Unspoken Memories (Unspoken Series) (3 page)

“SO YOU EXPECT me to find out
exactly who you are?”

The private investigator ends up being an older gentleman,
in his late forties. He looks more like he should be working in a library, with
his wool suit that’s probably seen better days, and his gray hair, than working
as a PI. Nevertheless, according to the doc, he's the best, and at this point I
need the best.

His name is Frank and he’s been in this business for over
twenty-five years.

“Yes. I mean I know what my name is, and I know what I do.
That's easy stuff I could get from Google. However, I need to know all the
private stuff, like bank account info, and what the hell happened to my life?”

His lips go flat like he's considering whether I'm pulling
his leg or have lost my mind. He takes a sip of his coffee and he stares at me.
He's analyzing me, I can tell. So I sit there, drinking my coffee as well and
wait for him to give me an answer.

Frank finally replies, “Okay, I'll do it, but it's going to
cost you.”

“Price doesn't matter, according to Google I'm loaded, so
I'm pretty sure I can afford it.”

This intrigues him and he slits his eyes, once again
analyzing me.

“What I don't understand is why you don't ask this hot-shot
boyfriend of yours?”

“I don't trust him. I have a feeling he's hiding something
from me and since I've conveniently lost my memory I have to go with my gut
feeling,” I say, shrugging my shoulder.

Frank nods his head once and takes another sip of his
coffee.

“I have another request.” I pull out the piece of paper that
I’ve kept hidden in my pocket. “I have a number in my head that I keep
repeating and it's not matching any of my contacts in my phone, I want all the
info for the owner.” I hand him the piece of paper so he can study it.

“Well, you don't want much do you?” he says sarcastically. “But
it won't be hard.”

“Good, how fast can I expect the info? At the rate you’re
charging me, I should expect something within a couple of days, right?”

The starting rate Frank quoted me in the beginning of our
conversation could support a family of four for at least a year. You would
think that he’d use some of it to fund his wardrobe. It’s a shame he’s a man,
or I could give him most of mine. I'm desperate at this point, so I would
gladly hand over half of my income if he were to request it.

Okay, maybe not that much, but almost as much.

“I should have the info on the number within twenty-four
hours, the rest of the requested information within seventy-two. Being that
you’re a celebrity your info might be tighter to get into.”

This doesn't sound good and he sees my apprehension. “I said
‘tighter’ not impossible. Nothing’s impossible for me.”

As we've been having this conversation I’ve been setting up
a private email address for myself. The phone I have already has one entered in
it, but I don't trust him sending any information to this address in case Bill
has access to it, which I’m sure he does. I give Frank my contact information
and we depart.

As I'm walking back into my apartment building and towards
the elevator, I realize that I don't have one of those card thingies to get
back up into my apartment, so I have to do some major sweet talking with the
doorman to walk me up. He promises to have a new card for me to pick up
tomorrow.

On the way up to my apartment, I’m checking my phone to see
if I’ve received a response from the number that I texted earlier. Realizing
that I haven’t, I automatically feel disappointed. The phone distracts me as I
walk off the elevator at my floor, so I walk right into Bill.

I look up into his face, and he looks pissed as he says, “Where
the hell have you been?”

Walking around him I head into the living room. “I went out;
I needed to get some air,” I say as I start to take off the hoodie and baseball
cap and throw it onto the couch.

He sees what I’ve been wearing and he’s astonished. I bet he
didn’t think I was smart enough to disguise myself with his clothing before
going out.

“You’re not supposed to leave the building without security,
it isn't safe. I told you to stay here, you could have been mobbed,” Bill says
in a very condescending tone.

I roll my eyes at him, really, a mob? He’s just pissed I
didn’t stay home like the dumbass little girl that he thinks I am at this
moment.

“I wasn't mobbed and I really doubt anyone recognized me,
since I don't look like her when I'm wearing a hoodie,” I say, pointing to the
exotic looking picture of me on the wall above the fireplace, as I sit in one
of the uncomfortable armchairs in the room.

Looking at the picture, I wonder, where are my clothes and
why the hell am I naked and showing my ass off to everyone that's walks into my
living room?

That is going to be one of the first ones to come down.

With the look he’s giving me I know he’s about to start
ripping me one, so I quickly stand up. “If you’re done lecturing me, I'm going
to bed, I'm really tired. Goodnight,” I say, clipping off what he was about to
say.

My response takes him by total surprise because his eyes go
wide and his mouth opens in an O.

I brush past him, moving my legs as fast as they can walk to
one of the guest rooms I’ve chosen for myself, locking the door behind me. I
walk over to the bed. Taking off my clothes on the way, I climb into bed, and
under the covers. I lay there on my side, staring out the window at the
twinkling lights of Seattle. My body feels so exhausted from frustration, and
eventually sleep begins to overtake me.

