Archetype

by M. D. Waters

  My heart stuttered in my chest and my mouth went dry. “He has to wait for my birthday, right? That hasn’t changed.” It couldn’t change. I wasn’t ready.

  He scowled down at me. “The law hasn’t changed, and no man is above the law.”

  I resisted a relieved sigh. “Too bad.”

  This made him laugh. “Is that right? You ready for what’s in store, are you? Think you’re the shit?”

  I shrugged and trained my gaze on the hallway perpendicular to ours just ahead. “Of course not. I’m only a simple girl.”

  He scoffed. “Simple. Right. And I’m the queen of South America.”

  • • •

  “How was your first night?” Dr. Travista asks.

  I run a hand over the smooth leather arm. I am surprised I have not worn it thin after all this time. “It was fine.”

  “Not what you expected?”

  He asks this as if he already expected this answer. “Not exactly.”

  “Would you like to elaborate?”

  “I am a stranger there.” I sigh and watch him nod absently, tapping something into his tablet. “I know who I am here. But not there.”

  Dr. Travista puts the tablet aside and removes his glasses. “Are you up to continuing this trial?”

  Yes.

  “Yes. I do not wish to give up.”

  Quitters never win.

  The doctor watches me for a long moment, then says, “I spoke to Declan early this morning. He says you asked about the luckenbooth.”

  Play dumb, you idiot. I told you.

  I raise my eyebrows. “The what?”

  “The brands. The hearts.”

  I nod theatrically. “Oh yes.”

  Easy. Remember—

  I know, I tell Her. Short answers as near the truth as possible.

  Good girl.

  He folds his hands over his lap. “Where did you hear about them? My staff is all male, so they won’t have one, and you’ve never had one yourself.”

  “A memory, I think,” I tell him.

  “A memory? Of what?” He raises his bushy eyebrows and nibbles the earpiece of his glasses.

  “A hand.”

  Good God.

  “A hand?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Anything else?”

  I shake my head. “I am sorry, but there is nothing more I can tell you. I really do not understand it myself.”

  Not a single lie.

  • • •

  I take a long route to the lounge and “study” the paintings. It is early and the red coats are out and about. I will not get far, so I do not try to enter a new hallway. Not only that, but I am not in scrubs today and must stand out.

  You’re a girl in a sea of guys, She says. You already stand out.

  Shut up.

  I miss my old scrubs now that I do not have them. I am sure I will find some in my room, but I cannot backtrack. I must move forward, and if that means wearing real clothes, then I will wear real clothes.

  I chose my outfit this morning, though Declan offered to help. Little does he know that I carry a fashion adviser in my head and She knows what She likes. The fitted white top has a wide neck that shows a lot of my collarbone and three-quarter sleeves. I liked the jeans, so I am wearing them again. And low-heeled boots. My feet will need some time to grow accustomed to the close fit.

  I had been unsure of this outfit until I saw myself in the mirror. I look pretty. Sexy, even. I did not expect that.

  I am nearing the lounge, thinking about taking the time to paint. I want to paint a bathroom with pale wood and the setting sun reflecting off slatted windows. But I will paint mountains and trees with so much snow that branches weigh down at impossible angles.

  I peel to a stop outside the lounge, my boot heels sliding over the floor. I brace a hand on the frame to keep from falling.

  Or you won’t paint, She says.

  The inside of the lounge is covered in what can only be described as caveman art. Handprints cover the windows. Circles and swirls decorate the thin beige carpet. I think one head-shaped thing on a wall might have horns.

  Ruby.

  Ruby, I agree.

  You can’t stand in a fucking hallway for five goddamn seconds before security is on you and she redecorates the entire lounge like she’s some prehistoric troglodyte. What the hell was everyone doing? Taking a break? Eating donuts?

  My paint tubes are misshapen and empty. Ruby actually twisted them into shapes and used them as centerpieces to some of the floor art. I might have thought this was clever but am too hurt to care.

  You’ll get more, She says, and to Her credit, She really is trying to make this better.

  I step farther into the room and try not to look in the corner where I left a few paintings the other day. I already know what I will find.

  It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid.

  I turn.

  My beaches. My beaches are littered in Ruby graffiti.

  My legs give way under me. I am so heartbroken by this I cannot breathe. It is not the paintings or the work I put into creating them but the intrusion on something so personal. Personal for reasons I cannot explain even to myself.

  I crawl to the painting with globs of cadmium yellow winding out of the canvas like cake icing. I drop to my butt and hold the painting over my lap. It is much too large to hold like this, but I try. All I want to do is save it.

  Tears splatter beside my hand as I try to scrape off the still-wet paint. It only smears and makes it worse.

  Emma. Her voice is soft and sad. It’s only a painting. It will never be the real thing.

  There is no real thing.

  It’s here with me. You can have it anytime you want. Whenever you’re ready.

  Why should I believe you? You work against me whenever you get a chance.

  I work on another glob, but my fingers are too full of the paint I have already scraped off. It is too late to save and I smear my hand over the canvas in disgust. Now there is an Emma-size caveman handprint on my painting.

