by John Corwin
My phone sat next to me on the couch. I snatched it up and scrolled down for his number. It only then occurred to me I didn't actually have his number, and he didn't have mine. I felt helpless. How was I supposed to know if he was okay? I didn't even know where he lived. My mind grew more sluggish and my eyelids heavier. Perhaps drinking so much wine hadn't been such a wonderful idea. I slumped to the side and let the pain and the light slip away.
I woke up with a very stiff neck and a terrible ache in my bladder. My head pounded, and my mouth felt painfully dry. Deciding the ache in my bladder couldn't be ignored, I rolled off the couch and staggered to the bathroom, barely managing to sit down before I lost control. After finishing, I groaned and went to bed. As I fell into it, my eye caught sight of the digital clock. It was six thirty.
Six thirty!
Ignoring the terrible pain in my head and neck, I took off my PJs and pulled on my work clothes—a pair of dress slacks, and button-up shirt. By then I realized there was no way I could ignore the pain. I took three ibuprofen and gulped down a glass of water. I had no time to make lunch or my morning tea, and scooted out the door. Just as the door was about to close behind me, I jammed a foot in it just in time, and raced back inside to grab my purse, phone, and most importantly, my keys.
Every bounce hurt my head as I jogged down the sidewalk. I tried to flag down a taxi, but they all seemed to be full. I felt so scatterbrained.
Despite my urgency, I kept my eyes peeled for George Walker. If I ran into him, I planned to make him answer my questions. I had my new stun gun ready and willing to go if he resisted. George didn't make an appearance, so I kept on going.
Breathless, I finally reached the building. My legs felt like rubber, and my feet ached even though I'd worn flats instead of heels for the emergency situation. I didn't even want to look at the time.
A man in the lift pulled out his large phone just as seven o'clock flicked onto the screen. My nerves redoubled their efforts to twist my stomach into unimaginable shapes. It seemed the lift stopped at every floor along the way before finally reaching my office. I fairly flew off, rushed to the kitchen to start the morning coffee. Meanwhile, my mind was finally clearing a bit thanks to the ibuprofen. I wondered if Thomas would show up and what I'd do if he did. I wanted to beat him with a cricket bat. I wanted to kiss him and make sure he was all right. I wanted to throw a steaming cup of tea in his face. I wanted to see his smile and the twinkle in his eyes.
Get it straight, you idiot!
I heated up a cup of water in the microwave and tossed a bag of green tea into it, determined to pump some caffeine into my flustered system. I knew I had to do something when I saw Thomas, but what? What if he never showed up? What if he was in jail right this very moment? My stomach went cold with fear. If only I had his number!
It then occurred to me that Sandra had to have his number. She was, after all, the Executive Liaison. It took me all of two minutes to find a sheet of numbers taped to the desk. I ran my finger down the list and found Thomas Jones. Deciding it might be safer to call from the office phone, I picked up the receiver and dialed the number.
I heard a ringing from my left. From the executive hallway.
Chapter 9
I slammed down the receiver. Anger, surprise, pain, and too many more emotions to name roiled in my guts. Was he here already? I marched down the hall to his office. Through his office window, I saw him talking to Burt Jameson with the door closed. I backed up a step before he saw me and tried to hear what they were saying, but I could only pick out bits and pieces from their muffled voices.
He must be confessing his crimes to the boss, I thought. Or trying to talk his way out of the consequences. Most of the negative emotions melted away, leaving only confusion and concern. It made sense he was here early if he somehow escaped his pursuers. Or maybe it made no sense at all. Why not skip town? Why not escape with me and his millions of stolen dollars to an island in the Caribbean?
What in God's name was going on here?
I heard the hubbub of conversation from the front area and went to the reception desk as employees trickled in. Jack stepped off the lift and did a double take.
"Wow, you look tense," he said. "Too much caffeine in the green chai?"
I managed a laugh. "I overslept and had to run in."
"Man, I hate it when that happens. Hinkle gets all over my ass."
"I'm just glad Sandra isn't here."
