by Snow, Nicole
She looks conflicted for a few heavy seconds, but then she smiles and reaches over, laying a hand on my thigh. “Fine. I guess I get why I fell in love with you. You’re an easy man to like, and just as easy to love.”
Fuck.
If only she knew...
Dread fills me at the same time fire arcs up and down my thigh from her touch. This has to stop.
I’ll tell Cash as soon as I see him. There has to be another way, a better way to make this work without lying to her all the frigging time.
I know the risks, but some tiny inkling of truth must be better than this.
My stomach clenches. Trouble is, any scrap of truth could cause her more anxiety.
I’ve seen that happen plenty of times since she tumbled into my world.
Why is this so screwed up? Why the fuck is this my life?
A poster boy for damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
I’m not alone. That’s the worst part. The woman sitting next to me has the same dilemma hanging over her, even if she doesn’t know it.
“We’ll be passing Kade’s truck again. You want another cheesecake?” I ask, changing the subject as we enter town.
“Nope, I’m still full.” She leans her head back. “And kinda sleepy.”
“Have a snooze,” I say, glancing back to the road.
I don’t mind her drifting off one bit. That means fewer questions.
Then I make the biggest mistake: thinking my luck’s about to change for the better.
A second later, I notice the big black SUV in the lot by the shrimp truck.
Normally, I wouldn’t think much about it, but the guy standing next to the SUV is dressed in black, too, and talking to Kael. There’s something on his hand, dark and over-stylized, a tattoo forever burned in my brain.
It’s one of Joel Cornaro’s men.
5
Safe For Now (Valerie)
Many Years Ago
The sun shines down through a soft breeze.
It’s a perfect day for the beach. We’re playing in the sand, flinging little puffs from the ground, then grabbing big handfuls and shaping it carefully.
It’s just me and this boy.
I’m young, too. Little. He’s older than me.
We’re busy, building up a sandcastle. He’s helping, stacking sand on the towers, making them a little taller than I can reach.
It’s a lot of fun. We’re focused and laughing.
Then he stands up.
He gives me a wild look, and a second later, stomps on my pretty little palace with both feet, kicking sand everywhere.
“Ha! You thought I wanted to waste the day building this dumb old thing? Now we’re having fun, poopy-pants.” He laughs into his hand.
It makes me sad, but I don’t cry.
It’s almost like I’m used to it...
To him acting like this, ruining everything I do, so I just swallow the pain down and wander off, looking for seashells. It’s a big beach.
I find a conch shell before long, probably something abandoned by a surfer. Mommy says they like to have big parties around here. I’m playing with it, dusting it off, when a shadow falls over me.
The boy is back. He wants to see it. He’s chasing me around, trying to grab behind my back where I’m hiding it.
“No fair! Lemme see, you stupid little—”
“Ray, don’t!” I try my best to hide the shell behind my back, not wanting him to see it.
He always makes me show him things, and then he says they’re his.
Not this time. Not this conch.
It’s mine, but I say we can share it, even if it makes my stomach feel all gurgly.
Ray says okay, and he snatches it away from me, running off.
Now, it’s later, and I’m looking for my shell. I can’t find it anywhere.
I look high and low. Behind some big rocks, I find Ray.
He’s sitting on another little boy’s back, pushing his face into the sand, snarling like this scary animal. Ray’s hurting the boy.
“Stop!” I tell him. “Don’t, Ray, you’ll...”
I don’t even know. But I’m scared.
The kid finally pokes his head up, coughing. Crying. Sand sticks to his patchy red face from the tears. He looks hurt.
Ray just laughs. “Now’s your chance! Run, you big dummy! Or do you want some more?”
The kid takes off, stumbling as he flies across the beach, still making this awful sound.
Then it’s just me and my big brother.
He talks so much.
He tells me the boy stole the conch shell and that he had to get it back. Then he says the shell is his. That we aren’t sharing anymore. It was always his, and I’m lucky he even let me borrow it.
I’m so sick of him being so mean.
I turn to run, saying I’m going to tell on him, but he grabs my arm and won’t let go.
He’s shaking me.
* * *
Present
My eyes snap open.
Holy crap.
Something about the sudden view of overgrown road and palm trees is scary, disorienting.
I try to control the gasping mess I’ve become. My chest heaves and my eyes burn like I was crying. My heart wants to spring right out of my chest.
“What’s wrong, Val?” Flint asks, sitting bolt upright in the driver’s seat next to me.
His big hand is already on my arm, applying that gentle, calming pressure that’s totally his style.
I relax instantly.
Jesus. It was him holding my arm. Not the boy in my dream. Not Ray.
“Another nightmare?” he asks, releasing my arm. His gaze cuts through me, a pleasant fog of sea glass blue tonight.
All I can do is nod.
“I’m fine. Just focus on the road.”
Silly. It was just another dream. But it felt more real than that, too.
More like a memory, a terrible one.
I feel like it’s still there, floating around in the back of my mind, this hazy, cruel image projected on a screen. I can sense the emotional punch, even if I can’t quite recall specific scenes.
