Mangled Memory, page 4
“The furniture,” he repeats, humor playing in his voice.
I go back to safer topics. “What’s your favorite part of the house?”
“Want to see?” He stands and extends a hand. I avoid it again and quickly realize my mistake, because he lays a hand on my lower back as we move to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that I now see aren’t windows at all. They’re bifold steel doors that open the entire length of the great room onto an outdoor living area.
A stone terrace runs along the back of the house overlooking a lush green lawn. That kind of grass in this climate is an investment all to itself, much less its maintenance. On the kitchen side of the house is the outdoor entertainment area, two different grills, outdoor refrigerator, and a cooktop. All look brand new, polished until shining. There’s a series of fans in the rolled wood ceiling above making this an outdoor living space, not merely a porch.
The area where we stand has multiple seating areas with a fire pit. Beyond this to my left is more but I can’t decipher what. I wander, walking away from the hand on my lower back, disconnecting from a man who is still a stranger to me, no matter what I am to him.
He follows silently until I stop at the hot tub and thin lap pool beside it.
“Which part of this is your favorite?”
“The peace. A city of nearly three million and all the conveniences that provides, and this little patch of land.” He extends the hand still holding his coffee cup, and I follow his gaze seeing more than a patch, fully lined in trees creating a layer of privacy. “It’s peaceful. It’s home.”
“And what was my favorite part?”
He turns me to him. I’m still wary but too tired to fight it. “I’m curious if it’s the same now. But I’ll tell you after you check out the house.” He leans in, and I stiffen, only to have him drop a kiss on my forehead and turn and walk back to the great room.
I look out over the lawn. This is prime real estate. Unless something changed drastically during the gap in my brain, the money this place takes to maintain—not to buy or to gut and remodel, but just maintain—is well beyond my comfort level. I grew up with money, but not Cherry Hills Village money.
This is John Elway money.
Or the guy who founded major league soccer money.
Or … Christian Barone money. Whoa!
I sit on the chaise outside and lift my face to the early afternoon sun. It’s warm and bright and cuts through the brisk fall afternoon to soothe the chill that accompanies me everywhere now.
In all the dreams of my life, I never could’ve envisioned Cherry Hills Village or a “patch” of grass like this in this zip code.
In all my nightmares, I’d never have considered it means living here with a man I don’t know and cannot trust.
There are things that terrify me. Snakes for one. Those weird glass elevators that look like they float. Nefarious people for another. But right up there is being at someone else’s mercy.
No agency.
Under someone else’s control.
Stuck.
The idea that my life is not my own and that I can’t change it is unthinkable. And it has not-so-subtly reared its head to stare me in the face.
I have no cell phone. I’m guessing I have a car and credit cards, but I’ve yet to see any of it. Not a key, not a purse, no identification. Zero.
Am I a prisoner in this house I don’t know? What happens if I want to walk out the front door to get some fresh air? Will I be hauled back? Or will I even be allowed to leave in the first place?
Well, allowed is the all-wrong word.
My life. My body. My choice.
If I want to leave, I damn well will. I’ll just have to figure out where I want to go and how I plan to get there.
As these thoughts assault me, I recognize two things. The first is the overwhelm, the oppressive size of the problem, how very bad this situation is, and how scared I should be. I can taste the despair on the tip of my tongue.
The second is how physically tired the whole thing makes me. Call it healing. Call it fatigue. But the emotional and physical exhaustion has just caught up with my head.
And I want to check out. Not officially or permanently, but a good nap—an escape from this crap—sounds perfect.
I have to say, finally escaping a hospital bed only to volunteer to climb into a different one makes me disappointed in myself. Pile that onto the emotions that swamp me, and I have the perfect shit sandwich.
I could sleep right here but that feels too vulnerable. Not that I think anyone could waltz onto this lawn, but I am exposed.
I stand and stretch my limbs before wandering back toward the house on the stone terrace.
Christian’s voice carries from the dark paneled door that’s hidden off the sitting room.
“Get with Corinne. Tonight is gnocchi and lamb, with her roasted cabbage, salad, and soda bread. And Ayla’s favorite apple cake. Nothing says welcome home like her favorites.”
Nothing says trying too hard like controlling what I eat. The response is on the tip of my tongue when another deeper voice speaks. It parrots the menu with no response, answers a few questions, and offers no more. “She’ll have it ready for seven.”
“I need you here tonight.”
“Visible or less so?”
What the fuck?
“Let it be known you’re here, but I don’t see her needing or wanting that. You’re here for her protection not entertainment.”
“Yes, Mr. Barone.”
Agency in my own life starts with not allowing two men to choose my meals, my “protection,” my anything. I walk straight to the door only to face a man at least a foot taller than me with more than a hundred pounds on me blocking my path. We end up in the clumsy dance where we each shift but end up going the same direction.
I apologize. The wall of man does not.
Christian clears his throat. “Ayla, this is Fitz. Fitzgerald, Mrs. Barone.”
No one can miss my flinch. Mrs. Barone.
I extend a hand and shake. “Fitz. Sorry for the awkward”—I hitch a thumb over my shoulder—“whatever that was.”
