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“What year is it, Jane?”
“Judging by the tattoos, I’m going to say post 2010.”
“It’s 2018.”
He crosses his arms over his chest.
I can see his jaw clenching like he’s trying to decide what to do with me, but something else is nagging at him.
Finally he pulls a set of car keys out of his pocket. “Come on, I’m taking you to the hospital.”
I protest. “I’m fine. Nothing hurts. I’m not bleeding.”
He shakes his head. “You might have been bumped on the head, I’m taking you.”
My voice shakes. “I don’t want them to find me.”
He rears back. “Who? Is someone following you?”
He looks angry and it makes me not want to answer. I want to cry because I know what I’m telling him sounds made up. “I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I have.”
Shep looks at me hard. “I really ought to call the police and see if anyone has reported you missing.”
I smile back at him. “Do you really want to do that?”
The look on his face tells me he’s acknowledging that we’re both feeling the same thing between us.
He grits out, “No. I don’t want to.”
I shrug. “So…don’t.”
Shep pinches the bridge of his nose as if trying to gather his thoughts. “But I am going to take you to the hospital. You’ve been through something and we need to find out if you’re injured.”
I bite my lip and look down at his hand that is now resting on top of mine, covering me like armor.
Chapter Four
Shep
Did this lost, sweet, incredibly stunning female just tell me she’s denying treatment? And that she’s cool with me not calling the police?
Yes. Yes she did.
Except that’s not how head injuries work. She doesn't have to give her consent to be treated if she’s in a mentally altered state.
On the way to the hospital, I consider calling Pops. But he’s out on the river all day; I can’t bother him.
I ask myself, what if she lost her memory from trauma, and the person who might be looking for her is the one who caused the trauma? And what then? Then I’ve just handed her over to someone who wants to hurt her?
Not going to happen.
And then something incredible rips me out of my thoughts. “Sweet Jane,” one of my favorite songs of all time, comes on the radio.
I turn the volume up. “Hey. This song’s about you,” I say.
I glance over at her and she’s staring at the radio in shock. “Someone wrote a song about me?”
My eyes have to work hard to focus on the road in front of me; it hurts to look at the face I want to kiss but shouldn’t. This song is not helping me focus; it’s a cover that’s slow as molasses and sensual as whispers in the dark.
