Death eBook 9.8.16 (3 page)

“I need to see if you know your name, and how you’re feeling?” he asked gently, still holding my dang hand with his strong and soft one.
Sigh
.

Ah-ha! A concussion!
That was why I was there. It was the only way to explain why it felt like the good-looking doctor, with his gorgeous I-play-Polo-on-the-weekends blond hair and Ivy League features, was flirting with me. Maybe a book had fallen on my head at the library? A big book. Or I could have slipped on the stone stairs as I left. Or….

Crud, he was still waiting for an answer, and I was still drooling. Gently, I removed my hand from his to tuck my hair behind my ear. It was all in an effort to hide Operation: Drool Drip Removal going on, wiping it on my left hand.
Yep. I’m slick like that. Not.
But back to the good doctor, whose charming smile was patiently waiting to see if I’d respond or had brain damage.

“Julie, um, Julie Michaels. And I feel fine?”
Totally slick.
I shook my head to clear the stupid out and get back to the important question. “Why am I here?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Yes, the hospital.”

“That’s right.” He smiled. “Do you know what year it is?”

Okay, I was getting ticked. My hands balled into fists on the bed. Taking a deep breath, I told him, “I’m getting a little annoyed with everyone avoiding my question. Yes, I know my name. Yes, I know the year. Yes, I know my address, my mother’s maiden name, and my dang bra size! What I don’t know is why the fart I’m here?” I huffed out, my arms crossing over my chest.

“Why the fart?” he asked with a chuckle.

I sniffed. “Yes, well, I teach children. So I don’t cuss,” I explained, and frowned. “And you’re still avoiding my question.” Wow, he was as good as the nurse.

“The reason I’m not answering is because I still need to assess how much you remember. Before I can do that, I needed to see if you were lucid after being out for nearly seven hours,” he explained with amused patience.

“Oh, well, why didn’t you just say that?” I snapped, embarrassed, heat hitting my cheeks.

He chuckled again. I rolled my eyes because, excuse me, I didn’t really see the humor in my situation. Once the fine doctor had himself under control, he then proceeded to give me a not-so-professional once-over, checking my eyes with his light stick thingy and feeling me up along the way. Admittedly, he wasn’t really feeling me up, but it felt dang close. Staring into my eyes, he slowly glided his fingers across my face and down my neck, where he checked my glands and accelerated pulse rate.

“Your eyes are extraordinary. I have never seen such a bold light amber color,” he whispered as his hands settled on my shoulders.

I mean, seriously, I’d been hit on a few times, even had a few boyfriends, but what I was experiencing was every book nerd’s wet dream. That face, hair, butt, combined with those words—words I never expected to
actually
have spoken to me from a fine specimen like Dr. Delicious—it was like a real-life Mr. Darcy meets ER.

I was brought out of my daydream when he sat back and cleared his throat. “Now, for those questions of yours. What exactly do you remember from today—” He looked at the clock on the wall above my bed, which read 3:45. Seeing that it was still dark outside the windows, I was going with a.m. “—well, yesterday now?”

I rehashed my day for him, as boring as it was, but stopped again at the end of my tutoring session with the drooling teen. There was nothing after that point.

“The train. I take the train home, but I can’t remember taking it last night. Not even leaving the library,” I told him. “Was I mugged or something on the way home? Ugh! This is driving me batty.”

“I really can’t tell you much. What I can say is that you did make it to the train last night, but there was an accident. It doesn’t look like you hit your head though. I see no visible marks to say otherwise, and your pupil responses are perfect, so no concussion. I believe your memory loss is due to how traumatic the event was. It’s called repressed memory, for obvious reasons. Your memories are not forgotten in the traditional sense but removed from the conscious mind. Still present in the long-term memory, but hidden from your knowledge.” He patted my hand in reassurance and went on, “I believe they will come back to you in time, probably pieces at first. Till then, I would avoid contact with any type of media, social or otherwise. Let those around you know to be careful of what they say in your presence. We don’t want them accidently influencing your true memories. We don’t want them tainting and confusing facts with what others may perceive, falsely, to be so.” Once he finished dropping his nugget of knowledge, he sat quietly as I digested it all. Wise man.

