Mangled Memory, page 1
mangled memory
ASPEN & EVERGREEN
hadley finn
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This book is a work of fiction. Any likeness to real people, organizations, or events is purely coincidental. All settings are merely the backgrounds for these figments of my imagination to wander.
Copyright 2025
Hadley Finn
All rights reserved
For Brynne Asher
You are a woman in business
who doesn’t keep the ideas and tips and tricks to yourself.
I’m so thankful for your advice and guidance…
but more so for your friendship.
As Adam Grant has said:
“Ideas that are hoarded help no one. Success follows generosity."
Or, less eloquently, a rising tide lifts all boats.
You are that tide.
Thank you.
contents
1. Sea of Fog
2. Wrapped in Anguish
3. Hell, High Water, or Husband
4. Secret Dungeon
5. Aspen & Evergreen
6. More About Horny
7. Plays More in the Shadows
8. Graduate-Level Espresso
9. Riptide
10. The Unknown, the Unknowable
11. Until Death
12. Fueled by Coffee and Rage
13. Pithy and Flirty
14. Traitorous Panties
15. Boss-Level Move
16. Inner Wolf
17. Like Camp, only with Caviar
18. Always the Top
19. Okayist
20. Disturb
21. Almost Verbatim
22. Tempt the Lightning and the Thunder
23. Antithesis
24. Gift Wrapped in Devotion
25. The Loosey-Goosey Club
26. Reverse Midas Touch
27. Sheer Spite and Annoyance
28. Getting Zero
29. Anything but Mundane
30. Euphoria
31. Open-air Plunge
32. Blind, Deaf, and Dumb
33. Breathing Peanut Butter
34. Mystery Gang
35. Oozy Filling
36. Hide and Seek Shelter
37. Fish on Land
38. High-Dollar Hooker
39. Kosher
40. Give Me Iced Tea
41. Swoon Hard
42. Antioxidants and Shit
43. Anticlimactic
44. Picture Perfect
Flat Out Perfect
Splintered Security
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Hadley Finn
1
sea of fog
Ayla
Darkness surrounds me as I hike the unseen mountain trail. The only sounds besides my breathing and the crunch of my hiking boots on the cold earth are the leaves dancing in the wind like aggressive yellow butterflies and whatever scurries along the ground below them.
I make my way to the ridge and slide my pack off my shoulders, setting my thermos down and unloading my equipment.
Tripods set, I pour a cup of delicious coffee into the thermos lid and sit back against the rocks to wait. Fiddling with the remote sensor on my phone and setting it for the correct time to do its thing, I slide it into my back pocket.
In another world, I could be a sniper. I can appreciate their calling, the solitary job of watching and waiting. Always in place early, left killing time until others arrive. Never enough sleep, haunting silence, and the utmost patience… The courage and perseverance to remain.
Except “point and shoot” has a wholly different meaning for me. While timing for me is critical, I can afford to be less precise.
My heart soars as it does most early mornings like this as pinks and golds peek over the horizon. The colors engage me like music would a dancer. I feel them, watch them, experience them swell in melody.
But it’s the harmonies the shadows bring that move me.
I return to my bag and pull out my thirty-five millimeter—my oldest and still my favorite baby—and adjust the settings before changing out one of the SLRs for it on a tripod.
I stare out over the cliff face and into the majesty of the Rocky Mountains. I grew up in their shadow, but I can’t bring myself to take for granted the beauty in my backyard.
Within minutes, the golden sun will reflect off the silver snowcaps of the fourteeners before me. Their majesty takes my breath away. The layer of clouds between the peaks and the valley below makes them look ethereal, as if they’ve risen from the sea of fog like gods before their charges.
“What are you doing up here?” The gruff voice scares me just as a twig snaps underfoot. I jolt and bump into the left tripod, knocking one of its legs askew, pissed it’s no longer level with the horizon. That mistake will ruin what surely would’ve been a stunning shot if I can’t get it fixed in time.
And this man, whose voice slithers over my skin, won’t allow himself to be denied. He never could.
I whirl around, not wanting him here with me.
Not in my safe place. Of course he’d invade that too. It’s always about him.
“I’m talking to you, Ayla.”
I look up into eyes as familiar as my own. Striking ones. Ones that have seen me cry, ones that have watched me laugh, ones that know my greatest fears and my hidden weaknesses. Those eyes bore into me and see through my lies.
“I’m doing my job.”
“You don’t need a job. You know that.”
“Needing and wanting are two different things. I love what I do, and I don’t plan to stop any time soon.” Casually, I slide my hand into my back jeans pocket and press the side button. I won’t give away that my phone is there if I need it.
“You have money. We have money.”
“You know how I feel about that.”
“And you know how I feel about you up here alone. In the dark. It’s not safe. Not with the shadows that lurk around us.”
“The shadows aren’t in shape to make the hike, not with the incline or at this elevation, and most won’t lose their precious sleep to find me before six in the morning an hour away from home.”
“This isn’t up for debate. Just do what I told you to.” His eyes go hard. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Don’t make me remind you that I don’t take direction from you. I don’t need your permission to live how I choose.” My voice doesn’t have the authority I want when I stand against him. It never has.
His eyes go hard, and his face twists into a sneer. It’s the only warning I have before the back of his hand crashes down against my cheek, wrenching my head to the side and throwing my body backwards from the force of its momentum. My arms flail, my phone flies, and I tumble over the ledge, watching my favorite film camera follow behind me.