I’m running outside, along what looks to be a trail made
of dirt. There are trees everywhere along the course that I am running. I am
surrounded by Mother Nature.

The season must be changing to fall or winter because
there’s a beautiful orange mixed with yellow taking over the leaves of the
trees. The air is crisp, with a bit of a chill in the air, and it’s taking me
to another world completely. One I want to stay in.

My body is relaxed as I focus on every breath. I inhale
the aromas that Mother Nature is throwing at me. The sound of the wind as I
glide through it, mixed in with the birds singing to each other, adds to my
footsteps every time they make contact with the ground below me. The pounding
of my feet hitting the pavement with every step I take forward, striking them
with the vibration of the contact. The swinging of my arms back and forth is
matching the tempo of my legs as they stride, one in front of the other. The
farther and faster I run, the better my body feels. As if I'm releasing the
toxins I've been holding inside my body. Forcing myself to let them go.

Even though my breathing is beginning to feel labored,
the distance I'm putting behind me is making me happier and happier with each
step forward I take. I feel like I want to do this forever, but I’m quickly
pulled away from running when I begin to hear ringing in my dream. The sound
pulls me from my nirvana, irritating me. The sound stops, then starts up again.

I slowly wake up and realize it's my phone ringing on the
nightstand. Who in their right mind would call me this early? Okay, it’s not
that early, since I see the sun shining through the windows of the room.

Groggy eyed, I grab the phone and mentally curse it,
noticing that the number says “Private.” I'm skeptical about answering, but
then I remember that Frank has promised to contact me today. If this isn’t him,
I might just cuss whoever it is on the other end for ruining my perfect dream.

“Hello,” I say, still groggy and out of it, as I answer the
phone.

“Hey Abigail, it's Frank.” Okay, he’s safe. “I emailed the
info on that number you wanted.”

This wakes me up in a heartbeat. I sit straight up and get
excited. He promises to keep me updated with the rest of info that I need and
ends the call. At this point I don't care about the info I need about me, I
want to know more about this number.

I open the email, it's not a huge document, but it has
enough information to keep me happy. Including an address and personal info for
the owner of the number. As I open the document, I notice the picture that
Frank has provided and it’s the same guy from my dream. My breath catches, as
my heart starts beating rapidly.

I throw back the covers, hop out of bed and get dressed in
the clothes I threw off last night. Walking over to the bedroom door, I open it
slowly. After making sure the apartment is quiet, I step out, and according to
the time on my phone it's 8:42 a.m.

Okay it’s more late than early at this point.

The apartment seems pretty empty of Bill since it’s silent,
so I head to the bathroom and take a quick shower.

After showering, I brush out my hair and put on some light
make-up. One thing that I’ve discovered, and I’m very thankful for, is that I
don't need much make-up. My face has a natural beauty to it, and I’m taking
full advantage of that today.

I head into my closet, standing there confused and feeling
overwhelmed. I pick what looks like simple skinny jeans and a beige cashmere
sweater, next comes the shoes, for some reason this is where I feel like I want
to start salivating with admiration. I can't find a pair of flats or tennis
shoes for the life of me, so I grab a pair of black Prada pumps and put them
on.

After taking a quick look in the mirror to make sure my
outfit looks good, I’m satisfied with myself and I'm ready to go.

As I was getting ready I multi-tasked and called for a hired
car. By the time I get downstairs it is waiting for me. I pick up my new key
for my apartment at the front desk, and head out of the building, on my way to
Portland.

ON THE CAR ride to Portland, I take
the time to go over the information the private investigator gave me.

The guy’s name is Matthew Garcia. He was born and raised in
Riverside, CA. His parents died when he was only seven, leaving him to be
raised by his sister, a sister who had passed away as well about six months ago
with her husband in a car accident. He’s currently in his senior year at a
private college in Portland, with the assistance of a full ride football
scholarship. Instead of living on campus like normal students, he had his own
residence off campus, a house. His sister purchased it for him before his
sophomore year, and he currently lives with a roommate, another player on the
football team.

As we get closer to the city, I give the driver the address
and he enters it into his navigation system. At this point I start to get more
and more nervous because I have no idea what to expect. My palms are getting
sweaty, my stomach is in knots, and my knee starts twitching again. I’ve
noticed it’s been doing that a lot lately when I’m anxious or nervous. I still
haven’t figured out how to make it stop.

We pull up to the house and the driver parks next to the
curb in front. The first thing I notice is that it looks like a normal family
sized house. I was expecting it to look like a frat house being that they’re
college kids, but it looks really taken care of.

As the driver opens my door I notify him that I have no idea
how long I might be, but to stay close just in case. He nods and informs me
he'll be waiting in the car.

As I'm walking up the driveway, there are two cars. One is a
Jeep, but what catches my eye is a beautiful, black, classic Dodge Charger. Its
glossy paint makes it shine in the sunlight. I think that it is one sexy car.