Ask and you shall obscurely receive. Yes, I now know what happened, but barely.
Though, to ask questions could “taint” my actual memories as they came back to me. “Well, that blows,” I finally declared.

Dr. Delicious decided what I said was hysterical and barked a laugh so darn loud, it caused me to jump near clear off the bed. He nodded to himself. “With dry wit like this, I feel even more confident in my decree that you have no brain damage.” He smiled, only it dimmed slightly when he continued in a serious tone, “That said, I still think it best you stay at least a day for observation. Besides, you’ll also need to speak with the police. Since you arrived, there have been two officers at your door waiting.”

I just bet he wanted me to stay. Hospital bills were not something I needed right then, with changing careers. I was pretty sure the expense didn’t fit into my current budget, nor would an extra day’s stay. “Actually, I feel fine and would prefer to sleep the day off in my own bed. I’ll sign whatever you require, but I’d like to go home. So may answer the police questions now, not that I remember anything. Thank you though, for your concern.”

Since I wasn’t going to back down from his hard stare, he did. Sighing, he grabbed a pen and business card out of his breast pocket, flipped it over, and added a phone number on the back. “Very well, here is a card with my office phone number. Call, tell them I want to see you in two days. They’ll know to expect your call. On the back is my cell phone number. Call me direct if you experience any changes. Headache, dizziness, nausea, anything out of the ordinary. Or, if you just need someone to talk to.” He looked directly into my eyes again before he continued, “I mean it, Julie. Anytime, for anything. We’ll go for coffee and talk. Just call, and I’m there,” he gently ordered, and then gave my hand one last squeeze before he got up and left. Thank God; even though he was good-looking, the guy had lost respect in my eyes with all the touchy-feely unprofessionalism.

The next two hours were pure hell as I walked through my day and lack of train ride over and over, for Detective Doody Head and his partner Detective Richard Cranium, before they let me sign myself out. I honestly thought they would have kept at it for at least another two hours, but my knight in shining stethoscope swooped in and shut them down. Clearly, they weren’t happy being told how to do their job, but they relented with the standard, “Don’t leave town.” And there I thought it was only a cheesy Hollywood line; I’d been proven wrong. What was also obvious was the fact the doctor had got to them before they entered the room, because all the questions I’d asked were either ignored or changed to another subject. Knowing nothing was confusing as heck, and I didn’t like it. At the end, my head was throbbing—not that I told the doctor, because I was worried he’d want me to stay.

I was given ugly green scrubs and a pair of blue slipper socks, since whatever had happened caused my clothes and belongings to be destroyed. I was just so dang happy I’d left my laptop at home. Even though everything was backed up, it would have been a huge setback to replace and reload. I had more clothes, and the other crud could be replaced over time, but my dream and newfound independence depended on my laptop.

After a quick change, a uniformed officer who looked barely out of high school drove me home. The normally two-hour ride was over in a blink. I felt drained, both physically and emotionally. The whole situation still didn’t feel real. For that reason, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in my big, comfy chair with a soft blanket and crack open a book from my go-to author. If there was ever a time for escapism, this was it.
Kristen Ashley, take me away.

As we pulled up to my cottage, I couldn’t get away fast enough. With a mumbled “Thank you,” I took off for my front door. On the way, I noticed something disturbing. The outside world was just that, outside. Usually, all stress and worry would melt away, leaving me feeling safe and with peace of mind. That was gone. I needed the sense of reassurance and security, but it had deserted me.

I stepped into the front garden, which honestly, along with my house, was Martha Stewart’s wet dream. I wasn’t a girly girl, but I’d embraced my feminine side when I styled my cottage, inside and out. It was shabby chic meets country cottage. It was the first place I’d lived that truly felt like home, because the times I’d lived with my mother or even at college had been stressful. It was my sanctuary; I felt free to do what I wanted when I wanted to. Though the garden was Fallon’s, my coeditor and best friend’s, creation. That woman could grow anything, anywhere; her thumb was so green she glowed.

Sighing deeply to myself, I knew if I wasn’t so dog-tired, I’d be bawling my eyes out over the loss of security that came with my home; instead, I trudged over to the front bench to the right of the door. Lifting the wrought iron behemoth, I grabbed the spare key and unlocked the front door.