  One day, Emma, you’ll understand.

  “You are just like them,” I say aloud. I stand and throw the painting into the others. More of the same. “Keep your fucking secrets. I do not want any of them.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Declan takes one look at me and chuckles. “Don’t painters wear smocks or something?”

  I do not laugh. There is nothing funny about the yellow paint on my white shirt. It is a reminder of how betrayed I am by the simpleton. I never should have left my supplies in the lounge.

  I stand from the bed. “Can we leave? I am ready to go.”

  A crease appears between his eyes and he steps farther into the room I have not left since Dr. Travista walked me out of the lounge with his pointless apologies. “Have you been crying?”

  I fold my arms. “I got a little upset.”

  “I’m going to go talk to Arthur for a few minutes. Can you sit tight until I get back?”

  It is not like he is giving me a choice, so I sit and turn away.

  Only seconds pass before Dr. Travista’s voice echoes in the hall. “Declan. I didn’t expect you for a couple hours.”

  “What happened?” His tone is almost accusing. Protective.

  The doctor stands in the doorway and frowns in my direction. “Ruby happened. We had an incident while Emma and I were in session. Her paintings were . . . redecorated.”

  “She ruined them,” I spit out without hesitation. Anger reignites a fire in my chest and I bite my lip to thwart any further words.

  Declan nods and releases a sigh. “I see.”

  A wayward tear slips down my cheek. They do not understand and I cannot explain it to them. I will not even bother trying. “I want to go home,” I say. “Can I go home?”

  “Yes, of course,” Dr. Travista says. “Whenever Declan is ready.”

  “Any reason I need to stay?” Declan asks.

  The doctor takes a few moments to respond. “No, I don�
��t think so. We can talk tomorrow.”

  Declan nods and reaches out a hand for me. “Let’s go, love.”

  I let him walk me to the transportation bay and do not hesitate to enter the tube this time. I want out of this place where nothing is mine. Nothing is sacred. No one can be trusted.

  Declan watches me carefully before entering the port number into the projected keypad. “You’re upset.”

  “That is an understatement.”

  Spearmint wafts around us, deadening our vocal cords, and his response freezes in his throat.

  Until we appear in the house. “Emma—”

  I push out of the tube and head for the bedroom. I want to seal the door behind me, but I do not want to anger him. So I stand in front of the closet with my back to him, his gaze scorching me from the doorway.

  “I cannot explain why I am so upset,” I say, barely turning my head. “I just am.”

  “She destroyed your paintings. You should be upset. It’s only natural. What can I do?”

  If only it were the paintings I was so upset about. Paintings I can re-create but will not for the sake of his distaste for my beaches. The beaches were precious to me, and though a few remain untouched, each was a link to the next. Now my link is cracked. Ruby’s foreign footprints mar the sand. She touched my world. My private world.

  “I do not know what I need,” I say with a resigned sigh. “Other than a shirt, I suppose. I have ruined this one.” I finger the hem. “I am sorry about that. I will be more careful in the future.”

  “I don’t care about the clothes.” He comes to stand behind me, and his hands move over my shoulders and upper arms in a soothing way. “Did you run today?”

  “No. I was too upset.”

  “Then you will run before dinner,” he says simply. “You need an outlet for your frustration.”

  He is right. I should have done that first thing. “Where will I run?” I do not want to go back to the hospital tonight.

  He opens a drawer and lays clothes on the bed for me. “Put these on.”

  He then opens another drawer and pulls out more clothes. Turning his back to me, he proceeds to undo his tie and remove his suit. He is placing it on a hanger before I strip out of my shirt. He has kept his back to me, but I am still nervous that he is in the room. He does not seem to hold the same reservations, because he strips down to his boxer briefs and I have to bite down on my tongue. His body is amazing.

  I turn my back to him, my stomach aflutter, but the image of his back and taut butt have been branded in my mind. He is all lean muscle, his back creased down the middle, and long dimples over the curves of his backside. With each movement of his arms, the lines of muscle over his shoulder blades appear. His shoulders themselves are round and grooved in muscle and I remember how good they felt the night we almost had sex.

  I am dressed when Declan brings forth a light jacket made of the same light material as my outfit. He holds it while I push my arms through.

  “Ready?” he asks. He is dressed for exercise, too.

  I nod, trying to ignore the shoulders peeking out of his sleeveless shirt.

  We are back in the teleporter tube and he keys in a port number that takes us to someplace I have never been. It is a basketball court. To our left is another room encased in glass. Exercise equipment fills the space beyond.

  “This is my private gym,” he says, stepping out. He points up to a level above us. It looks like a narrow walkway that spans all four walls. “The track is there.” He points to my right. “Stairs will take you up.” He points to the glass-encased room. “I’ll be there.”

  I am about to go to the stairs when he raises a finger for me to wait. “I almost forgot. I got you something. Arthur says you like music when you run.”

  This is such a recent development that I really had not given it much thought. “Yes.”

  He jogs over to a table and lifts a pair of wristbands and two other small devices from it. He pins one device over his ear on the way back, then pins the other to mine. It pinches slightly, but the earpiece slides into my ear and the fit will not jostle when I move. He then slides the thin band over my wrist. The controls are on the inside of my wrist, and a song title slides across the top of the screen, ready for me to press PLAY.