"Yeah, that'd be brutal." He opened his mouth to say something. Paused. "Uh, well, guess I better get back there."
"See you later," I said, hardly paying attention as he walked away. I dropped into the seat and caught myself peering down the executive hallway every few seconds. Nearly an hour later, Burt Jameson emerged from the office, leaving the door open.
"If you feel fine, then I don't see a problem," he said. "Thanks for letting me know."
Thomas's muffled voice echoed down the hall, but I couldn't make out what he said.
Burt laughed. "Yeah, it's called getting old." Then he walked down the hall toward his office at the end.
Kevin walked past the front desk, a stack of charts and a tripod under one arm. He sidled up to the desk, eyes flicking toward the executive hall. "You hear about Jones?" he said.
My hands trembled. I tucked them into my lap. "No, what happened?"
He tapped his temple. "His memory is screwed up. Got in a fender bender and bumped his head."
Thomas's warning echoed in my head. "He lost his memory from a bump?"
"So he says. I gotta go in and show him what we've been up to."
"Do you need my help?" I said, desperately wanting to see Thomas.
"That'd be great. You have time?"
"Yes, yes, of course."
"Can you run to my cubicle and grab the other set of charts?" Kevin made a motion with his head, indicating the general direction.
"Sure thing." I hurried down the hall, past my little office, and grabbed the materials. My hands shook, whether due to nerves or excitement, I didn't know.
Voices echoed from the conference room. I entered to see Kevin putting the charts on the tripod.
"What's with the tripod?" Thomas said, his voice sounding different, almost like a weaker version of his normal tone and timbre.
"Uh, you told us you preferred us to do it this way," Kevin said, looking back and forth between the charts and Thomas.
"Uh-huh." Thomas took a seat. Aside from a small bandage on his forehead, he looked fine, albeit a bit pale. Something else seemed off. "Paper charts on a tripod. How many years have we been using the projector?"
"I'm not sure, Mr. Jones. Ever since I started working here."
"And I suddenly decided to go back a century."
"Um." Kevin seemed at a loss for words.
"You asked them to switch to paper," I said from his side.
He flicked his head my way. Instead of a look of recognition, his eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"
"Emily Glass, the new intern." I looked at him, trying to figure out what it was that seemed so different about his appearance.
"Since when? What happened to Shannon?"
"Shannon hasn't been with us for three months," Kevin said. "Emily just started with us this week."
"So you're the expert on office procedure after a week?" Thomas said, sparing me a disparaging glance. He stood, walked to the front of the room, and knocked the charts off the stand. "Put this crap into a digital presentation, and get it done by lunch so I can look over the figures." He headed my way toward the door. Stopped and turned back to Kevin. "And get me the sales figures from the past three months. I may have lost some memories, but I sure as hell haven't lost my damned mind." With that, he stormed past me, his shoulder bumping me aside.
My vision blurred and a lead weight sagged in my chest. He hadn't recognized me in the slightest. And he'd practically shoved past me. What happened to him last night? A hand touched my shoulder. I flinched.
"I'm sorry, Emily."
Kevin stared out the door. "Great. Looks like the old Jones is back from vacation. Maybe they should send him on another one."
I nodded, hardly hearing his words, as I dragged my heavy heart out the door and back to the front desk, trying with all my might not to cry.
Lunch came around, and Thomas emerged from the executive hall, pressed the button for the lift. He turned and squinted at me. "Where's Sandra?"
"Sick." A lump climbed in my throat at the sight of him. He seemed smaller somehow. Less robust. As if someone had taken a vibrant picture and washed out all the colors. But the nagging thought that something else was completely wrong with his appearance wouldn't go away. Not only that, but the usual vibe I got from Thomas was completely absent, as if this was a shadow of a copy of the real man.
The difference slapped me in the face. His eyes are brown! Had he been wearing contacts? If he had, they'd been exceptionally good, because I could usually tell the difference.
"She's never sick." Thomas grunted.
I snapped out of my confusion. "Is your head okay?" I didn't dare mention I'd been with him the night before.
