Denial (Careless Whispers #1)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  She narrows her gaze. “What is the last thing you do remember?”

  “Waking up here.”

  “No,” she amends, “I mean, what do you remember before right now?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “There is nothing but now.”

  She stares at me, her expression cautiously blank; more beats pass as she says nothing. Then she glances over her shoulder at Kayden and speaks a few sentences in Italian that are obviously about me. He replies rather shortly, almost as if he’s reprimanding her. But she is undeterred, launching into more Italian.

  “English, please,” I plead, unable to take one more thing I don’t understand, especially since it’s about me, and to a stranger. How is that okay?

  “I’m sorry,” Maria apologizes, setting the chart back on its clip.

  “What did you say to him?” I ask, glancing at Kayden. “What did you say to her?”

  “I told him I’m going to have the doctor in to speak with you in a few minutes,” she replies.

  “And I told her we’d prefer sooner than later,” Kayden adds.

  “Do you need anything before I go?” Maria asks.

  “To know what’s wrong with me,” I say, not believing for a minute that either of them has told me everything that was said. “Why can’t I remember who I am?”

  “Some temporary memory loss with a head injury isn’t unheard of,” she says.

  “So this is temporary?” I press, hoping for positive news.

  “Most likely, but the doctor is the one we need to speak with.” She reaches down and squeezes my arm. “Everything is going to be fine. Try not to worry.”

  “How do I not worry when I don’t even know my name?”

  “I know it’s scary, but I’m certain we’ll figure it all out. I’ll go hurry the doctor along. Do you want anything in the meantime? Water? Something to eat?”

  “Water would be good,” I say, dying for a drink, but I amend my request: “It’s not urgent. After you find the doctor, but thank you.”

  “We have water,” Kayden announces, moving to a tray on top of a rolling table at the end of the bed and indicating a pitcher. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Just a little at first, so you don’t get sick,” Maria warns, heading to the door where Kayden delays her departure and, ignoring my request for English, says something to her in Italian. Maria gives him a quick, clipped reply and, seemingly satisfied with her answer, he steps aside and allows her to pass.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she calls to me, breezing out of the room.

  Kayden fills a cup with water, and I can’t help but notice a tattoo on each of his wrists. The left one extends beyond the edge of his watch, but it’s the right one that catches my eye: a box with words trailing up his forearm, none of which I can make out. I’m still trying when he sits next to me, and I’m not sure if I’m more aware of his powerful thigh pressing against mine or those piercing eyes giving me an intense inspection.

  He hands me the water, our hands and gazes colliding, and I am jolted with the impact, feeling it in every part of me. Afraid he’ll see my reaction, I tip up the cup and start to drink. Oh, God. The first drop on my tongue is liquid gold that has me gulping as fast as I can.

  “Easy,” Kayden warns, his hand coming down on mine again, heat radiating up my arm as he eases the rim from my lips. “Remember what Maria said. You’ll make yourself sick.”

  “I’m still thirsty,” I object, licking the last droplet of liquid bliss from my lips as he takes the water from me.

  “A little at a time,” he warns, setting the cup on the table beside the bed, acting more like a friend or family member than a stranger, like someone who cares when I seem to have no one who does.

  Nervous energy has me wiping my mouth, aware that this is a moment when I should suggest he has better things to do than stay here. But I don’t. I can’t. I cling to him, the only person I know right now, embarrassingly worthy of the pity he swears he won’t give me. “What did you say to Maria when she was leaving?” I ask.

  “That I expect you to get the best care possible.”

  He makes the statement like he’s in charge of my care. For a moment it’s comforting, while in the next moment I know it’s a façade I can’t afford. “As much as I appreciate that, I need the cheapest options, not the best. I have no money.”

  “Money’s the last thing that should be on your mind. Healing comes first.”

  “We both know that’s not true. I have to walk out of here and survive, when I don’t even remember where I live or where I’m staying.”

