The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) (4 page)

“I just feel so strange,” he murmurs. “Like
I’m in a different world. For instance, what do you call this
vehicle?”

“Huh?”

“This vehicle we are travelling in. What do
you call it?”

Taken aback, I reply, “Uh, a Ford.”

“Ford.” He savors the word.

We continue down the roads, surveying the
devastation. According to the news, there has been one casualty
reported so far – an old man trapped under a falling barn. A black
van with tinted windows roars from the opposite direction and
whooshes past us, causing me to spin the wheel and almost veer into
a ditch. I have to slam on the brakes.

“Bastards,” I mutter.

“Badly steered Ford,” Don agrees.

“No, that’s a Mercedes-Benz van.”

“I thought you said it was a Ford?”

“I said the car I’ve driving is a Ford. That
was a Merc.”

“Car?” He looks puzzled.

“The vehicle we are in. It’s called a
car.”

“Then what’s a ‘Ford’?”

“A type of car.”

OK. He’s seriously strange. Is it possible
for amnesia to hit so badly that he can’t even remember everyday
things – like cars and the ability to be embarrassed by nudity?

The alternative is almost too incredible to
contemplate. I’m a rational person, and I prefer to think there’s a
rational explanation for everything. Everything, I’m sure, will be
solved once we get to the police.

We enter the town, Don looking two parts as
puzzled as he is anxious. I don’t blame him. If I can’t remember
cars and Fords, I’d be worried too. The town is in havoc, although
the buildings have relatively been spared. People are crowding
stores, buying supplies and hardware equipment to mend their homes.
Signboards are skewed or completely blown off. A broken fire
hydrant gushes a continuous jet of silvery water, flooding the
entire street.

I don’t think the police are going to have
much time for us today, but we’ve got to try.

“Do you want to go to a hospital?” I ask
Don. He looks healthy, but you never know. Concussions give amnesia
and he could be having a brain hemorrhage for all I know.

I brace myself, wondering if he would ask me
what a hospital is.

He frowns. “Hospital? No. I feel perfectly
fine.”

He
looks
perfectly fine.

“I think we should get you checked out
anyway,” I push on. “You never know about these head injuries. They
can be incredibly deceptive.”

“Police first, and then the hospital,” he
insists.

“OK. Whatever you say.”

“It’s because I really, really want to know
who I am,” he adds.

“I don’t blame you.”

He seems to be appeased by this, though I
can see he is still anxious from the way he grips the car door
handle.

We go to the police station. It is as
crowded as I expected. We have to wait a whole hour before someone
sees to us. Meanwhile, Don gets plenty of stares from women and men
alike, especially at his bursting crotch. I make a mental note to
drop by Diesel before heading to the hospital.

The officer in question is a freckled young
man with a nametag that says ‘P. Graham’.

“Nope,” he tells us. “The only ‘Missing
Persons’ on our records are teenagers and elderly people. Your
description doesn’t show up.” He looks up. “The good news is that
you’re not a wanted criminal either.”

“That’s a relief, I’m sure,” I say
sarcastically.

Don is unconvinced. “And no one has asked
for me or reported me missing?”

“No one according to my computer which spans
. . . ” P. Graham types several keys “ . . . the entire state.
We’ll broadcast your photo on our web to the whole nation. I’m sure
someone looking for you will find you. Don’t worry, these things
ultimately match up.”

Don’s shoulders slump with disappointment. I
reach out to pat his hand reassuringly.

“We can always go on TV,” I say.

“That’s an option,” P. Graham interjects.
“It’s a nice thing you’re doing for him, Mrs. Mansfield.”

“It’s Ms.”

“Sorry.”

“No problem.”

Don has his face photo taken, like a
criminal. When we exit the station, he says in a low voice, “I
don’t know. I feel like I don’t belong here at all. No one is ever
going to come for me.”

A pang of sympathy shoots through me. “We
have to stay positive. It’s early days yet.”

