Unravel Me (2 page)

I swallowed a lump rising in my throat.

“He’s got some pent up anger and aggression. Consider that a warning about being in the same room as him, but somehow I doubt you’ll heed that advice.” He smiled at me but his concern was obvious.

“Take me to him.” My voice sounded calm, even though this situation was rattling me. I reminded myself that if anything happened at least I was in a hospital, but the thought didn’t provide any comfort.

Dr. Andrews opened the door and I gathered up my papers. “He’s resting now, but since you’re every bit as stubborn as Bob, I’ll take you in to meet him. I have no idea if he’ll cooperate with you, seeing as how he’s not my biggest fan.”

When we reached room 304, it was guarded by a uniformed officer. I stopped and faced Dr. Andrews before entering. “Pardon me, Doctor, but I’d like to go in alone.” I had no idea where that idea had sprouted from, but somehow I figured the patient might be more willing to cooperate with me if I weren’t with Dr. Andrews, since the patient didn’t care much for him.

Dr. Andrews studied me, his eyebrows pulled together. He was old enough to be my dad, and I could see his concern was genuine.

“I’ll be fine.” I placed a hand on his forearm. 

He nodded reluctantly and signaled the guard to open the door for me.

I stepped inside the cool, dimly lit hospital room. Directly across from me, the man lay sleeping on a narrow bed, nude except for the white sheet covering him from the waist down. He had an erection in his sleep; his tense cock rested against his stomach and tented the fabric covering him. Aside from that, he looked peaceful.

I stepped closer, wanting to get a better look. He was strikingly handsome with messy brown hair, a chiseled jaw, full mouth and well-defined torso. His body was cut with long, lean muscles –not bulky, yet completely toned. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks and he let out a low moan.

It felt like an invasion of privacy standing here viewing him. My stomach danced with nerves, like I was about to be caught doing something wrong. Lying in the hospital bed like that, he could have been posing for a cologne ad.
Scent de insanity
. I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling, but that thought helped provide some much-needed levity to the situation. 

I watched him sleep – this living, breathing, attractive man, who was so incredibly male. This contact with him provided a completely different experience than when I read his case file at my dining room table. This man was someone’s son. A friend. A lover. Were they looking for him? Except, I knew from Professor Clancy that there’d been no missing person’s reports filed matching his description. Whoever he was before had disappeared into thin air.

I felt something pinch inside my chest. No one’s filed a missing persons report? Who was this man? And what had caused him to block out his memory so completely?

I noticed one of the two tattoos documented in his file. The name Logan was scrawled in cursive writing along the inside of his bicep. My mind immediately jumped to figure out who Logan might be. Maybe Logan was his brother or a friend, but really, who tattoos a friend’s name to their body? Perhaps he was gay, and Logan was his lover. I pushed away the hypothesis that had no basis in reality.

His physical injuries had pretty much healed, his concussion was the only thing still lingering, and a faint scar under his chin that was just barely visible.

The door opened behind me and I turned to give Dr. Andrews another earful about wanting to be left alone. Instead, it was a nursing assistant dressed in blue hospital scrubs carrying a tray with a plastic pitcher of water. I rolled my eyes. The doctor had sent this poor guy in to check on me, I was sure. The assistant set the tray on the bedside table and turned to leave. The man in the bed lifted his head from the pillow to survey what was happening around him. Perhaps uninterested in what was happening, or because he was drugged, I wasn’t sure which, he dropped his head back against the pillow and shifted to his side, cradling his cuffed hands in front of him. He flexed his wrists against the cuffs.

The assistant looked from the patient back to me, and I offered a nod, signaling to him that I was fine and he was free to go, though my heart pounded steadily against my chest and I felt anything but calm.

I hadn’t realized they had him handcuffed since his hands had been covered by the sheet when I first walked in.

“Wait.”

The assistant paused at the door and faced me.

“Remove his cuffs.”

