Mind Lies (17 page)

Wiping my cheeks, prepared to give them my signature line, I lift my head. “Maybe I imagined him. Maybe my amnesia is fierce, playing cruel tricks on me. Or maybe, just maybe, . . .” I pause, waiting for them to say it with me: “I’ve lost my fucking marbles.”

My hollow laugh joins more boisterous ones. I watch as a few tissues are drawn from purses, people discreetly wiping their eyes. They’ve followed this love story as I have lived it. They’ve watched me cry my heart out for the man I used to know.

The man in my memories.

The one who never comes.

“So this is it, Ladies and Gents. This is the last time. Not because I don’t love him, not because I don’t think of him often, but because it hurts too damn much.”

Squaring my shoulders, I face my cheering squad with little determination and a lot less hope. “So, to the man with dark hair and beautiful bright blue eyes who I remember, . . .” I pause, letting that term hang loosely because I’m a woman with amnesia who remembers nothing aside from him. They chuckle. I finish, saying, “who goes by the name of
Locklin
. This is from me, to desperately missing you.”

The lights in the theater dim, the spotlight above remaining lit while I sing to the man I love.

Whether or not my mind lies, I give it all I have: my heart, my soul, my love, singing to the man from my memories, begging him to come to me.

One.

Last.

Time.

Chapter Nineteen

“I know you have to leave,

But let me beg you to stay.

This agony, you’re my heart’s reprieve,

I’ll still love you anyway.

Don’t make me ask,

Don’t make me choose,

My soul’s run down,

You’re too much to lose.

But I’m beggin’ you today,

Please, please just choose to stay.

I’m on my knees,

To do as you please,”

The mic cuts out prematurely, as does the power in the theater.

“Oh my god.”

“What the hell?”

Rounds of shocked gasps and murmurs echo through the space, and when the emergency lights kick on, you can clearly register the surprise and fear on everyone’s faces after being left in the dark.

It’s amazing how silent it is when the lights go out, both literally and figuratively.

“Come,” is barked in my ear before a strong hand grabs onto my arm and leads me toward the side of the stage.

“What the . . . ,” I mumble before realizing the hand belongs to Detective Cavanaugh. Doing my best to keep up with him in the four-inch heels I’m wearing, I take advantage of his support on my arm until we reach the hallway backstage where the lighting is better.

Steadying my hand on the wall, I try to jerk my arm from his grasp. “Jesus Christ, Cavanaugh. What the hell is going on?” He reaches back quickly as I try to remove my arm. My arm returned to his grasp, he leans down into my personal space.

Soap.

Musk.

Man.

I ignore the shiver running down my spine and focus on his stark-blue eyes. He rasps, “It’s time to leave.”

I flap my mouth a few times before being dragged again but manage to spit out, “You’re making no sense! If someone wanted to hurt me, they’d have done it already. I don’t know why you’re so hell-bent on getting me out of here.” I trip over a power cord but manage to right myself and add, “What happened to the power?”

Having had enough of my questions, Cavanaugh turns around and fumes, eyes blazing. “It’s not safe here!” he replies harshly before leading me toward a back exit.

It’s not safe for you here, Lass.

Listen, Jerrilyn! It’s not safe here. I cannot stay with you.

My mind remaining hazy, I stumble through the back exit and onto the pavement as my heel catches on my dress.

“Jerri!” Cavanaugh shouts. It’s loud, piercing, and sends sharp pains shooting through my skull like lightening crackling through the sky.

“Get down!” someone, O’Shaunessey, I think, shouts. Suddenly, I’m tackled to my side. Pain flares through my hip, and the hard ground gets closer to my face before it’s saved by a leather-clad arm.

My face is pulled into Cavanaugh’s chest. His body jerks atop mine, arms tightly surrounding my body, like a vice grip.

Safe.

“I’ve got you, Jerri, hold on.”

Locklin’s voice echoes through my ear before the memory takes over.

Crack! Crack!

My body remains still as Cavanaugh’s jolts with the impact before I let go.