I walk up to the door and ring the doorbell. My stomach is
turning from the nerves and I feel like I’m ready to throw up.

At first, there isn't an answer, so I ring it again. After a
minute I start to feel impatient with still no answer, so I start to knock hard
on the door.

I finally hear a voice yelling from inside, “Yeah, yeah,
hold your horses man. I'm coming!”

The door opens and the first thing that hits me is the
smell. Whoever's in there is spending some major time with someone named Mary
Jane. I’m almost high just with the first whiff I take.

I’m disappointed when I notice who has answered the door.
It’s not who I was expecting, which saddens me. It isn’t the guy in the picture
that Frank sent me, which must mean this must be the roommate, or a friend. He
has some running shorts on and a tight white shirt, which stretches over his
broad shoulders and muscles.

This guy is huge. He has bulging arms that look like they
might be wider than my legs, and probably are. He’s a bit shorter than I am but
I’m wearing heels after all. By the looks of this guy he must spend some major
time in the gym with the weights. His hair is cut really short all over and
he's staring at me like he's trying really hard to figure out who I am. Then he
shakes his head like he's trying to clear it.

“Is Matthew Garcia here?” I nervously ask.

I'm pretty sure from the smells I'm getting from inside that
he is stoned out of his mind.

He is still staring at me, with bugged eyes and his mouth
slightly open. Finally a light bulb must have turned on in his head because he
finally speaks.

“Dude, you’re Abigail fucking Adams.”

I roll my eyes. “No, I’m Mother Teresa, I’ve come to save
your soul. Again, is Matthew Garcia here?”

I'm afraid by the way he's staring at me that I'm getting
nowhere. But, the now confused look on his face makes me smile for the first
time since all this drama has started.

“Dude, are you sure you’re real?” Then tilting his head, he
says, “This must be some really good shit.”

I'm getting really frustrated at this point, I came all this
way and right now I’m kind of out of patience from the three hour drive up
here. As I'm about to give up, I hear a voice behind the guy staring at me.

“Dude, what the hell are you yelling about out here?” says
the voice walking to the door.

When I see who it is, I get excited. It's him! It’s really
him. I stare at him and even though I know his name already, just seeing him
makes my excitement accelerate. Like I really know who he is and I've missed
him so much. The next thing I know I'm throwing myself at him and hugging him.

He automatically catches me, but stiffens up as I’m holding
him, awkwardly tapping me on the back with his hand and then pushes me away so
he can get a clear view of my face. He looks confused, which is understandable
when a stranger throws herself at you. I realize what I’ve just done, and it
makes me feel embarrassed; I shouldn’t have thrown myself at him like that.

That's when he notices who I am and his jaw drops open.
Matthew is holding a joint in his hand, looks down at it, and then hands it
over to the first guy. “Here dude, I think this shit is making me trip.”

Big muscled guy standing next to us gets all excited and
starts hopping back and forth on his feet. “Dude, I'm pretty sure you’re not
tripping, if you see what I'm seeing.” He draws his eyebrows forward in doubt.

“You’re seeing her, right?” He doubts again with his eyes. “It's
Abigail Adams standing in our front door, right? I’m not tripping?” He gets
excited again.

I decide to take over the conversation. “You’re Matthew
Garcia, right?” I ask, looking back at Matthew, and trying to ignore a gawking
muscled guy.

He nods his head and responds, “Just Matt,” and holds out
his hand for me to shake.

As I’m shaking his hand I say, “Is there any way I could
come in? I have something I need to talk to you about,” and walk through the
front door without waiting for the invitation.

They both look at each other with dazed looks and nod. Matt
takes a couple of fast steps to catch up with me and begins to lead me into the
house. The first thing I notice is that even though I have heels on, we are
matched in height, and he's not as physically big as the first guy.

He's still fit all right, but he's slim and he has enough
toned muscle to make you drool. He looks like he should be in an Abercrombie
ad.

As he leads me into the living room, he starts guiding me
with his hand on my back, and I can feel the warmth in his touch. It sends a
thrilling chill through my body and I get excited. Then I quickly remember that
this guy is still a total stranger at this point, so I’ll just blame my
excitement on my nerves.

When we enter the living room, I notice it looks like a
typical college bachelor pad. Dirty carpet, stained couches, beer bottles, and
cans are everywhere. Including on the coffee table, and counters.

Taking a quick glance at the available seating, I take the
only recliner in the living room. It's made of what looks of black leather and
I'm praying it’s clean enough for me to sit on it.

Facing Matt, I notice he and his friend are both staring at
me and they still have confused looks on both of their faces.

I fully take in Matt when he sits down and although I saw
him in my dream, seeing him in person is not the same. He’s hotter than the
picture or my dreams.