It’s so strange how the human mind works. Or doesn’t work in my case.
“We’re almost home,” Flint says.
I close my eyes, still seeing that vicious kid. My lips don’t want to work, but I make them.
“So, hey...did I ever mention anybody named Ray?”
“Ray? Hell, I don’t know everybody you do, honey,” Flint says quietly.
It’s almost a quip. Surprising. Strange.
I do a double take, looking at him slowly before turning back to the view outside my window.
What’s the deal?
I try not to be frustrated, mainly because I like him—of course I like him, I’m freaking married to him—and this must be as frustrating for him as it is for me. I can tell.
He’s being so patient, so kind, but there are times when I sense his worry under the surface.
Who wouldn’t be uneasy in his shoes? Being married to a woman who can’t remember you.
It’s flipping nuts. And there’s a darkness in my mind, a sinister, scary sense I’m still missing something right under my nose.
I can’t blame him, even when Mr. Sea Glass turns into Mr. Growlypants. Flint’s the only reason I haven’t flipped my lid.
Kissing him back there proved it. Just a simple, sweet kiss was all I needed to chase away the gloom, the frightful, gut-wrenching confusion. I can’t help but think it’s proof I love him.
It’s not like I ever doubted it. I just...
I wish I could remember. Bring myself back to meeting him for the first time. Remember falling in love.
If there’s one thing I despise this amnesia for robbing away, it’s that.
Our dating routine. Our first kiss. Our little dance of he loves me, he loves me not.
All gone thanks to a sickening twist of fate.
Why the hell am I dreaming about my brother, who seems like a t
otal sicko, and not Flint Calum?
I try to will it, pinching my lips together, tightening my thigh muscles as other parts of my body try to do the thinking. Hazy or not, it’s still sexy, everything I picture.
My toes curl, imagining him touching me. Running those strong fingers through my hair, tangling my locks around his fingers.
Kissing me.
Growling his hot frustration against my tongue. Stealing my breath. Pushing my nipples against his chest, his hands roaming, his ladykiller eyes making me so wet I start to shake.
God. Our honeymoon must’ve been spectacular.
“We’re here,” he says, turning down the long road with the gate at the end.
Oh.
For once, I don’t regret letting my mind wander, shifting my knees back together.
I open my eyes as the elaborate wrought iron gates swing open and we drive through them. Our home’s exterior looks as gorgeous as it does inside.
Two tall stories of ivory white stucco with orange-red roof tiles and shutters loom over everything. The large front door is painted jet-black.
I think about how nice a tall welcome sign would be leaning beside the door. Maybe if the letters were painted the same rust-red color of the roof tiles.
I’ll have to look for one, after I talk to him about it, and I mentally add a few potted, flowering plants to my list too.
We settle into the garage. I grab the trash out of the backseat after climbing out.
Flint takes the bag and puts it in a canister before opening the door to the house, welcoming me in with a swoop of his arm. “After you, duchess.”
I smile. It’s nice knowing chivalry still exists here with this gorgeous man.
“Hey, can I use your computer to look up some stuff?” I ask while stepping inside.
“Sure, but do you want a nap or some pain meds first? More mango tea, maybe?” He gives me a big grin, his eyes slightly narrowed.
“Nope, I’m fine. Maybe just a glass of water.” The dream left me unsettled, but I’m not experiencing any nasty new pain. “I just feel like I need to know more about my condition. Something beyond the bits and pieces you get from Cash.”
“Yeah, all right.” He pulls out one of the stools at the kitchen island. “Have a seat. I’ll go get the computer.”
I do, planting my butt down on the seat, but then something else I hadn’t questioned comes to mind. “Don’t you ever work? I mean, you built this house, right? Are you a builder?”
“No, not really. Just a hobby of mine. My grandfather was a carpenter. Used to work the summers with him way back and the skills stuck around.” He’s over by the fridge.
Huh? I blink like a fish out of water.
“Then...how do we live? Money-wise?”
I don’t care how popular my turtle tours are. There’s no freaking way we’d ever make enough money to build this place. It must’ve cost six, maybe even seven figures, not counting the gorgeous land it’s on.
One thing I haven’t forgotten is just how insanely expensive Hawaiian real estate can be. Heck, make that Hawaiian everything.
“Simple, babe.” Flint gives me a smile, pouring some water into a couple glasses and handing one to me. “I was in the military, same as Cash. We took our defense ideas private after we were discharged. Worked in private security for a few years, which helped me build a device I patented and then sold off for a mighty fine payoff.”
“What sort of device? Sold it to whom?”
“Whom? Goddamn, that’s sexy, Little Miss Grammar,” he growls.
I burst out laughing but catch myself. “Seriously, tell me. I’m curious.”
“I sold it to a big-time government contractor, so I can’t divulge much. It’s a sensitive weapons system. Classified shit.” He takes a long swig off his glass.
“You were in the military for a long time, weren’t you?”
“Almost ten years.”
I’d thought so. Not just because of his size and his obviously ripped body, but because of his tattoos. They’re well-done, and the fluttering American flag on one arm made me think military earlier today. “How about Dr. Ivers? Was he in as long as you?”