Before I let the memories take me away from my failed attempt at calling for the man I love to come for me.

Blackness creeps in. My mind lies take over.

But this time, they don’t bring me hope.

Just soul crushing pain.

Chapter Twenty

Mindlessly playing with the frayed edges of my dress, I listen to the soothing sound of the heart rate monitor. Normally, anything with an incessant beep would drive me insane. But in this instance, it’s a reminder.

We’re alive.

The beeping is not as comforting as I would have hoped.

No.

In fact, it’s a giant fucking kick in the teeth.

Who would have thought it would have come to this?

Who would have imagined, in their wildest dreams, that I, the woman with amnesia, had all the answers I needed right in front of me?

Every answer to every goddamn question I ever had was ready and willing for me to take. For me to learn and remember and know?

A mild cough startles me from my internal rant.

I’ve had ten hours to fume.

Ten hours to sit in this beautifully tattered dress, calm my shit, and rehearse my speech to the man who could have given me everything.

But instead, he kept it all.

I stand from the uncomfortable chair I’ve been sitting in. I move to fix my hair before I get closer to the bed, but then I remember it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

Because if I wasn’t worth enough at my best, surely my messy hair, torn gown, and filthy body covered with dried blood—me at my worst—will change nothing.

“Jer—”

“Don’t speak,” I interrupt, holding up my hand, voice raspy.

I watch his face fall. His weary eyes shut in pain. Not pain due to his injuries. Not pain due to four hours of surgery.

No.

Pain due to heartache.

We’ve come full circle. Only this time the emotional pain doesn’t belong to Portia, who watched her best friend wander lost in her mind.

This time—it’s
him.

He knows.

Placing my hands on the bedrail at the foot of the hospital bed, I take in the man in front of me.

The bastard.

His clean-shaven jaw grew with stubble overnight.

Dark hair, not as long and shaggy as I like. Clearly he’s been back to the barber.

I follow the plains of his solid tattooed chest and the wisps of dark hair on his tanned arms, and only when I’m ready, only when I’m brave enough, do I finally meet his piercing blue eyes.

“You lied,” I strongly tell him, my voice deep and full of emotion. I softly raise my hand when I see he wants to speak again, but I know it hurts. I know the tube that was down his throat did some damage.

I continue, ignoring my blurry vision from tears that threaten to fall. “When I woke up in the hospital four months ago, I wanted one thing,” I pause, choking back my sob, “just one thing.”

“Jerri . . .”

I shake my head, eyes closing, tears falling free. I face him with all of it. Screw strong. I let him see it all: the hurt, the agony, and the heart-crushing pain that comes with not knowing.

The anguish that comes with not being wanted.

“You,” I whisper. “I just . . . wanted . . . you.”

Opening my eyes, I watch as the light leaves his. Any hope from waking, any wish he had to be alive, healthy, and happy when he had woken up is shattered.

Just like my heart.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to wake up and not know who you are?” I ask him.

The selfish prick remains silent, but I press on. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to constantly dream of a man, to constantly ache for him, only to find out he’s not there? That he may very well be a product of your amnesia-filled mind?”

I don’t wait for him to answer before adding, angrily, “Do you have any idea what’s it’s like to yearn, sing, and beg the love of your life to come back to you? Only to find out he doesn’t want you?”

“I ca—” he rasps incoherently. 

I speak louder.

Push harder.

“It’s death! It hurts so goddamn bad you want to curl up, fall asleep, and never wake up again.” I shake my head, ignoring the determination in his eyes. His hands remain clenched at his side, the restraints having been put on after surgery to ensure he didn’t remove the chest tube when he had woken up.

“I wanted you so badly, I didn’t sleep. Barely ate. I would fall asleep just so I could dream of you. Because no matter how amazing Portia and my friends have been, I only wanted
you.”

I laugh at myself mockingly. “But you never came. I hoped, I dreamed, I prayed, and I even fucking sang, clearly making a fool of myself, because I was singing to someone who didn’t want to be found in the first place!”

Fed up, he talks back as much as his battered throat and gunshot-wounded chest will allow him. “You should not have shared our song,” he rasps. “That . . . was . . . ours.”