He’s wearing a shirt similar to the one in my dream, a
cutoff and it’s emphasizing every muscle on his chest, and arms making him look
sexier.

His arms are just as toned as his legs and he’s sitting
there with his elbows on his knees leaning towards me, which emphasizes a
tattoo on his right outer bicep. It’s an angel wing, starting at the top of his
shoulder, ending with the tip at his elbow.

It’s beautiful.

His eyes are light brown and the curl in his long lashes
make those eyes pop. As I’m looking straight into his eyes, my body starts to
melt from weakness.

How in the world can someone’s stare do this? I feel like I
can’t concentrate from him looking at me with those eyes.

The smell of their friend is still really heavy in the air,
so maybe that’s what’s causing this reaction.

“Can you open up a window or the patio door maybe, please? I
need to stay focused for this conversation.”

Yes, I’ll just blame it on the Mary Jane.

Matt gets up and heads over to the patio door, opening it.
Once he’s done, he comes back, and sits down on the edge of the couch closest
to me once again.

“Umm, not that we're not happy you’re here, but, why are you
here?” he inquires. He seems pretty calm and under control. Even though I bet
he’s as baked as the other guy.

The entire car ride here I was thinking about what I would
say when I arrived, but now my mind is blank, so I start talking in hopes that
it will come back to me.

“Well, you see, I woke up from a coma last week and I seem
to have amnesia, I have no clue who I am, other than my name, and that's only
because I guess that's really not hard to figure out. But, in reality I don't
have any memories at all. The only thing that I could remember when I woke up
was a phone number.” I’m pretty sure I’m rambling at this point, but I
continue, “I hired a private investigator to track the number and he gave me
your information,” I say, pointing my chin towards Matt.

Although I have my hands folded into each other on my lap,
they’re starting to get sweaty again from the nerves. The two guys are both
still looking like they’re trying to absorb the information, this must be a
major buzz kill for their high, but I need answers dammit, and at this point
they are the only answer to the number in my head.

“So let me get this straight? Other than your name and
Matt’s number, you have no memories at all?” the big guy asks, trying to figure
all this out as well.

“Yes,” I whisper, looking down at my hands.

Matt is staring at me with his head cocked to the side.

“But, why my number?” He points his finger at himself. “I've
never met you and I'm pretty sure we don't run in the same circle.”

“I don't know either, but I kept repeating the number in my
head, like it was natural to me. I tried texting you last night but I didn't
get a response.”

Matt takes his phone from the coffee table and starts
searching through it. “Oh, you must be the 206 number. I was kind of busy at
the moment with someone,” he says with a wicked grin. “It was a pretty crazy
night last night. Since I didn't recognize the number I just ignored it. Sorry
about that,” he says, placing the phone in his pocket of his shorts.

With the look he’s just given me I’m pretty sure it was a
girl that he was busy with, and I don’t blame him. If I knew him well enough I
would want to be busy with him myself.

Where the hell are all these thoughts coming from? I have to
get myself under control.

I try to distract myself from my carnal thoughts. “It's
okay, I pretty much headed over here as soon as I got your information this
morning from the PI. I needed to see you, the thing is I've had dreams about
you too,” I say, looking straight at Matt, while biting my lower lip in
embarrassment.

He thoroughly looks confused, his eyebrows arching up in
surprise. I know exactly how he feels. The other guy’s mouth drops in an O, and
then he lightly shakes his head, before taking a sip of his beer. He hands it
to Matt and he does the same. I sit there in silence, giving them time to
absorb everything I’ve said.

Trying to distract myself again from the tension beginning
to build up inside, I begin to look around the room. I notice on one of the
walls is a wall hanger, with a whole bunch of medals hanging from them. I walk
over to them and start looking at them. As I'm doing this I get another memory.

This one is of Matt and me. A crowd of people surrounds
us, as a medal is being placed around my neck. I feel ecstatic as I hug him.
I’m looking behind him at the big banner that says “Portland Marathon” in big
green letters. It’s a finish line, and by the year on the banner it was just
last year.

Excited, I turn to face Matt, this must be where we met.
Even though I don’t remember reading anything on Google that said I was a
runner. “We ran the Portland Marathon together last year, that's where we must
have met.”

He gets up and comes over, standing next me and begins
concentrating on the medals with me.

“No, we didn't,” he clips out, keeping his eyes on the
medals.

“Yes, we did, you’re in my memory and we’re crossing the
finish line together.” At least I’m pretty sure we did. “They gave us our
medals together and we are hugging.”

Matt looks back at me with a fierce glare. His chest is
beginning to rise and fall, and he’s shaking his head. His eyes turn glassy
like he wants to cry, but he's fighting to hold it back. “I didn't run it with
you,” he insists, staring at me in disbelief, and irritation laces his voice. “I
ran it with my sister. It was the last race we ran together.”