“Yes, that’s how we met. We served together.”
“So he’s a civilian doctor now?”
“Right.” He sets his empty glass down. “I’ll go get that computer.”
I nod and then close my eyes. It’s pretty weird realizing the more I know, the less I really do.
None of what he told me is surprising, though, so maybe I never totally forgot it. But this need to know more about him, maybe it’s all because I do know and just want to be reminded.
That doesn’t make a lick of sense, I know, but it’s how I feel.
I don’t want my memories gone forever.
Even losing the little things I can’t pin down scares me.
It isn’t fair. I want every morsel about Flint Calum.
All the things a wife knows: her husband’s pet peeves, his strengths, his fears, his kinks.
Yeah. I don’t dare dwell on the last, or I’ll never think about anything else for the rest of the day.
I just feel safe when he’s near. When I realized it was his hand holding my arm in the truck, the nightmare vanished almost instantly.
Hearing him behind me, I climb off the stool. “Can we sit in the living room? On the couch together? It’ll be more comfortable.”
“Yeah...sure.”
For a millisecond, I question how he paused, but then shrug it off and pick up both glasses for a quick refill. This time I go for that glass pitcher of mango tea sitting in the huge stainless steel fridge.
Part of me hopes there’ll be a repeat of earlier. All the stuff I knew about turtles just appeared while sitting next to him on the beach, so maybe he’ll help jog more memories.
It was nothing like remembering the name Gerard, though.
I tense up at the reaction just thinking that name causes.
Why? Is that why he’s so careful about what he says? Are my family bad people—just like Ray in the dream?
“You all right, Val?” he asks.
“Yep, coming,” I say, and carry the glasses into the living room.
I think I’m finally understanding the meaning of the phrase, 'a goose walked over my grave.'
Sure explains the constant goosebump outbreaks on my skin. Freaky.
I set our glasses on the coffee table and plop down on the sofa, leaning back, enjoying the plush softness.
Flint sits down beside me and opens his laptop. It’s one of the bigger MacBook Pros. It only takes a few seconds for the screen to appear.
He unlocks it with his fingerprint and pulls up a web browser. Then he keeps typing, until he has tabs upon tabs about amnesia open.
“All yours. I’m here if you need any help deciphering anything. Plus Cash is just a call away. He should be by soon.”
We skim through several pages together. They mostly talk about long-term and short-term memory loss, plus several forms of dementia. Other sites talk about treatments for the other underlying causes, stress or chemical abuse, not unexpected blows to the head like mine.
All in all, we don’t find anything really helpful. Disappointing.
“Sorry,” Flint says and grasps the edge of the screen to shut his computer.
I grab his arm. “Wait. I must have some social media sites. A Facebook or Instagram or something? Maybe seeing some old pictures will help.”
“Pictures of yourself?”
“Exactly. That’s what social media’s all about. Posting selfies.” I wave at the keyboard. “Type in my name.”
Slowly, he does, and a couple sites pop up.
I lean forward, holding my breath. “There! Click on that one.”
A home page with my name, listed as Gerard, not Calum, opens but...
There’s only one picture of me.
Wow. Am I a privacy geek or something?
“It’s the settings, I bet. Says you have to b
e friends with me to see my posts.” I rest my chin on my hand, drumming my fingers on my cheek.
“You must have your page set to private,” he agrees.
I sigh. Just lovely. Nothing’s ever easy.
“And I have no idea what my password is. Or the email assigned to this account to reset it. Argh. Try going back and click on that other site?”
He does, but it’s the same thing. And the same picture.
It’s me. On a beach. Kinda zoomed out. I can’t even make out the print on my t-shirt.
“Do you have any idea what my password or email would be?”
“Email, you changed them up a lot. Too much junk mail,” he answers. “And password? Not a clue. I wasn’t in cryptography, Val. For all I know you might’ve based your shit on old college star charts.”
Oh, please. Like anyone would ever do that.
“As if. Go back to the other site, please.”
He does. I have him click on the friend’s button. A list of several hundred faces appear. “Scroll down,” I say.
I watch the pictures as they roll past. None are familiar, but I’m really only looking for one.
“That’s the end,” he says, scrolling into blank white space.
“Weird. Why didn’t I see your picture? Shouldn’t I be friends with you? I mean, some couples even put their selfies up front and center.”
“Not our style. You know me...or you did. I’m not into social media.”
“Ohhh, you’re one of those guys.”
“Yeah, those guys. Ones who don’t want every damn detail of their lives plastered all over the web.”
I giggle. “Aw, come on. It’s not plastered all over the web. Only your friends see what you post. You can even crank it up so it’s just certain users. You just saw how restricted mine is.”
He closes the laptop. “Lot of fucked up shit in this world. There are hackers who can skim everything and put you in a mountain of debt if they want it bad enough, privacy be damned.”
I lean my head back against the couch. “Yeah, well, if you know one of those hackers, please send them my way, would you?”
He sets the laptop on the coffee table. “No dice, Val. You’ll just have to give your brain a chance. You’ll remember in time.”