Before & After (3 page)

Chapter 4
:
After

Quiet. The
darkness

Presses against
me, the

Distance yawns
between us.

Quiet. And in the
stillness,

space
melts away. And

there
you are.

(
Rike’s
poem to Peyton)

The
shrink the hospital sends me to
is
a fucking joke.

She
wants to try meditation and hypnosis. Because either of those will help. I’ve
spent three days here and I know nothing about who I am or why the hell I’m
here.

There’s
a tap on my door and I stop punching the pillow to look up as the door swings
open.

He’s
back. He’s been gone for most of the past three days, and I’ve wondered. I
shouldn’t have, but I’ve found myself pulled back to him despite my best
intentions.

“What
did the pillow do?”

I
smooth it and flush. “Nothing. It didn’t do—where have you been?”

He
arches an eyebrow and grins at me, and I look away. He doesn’t answer
immediately, stalking deeper into the room and dropping into the chair next to
my bed. He sprawls there, ridiculously comfortable, and I almost want to
dislike him for it. There’s a confident air that wraps around him. He’s covered
in tattoos—I can see them more with the
tshirt
he’s
wearing—and he smiles as if the world is waiting for him to grace it with his
presence. “Did you miss me, sweetheart?”

The term of endearment confirms what I’ve begun
suspecting—he isn’t a nurse.

“I
don’t know. I don’t know you so I don’t suppose I could miss you,” I answer
honestly. His smile falters, and I feel like I said the wrong thing. Like he is
waiting for something from me. “Do I?” I blurt, suddenly. His eyes dart up to
mine and his grin fails completely.

“Do
you what?” he asks hoarsely.

I
almost ask. I think he want me to. But there is something terrifying and deep
in his eyes, something I’m not ready to face. So I make a face, and shake my head.
Twitch my blanket over my cast.

The
accident that stole my memory also shattered my leg, my left arm, and four
ribs. I’m told I’m lucky. That the amnesia might pass, that the leg will heal,
and my bruises will fade. I’ll walk, and I’ll lead a normal life.

“The
girl who came in with me. Do you know anything about her?”

“She’s
still touch and go,” he says, and something about his voice jerks my gaze up to
him.

There’s
grief there. Surprising.

“Why
are you here?” I ask, abruptly.

For
the first time, he looks nervous. He rubs his hands on his jeans, and then
leans forward, digging into the bag he carried into the room.

“I
brought you some stuff. Books. Music. A couple movies are loaded on the tablet.
And you can google shit if you want. I know that it’s not your memory, but I
want to help you. I want to do what I can to help you figure out who you are
and where you come from.”

He’s
staring at me, his face open and earnest, hopeful.

“What’s
your name?” I whisper.

Why
does he look so sad? “Rike. Riker Johnston.”

I
smile and extend my hand, the one that is still hooked up to IVs, my fingers
splinted and half-healed. For a moment, I feel a flash of embarrassment. But
his hand, covering mine, is warm and impossibly careful, and I want to bask in
the feel of it.

“I’m
Peyton Collins,” I says softly. Almost shyly.

“Hi,
Pey
,” he murmurs, and it soothes me. I don’t want to
think about why.

***

We
watch a movie and it’s interesting, but when it’s over, that’s all it was.
Interesting. Not a clue to who I am. But Rike laughs and it’s relaxing, just
hanging out with him. There aren’t questioning stares from doctors and nurses,
barely veiled sympathy that makes my stomach hurt.

He’s
just present.

When
the movie ends, the night is dark outside my window. He stretches and stands.
“I should go. I’m surprised they haven’t kicked me out yet.”

“Do
you have to go?” I ask, and then slap a hand over my lips. I shouldn’t have
asked that. His eyes are watching me, assessing, and I make a half-smile,
half-grimace. “Sorry. I appreciate you being here. That’s all. Thank you.”

“It’s
my pleasure, sweetheart. Would you like me to come back tomorrow?”

I
want to say yes. Because there is nothing familiar, in my world. There is only
him. He is becoming a touchstone of familiar.

“If
you’d like to,” I answer, trying not to be demanding.

His
head tilts to the side. “I’ll make a deal with you, Peyton. If you will tell me
something you learned about yourself—I’ll come back. But you have to learn
something. About who you are or who you were. Deal?”

I
blink at him. Rike is staring at me, and there’s a wild hope in his eyes. He
wants me to do this. It matters.

And
it’s a
helluva
a lot better than trying dream therapy
with an idiotic shrink.

“How
do I tell you?”

A
wide smile spreads across his face, and he pulls out a phone. “It’s cheap. Just
a prepaid thing. I programmed my number in here. I want you to text or call
when you’ve figured it out. One thing, ok?”