  There’s movement outside the door, and Kayden stands as Maria enters with a tall man in a white coat, his thick hair graying on the sides.

  “Signorina,” the man greets me, crossing to stand beside my bed across from Kayden. “I’m your physician, Dr. Mortello. I’ve been caring for you since your admission some hours ago. I understand your head injury has left you with extensive memory loss?”

  “That’s correct,” I say. “What does that mean?”

  “Your CT scan showed a clear concussion, and most likely you’re simply encountering side effects from the swelling of your brain. Still, I prefer to err on the side of caution. We’re going to send you for an MRI and draw more blood to run some additional tests.”

  More tests mean more money, but Kayden’s right. I can’t think about that now. “If this is from the swelling,” I ask, “how long until I recover my memory?”

  “There’s really no solid answer to that question,” he replies. “Each patient is different.” A nurse appears in the doorway and speaks in Italian, then he tells me, “They’re ready for you now.”

  “Now?” I ask, shocked at how quickly this is moving. “Why is this so urgent?”

  “We’re always cautious with head injuries, especially with unexpected symptoms.”

  “I thought I had normal symptoms.”

  “You do.” Before I can press for a more conclusive answer, another nurse rushes into the room and says something to him in Italian. I wait for the moment I can push him for answers, but it never comes. “I need to go,” he announces abruptly. “I’ll see you back here after we have the results.”

  And just like that, he’s gone, and one of the nurses steps to my side. “I’m Anna,” the woman says. “I was with you when you first arrived and had the CT scan.”

  I study her, taking in her salt-and-pepper hair styled in a bun, and try to place her. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.”

  “Of course you don’t, silly,” she says good-naturedly. “You were out like a light. Glad to see you’re awake for the ride this time. We’re going to roll you down to the MRI department.”

  She kicks the brake free on one of the wheels of my bed, and Kayden steps to the other side of me, kicking his side free as well and speaking to Anna in Italian, his hands resting on the railing. I open my mouth to plead for English again, but for some reason my gaze falls to his watch, to the brand name.

  Cartier. The name means something to me beyond being an expensive brand, and I’m instantly frustrated that I know it’s high priced, but still know nothing of who I am or why I’m here.

  My gaze lifts to find Kayden watching me, his expression unreadable, his continued presence truly unexplainable. “Don’t you have a job or something to go to?”

  “My boss is good to me.” His lips curve. “Some even say he’s ‘beautiful.’ ”

  I flush with the obvious reference to my compliment. “I thought I was dreaming when I said that.”

  “Which makes it all the better.”

  “You aren’t going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  I blush and we both laugh, the sounds mingling, soft and feminine, and low and deep. And then the air shifts around us and we are staring at each other. I have no idea why he’s sticking this out with me, but without him, I’d be alone and even more scared.

  “I don’t know what would have happened to me if you h
adn’t found me in that alleyway,” I say, a tremor slipping into my voice. “Thank you, Kayden.”

  There’s a flicker in his eyes, a shadow that’s there and gone before either of us blinks. “Thank me by getting your memory back,” he says, and while it’s a perfect answer, it’s somehow imperfect. There’s an odd undertone that reaches beyond predictability or sincerity.

  It’s the last thought I have before the bed is moving and I’m being pushed away from him, and I can’t think for the motion setting the room spinning. Another bump, and my stomach churns. Groaning, I roll to my side, curling my knees to my belly, and I will myself to not throw up. The bumps and sways of the bed are pure torture.

  “Oh, honey,” Anna says, leaning over me as we stop moving. “That ride didn’t go well, did it?”

  “Sick,” I manage, my throat thick, goose bumps rising on my arms. “And cold.”

  “I’ll make sure we have some antinausea medicine waiting for you when you get out of the MRI machine.”

  “Can’t you do it before?” I plead. “I don’t want to get sick during the test.”