  “At the top of the music menu is a CALL button,” he says. “If you want to call me for a leisurely chat,” he adds with a wry smirk. “Or if you just need to get my attention. I play my music pretty loud.”

  I am in awe over the trouble he goes to for me. “You think of everything.”

  He laughs. “I seriously doubt that.”

  I push up on my toes and grab him by the neck to pull his head down. I kiss him softly, letting the moment linger, and when I pull away, the space between us is practically nonexistent.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  His smile quirks up on one end. “It’s just music.”

  “It is more than music.”

  He kisses me on the space just between my eyebrows. “Go run.” He leaves me, holding lightly to my fingers until the last possible second.

  I take the stairs up and find the second floor is no more than a track. No doors and no windows. Overhead are steel girders and fluorescent lighting. The ventilation system pushes cool air along the track, which is too cold right now but will be perfect once I get going.

  A click in my ear startles me and Declan’s voice comes through the earpiece. “Emma?”

  I flip my wrist and tap ANSWER on the wristband. I peer over the railing and find Declan standing inside the doorway of his exercise room. “Yes?”

  “I love you.” He sounds the most serious I have ever heard him. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

  Now, that, She says, I believe.

  • • •

  We are covered in sweat and smiling when we return to the house. Declan was right about a run relieving me of my frustrations. I am still very upset with Ruby, but I understand now how I must not blame her for what happened. She does not understand her own name, let alone the property of others.

  As for my paintings, I am upset over a lost connection to something that is not real. That beach and the man there do not exist. Like Her, they are a figment of my imagination. How can it be real?

  Declan said himself that men do not brand themselves. I have only to look at my own hand to know I am not the woman on the beach. It is not my life. Not my past. Not my future. Only a dream. Just like the woman Adrienne who floats in a tank. Just like Foster and Toni and all the other dreams She shows me about a girl named Wade. It is all a manipulation with a purpose I have yet to decipher.

  Declan is real. This home he has given to me is real. I will focus on that.

  Declan shoves me playfully toward the bedroom. “You can shower first. You smell the worst.”

  I gape at him. “I do not. And I really think that is physically impossible.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Showering?”

  I giggle. “Smelling worse than you. You can go first. I will wait.”

  He swallows hard, walking backward toward the room. “There is another solution, you know.”

  “And that would be?”

  “We could shower together.”

  The idea of showering together turns my heart into a jackhammer.

  No, you can’t, She says. He calls it a solution. I call it a mistake. That’s what he’s offering you. A really big mistake. You can’t uncross this t or undot this i.

  This does not concern you, I tell Her. You did not mind the idea of sex when we were in the hospital.

  That incident ended precisely when it needed to. This is different.

  You are right. It is. I want to do this.

  She has no response, so I simply nod and let Declan lead me into the bedroom.

  CHAPTER 16

  Declan kicks off his shoes at the foot of the bed and so do I. His eyes barely meet mine, and I take some comfort in the fact that maybe he is nervous, too. He disappears into th
e bathroom, and a heartbeat later, the shower starts. The sound is like an electric shock to my heart. Declan appears in the doorway, shirtless. He leans a smooth shoulder into the arched frame and folds his arms. Forget the electric shock to my heart. The sight of him like this—covered in sweat and curved in more muscle than is ever necessary—jolts my entire core.

  “Emma . . .” His voice trails off and he drops his gaze. “Take your time,” he says and turns back into the bathroom.

  The shower doors thump against each other a moment later, and the sound sets my feet in motion.

  The shower’s glass has a layer of steam coating it, turning Declan into an opaque version of himself. His back is to me, both hands running over his head under the shower spray. The clean, almost sweet scent of shampoo fills the room. Heavy smacks of water intermingle with softer sprays as he moves, his body slick with water.

  I slide out of my clothes, taking deep breaths. He will make this okay. He will not hurt me.

  I take both handles in my hands and slide the doors apart. They are silent, as if sliding on air instead of metal. The movement alerts him to my presence, but he does not turn around. His head turns only slightly and his shoulders lift with his next intake of breath.

  Declan edges aside. “Come here.”

  He guides me around him and places me under the spray. I tilt my head back and wait for the kiss that will start it all, but instead, he puts all his attention into washing my hair. While his fingers massage my scalp, I memorize the way water drips from the end of his nose and beads on his face. I watch his chest expand with each measured inhalation, and the drumming of the pulse in his neck.

  His gaze lowers to meet mine and his smile is soft. His dark hair looks heavy and black from its recent wash. A thick strand falls forward and the tip grazes his cheekbone. I reach up and brush it aside, then let my fingers linger and trail his cheekbone and chin.

  He turns his mouth into my palm and kisses it gently before moving my hand back to my side. I am confused until I realize he is reaching for a body sponge and coats it with a vanilla-scented wash. Now when he washes me, he does not follow his movements. I wonder if he is afraid to look at me. Regardless, I do not know if I am ready for him to.