Fitz gives Christian a look, again saying nothing, and leaves me alone with a brooding man in his home office.
All my brave woman mojo leaches from me. “I’m going to lie down.”
“Okay, Princess.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“It reminds everyone, including myself, of the way I expect you to be treated. I hope it gives you an inkling of how precious you are.”
How the hell do I argue that?
“Ayla, I have to go out tonight for a work meeting. I’d love it if you wanted to join me.”
That’s a hell no. Not today. Not when I can’t remember shit. Instead of saying that, I shake my head in a tiny motion. I know better than to do it more aggressively.
“I thought you might say that. I’ve asked Corinne to cook your favorites. Do you want to invite Halley over for dinner? I wouldn’t normally mind you being alone, but it’s your first night after…” His words drift, and my shoulders sag in relief. “I won’t be too long if you’d prefer I stay, but if you’d like Halley to—”
“I’d love that.” I miss my best friend. I need her. Halley Tomlinson is incredible.
“A new phone, programmed just like your old one, is on your nightstand. Let Halley know that Corinne will have dinner ready at seven, but she’s welcome anytime.”
“Thank you.”
I turn and take a step or two before returning my gaze to him, pushing some hair behind one ear. “Christian? I, uh… don’t know where my bedroom is.”
He rounds the desk and ushers me out of the room, dropping his hand to my lower back again. This time the intimacy of the gesture forces a shiver up my spine. I can’t discern whether desire is mixed in with the frisson of fear. But the fear is undeniable.
Through the great room, past the curving staircase, and down the hall, there’s a set of double doors. When he pushes one open and steps inside, my mouth drops.
My apartment in college was smaller than this room. It must be a story and a half. Skylights are open in the high ceiling. A king-sized bed sits center in the lushest cream carpet I’ve ever felt beneath my feet. Creams, pale blues, and golds are woven in the comforter. Deep pillows beckon me, while the sitting area of fluffy chairs and a deep settee, piled high with books, draws my eye.
Christian walks around me and taps a button on the tablet at the bedside. The whirl of something mechanical hums as fabric covers shutter the skylights and shades drop across the windows. The same happens across the wall of doors I now see open onto the terrace at the hot tub and pool. Lamps on nightstands come on as the man walks toward me.
He extends the tablet. “Lights, blinds, sound, TV”—at the last, he looks aside—“are all here at the touch of your fingers.”
I tap the button labeled “Entertainment” only to see multiple options. I can connect to playlists or to services like Apple Music or Spotify. There’s a way to have ocean waves or rain sound through invisible speakers surrounding me. I tap the button labeled TV followed by my name and the mirror across from the bed becomes sheer glass and beyond it are every option I didn’t know I could need.
I look up to the man next to me and wonder if his smile mirrors my own.
“Of all the things I thought would make you happy, housewives of wherever wasn’t it.”
I turn to look and, sure enough, it’s some dramatic catfight.
“What did you think would make me happy?”
“I thought you needed a nap. Do you want to lie down, or would you like me to show you?”
If the bedroom does this straight-out-of-a-Hollywood movie stuff, which is so cool, what does he think makes me happy? I have to know.
“Your call.” The taunt in his voice is unmistakable.
“I can nap after I guess.” I fight to make my voice casual, hoping it’s nonchalant.
Christian crosses his arms over his chest. I don’t know when he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, but his tan corded forearms are on display.
They’re a thing for me. Some women are about the butt, or the abs, or the pecs. For me, it’s hands and forearms. Masculine power and grace banded into the muscles that ripple and roll just under the skin.
When he taps his fingers, I’m distracted by the sinewy muscle undulating beneath the taut tan flesh.
“Ayla.” My name that rips from him is half amusement and half warning.
I look up into fierce, heated black eyes.
“Come.” That one word, said in that manner, is not the stranger before me asking me to follow him. That is the way a man commands his lover to find her pleasure.
The shiver that runs through me is less fear than last time.
“Okey doke, let’s go.”
I can’t be sure, but I think I hear him repeat “okey doke?” from behind me as I march down the hall, having no clue where I’m going. Once I get to the great room, I turn a complete circle, looking for Christian.
He stands underneath the curved staircase and pushes something, a latch perhaps, in the wall. A door I didn’t see earlier swivels open. He steps aside. “After you.”
Like hell am I going into the secret dungeon in the wall with a man I met less than a week ago. I stand looking into the dismal area and back at Christian Barone.
“Your life insurance policy is too valuable to not have a body.”
I gasp in shock.
“Ayla, I get it.” He scratches his neck. “No, I don’t. I don’t understand, I know. But I’m not trying to hurt you and I’m sure as fuck not trying to off you.”
I stare back at him in disbelief.
“Take a deep breath, baby.”
I do, and the tang on the air is comforting. It’s so familiar that I turn into it with my back to the threat in front of me and wander the short, dark hallway.
“Is this what I think it is?”
My heart rate rises as I step from the tight hall into a windowless room—a windowless dark room.
