by SE Hall
Jumping up from the couch, where’d I’d been staring vacantly at the television, my heart pounds with optimistic eagerness. “You did? Who is it? Are you sure? Did you get contact info? Did anyone see you?” The questions fly impatiently from my mouth as my brain shifts into overdrive.
“Can’t, breathe,” she wheezes.
“Shit, sorry,” I relax my bear hug on the little turquoise-headed ball of wonder.
Last night, once we were both home from our weekend getaways, I told Reagan about how I’d stumbled upon the copy of “Where The Red Fern Grows” at the bookstore and the connection I’d made between Old Dan and Devon’s code name, OD, for the trial participant at the clinic. She seemed a bit skeptical at first, but I told her to trust me—in my gut, I knew this was the correct lead—some things between brothers instinctual.
Her job today at the clinic today was to go through the files, searching for any Dan or Daniels, and gather his information so we could call him, pretending to be conducting a follow-up survey on the drug and its effects.
“Calm your tits, dude,” she chuckles, patting me on the shoulder as she walks by. “Here, let me show you what I found.” Sliding the backpack off her shoulders, she tosses it on the couch and unzips it, pulling out a manila file folder.
I join her on the couch, anxious to get a look, praying it will lead us to some answers. Everything going on with Jocelyn is great and all—actually, it’s fan-fucking-tastic—falling in love with a gorgeous, intelligent woman was something I’d never planned on when headed to Philly, and it’s not why I’m here, but it’s happening alright, and I have no plans of stopping it; like me, or the gale force wind of a category 5 hurricane could do so anyway.
And even though I’m one-hundred-and-ten percent positive she’s not involved, I can guarantee some shady shit is going on behind closed doors at JCC Pharmaceuticals; now I need to be able to prove it.
“This is the only Dan or Daniel that’s come through the clinic in the last year—Daniel Clayton Sullivan,” she hands me the top page from the stack of papers, “age nineteen, just completed his first year at Temple.”
“Temple? So he went to school with Devon?”
“Yeah, but we get a lot of college students there; kids looking to make a quick buck and some of them get extra credit in certain science classes for participating in the studies. So, I’m not sure he actually knew Devon, but I did find something else odd.”
“What’s that?”
She tucks her blue hair behind her ears and begins thumbing through the records. “Someone from JCC picks up the actual detailed reporting data from the clinic every Friday afternoon, but we keep a copy of the sign-in log for everyone who comes in there. Ol’ Danny boy should’ve come in once a week to get his next shot, take the memory test and survey and report in any side effects or issues, if they were any. But starting a few months ago, he began showing up several times a week. Then, he just stopped coming at all.”
“Hmmm, that’s strange—” My sentence is cut off by the buzz of my phone. “Hold on one sec.”
I retrieve it from my pocket and see it’s Jocelyn. Not wanting to interrupt the conversation I’m having with Reagan, or have two at once, I set the phone to the side for just a minute, so I can give each of them my undivided attention.
“Sorry about that. Okay, so I guess what we need to do now is call him. He can either agree to talk to us or not, right?”
“Yep, I totally agree. Why don’t you let me call him? He may be more apt to meet if he’s talking to a female,” Reagan suggests, her enthusiasm about making headway with our investigation equal to mine.
“‘Good idea,” I concur.
Sitting back, I listen to her one-sided conversation with whom I’m keeping my fingers crossed is our OD, and in a few short minutes, she’s convinced him to meet with us... tonight!
“Reagan, you’re a godsend!” I exclaim once she disconnects the call, leaning over and kissing the top of her head as I stand up. “Give me about fifteen minutes to change and answer this message, and I’ll be ready to go.”
The entire drive to meet with Dan, the guilt from turning down Jocelyn’s invitation to come over eats away at me. I can only imagine how she must be feeling—we spend this incredibly romantic weekend together, finally find out how much we like each other, and the first time she invites me over after, I decline and tell her I’ve got something else to do.
Way to boost her self-esteem, asshole.
