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“Luna?”
The new voice draws my gaze upward. Who…?
Slowly, at my own leisurely pace, I canvass this bare-chested, tattooed guy. Gray sweatpants ride low on his toned waist. An inked scorpion, tail on fire, peeks out of the elastic band near his…his dick, really, and it’s hot.
Flush is ascending my neck, crawling to my cheeks. His chestnut hair is swooped back, a silver hoop in one ear and nipples pierced. I dive into the blueness of his eyes for a moment.
I’d categorize him as out-of-this-world sexy, and maybe it’s not just because of the tattoos scattering his carved arms and ridged abs. It’s not even his height or his handsome face. It’s how he’s coming towards me like a bright comet soaring through a darkened galaxy…headed for a favored planet.
Headed for me…
And then I see the chain around his neck.
I freeze.
“Hey…” He slows to a stop, a few inches away. “You alright?” His South Philly accent is thick, and I want so badly to place his voice. I squint, and I think…I think I remember his features more. But from where?
I don’t know. It’s more frustrating than panic-inducing now.
I nod in reply, wanting to believe I’m alright more than I probably am. The watch is warm in my palm, but I’m mostly eyeing the stranger.
He sees the contents of the baggie strewn on the bed and fixates on my phone. “I didn’t think the cops would hand that over.”
The police had my phone? I try to remember if someone already told me about collecting evidence. Maybe I’m too quiet for too long or blinking too much because concern pinches his eyes.
He casts a quick glance to the closed door, then to me. “Farrow said you might be confused…?”
I know him. I have to know him. Why else would he be here?! I bite too hard on my lip. “It’s coming back to me, I think,” I lie.
It’s a quiet, awful lie that makes me feel terrible. Pushing aside the frustrations and guilt, I lift myself a smidge higher on the bed, my arms shaking a little.
“You need help?” He’s at my side, touching the bedframe buttons.
A weird sensation tingles my skin at his closeness. A good weird. I love weird. I do know that. While I’m rising, my face inadvertently moves closer to him, and my breath hitches in a strange pattern. I have to ask… “Who gave you that kyber crystal?”
Because it looks an awfully lot like mine.
The bed is propped better, but now that I’m motionless and sitting up, I realize how much he’s frozen.
“You gave it to me,” he murmurs. “You don’t remember?”
I could lie again, but the instinct to trust him with the truth is a powerful force inside me. “I’m trying to remember.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Another glance to the door and he mutters, “Now I know why Farrow told me to wait.”
“You know Farrow?” Right as I say it, I gasp. “I know who you are!”
Relief rocks him. “Thank God.”
“Donnelly,” I say with total confidence. “You’re Beckett’s bodyguard.”
He goes still again.
No, no, I know I’m right! My brows bunch together in aggravation. “You’re my cousin Beckett’s 24/7 bodyguard. And you’re a tattooist! You tattooed him…” I trail off, a pit in my sore ribs. I have tattoos. Oh…
Ohhhh.
Does that mean…? Did he tattoo me?
“Are we friends?” I whisper.
He looks to the door again. “I should go wait with everyone—”
“Nonono,” I slur together in haste. “Please, stay. Please.”
Donnelly hesitates, seriously conflicted.
The kyber crystal—I spent my thirteenth birthday money on that necklace at Philly Comic-Con. It took me two hours to pick out the collectible, and it’s not something I would part with—but I did.
I gave it to him.
I must trust him.
He must mean something strong to me. After another soft “please” he rolls the doctor’s stool closer and takes a seat at my bedside.
“You are Donnelly, right?” I ask, just to be sure. It surprises me how I’m not as worried about appearing too lost in front of him.
“That’s me.” He cups his hands, seeming a little tentative. Not like he’s scared of me, more like he’s cautious of not wanting to hurt me. “How much don’t you remember?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “What’s today?”
Donnelly scans the room like he’s unsure too. It relaxes me for some reason, knowing I’m not the only one playing catch-up. “I think maybe the 24th.”
“Of July?”
“July?” His brows jump.
“It’s not…July,” I say, and I risk staring at the harsh fluorescent lights for too long. Thinking, thinking, grasping for something. “It’s like I can almost see my eighteenth birthday. Like I know I had it.”
His hand shields his eyes, then he rubs them in a type of angst I can’t make sense of.
If I can’t place Donnelly beyond being Beckett’s bodyguard, then he must be part of the timespan I lost. He’s totally gone. Vanished from my mind.