The convicting tone in his rugged voice does nothing to deter me.

We’ve been here before.

And, as always . . . “I was never enough for you, Locklin. I won’t
ever
be enough.”

“Not true,” he whispers in agony.

Shaking my head sadly, I tell him, “You’ve left me, over and over again. But while I was lying in that hospital bed, like you are now, you truly and utterly departed. I don’t mean enough for you to console, and I don’t matter enough for you to ever stay.

“I had so little, and I was so desperate I would have given
anything
for an answer, let alone to have you by my side.” I pause, unable to control the sobs that wrack my body.

“Come here, Lass.”

The whimper leaving me will be the last one. I vow right now that I will not let myself mourn after this.

This is it.

It’s over.

“I’ve never had the option of leaving you, Locklin. I always chose to hold on and never let go.” I nod. “But it’s time. What you’ve done in the past was forgivable. But this,” I wave my hand between the two of us, “this, what you did and how you left me, is not forgivable. There’s no coming back from here. Because for once in my life when I truly needed you the most, you left me behind.”

“No, Lass. Don’t say that.”

I ignore the sign of tears that cloud his beautiful blue eyes. I ignore his outstretched fingers reaching for mine. Instead, I wipe the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand and move to his bedside.

He tilts his head to the side, and I give in to the urge, running my fingers through his silky, dark hair. His eyes close briefly, soaking up the affection.

My touch.

“At one time, you meant everything to me. I would have gone to hell and back just for a fraction of your attention, your love.” Leaning down, I place a kiss on his chapped lips and recognize the feel of him, the smell.

The taste.

“That time is gone.”

Pressing the piece of paper into his hand, I stand and imprint the shock on his face to memory. The agony, despair, and disbelief.

Everything I felt ten hours ago.

“My mind lied, Locklin. I thought the man in my memories was the love of my life. But that’s not true.” I shake my head in defeat and add on a whisper, “Because he never loved me back.”

I leave. I turn from his bedside with my shoulders as straight as my tired body will allow and force my feet to walk, away from his bed, out through the door, and into the hallway. I don’t even stop at the nurses’ station in the ICU; I just speak loudly and clearly as I pass by, ignoring the shouts from his room as he desperately calls my name.

Calls me back to him.

“Jerri!”

Clearing my throat, I make quick eye contact with the head nurse before saying, “Mr. Cavanaugh is awake.”

* * *

When her sweet lips touch mine, I know she means it.

She’s gone.

My Lass wants to go.

No.

Not go.

She already left.

“Jerri girl,” I rasp. Fuck, my throat hurts. My chest is on fire. I know I was shot; where, and how many times, I do not know.

“Jerri,” I try again, pulling with my wrists to sit up, but the damn arm restraints are strong. All I manage to do is wrinkle the paper she put into my hand before she walked out of my room.

Out of my life.

Using my fingers, I twist it around and angle it toward me so I can see it better.

“No,” I whisper.

“NO!”

She can’t.

She cannot leave now!

“Jerri! Come back!” My Irish brogue is thick. I allow it, although I hated trying to sound like a native Bostonian in hopes she wouldn’t recognize me.

Remember my voice.

My shout goes unnoticed, and I ignore every pain piercing through my body as I fight to sit up and remove the arm restraints.

I need to get to her. She has to come back. She needs me!

“JERRILYN!”

A hand lands on my shoulder. “Sir, I need you to calm down.”

“Jerri!” I shout.

“Push ten milligrams of Haloperidol,” the nurse says moments before my body becomes lethargic.

“She can’t leave,” I mumble to no one in particular as I stare at the black-and-white photo that has today’s date on it.

Baby Sloane

Age: sixteen weeks.

I fight the darkness. The damn drugs they shot into my system are threatening to put me to sleep.

I’m a dad.

I’m a bastard.

She’s a mum.

She bloody well fucking hates you.

I’m alive. The bullets didn’t kill me.

I’m as dead as they come.

Why?

Because she’s gone.