  “We’ll have you done before I can get you medicine,” she says. “If you’re okay with it, I’d like to try and just get this over with for you. I’ll put a warm blanket over your legs now to stop your shivering.” She doesn’t wait for my agreement, announcing, “We need to move you to the table,” and she and another nurse are suddenly lifting me.

  My stomach rolls and the throb in my head intensifies as they set me on the hard platform, which hits my injured back in all kinds of wrong ways. It also has me feeling exposed and very alone in my skimpy hospital gown. Hugging myself, I shiver, my teeth chattering. “Cold,” I say. “Really cold.”

  “I know,” she says. “Hang in there. I’ll get the blanket.” She rushes away and comes right back and, as promised, wraps my lower body. “Better?”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling a bit of the chill fade. “It helps.”

  “Good. Because once we start the MRI, you have to try to hold still.” She unfolds my arms. “Keep them by your side.” I nod, and she adds, “I’m going to put some headphones on you. It’ll help with the noise.” Before she puts them on, she tells me, “Try to just shut your eyes and it will be over soon.”

  I grab her hand before she covers my ears. “How soon?”

  “Twenty minutes,” she says.

  “That’s a long time.”

  “It’ll be over before you know it.” She covers my ears with the headphones and I hear some sort of music playing—classical, I think. The table starts to move and I hug myself again, the air around me seeming to chill from cold to frigid. Too soon, I’m in the center of a giant cylindrical machine.

  “We need you to be really still,” comes a voice in my ears. “And put your arms back down.”

  “Okay,” I say, willing my body to calm. I need this test to get answers. I need to be well and remember who I am.

  The music starts to play again, a soft violin that is moody, almost sultry, and I wonder how I know what a violin is when I can’t remember my own name. A roar starts around me and the machine begins some kind of swirling motion. I squeeze my eyes shut. The volume of the music is louder now, the violin playing faster, the notes fierce and defiant, and suddenly I’m running down a cobblestone road, darkness cloaking me, my heart racing, fear in my chest. I have to get away. I have to escape. I look over my shoulder and try desperately to see who’s after me, but there’s only darkness and then a hard thud to my shoulders that makes me gasp, pain splintering upward into my skull.

  I sink to my knees and tell myself to get up. Get up! But the pain, oh, the pain is so intense. I feel myself falling, my hands catching the pavement, rocks digging into my palms before my cheek is there too. And then there is blackness. Black, inky nothing. Time ticks and ticks, the pain radiating in my skull, until I’m suddenly on my back and blinking up into pale blue eyes, but I can’t focus. Then everything goes black again.

  two

  I blink, and once again I’m staring into pale blue eyes. “Kayden?”

  His lips curve, and those eyes of his, which have a way of stealing right into the emptiness of my mind, light with satisfaction. “You remember me. Progress. The last two times that you woke up, you didn’t know my name.”

  “What last two times?” I try to focus, to remember anything but him. “The MRI machine—”

  “You had a panic attack inside it, and they had to sedate you.”

  My brow furrows, and I flash back to the violin playing in my ears. “No. I was fine, just cold and sick to my stomach.”

  “Until you weren’t fine anymore,” he says, running his hand over the dark shadow on his jaw that I don’t remember being there before. A bad feeling comes over me.

  “How much time has passed?”

  He glances at his watch again, and I’m relieved to remember it’s a Cartier, relieved by all things familiar. That is until he announces, “Thirty-six hours.”

  Losing that much time is like a blow; my throat is suddenly so dry it’s sandpaper. “I need water.”

  He stands and finds the pitcher, filling a cup for me. I try to sit, and he quickly abandons his efforts, gently shackling my arm, his touch electric, familiar in a way that no longer surprises me but still confuses me. “Let me lift the bed,” he offers, and I nod, allowing him to help me, the way I have so many times before, it seems, when really it hasn’t been that often at all.

  The bed rises, and I settle against it while he reaches for the cup. He offers it to me, and this time when I accept it, and our hands and gazes collide, I don’t look away. I can’t look away. “Déjà vu,” I whisper, feeling the sensation clear to my soul.