He shakes his head. “I have no memory
whatsoever of people and places. It’s a complete blank.”

“It will come back.” I sound more optimistic
than I really am. Don is just too . . . strange for this world.
He’s right in that sense. But it’s not something I will think about
right now. “We’ll go to the hospital. But first, let’s get you some
decent clothes.”

Decent is the magic word. We drop by at
Gap’s, which is relatively empty because folks are out at other
stores replenishing essentials. Clothes are not essential, I guess,
except where Don is concerned.

As I suspected, the saleswoman can’t keep
her eyes and hands off him.

“This suits you soooo well,” she gushes,
touching his shirt-clad shoulder as she gazes at his stunning
reflection in the changing room mirror.

I agree wholeheartedly. I can’t take my eyes
off him as well. Wherever he came from, it would great if they
manufactured more like him.

“We’ll take it. And those three pairs of
jeans as well.”

Don’s eyes in the mirror regard me. “I don’t
know how to thank you for this. I will pay you back once . . .
well, you know.”

“It’s OK, there’s no need,” I say, my eyes
misting a little.

The saleswoman swivels her eyes back and
forth between us.

She says, “Okayyyy, I guess I better leave
you guys alone now.”

As you should have over an hour ago, I want
to say.

As she dives out of the confined changing
room space, Don grins at me. I can’t help but grin back. A warm
feeling suffuses my body, spreading all the way up to my
cheeks.

Our next stop is the hospital. A middle-aged
male doctor examines Don in the Emergency department behind some
screens.

He motions me to come in while Don is still
dressing.

“There’s nothing outwardly wrong with you,”
he tells Don. “No bruises on the head, no wounds, no contusions.
I’m not even convinced you had a concussion. But if you like, we
can run a scan of your brain.”

Don looks uncertain. No doubt he’s thinking
of the cost.

“I’ll think about it,” he says.

“Cost is not an issue,” I say.

“Yes, it is,” Don says.

Like the saleswoman before him, the doctor
looks back and forth between us.

“Just think about it and let me know what
you decide.” He turns to Don. “What you have is generalized
amnesia, which is extremely uncommon. More often than not, it’s
triggered by psychological stress – some major life event that
happened to you – rather than an actual head injury. It can last
for days in some people, months in others. We can start with some
psychotherapy to help you recall your memories. But meanwhile, you
will need a place to stay.”

“He can stay with me until he gets back his
memories,” I quickly put in.

Don looks at me gratefully.

We make an
appointment
with the
hospital’s psychology department for next week. But I can tell that
Don is extremely worried. Not that I blame him in the
least.

In the car,
Don says, “I can’t imagine what could have happened to me to
make me lose my memory like this. Why
did I wake up all alone in the forest? Who am I and how did I end
up here?”

I have no
answers for him either, and so we are left to ponder this in
silence.
Don’s arm is crooked
and his elbow is placed against the window. He rests his chin
against his palm and stares wistfully out into the countryside. He
presents such a picture of melancholy that I wish I can say or do
something to make him feel better.

At
home, I whip up some linguini with
clams and shrimp. After we have eaten, Don insists on doing the
dishes the old-fashioned way, until I point to the dishwasher –
something he either obviously hasn’t seen before or whose function
he cannot recall.

This time, he is
visibly embarrassed.

“
I’m
sorry
to be such a burden to
you,” he says as he kneels to stack the dirty dishes in the
dishwasher.

“
You’re not a
burden. Stop saying that.”

His
gradual
loss of confidence
worries me. I feel so helpless.

He straightens
his wonderful body again to fetch another tr
io of plates from the sink. A plate slips from his
grasp and drops onto the floor.

It shatters
upon impact. But not before he collapses – eyes rolling back into
his skull.

“Don!” I shriek.

He strikes the
floor at the same time as the plate, hitting his
head on the floor with a hard thud. Blood
trickles from his left nostril.