“What
if you’re busy?”
 

His
eyes darken, and my breath catches in my throat. “I won’t be. I won’t ever be
too busy for you, Peyton.”

I
don’t know what to say to that, so I just bob a quick nod and his tension eases
a little. He hesitates, and then hands me a small, leather-bound book. “This
was in your purse when you were brought in. I wanted you to have it.”

I
take it from him with numb fingers and he leans down, brushing a kiss over my
hair. It takes everything in me to keep from shivering.

“I
hope I see you tomorrow, Peyton,” he murmurs. Then he walks to the door. Pauses
there and grins over his shoulder at me. “Knock, knock.”

A
silly smile tugs my lips. “Who’s there?”

“Cows
go.”

“Cows
go who?”

He
smirks. “Cows go moo, not who.”

I
giggle, and he winks at me, and then he’s gone.

And
I’m alone. With my thoughts and a tablet.

I
could Google. I can’t imagine I was a girl who didn’t like social media. But I
think using that to get a fact is cheating. The notebook is sitting in my lap,
with the cell phone. It was mine. Why is that terrifying?

I
take a deep breath and flip it open.

The
pages are covered in
neat
, tiny script,
looping little letters. I stare at it for a moment, my gaze skimming the page
before I flip to the next. And the next. Page after page.

Poetry.

And
it's gorgeous. I flip through the book slowly, reading the poetry. It's
everything from Thoreau and Frost to people I've never heard of. I'm tempted to
Google them, and I finally reach for my own notebook. Jot down a few things to
look up tomorrow, before I settle into the pillows and read.

It’s
hours later when the
nurse comes in to check my vitals. Her gaze tracks over me and the array of
books and the open notebook. Her gaze brightens and she gives me a smile.
“Remember anything, Peyton?”

I
make a face and shake my head. She clucks softly. “The doctor is talking to
your parents tomorrow.”

I
shift and straighten. “I would really prefer he didn’t.”

Her
eyes widen, and I bite my tongue. Why the hell did I say that? I don’t know.
But the mere idea of him discussing my medical condition with my parents makes
me want to crawl into a hole and hide from everyone. And fire him immediately.

“Please
let him know I want to be consulted before he reaches out to anyone. I’m sure
that I’m protected by privacy laws.”
I say it evenly,
but I’m seething. Just because I’ve lost a chunk of my memory doesn’t mean I
don’t remember basic privacy.

Her
face goes white and she bobs a nod as she goes quiet and finishes taking my
stats. Then she’s gone and I’m left staring at the notebook of beautiful words,
and the unshakable feeling that I don’t—didn’t—like my parents.

The
why is a lot harder to figure
out.

I
pick up the phone and text quickly:

Peyton
: I know my one thing.

Rike
: Tell me. Blow me away.

Peyton
: Don’t be pushy. You said one thing. Not
blow
-
you
-
away
revelations.

I
can hear him laughing even though he’s not here. I grin, and tap out quickly.

Peyton
: I’ll tell you tomorrow. Thanks for keeping
me company tonight.

I
wait a moment for a response, but none
comes
.
And I’m okay with that.

I
lean back on the bed and lose myself in the words on the page, until my eyes
are too heavy to stay open, and all I can see is beauty.

I fall asleep with two truths ringing in my mind.

I
don’t like my parents. And I absolutely adore poetry.

Chapter
5
:
Before

Scotty
is watching me from a barstool as I tap at the drums nervously. It's been two
weeks since that first date in Keegan's record store, and I still haven't
brought Peyton home. She's flirted, and we've done dinner, and constant
texting. She still comes by to listen to us play, but she scooted out before I
could talk to her last week, texting quickly that she had a class early the
next morning.

Which
might be true. It might be she doesn't want to get serious enough that she's
meeting Scott

"You
need to get laid," Scott says, and I flick him a dirty look.

"Have
you even kissed her yet?" he asks, and I duck behind the drums. He barks
out a startled laugh, half choking on his beer. "You haven't. Shit, bro,
you're losing your touch."

"Shut
the fuck up," I growl. "I'm not fucking this up because I'm
horny."

Scott
laughs again and I stand abruptly, glaring at my brother.
 
Amused blue eyes meet mine, red hair framing
a private smile that tells me I'm not in trouble, but I'm skating close to it.

Peyton
reaches out and snags Scott's Redd’s, sipping from it as she saunters up to the
stage and climbs up. She's wearing a tight little jean skirt that rides up a
little when she steps up, and I get the quick flash of her smooth thigh, the
hint of bright blue of her panties before she's on the stage and stalking
toward me.

She
moves with a prowling grace that make me hard, and I swallow, watching as she
closes in on me.