For the first time the man in the bed opened his eyes and looked directly at me. I hadn’t realized such a brilliant shade of hazel could exist until his eyes fixated on mine. I blushed at the obvious attention he directed only to me despite the aide hovering nearby.

Referring to him as John Doe didn’t seem right. I’m not sure when, but with that name tattooed on his arm, I started thinking of him as Logan.

“Miss, I can’t do that,” the assistant said, drawing my attention back to him.

“Do you have the keys?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” he admitted.

“Then yes, you can. Now unlock him.”

He shook his head, as if realizing he was in a room with not one crazy person, but two. “He gave Terry a nice gash on his face, and you’re too pretty, you don’t want him unlocked.”

I turned to Logan. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

He shook his head.

“See, he’s fine. Now uncuff him.”

My dad was ex-military and had taught me how to throw a punch. I rarely got intimidated, even riding the train through the sketchier areas, and I wasn’t about to back down now. I could take care of myself, and besides, I didn’t believe he would harm me. There was something about him, some nudging feeling that told me I was safe with him. Even as I decided all this, I knew it wasn’t logical. Clocking in at barely over five feet, he would tower over me by almost a foot, and if his muscular arms were any indication, he could take care of himself and anyone else in his general vicinity.

The assistant glanced at the door, seeming to wonder if he should go and check with Dr. Andrews regarding my request, or just do what I asked and get out of this room as quickly as possible.

I considered speaking up again, but he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and quickly unlocked the handcuffs, then shuffled from the room.

Logan sat up in bed and rubbed at his wrists. “Thanks,” he croaked, his voice deep and rough from sleep.

“You’re welcome.”

I stepped closer and he drew the sheet up higher on his hips, concealing the trace of soft hair trailing down his belly. I felt mesmerized watching him.

My response to him was startling. Was I that starved for male attention that I was attracted to a good-looking prisoner? Damn, maybe my friend Liz was right, I needed to go out more, to get laid, instead of relying solely on my vibrator to do the job.

This certainly wasn’t the most professional of me. I should speak up, explain who I am, why I’m here, just as I’d done countless times before during the other studies I’d been part of. Of course, those had always been led by Professor Clancy, and I’d just followed his lead, easily explaining that I was Ashlyn Drake, a Ph.D. student studying behavioral psychology and I wanted to ask a few questions. But my mouth refused to form the words, and instead I just stood there staring at him.

He seemed to have a question on the tip of his tongue, but he stayed silent as well, looking me over for a few long moments. “Do… do you know me?” he finally asked. His voice was soft, inquisitive and I immediately relaxed at the sound of it.

The meaning of his question took a minute to resonate. He thought I was here for a visit. There was something innocent and sad in his eyes. Like they were filled with hope and wonder as he looked me over. Did he think I was his girlfriend? A friend? “No,” I answered.

His face fell, and he went back to rubbing his wrists.

I stepped toward him and went to the bedside table where the assistant had left the pitcher of ice water. I picked up the plastic cup and poured him a glass of water.

I held it out for him to take, but he didn’t react right away. He sat quietly, still meeting my eyes for a lingering moment before he reached out for the cup. His fingers brushed against mine. The warmth and solid feel of him startled me.

He took a sip without taking his eyes from mine. “Why are you here and why are you treating me humanely? They say I’m dangerous, that I murdered a man.”

I sucked in a breath of air, forcing my composure to return. “I’m a doctorate student, researching the effects of amnesia.”

“You’re here to study me,” he said simply. It wasn’t a question and his eyes flicked to mine, challenging me to disagree.

I saw my actions through his eyes, what he must assume were my motives for freeing him, giving him water, and suddenly my actions didn’t feel quite so genuine. I’d need his cooperation, it was true, but I hadn’t been thinking of my research when I ordered the aide to release his wrists, or poured him a cup of water. I’d been thinking of him as a man who needed comforting, which probably wasn’t wise. It’d be in my best interest, and safer to think of him only as a test subject. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to view him the way I should while watching him sit on the edge of the bed, his chest bare, and a five o’clock shadow dusting his jaw.