He touched the bandage. "It's fine. Damndest thing. I remember vacation, and then poof"—he snapped his fingers—"nothing. Woke up behind the wheel of a car I don't even remember buying."
"Your Range Rover?"
He grunted. "You've seen it? Too expensive. Too fancy for my tastes. Give me a Ford sedan and I'm a happy man. None of this import crap."
"Sometimes you have to live a little," I said, smiling hopefully.
"Not if you have to waste money to do it." He banged on the lift button several times. "Damned thing is slow today."
"Will you be going out for pho soup?" I hoped the question jogged a memory.
He turned back to me. "What soup?
"Vietnamese noodle soup."
"I don't eat that crap." He narrowed his eyes. "Are you saying I've been eating some kind of Asian garbage food?"
I shrugged. "You mentioned going there one day, sir."
His lips curled into a grimace. "Christ Almighty, it's like I was possessed." He crossed the distance between the lift and the desk and said, "The Blue Ribbon Grill or Mackey's are the only two places I eat lunch. Why? Because the food is good, it's cheap, and I know it ain't got dog meat or some other shit in it." He shook his head as the lift dinged, casting me one more venomous look before getting on. "Eating Asian food. Gotta be kidding me."
The moment the doors closed, I let out a long breath. A group of people from sales walked around the corner, huddled together like frightened sheep, their eyes glued to the closed lift doors.
"Son of a bitch," Kevin said.
"Let's give him a few minutes," said a woman. "I don't want to bump into him when we go for lunch."
The others in the group nodded.
"Is this what he was like before?" Horror gripped me with cold fingers.
"It's Jones one point oh," said one of the other guys. "Complete and utter asshole."
"Can we hit him on the head again?" asked the woman. She pressed the lift button and sighed. "I'll bet he's gonna take our flex time away too."
"Did you get your presentation done?" I asked Kevin.
He nodded. "I already had it in another program, so it was easy to copy the charts. When I told him it was ready, he didn't even seem to care."
The lift arrived and the huddled mass of sales people got on, faces sad, and hearts obviously heavy at the current state of their boss.
The day crawled past like a dying animal. Every time I saw Thomas, my heart caught in my throat, but by the end of the day, it was clear he was just Mr. Jones to me. Whatever spark had been between us over the past two days was gone, snuffed out overnight. I tried not to brood, but a part of me felt like I'd just lost my best friend. Like all the magic in the world had just vanished.
Isabel greeted me at home with a fresh pot of her Cajun chili. Despite her Chinese roots, she'd been raised in southern Louisiana and knew how to cook a meal, even if she rarely bothered.
"Date night, girl!" she chirped, waving her arm at a kitchen table set with wine glasses and the chili. "Just you and me."
It took every ounce of will to move my lips into a smile. And then I burst into tears.
Isabel's arms wrapped around me in a fierce hug. "What did that bastard do to you, Em? I will fuck him up if he hurt you."
I tried to talk, but sobs wracked my body. "T-t-t-tissue."
She grabbed a box. Held one out to me.
After a few minutes, I finally composed myself, despite a few aftershock sobs and tears. "He didn't hurt me, really." I blew my nose, trying to figure out how in the hell I could explain things to her. Nothing made sense. I finally decided to just blurt it all out and hope she might see something I'd missed. "And he doesn't even seem like the same person." Retelling the story made me burst into fresh tears.
"What in the hell?" Isabel said, her face screwed up in confusion. "A little bump on the head?"
I nodded. "With an itty-bitty bandage."
She stood and paced, a wine glass in her hand. "So the guy goes on vacay, comes back a changed man." She stopped and looked at me. "A very nice and cool guy. But some FBI-looking types are after him for some reason. Maybe he did something on vacation, and it took all this time for them to catch up."
I shrugged. "Why did they let him go, then?"
"Yeah, you're right. It doesn't make sense." She took a sip of wine, paced for a moment. "And he said they weren't with law enforcement?"