Reagan picks up on my moodiness, and instead of asking me what’s wrong, she sits quietly on the other side of the truck, humming along to the radio. Maybe she thinks I’m nervous this interrogation won’t lead us any closer to finding out about what happened to Devon... or maybe she knows it’s about Jocelyn. Either way, I appreciate her not pressing me.
I eventually find an open parking space in the apartment complex right off the Temple campus; there’s no way to avoid thinking about Devon as we pass the numerous signs for the university around the area. Setting aside the mounting emptiness inside of me, I kill the engine and climb out of the truck, reminding myself this has to be done, for him.
Dan opens the door after a single knock, apparently awaiting our arrival. With a small smile, he first greets and shakes Reagan’s hand, then mine, as we exchange names and pleasantries. I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but the first thing that strikes me is how young he looks. I know Reagan said he was nineteen, but damn, this kid looks like he belongs in high school.
“Nice to meet you, Dan, and I really appreciate you agreeing to speak with us so soon,” I say, returning his handshake.
“No problem, man,” he ushers us inside. “Please, take a seat. Sorry about the mess.”
I survey the area, suppressing a laugh; mess is a nice word to describe the chaotic scene, screaming ‘bachelor pad.’ Thankfully, Reagan marches over to the dinette set, the cleanest of spaces in the room, and takes a seat, Dan and I following her lead.
I grab a notepad, pen, and audio recorder from my bag, placing them all on the table. I glance up at him, nervous apprehension weighing heavy in his expression, so I attempt to reassure him.
“I’m going to take some notes about your answers and record everything, to protect both of us, okay?”
He nods, so I click on the machine.
“Can you please state your name?” I ask.
“Daniel, Daniel Sullivan,” he stammers, a tense edge to his voice and shift in his chair.
I offer a slight nod and easy smile, a ‘you got this’ message between men, and continue. “We’re here doing some follow up on the clinical trials you were a part of for the drug Cerefore, being tested on behalf of JCC Pharmaceuticals,” I begin, a professional tone settling in. “Records indicate you were a part of a regimen that included weekly visits to the clinic, during which you were given 250mg of the aforementioned drug and were asked each time to participate in a memory test, a survey and to report any side effects you were experiencing. Is this correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” he answers.
“Do you remember when you began the trial program?”
“January of this year. I had another guy in my class that was working at the clinic, and he told me about what they were doing, and paying. He said this drug was supposed to help me remember more information for longer amounts of time. And being that I’ve never been a very good test taker, I thought I’d try it out, hoping it would help me in school. And every college kid could use easy cash, right?” He pops one shoulder, an empty grin.
“And did it? Help you?”
“Fuck yeah! I mean-” he shakes his head, embarrassed. “I mean, yes, it did. Quite a bit actually. The first couple of months were going great.”
“And then what happened?”
“Then I started getting really bad headaches. At first, I didn’t think it was related to the medicine... just too much studying or not enough sleep, ya know? But by the end of March, it wasn’t just the headaches. I had tingles in my
hands and fingers, sometimes they’d go numb and I couldn’t even hold a pen, and it kept getting worse. Then spots started to form in my vision. It was bad.”
“Did you report this information to the clinic?”
“I didn’t at first, with the headaches, cause I hadn’t put two and two together, but when the other stuff started, yes, I did.”
“We noticed on the sign in sheets you went to the clinic several times a week around the end of April. Is this when things started to get bad?”
“Yeah, I kept going up there asking if anyone else was having these problems, but they wouldn’t tell me anything... claiming confidentiality and shit.”
“Why did you stop going?”
“The week of finals, I had a stroke. I was just walking between classes, and BAM, it hit me. Started sweating like crazy, vision tunneled, got dizzy, then it all went black. The next thing I knew, I woke up in an emergency room.”
“That’s terrible. I’m really sorry to hear it,” I pause, thinking to myself how scared this kid must’ve been through all this. “Have you had any lasting effects? When did you take your last dose; do you remember?”
“I’m not sure the exact date, but sometime around May first, and other than the headaches, all of the other symptoms have subsided since I’ve been off the drug for a couple months now.”