  “Yes,” he agrees. “Déjà vu.” While I could dismiss it as just that, I have this sense that there’s more to this moment than a simple repeat action.

  I down the contents of the cup, drinking quickly before he can stop me, and when I’m done, he takes the cup from me. “More?”

  “No, thank you.” I glance down, unnerved to realize my IV is gone. “It’s hard to comprehend that I woke up twice and don’t remember.”

  “You not only woke up—the last time you were awake, you ate some soup and had a nurse help you shower.”

  “Shower? Okay, I’m even more freaked out now. How can I not remember that? How bad is my head injury?”

  “Your tests were all normal aside from the concussion, which is healing. Your back should be healing as well.”

  I flex my shoulders and nod. “It feels better, and my head doesn’t hurt the way it did. But I’m not encouraged that I can’t remember the last two times I woke up.”

  “It’s the drugs they gave you after you had the panic attack.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the second time you woke up and didn’t remember the first time, I was worried and asked.”

  “Could my entire memory loss be the drugs?” I ask, hopefully.

  His lips tighten. “No. Sorry. I asked the same as well.”

  “Of course it’s not the drugs,” I say grimly. “That would be too easy a solution. At least I showered, I guess.”

  “As did I,” he says. “I was afraid they’d kick me out if I didn’t.”

  It’s then that I notice he’s now in a light blue T-shirt and faded jeans, which indicates, I assume, that he went home, changed, and made the decision to return here to me. “It’s been thirty-six hours since my test, and at least another eight before that, and you’re still here.”

  “Yes. I’m still here.”

  Reality hits me with gut-wrenching clarity. “No one came looking for me.”

  He gives a grim shake of his head. “No.”

  I inhale and then let the breath out, devastated by this news. Kayden is here out of obligation or some sense of responsibility. Whatever the case, he won’t admit it, and I’m not going to pathetically drive home the topic. I need out of this place, and so does he.

  “Do you know when th
e doctor will be back around?” I ask.

  “Not until tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait until tomorrow; I need to talk to him now,” I insist. “Please call him.” I realize I’ve grabbed his arm and I’m squeezing. “I’m sorry.” I jerk my hand back, and it’s trembling. I’m trembling. All over. “I just need them to fix me. They … they have to make me remember who I am.”

  “The doctors keep saying that you will,” he assures me, reaching to the table beside the bed and presenting me with a leather book.

  “What is that?”

  “A journal. The staff psychologist left this for you. She wants you to write down your thoughts and dreams. Apparently there’s reason to believe it will help you regain your memories sooner.”

  In disbelief, I ask, “That’s my medical treatment? A journal?” I take it from him, my brow furrowing with a memory that’s here and then gone, leaving me frustrated and ready to throw the darn thing. “How is this supposed to help me?”

  “It’s one part of a treatment plan they intend to present to you on Monday.”

  I set the journal on the bed, rejecting it along with the “treatment plan.” “They seem to believe that your brain is suppressing memories to protect you from some sort of trauma.”

  “Leaving me homeless and without a name?” I ask. “That’s a horrible way to protect myself. And I don’t even have memories to write in it.”

  He shifts on the bed, his hand settling on my leg. It’s a strong hand, the hand of a man who knows what he wants and goes after it, while I know nothing at all. “Maybe if we talk, it’ll help.”

  “That’s no different than writing in the journal. I can’t talk about what I don’t remember.”

  “My memories might stir yours.”

  I sigh. “Okay. But it would be so much easier if there was a pill for this kind of thing.”

  His lips hint at a smile. “Most of us would agree with that at some point in our lives. Why don’t we talk about the night you were mugged?”

  “That’s exactly why I’m here,” says an unfamiliar male voice.

  My attention shifts to the doorway, where a man in his mid-thirties leans on the doorjamb, his suit and dark brown hair a bit rumpled and his tie slightly off center.