his eyes. He speaks slowly to the physician at my bedside.
“Well, doc…?”
The doctor turns to me, his gaze full of defeat and damnation.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Bishop. I’ve brought every machine I could. I’ve enlisted Lauren’s help,” he says, motioning towards a nervous nurse that accompanies him.
“We think it’s some sort of blockage, possibly a blood clot, residual damage from the gunshot.” The doc places his hands gently over my scalp as his fingers remove the hair above my ear.
His voice is lilting, his accent thick.
“I’d like to put her on a blood thinner, just in case. I recommend taking some aspirin in the meantime.”
He speaks French quietly to the nurse before turning towards me again.
“It seems to have interrupted the flow of oxygen to the brain, possibly resulting in short to long-term memory loss. Hopefully, it’s temporary. It could be a product of emotional, as well as physical, trauma. I’m not sure what more I can say.”
His shrug is hesitant. His already frail shoulders sag as he shakes his head sadly.
He’s been forced here, I’m sure of it. I guess that makes two of us.
A stranger to me, he already seems to have some familiarity with the man, Bishop, but every time the doctor speaks, it’s with a silent reverence.
He fears Bishop.
I suspect that what I see in the doctor’s eyes is a bit reflected in mine. Something about the heat in Bishop’s stare puts a latent tingling under the surface of my skin.
He approaches the doctor.
“Doc Durand, I only called you because Jackson said you could help us.” He glowers at the man. “Now, that was hardly helpful, don’t you think?”
The doctor frowns.
“Well, I—I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Bishop. These things happen,” he concludes.
The doc’s understated verdict is like the dropping of a judge’s gavel.
The man named Bishop—the one who claims to be my husband—stands straighter upon hearing this. He moves toward the doctor, and it is more menacing than anything I can recall… which isn’t much.
“These things happen?” he grits through clenched teeth, directing his rage toward the elder man in the white coat.
“No,” Bishop declares, shaking his head. “These things don’t just happen. People don’t just wake up one day and not know who the fuck they are. She doesn’t remember this place. She doesn’t remember me. She doesn’t remember herself, doc!”
Doctor What’s-His-Face’s scowl is deep. He removes his gloves and slowly hands them to the nearby nurse as we all crowd the space in the middle of my unfamiliar bedroom.
I close my eyes, not wanting to listen to another word—hoping this is a dream while simply willing myself not to break down and cry…
Because this seems to be a hopeless mess.
And this mess… is my life.
Daniela Bishop’s life.
At least, that’s what the name on the passport says.
The woman is blonde. Her eyes are wide. Her irises sparkle in a beautiful green-blue.
Perfectly symmetrical in every way, she carries the look of a woman who’s seen the world. Her smile is Mona Lisa-like, seemingly hiding a secret.
And she has my face.
What the passport doesn’t show is the scar just beyond the face, a hidden gunshot wound placed purposefully behind her ear.
What the picture doesn’t show is her pain.
Her pain seems only reflected in the man named Bishop’s eyes.
The man Bishop watches me, never leaving my side, as the doctor he has summoned examines me less than six hours after our “kitchen brawl.”
The doctor, speaking to me slowly in a thick French accent, abruptly stands from the stool he’s been occupying.
“If you’d just allow me to take her to the hospital, I can run some tes…” the graying man starts to say.
But Bishop interrupt
s.
“No. She’s not going anywhere.”
At his declaration, my eyes shoot open.
“It’s not safe for her there. And I’ll do whatever…”
Bishop leans in, speaking with hidden meaning.
“Whatever it takes, doc, to make sure that she is safe.”
The physician swallows.
“Of course, Mr. Bishop… I understand completely.”
Bishop smiles at him, but the gesture is threatening instead of happy. In deference, the doctor turns after receiving a quick nod from the indomitable man, and he begins to grab his belongings, hustling them into a bag while the nurse helps him whisk all of his equipment away.
I start to sit up in bed.
“Wait…” I call out to the doctor, feeling feeble. “That’s it?”
The doctor almost looks at Bishop for permission before extending a hand, and when he seemingly finds it, he places a palm on mine, speaking softly to me in a voice that is almost unintelligible in English.
“Don’t worry, ma Cherie,” he commands soothingly. “Your memories will return. Just give it some time. The conditions from these types of incidents tend not to last for long and are usually temporary in nature.”
Tend? Last…?
He makes memory loss sound like a cold I’ve just caught.
How long is long?
And “incident”…? I think forgetting your entire life in one fell swoop is more than an incident.
This is a fucking life-altering catastrophe, and suddenly, I feel the uncontrollable urge to swing at everything, to rage with no reason or consequence.
Who the hell are these people?
Who is Bishop? And why don’t I remember marrying my own husband...?
I can feel a sense of hysteria bubbling beneath the surface. It’s hard to breathe. And abruptly I feel the need for everyone to leave.
I raise my hand slowly.
“Please… go. I need to be alone.”
I watch Bishop, my eyes tracing the line of him, as he escorts the doctor and nurse to the bedroom door and shows them out. I hear the living room door close behind them shortly after. And soon after that, here he comes—heading back towards me, his jaw set, his stare determined as he takes a seat at the foot of the bed.
Up in Smoke (Kisses and Crimes Book 2) Page 23