“Is there anything else you can think of to tell us? Any information that would be pertinent?”
He thinks for a minute, and nods briefly. “I did meet a couple of other students here that were part of the trial, and they didn’t have a stroke or anything, but they definitely had other similar side effects like I did.”
Jotting down notes as quickly as possible, I gain even more hope. “Do you know any of their names?”
“Not full names—there’s Claire and Ryan, but I never asked their last name.”
“That’s okay, Dan. I really appreciate you telling all of this tonight.” I click off the recorder and glance over at Reagan, who’s been transfixed on the entire conversation. “You ready to go?”
“Turn that back on,” she points to the recorder, a deep crease in her brow. When I do, she looks to Dan. “The emergency room visit; Dan, what’d they say, find? Surely they ran tests, took blood?”
She just keeps getting cooler by the minute.
“Yeah, of course they did. And when they asked, I told them about the trial drug. Never did get a bill for that, now that I think about it.” His eyes drift up, looking at nothing. “Huh,” he thinks aloud.
“Now I’m ready,” she hops up, out of the chair. “Thanks Dan, you’ve been a huge help, and I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“So are they going to pull the drug? They’re not going to continue with it, are they?” He asks with obvious concern, walking us to the door. “That’s why I’m talking, so no one else has to go through what I did.”
“Honestly, we’re not sure, but that’s what we’re trying to prevent,” I affirm. “Has anyone else from JCC talked to you since your stroke?”
“Only Devon,” he replies, unlocking the door to allow us out. I freeze at the sound of my brother’s name, heart lurching in my chest, but Dan continues. “He was the guy who told me about the study. I think he was interning for the company or something. I know he felt really bad when everything started happening to me, like he was responsible, but I tried to tell him he wasn’t. He thought he was doing me a favor, there was no way he coulda known.”
I gulp hard, swallowing down the harsh reality of what he just confirmed. “Thanks again. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
Neither Reagan nor I say a word as we traipse back to my truck. Once we’re inside the cab, I twist to look at her, tears freely flowing down her face. Pulling her into my arms, I soothingly rub her back and enfold her in my arms firmly.
“We’re gonna clear his name, Reagan. I promise you that, if it’s the last thing I do.”
SEXY HATH NO WRATH like a woman turned down the night before.
I’d stayed up half the night choosing the perfect ensemble, guaranteed to make Bryce think three times before declining an invitation ever again. And if my father or Hunter notice my new look before I can throw on the ‘emergency cardigan’ I have at the ready, my plan is to tell them a male reporter wants to interview me for a JCC magazine feature. That should shut them up in a flat second—no way they’d ever prioritize my virtue before their notoriety.
When I arrive at the office Tuesday morning, Bryce’s truck is already in the lot... and upon further examination, he’s sitting in it. As though I hadn’t been bothered to notice, I get out of my car, strutting to the front doors like the stairs are a runway.
Donned in a nude colored, sheath dress with a built-in bra, sweetheart neckline, and flirty back cut-out... oh, and having absent-mindedly forgotten to wear any panties—I can feel the last shreds of his sanity evaporating from here.
“You’re gonna want to stop right where you are,” his feral command, low and menacing, halts me in my tracks, his footsteps quickly approaching from behind.
“Am I now? And why is that?” I speak coyly, but remain facing forward, mask impassive for the camera scanning right above the entrance doors, in spite of the lustful deviance skittering through every barely concealed inch of me.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it last night, J, you don’t know how fucking sorry. But no panties? You really that mad?” He leans in closer, hot breath just behind my ear, and growls, “Cause you’re fighting awful dirty.”
“Pssh, smooth talker,” I reply aloof, resuming my climb forward, as though darts of hunger aren’t shooting off between my thighs like the Fourth of July.
Hot on my tail, we share the same elevator, remaining apart for yet another blasted camera. But he more than bridges the gap with his primal timbre and untamed words. “I’ll be at your place tonight, seven sharp, to eat. You will be wearing that outfit, and by the end of the night, the only thing you’ll be mad about is that I only have one dick to fuck you stupid with.”