Entering my tiny home did nothing to alleviate the negative awareness haunting me. Not one to throw pity parties, I decided a shower was first order. On the way, I grabbed a pair of cozy gray PINK gym pants and a blue PINK V-neck pullover. Knowing Fallon, the only person I would call in that situation, would be asleep, I decided to ring her later because really, there wasn’t anything I could tell her when I didn’t know anything myself. Instead, I hit the radio when I entered the bathroom.

I snorted. “You have got to be kidding,” I mumbled as Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off” bled through the speakers. Who was I to question well-timed music? So that was exactly what I did for the next thirty minutes: I shook it off until the water ran cold. Feeling slightly renewed, I ignored the fact it was early morning and grabbed my e-reader, then fixed myself a hot toddy, heavy on the whiskey, and headed toward the much-needed reading release awaiting me in my favorite seat. I hadn’t even made it past chapter three of
Rock Chick Rescue
when a knock came from the front door. Reluctantly, I put Jet and Eddie down and went to answer it.

“Hello, I am investigator Falcone Apocalos and this is my partner Connor Apocalos. I’m sorry to intrude so early, but we have a few questions pertaining to the train accident yesterday.”

I barely took in his words and the card he handed me, because…

Sweet mother of Chris Hemsworth!

Before me were two of the most gorgeous men I’d ever seen; they put the poor doctor to shame. I must have made that toddy a little too strong because I could swear I had Lancelot and Nick Bateman standing on my doorstep. Falcone was more of a kind-looking man, with a warm smile, adorable, yet unruly, sun-kissed blond curls, soft shadowing of stubble, and soul-piercing sterling-gray eyes.

Jeez, with my overkill of adjectives, I think I need to lay off the romances for a while.

Connor, well, I just couldn’t do the description justice. Like staring at the sun, he was just too pretty to look at one spot too long; a person could go blind. After observing a fabulous body under a tee that said, Caution: You Might Get Addicted To Me, I made my way back to his blindingly beautiful face, and it seemed my observations did not go unnoticed. At a sexy wink from Connor, I snapped back to reality. He was delicious, but he didn’t get my girly parts going. He reeked of “ultimate player,” which kept my stomach flutters at bay. Though, that wink was kind of adorable in the naughty little brother kind of way.

“Q-questions,” I stammered. Clearing my throat, I told them, “But I answered two hours of questions back at the hospital. Dr. McMullan told the police to let me rest. So why are you here now?” I was too exhausted for more questions.

“Two hours? What were they doing? Writing your damn biography in Sanskrit?” Connor scoffed.

Falcone shot Connor a look that said “shut the hell up,” then turned back to me and answered, “We are independent contractors working in conjunction with law enforcement on the investigation. Unfortunately, the locals don’t always like to share information and we are going to need to ask you again. I really am sorry, and promise not to take up too much of your time.”

A check of ID and the sincerity of his words were the only reasons I let them in. What also helped was the hilarious sight of those two big guys trying to squeeze onto my small two-seater couch. Ease finally filled my bones. As I settled into my own chair, I tried to explain, “I don’t know how I can help. I don’t remember the accident at all. I can recall my day until about 7:00 p.m., but then everything is blank, until I woke this morning in the hospital.”

“Well, let’s start with the basics, full name, date of birth, and occupation?” Falcone asked as he retrieved a small notepad and pen from inside his coat.

Before I could respond, Connor added, “Bra size, astrological sign, and phone number would be great too, sweets.” He ended it with a smug smile and a wink.

What a smartass.
Rolling my eyes, I answered his questions. “Julie Michaels. I’m twenty-eight. Currently, I’m an overpaid tutor/homeschool teacher to the rich and snobbish. Though, after next week, I will be self-employed as co-owner of The Edit Station, an online editing company for indie authors,” I informed Falcone, and then turned to Connor and said the rest. “Heck no to bra size. I’m a Gemini. And he can have the digits because you’re out of luck, slick.”

“Ouch. Harsh much?” Connor asked with a playful pout. I offered him a slight smile and shook my head. Connor oozed charm that had panties dropping like flies. For some reason though, his antics were amusing, and thankfully I was immune to his charms.