"You’re
horny and you won't touch me?"
sShe
murmurs, soft enough that even in the still quiet of the bar, only I hear her
words. "I must be reading your signals wrong, Jokes. I thought you were in
this."

Disappointment
shimmers in her bright eyes, and I move without thinking. For once, the voices
hissing that she's too good for me are silenced as I drag her into me. Her body
is hot and soft under the jean skirt and a tight-fitting tank that caresses
every fucking curve. I drop my head down, skimming along her skin as I murmur,
"
Sweetheart, I've gotten off every day for the past
three months, thinking about your tight little body in my bed. Thinking about
kissing you until you can't think and watching you fall apart while I'm buried
in your perfect
pussy.
"

She
makes a tiny gasp against my ear and I lick a line across the curve of her neck
and she shudders, her hand coming up to clutch my shoulders, nails digging in.

"You
like that, don't you? That I've spent months hung up on you. That I've come all
over myself thinking about you."

She
whimpers and I swallow my smile as I pull back. Stare in her eyes as she
struggles to breathe evenly. "How wet are you right now, Peyton?"

She
licks her lips and my dick twitches. I swallow a groan as she comes up on
tiptoes and leans in, her lips brushing against my ear as she whispers,
"Fucking soaked."

I
have her against me before I realize I moved, and her lips are against mine and
it's every fucking thing I expected. Wanted. Fantasized about for months. Her
hands are on my shoulders, nails digging in, and I fucking love it. I lick
along the seam of her lips, my hand coming up and framing her face as the other
finds her waist, the smooth band of skin between her skirt and her top. I catch
her bottom lip, tugging softly, and her nails bite down as she gasps. I shift
her, twisting and pushing her back until she hits the wall. One leg hitches up
around mine and I groan as her tongue slides against mine and her skirt rides
up between us.

I’m
about a minute from dragging her into the back stockroom and fucking her
against the cases of beer. She grabs my hand, and brings it between us as her
leg drops. I pull back a hairsbreadth, startled, and her blue eyes are fierce
and hot on mine as she guides my hand down the front of her skirt.

I’m
too aware of the people behind us, and the girl in my arms, the way she’s
pushing me past every fucking boundary I know.

Then
I feel her, her pussy smooth and soft and so, “Jesus, you’re so fucking wet,” I
hiss, my fingers slipping through her folds. Her eyes are closed, and her mouth
is slightly open, as she moves against me in the tiniest thrust, her clit
rubbing against my palm.

It
might be the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.

“Rike,”
Scott yells, but he seems very far away. The bar is impossibly quiet, and she’s
shuddering in my arms. I twist, coming in front of her a little more, pushing
her deeper into the shadows of the wall and my fingers sink into her.

I
swallow my curse as her nails dig in again, pain flashing through me and
slamming into my cock, and her lips open.

I
kiss her, taking the scream as she spasms around my hand, wet heat and
shuddering silky muscles and the scent of sunshine and sugar all around me as I
drink down her screams and kiss her like I’m dying.

Slowly,
slowly, she settles, her body relaxing against the wall, and I slip my hand
from her skirt, straightening it.

I
just finger-fucked Peyton in the middle of a bar. A not empty bar.

What
the actual fuck is wrong with me?

She
grabs me by the jaw as I step away from her and her eyes are furious and hot,
and my mouth goes dry. “Don’t you dare regret this, Jokes. Don’t you fucking
dare.
” She pushes past me before I can protest, before I can
say anything, and I wait a second, trying to get my composure and to get my
fucking hard-on to go down before I turn to face the entire room.

I
feel someone at my back, and glance at Scotty.

“I
got the room cleared,” he says. “Before you guys went at it like fucking
rabbits.”

He
grins, and I want to punch him for seeing that even as I’m glad he had the
presence of mind to clear the room.

“I
wasn’t thinking,” I mutter.

“No,
but going without sex will fuck with anyone’s head. And Siren looks like she
was into it.”

“Quit
calling her that. Her name is Peyton.”

He
glances at her from the corner of his eye. Peyton is settling into her booth in
the corner of the bar, opening her computer and going to work like I didn’t
just molest her onstage.

For
the first time, my heartbeat settles.

She
wanted it just as bad as I did.

“Of
course she did, you
fucktard
. You might be horny but
you don’t fucking assault girls. Just keep that shit off the stage—we’ve got
people coming in.” He says, answering the thought I didn’t realize I’d voiced.

I
glance at him and nod. He point at the back bathroom and I follow his wordless
directive.

It’s
tiny and stinks and I close the door behind me, leaning on it.

I
can fucking smell her on my skin, and I groan.

Because
I’m fucking hard. Again.