I nodded, walked across the room to get a glass of wine for myself. It was becoming a terrible habit. "Damned men," I snarled. "Not worth it. Not worth the pain or the bloody weight gain." As my voice slipped into its natural state, I remembered Thomas telling me how much he loved my accent. Moisture pooled in my eyes, and the room vanished in a blur of hot tears.
Isabel laughed. "Oh, Emily, aren't they just terrible?" She sighed. "And I can't get enough of them."
"I wish I could just use them like you," I said. "Throw them away and not get attached." I cleared my eyes with the back of my hand.
"Is that what you think I do?" Isabel said, her forehead pinched into a sad look. "I—I don't do that."
"Yes, it is," I said. "Are you dating the guy you slept with last night? Or the one from a week ago? Have you dated a guy for more than a month since university?" I wasn't trying to be mean. I was just pointing out the simple truth.
Her olive skin flushed and she jerked straight. "Yes. I have." Her voice went cold, and her blue eyes flashed. "And you know I have." She wiped at her eyes. Grabbed a bowl of chili off the table along with the wine bottle. Stormed into her room and slammed the door.
I stared at the closed door, my entire body shaking with—with what? It felt like grief. But deep down below the surface I felt boiling anger. I hated men. Ever since—him. My teeth clenched tight to the point of pain. They were all dicks on legs. Assholes. Why had I let myself feel anything for Thomas?
Because he gave you no choice.
No. I always had a choice. I took a gulp of wine. Stared at the glass, and dumped the rest out into the sink. I would not let men control me. I would not let my foolish emotions rule me. I sure as hell wasn't about to let this drive me to alcoholism. I was going to be strong. I'd done it before, and I'd do it again. This was nothing compared to what Peter had done to me.
I ate a bowl of chili, savoring the sting as it burned my tongue. Wishing I could boil Mr. Jones in a pot and feed him to hungry dogs. What if this was all some ploy, some elaborate act on his part to be rid of me? But if it was, why hadn't he slept with me first? What man in his right mind would pass up getting laid before breaking a girl's heart? Thomas Jones was certainly going through a lot of trouble to cover his tracks with me. Amnesia and personality alteration were not easy to fake.
Just thinking back to the night before—how parts of me had tingled like never before, how happy I'd been. How much fun I'd had dancing. Kissing. Looking forward to feel
ing his body on top of mine. Despite his outward appearance, he'd seemed larger than life. But why? For God's sake, he was handsome, but not amazingly so. What in the hell was wrong with me? I thought about how he'd looked today. Smaller, duller, a pale shadow of the exciting man who'd swept me off my feet only hours before.
I suddenly wished to have the wine back.
You're acting like a baby. Instead of pouting, you should get up and do something about it. Fix him!
I jerked to my feet and stared blankly. "Fix him." Was it possible? It had to be. The feelings he'd woken in me were too strong to forget. If I was honest with myself, I'd never felt that way about a guy, not even him. Even if I had to knock him over the head with a shovel, I was going to make Mr. Jones turn back into Thomas. A little growl emerged from the back of my throat, startling me.
After brushing my teeth and preparing for bed, I stopped outside Isabel's door. I heard the telly buzzing inside, and raised my knuckles. But I couldn't bring myself to knock. Part of it was foolish pride, I had to admit, but the other part was the anger. I still felt right about what I'd said to her. We'd both been virgins in high school. We'd sworn to stay that way until marriage.
Isabel had been the first to break our social contract. I hadn't blamed her, I really hadn't. She was in love. Young, stupid, foolish love. I wondered if love ever stopped being foolish. Instead of knocking, I went into my room and closed the door. Set my alarm and tried to sleep. Without a drunken haze to soothe me, my mind raced over plans for fixing Mr. Jones.
I thought of everything from taking him to the dance studio for more lessons, to taking a paperweight and hitting him right on the bandage with it. But if what we'd had was really magical, shouldn't the mere sight of me bring his memories back from the grave? Thinking about that made me angry and sad. Before long, I was crying into my pillow. I didn't want to feel powerless. I wanted to feel like I could change him, put him back together again. But another part of me told me I couldn't.