I fly towards
him. His head is lolled backwards, and
he seems to have lapsed into some sort of
semi-conscious stupor. I cradle the back of his head in my hands.
My stomach is clenched with fear.

“
Don? Are you
all right? Please . . . talk to me.”
My voice comes out simultaneously tinny and squeaky.
I debate on whether to call an ambulance.

His blue-green
irises come back into focus. Dazedly, he looks up at me.

“Wh-what
happened?”

“
You fell.”
I’m almost beside myself with relief. I’m a klutz when it comes to
medical emergencies, being totally unable to perform CPR without
spontaneously combusting myself into a hyper-emotional ball. Don
sure picked the wrong Good Samaritan to go home with.

“I fell?”

“Yes.”

He touches the
back of his head. I wince as I remember the sharp thud that
accompanied it.

“
I had
a
vision,” he says.

With my help, he
props himself up on one elbow. He is still extremely shaky.

“A vision,” I
repeat.

“
Yes.” His
hand is trembling slightly, and so I clasp it in mine. “In it, I
saw something.”

I’m dying to
know what that something is, of course, but my caring instincts
scream at me to take care of him first. I lightly touch his upper
lip where the blood from his left nostril has pooled.

“Don, I think we
better get that seen to first. And I think we should get you to a
hospital.”

My fingers come away
with his blood. He blanches.

“Oh.”

“
Yes. Let’s
help you up. Let’s get you cleaned up first, and then I’ll get the
car keys.”

“I don’t want to go
to the hospital.”

“Why not? They owe
you a brain scan.”

Don dabs at
his nostril
. “I’ve already
outstayed my welcome here.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I mean it.”

“
And I mean
what I said. Look at me.” I cup his face in my palms. “You
are
not
any trouble to me. Get that out of
your head, OK?”

My heart is
beating rapidly. Even in his dazed and bruised state, he’s
alarmingly beautiful. Why have I never noticed those golden flecks
in his blue-green eyes before?

“OK,” he acquiesces.
“I’ll go in the morning. But I’ll pay you back for every cent I owe
you.”

“For goodness sakes,
Don . . . ”

“No ‘buts’ about
it.”

“OK.’

Two can play at the
‘giving in’ game.

I help him to
the bathroom.
The blood has
dripped onto his new white T-shirt. It wears two distinct splotches
now, just above his left nipple, which protrudes suggestively out
of the thin material.

God, I have it bad.
I’m noticing such things even in a medical emergency.

“I think you better
lie down,” I say.

I think
I
better lie down. Separately. In another room after
I’ve taken a cold shower.

He strips off
his T-shirt.
The planes of his
bare upper torso gleams oh-so-delectably in the soft bathroom
light. I suppress a spasm of desire.

Get a hold of yourself, Jean. The poor guy may be terminally
ill and you are having the hots for him.

Not fair.

Peering into
the mirror, he dabs at his nose with a tissue I gave him. Bloody
streaks come away.
It pains me
to see them.

“
Are you OK
now?” I ask
in concern.
“Feeling dizzy or anything?”

I touch the back of
his head, feeling for a bump where he has fallen. There is
thankfully none.

“
I’m alright
now,” he says, pressing the tissue onto his nose.

I’m still
uneasy about the whole thing. There is something wrong with Don –
this whole affair of his generalized amnesia, his
incredibly enhanced speed – and I
can’t piece together the jigsaw puzzle.

I
sh
epherd him to the guest
bedroom where I make him lie down on the bed’s coverlet. I take the
pillow away from his head and put it under his knees, the way I’ve
seen my mother do in the past for my Dad, who had emphysema
fainting spells.

“Just breathe in and
out deeply,” I tell Don. “It will make you feel better.”

His brilliant
eyes regard mine.

“
I saw
something, Jean.
I don’t know
if it’s a memory or something else, but I saw a red plain. Parched.
With a crimson sky above it. There’s a lake mirroring that sky
which spans several miles across. I immediately knew where it
was.”