I could easily rattle off that approximately eighty percent of amnesia patients would recover their memory, but I couldn’t comfort him, and that left me unsettled. I’d always dealt with statistics, scientific research, facts and figures, so being face to face with a guy my age, who I was undeniably attracted to had completely thrown me off my game. I needed to pull it together.

“May I sit?” I motioned to the plastic chair across the room.

He shrugged his indifference.

Taking it as an open invitation, I pulled the chair closer to this bed and sat down, then removed the files from my bag. Just this small act, having the papers in my hands, calmed me. I felt more in control, back to my professional self, and pulled a deep breath into my lungs.

I could feel him watching me. When I looked up, I noted the curious expression on his face.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head, biting his lip.

I looked myself over, making sure none of the buttons on my shirt had popped open or something awkward. “What’s wrong?” I felt too comfortable, more like I was talking to friend than interviewing a mental patient.

“You look too young to be a doctor,” he admitted finally.

Oh. I tucked my hair behind my ears self-consciously and glanced down at my lap. “I’m not a doctor yet. I’m still in school.” And I knew I looked younger than my twenty-four years.

I read over the questions I’d prepared and suddenly, sitting in this hospital room with him, they sounded stupid, too clinical. Besides, he wasn’t likely to be able to provide the answers just now, so I’d probably only anger him. Not that I was worried about him becoming irate; I already trusted him on some strange level. I just didn’t want to prod him with useless questions that would do nothing but frustrate him. I wanted him to trust me. And if I was admitting it to myself, I wanted him to like me. I closed the folder.

“I know you don’t remember your name, but I’d like to know what you’d prefer I call you. John Doe just doesn’t seem right.”

He swallowed and looked directly at me again. His eyes were piercing. I’d always thought the phrase ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul’ was stupid, but with him, that phrase held meaning. His eyes were rich hazel, with flecks of chocolate brown and deep, mossy green, fringed in black lashes. They were so expressive I could read his anguish at having no idea how to answer the most basic of questions.

He rubbed absently at the tattoo on his arm.

“Should I call you Logan?” I nodded toward the tattoo.

He ran his finger over the script, as if trying to decipher its meaning. “Why would I tattoo my own name on me?”

“I don’t know, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

He nodded in agreement.

“I just figured it might be more familiar to you than John though.”

“I suppose you’re right, even though there’s nothing familiar about the name Logan to me, I guess I’d still rather you call me that.”

“Okay. Logan.” I smiled. “Are you hungry, have you had breakfast?”

His expression betrayed his suspicion over my concern and I immediately felt guilty. “Let’s just get your questions over with, each day has been a parade of doctors, lawyers and investigators coming through here and not a single one of you can tell me what the fuck is wrong with me. The sooner I can get out of here and back out in the real world, the more likely I am to remember something, right?”

Okay then. That’s a no to breakfast.
“It’s possible that certain environmental stimuli could provoke a response…” but I didn’t explain that being under arrest for murder meant he wouldn’t be leaving this hospital anytime soon.

“Would I know it if I was gay?” he asked out of the blue.

“I’m not sure. Studies have shown that sexual preferences don’t change as a result of memory loss. Why? Do you think you’re gay?”

“No. It’s just… Logan is a guy’s name, right? Why would I tattoo the name of guy on my body?”

It was something I was wondering about too. “You think maybe Logan was a lover?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what to think about anything.” He lay back against his pillow and closed his eyes. I could see him struggling to keep his emotions in check. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling, waking up one day in a hospital, being told you’re under arrest for murder with no recollection of your life up until that point.

I noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the skin pale a lavender color. I wished there was something I could say, something I could do that would truly help him, but for all my schooling, lectures and textbooks, I was at a loss. I could hold my own in a discussion on amnesia, but I had no idea how to comfort someone who was experiencing it. I wasn’t a psychologist, I hadn’t studied counseling, but suddenly I found myself wishing I had the right words to soothe him, to provide some hope, some semblance of normal. However, asking any of the questions I’d typed up this morning would just insult him.