Chapter 7
Zaira
They tell me my name is Zaira. They say I have been in an accident and that I am suffering from memory loss. They say they understand my confusion and fear, but they can’t even begin to comprehend the depths of distress and horror I feel right now.
The man who calls himself Michael said I was safe. I don’t feel safe—well, at least I didn’t until I looked him in the eye. It was then when I knew that no matter what happens to me going forward, this man will protect me. This man, I feel I can trust.
Not that I really have a choice.
He wheels me out of the hospital room. The big, beefy guy named Ricco follows close behind. I’m still not sure about him. We get to the front doors, and Michael says to Ricco, “Damn, I forgot. I have my bike.”
Ricco laughs, and for some reason, realizing what he’s talking about, I find I am laughing too. “Well planned, Mikey,” Ricco says sarcastically.
“When you say bike, do you mean a motorcycle?” I ask.
They both look at me curiously and then Michael replies, “Yes, my Harley.”
“I think I would like to ride a Harley,” I say. The thought of the wind blowing through my hair and the freedom of being on the open road sends shivers down my spine. Freedom. It is something that even though I may not know who I am or where I am from, I crave deep inside my heart. I can feel it.
“Oh no, Zaira, you are suffering from multiple head injuries. Not gonna happen,” Michael replies. He turns toward Ricco and says, “Call Sainte and have him bring the R8. He can take my Harley back.”
“Michael,” Ricco admonishes. “You’re not driving alone. Remember the lockdown order?”
Lockdown? Why would the beefy guy not want Michael to drive alone? Is he not safe?
Michael shakes his head and replies, “Then you and Sainte ride behind us.”
“Fuck, Michael, why are you so fucking stubborn?” Ricco asks.
“Because, I’m fuckin’ stubborn, and it’s my way or the highway. Now call him.”
So I am guessing by this little tête–à–tête between these two, Ricco must work for Michael. Although Michael’s eyes are kind, I am quickly learning he might not be as kind as he appears, and he definitely knows how to get what he wants. Well hell, he just said so himself. He’s cocky too, and did I mention incredibly good looking?Oh, you shouldn’t be having these thoughts.
And even though I tell myself not to think about Michael’s looks, I have nothing to do while we wait for the car but to look at him. I gaze at him and take in his broad shoulders. There’s a little bulk to his arms and chest. Some men bulk up so large they don’t appear human. But Michael? He’s got just enough bulk, in my opinion. He’s tall, roughly six foot three or six foot four. He has dark-brown hair—almost black—with sexy waves, thinner around the neckline but thicker on top. And those eyes, a grayish blue that would make any woman’s panties melt. There’s a scruffy five-o’clock shadow on his chin, and it only adds to his allure.Oh, yes. I like looking at him indeed.
There is a familiarity to him I find compelling.I must know him, but how do I know him?
This whole memory thing has totally thrown me off. How is it I can remember how to walk and talk—basically I know how to function as a human being—but I cannot remember my name, what I had for breakfast yesterday, or where I live? Why is it I can’t remember Michael? He obviously knows me. Do I have a family? Siblings?
These thoughts plague my mind while we sit and wait for Sainte—I think that was his name—to bring a car so they can take me home. Is where they are taking me my home too?Would Michael tell me if I asked?
“Michael?” I say, looking up at him. I’m still sitting in the wheelchair. I guess I’m not allowed out of it until I am getting in the car. I wanted to get up, but both Michael and Ricco insisted I stay seated until the car arrives. Ricco seems nervous and is constantly checking outside and around us in the hospital lobby.
“Yes, love?” Michael replies.
Love?“You said you were taking me home.”
“I did.”
“Is this home you are taking me to my home too?”
“For the time being, yes, it is,” he replies.
“Why do I feel there is a but that should follow your response?” I ask.
“Well, because there is. I’m taking you home, but it’s not your home. It’s mine.”
“Oh.” I stop for a minute to think about what he just said. Why would I be in his home if it wasn’t my home? Why won’t he take me to where I live? “May I ask why?”