“Ah,” I squeak, right when the car stops and the doors open. Without another scandalous word, or mere goodbye, he winks and ambles out, his tight ass hugged in black slacks teasing me the entire way.
In a delightful mood, not having run into my father or Hunter once all day, I sneak out of work early, needing one last item for the gourmet meal I’ll be making for Bryce tonight.
You’d never know we’ve spent a whole weekend together, well-acquainted with every part of each other, cause my legs are jittering like a virgin on prom night, all day having to stave off the distracting, torturous anticipation.
It’s because... I’ve never dated. Longtime, unofficial betrothal to Hunter had stolen from me all this; flirty games, anxious ‘firsts’ of many things, and most of all—any effort whatsoever on Hunter’s part to ‘woo’ me. And never…ever…anything the likes of the sexy promises growled in the elevator. Just those words, his eyes, voice, when he threatened them…an injection of erotic passion erupting in me.
Lugging my purse and grocery bag inside, I rush through tidying my place up and pacifying Stripe with food, water and a quick rub down, before freshening my breath, hair and body spray, then kick off my heels to start cooking. I hope he likes seafood, because my specialty is Greek Baked Shrimp Fettuccini, and once it’s in the oven, I whip up the chocolate mousse and spoon it into two champagne flutes to firm up nicely in the fridge for dessert.
I light a few candles and place my phone in the dock, turning on my “slow” playlist—the first of which is “Come Wake Me Up” by Rascall Flats.
And boy has he ever.
In such a short span of time, Bryce has whittled his way into my heart, my untouched soul—consuming not only my body in magnificent ways, but as much so my thoughts. When I’m with him, I can be myself—my own opinions, likes or dislikes, and voice them—with no fear of harsh reprimand or insistent redirection.
Inspecting my all-day outfit once more for wrinkles, I
go check the food, noticing the oven clock reads 7:32.
Alright, not sharp, like he’d so vehemently pledged, but not insultingly late either... yet. I go ahead and pull out the bottle of Pinot Grigio and help myself to a glass, fingernails thrumming the countertop.
At 7:51, there’s a brisk knock at the door, which I take my time answering. I’m greeted by... a large, colorful bouquet of flowers, one very handsome, guilt-ridden face finally peeking out from around them.
“I already get the paper, thank you anyway,” I start to shut the door, plan squashed by a large foot in the way.
“Aw, J, I’m sorry. At least take your flowers, babe, and I’ll go,” he turns up the voltage on those big, blue eyes of his, my breath stuttering.
I snatch the beautiful arrangement from him and turn to walk toward the kitchen, leaving the door open. Like they sell the newspaper door to door anymore, Jocelyn; good one.
“Smells great in here,” he murmurs, head dipped, hands in his pockets like a whipped pup. Imagine if I’d even had an attempt at an angry tongue lashing ready; he’s actually making me feel bad right now. Devil.
“Well, have a seat before it gets even colder. Wine or beer?” I ask with a slight zing.
“Whichever’s easier,” he mumbles, sitting at the table, rubbing his forehead with one hand, leaning down to rub Stripe with the other.
“It’s Greek Baked Shrimp Fettuccini,” I explain, placing a plate full and glass of wine in front of him, shooing away my cat—that I’m secretly pleased to see he likes, “with chocolate mousse for dessert.”
“Thanks, babe, sorry again.” He twirls his fork through the noodles, three, four times, drilling a hole in the plate with desolate eyes.
I serve myself and join him, all at once blanketed in more loneliness and anxiety then before he arrived.
Music plays faintly in the background, drowned out by the clattering of utensils on plates. Candlelight flickers on the walls, across his face, doing nothing to set a warm atmosphere.
I open my mouth, Bryce’s Jocelyn ready to use the voice she’d recently found and stick up for myself, when his phone trills loudly from his pocket. And he checks it! Pulling it out, a frown disgraces his face as he looks at the screen, then to me. “I have to take this, sorry. Be right back.”‘