Happiness bubbles up for the first time that I can remember and bursts out of my body in a laugh. It hurts my head and stretches where the stitches were at my temple, but it’s worth it. I whirl. “You were right. This is definitely my favorite.”
“I said this would make you happy, not that it was your favorite. But we can go with that.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets.
I wonder if he recognizes his tells. This is boyish and cute. Those aren’t words I’d normally use to describe the demi-god in front of me. I bet he hasn’t been called either in more than a decade.
“How old are you?” The question pops out before I can stop it.
“Thirty five. Thirty six in two months.”
“A Scorpio? You struck me more as a Taurus.”
He tilts his head in curiosity. “Cell service isn’t good in here, and WiFi is dampened by what it took to build this in.”
My face must register panic.
He holds his hands out, heels of his palms down. “I’m not saying that to scare you. I want you to be aware. If you spend a lot of time in here, pop out into the hall to check your phone. You have… You had a tendency to lose time while you were in here.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
“On the wall right there.” He points and I turn to what he’s indicating. “There are safelights switches. There’s also a vent for black and white days. I can show you more— well, what little I know—when you’re ready. I’m sure you’ve forgotten more than I’ve ever known, but for today, I can guide you.”
I walk up, throwing caution to the wind, and move to him, kissing the underside of his jaw, before walking down the hall and away from the danger that is Christian Barone.
5
aspen & evergreen
Ayla
I roll back the covers and slide inside, grabbing the tablet to turn off the television and marveling as the mirror becomes solid again. Whatever wizardry that technology is is eye-popping.
The tablet has a button labeled comfort. When I tap it, several things come up, but one of them is the AC. September in Denver means warm days but crisp nights. While I’d generally prefer real cold to fake cold, I bump down the thermostat and watch the screen tell me it’s begun cooling this room. Seriously cool tech.
I was in bed for thirteen days according to my records; unconscious for eight of them. It’s not as if I’m not well-rested. I wasn’t lying that I needed an escape, but leaving myself vulnerable seems as foolish as napping on the terrace did, so I slip from under the covers and pad on the thick carpet to the door and turn the lock.
It may be silly. No. It’s wisdom. This house may be the address on my hospital paperwork, but I don’t know it as my home. It’s as foreign as any I might tour on an open house.
Christian might legally be my husband. He may be generous and hot as sin. He may not “want to off me” but he didn’t fail to mention my life insurance policy either.
He manages to follow every kind comment with something intimidating. I won’t kill you because I’d need your body for the money doesn’t invite comfort or safety.
How the hell I went into that room is beyond me. I know actually—the pungent tang of old vinegar… the smell of old thirty-five millimeter processing chemicals. And those smells, the stale sour notes that hung in the air like dust motes would in an attic… I was helpless to avoid following them.
That smell is buried in my brain, in my memories for as far back as high school, maybe longer. SLRs and DSLRs were available then. And I had those, too. But the old cameras—the one shot, no digital editing, softer edges of film—they’re my favorite.
I want to explore it, the odd rounded area in the angled room, but I want time there without the overwhelming emotions I’m engulfed by. The range of them flooding me is almost debilitating, especially without my memories to ground me.
The phone on my nightstand lights up. My thumbprint opens the screen even though I’ve never seen this phone before.
Italian Stallion: Sweet dreams, baby. Sleep well.
Italian Stallion? That’s atrocious. I change it immediately to “Christian Barone” in my contacts, and cringe at the version of me—or the sense of humor of the man it refers to—that would ever type that in.
I don’t respond to the text. I flip through the home screen, looking at the neatly arranged folders. All are organized exactly as I would expect, nearly as I remember from before. Photography apps, photo editing ones, social media.
Curious, I click on one called Picstagram. The feed is fine, but I want clues.
But there aren’t just clues here. There’s an entire life played out for the world to see. Picture after picture of me. Me sitting on Christian’s lap. Me laughing beside him in selfies. The two of us on a beach, his tan body juxtaposed against my fair skin. Me dressed in a formal at some gala, stepping out with my husband at my side. Cian and I at a restaurant, an amazing spread laid out before us. Halley and I in candid photojournalism black and whites.
Me, in profile, the mountains behind me, hair whipping around me. This one is black and white. I didn’t take it—that much is obvious. It’s not a selfie. It’s candid and I’m in the foreground, the background fuzzy, but impossible to miss.
So many photos.
I sit up in bed, hunched over my phone, expanding shots, looking for hints that help me remember. There’s nothing.
Well, nothing but an enviable life of lavish accommodations, gorgeous clothes, and obvious wealth.
A storefront shot captures my eye. The symmetry in the black and white photo is stellar. The frames of windowpanes are perfectly squared in the photo. There’s character in the old building that was obviously restored. The sign above states “Aspen & Evergreen.”
The caption reads: Aspen & Evergreen is the vision of Denver’s own Ayla Barone and her husband Christian, a local real estate magnate. Ayla is pleased to share her photography with our city. Her collections have graced the governor’s mansion, and her work hangs in the homes of Denver’s most prominent leaders. It goes on to give a web address and other social addresses.