The boulder flies up to meet my temple just as I hear his anguished voice scream my name.
“Ayla!”
2
wrapped in anguish
Ayla
I have the mother of all headaches and the beeping noise on the alarm clock might as well be nails piercing my temples.
“Make that stop.”
My hand is squeezed on one side and from the other I hear my name. “Ayla.” The tone is wrong.
Why would people be in my bedroom? God, what did I drink last night?
I open my eyes, immediately squeezing them shut against the lights. “Worst hangover ever.”
The chuckle that meets my ears is countered on my other side by a gasp and a hand squeeze that borders on painful.
“Ayla-girl, that’s no hangover, but glad you’re back.” Liam. God, I love him. It’s been too long since I’ve seen my brother.
Cracking my eyes open, I turn from his beautiful, ruddy-bearded face straight into the eyes of… a tall drink of water. Scary, dark, and gorgeous. He’s who holds my hand—the unknown man with an unknown face. I study him. High cheek bones look to be chiseled in stone. He has a jaw that could cut glass, and his rich, olive skin holds dark stubble that accentuates the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are piercing and nearly black like his hair. He is all angles and planes, shadow upon shadow, both striking and forbidding.
I look to our joined hands before returning my gaze to Liam. “Who’s this?” I lift the hand joined to the beautiful man. “And why am I here? Speaking of… Where am I?”
Liam turns to the stranger, his mouth popping open like fish, before closing it and turning back to me. “Ayla-girl.” He pauses for too many beats. “Christian’s your husband. Do you— I mean… What do you remember?”
Husband? What husband?
I don’t need to say anything because the beeping becomes a symphony of the macabre. Saved by the painfully shrill bells as the cacophony of beeps swells like a crescendo with my panic.
I try to lift both hands to cover my ears as I squeeze my eyes shut. Pinching in my hand tells me this is a bad idea. I open my eyes to see what I feel—IV tubes, waxy skin, and a hospital bracelet with the name Ayla Barone printed on it.
Ayla Barone.
Barone.
Black spots swim in my vision. The corners tunnel. A roar mounts in my ears, and I fight. I fight the nausea that bubbles up in my gut, threatening to expel its contents. No fight is enough, and my stomach releases yellow bile and sour vomit dangerously near the handsome man I do not recognize. I fight my body’s betrayal and wish I could sink into oblivion. Instead, I fight the panic that seizes me, nearly freezing me in place as the world rocks uncontrollably.
Medical staff swarms.
My head throbs.
My mind whirls as the two men stare back at me in utter confusion.
I’ve had a few minutes of reprieve—that is, if I can call being poked and prodded, cleaned up, lights flashing into my pupils, and more doctors and nurses in my face than I’ve been able to count, a reprieve—since Liam acted as a wrecking ball, and physically removed my husband from my room.
My husband.
On one hand, go me. That man has got to be the most beautiful specimen on the planet. On the other, what in the ever-loving hell? Who is he? What’s he like? Is he kind to me or is he cruel? But most importantly, at this moment, why don’t I recognize him?
I don’t have any more time to panic as he bursts into the room with my brother right behind him.
Liam, head nearly shaved bald, unruly rust-colored beard covering his baby face, solid build that would never be underestimated in a fight, looks around Christian’s back. “Ma and Dad are on their way. Ci will be here as soon as he can. I’m going to give you a moment.”
“No!” I extend a hand like he’s a lifeline.
Liam’s jaw goes tight as he and Christian Barone exchange a glance. The tall man drops his chin once before he moves around the bed to my side. Liam leans against the wall by the door, propping a black booted foot behind him, and pulls out his phone, tattooed fingers tapping away on the screen. I guess I’m getting my way.
“Ayla.” My name is wrapped in anguish.
Fear slides over me like a blanket. I look up into eyes that are beautiful and dark and completely too intimate for a stranger.
“Baby, what do you remember?”
I pull away as he reaches for my hand. The war on his face plays out before me—fear, anger, frustration, and hurt.
I stare at him, looking for anything that could be familiar and find… nothing. Not one thing.
He’s handsome, that’s not a question. If the watch and the shoes are anything to go by, he’s got money. Not that I don’t have my own. Or had… His wedding ring shines bright and proud on his left hand.
“Your brows are puckering in confusion. That’s a rarity. The Ayla I know is rarely confused.”
“The Ayla you know? How long have you known me?”
His gaze flickers to Liam before returning to me. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “You’re killing me, Princess. Do you really not remember?”
I shake my head slowly.
“Two years. Two amazing years. Our one-year wedding anniversary was two weeks ago. Do you not remember any of it? I don’t understand.” His jaw ticks, and his eyes roam me as if he can see the truth or a lie in my statement.
“No.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” His voice is harder than before, as if I said the wrong thing by telling the truth.
Try as I might, I struggle to find a recent memory. When too much time has elapsed and I’m frustrated because I can’t answer his question, I change tacks. “Different topic. Why am I here?”
“You fell. Out on the ridge at Beaver Brook taking photos. I— A good Samaritan called nine-one-one.” He looks away and squeezes his eyes shut. “They airlifted you out.” His eyes open to watery pools. “Airlifted, Ayla. I was destroyed. And now…”
He turns, silently calling for my brother. They wordlessly change the guard as the broody man prowls to the bathroom and the sound of water rushes to my ears.
“Do you really not remember?”
“It’s not an act, Liam. You of all people should know me well enough to know that.”
“You never were a great liar. Besides, that man”—he tilts his head toward the door—“dotes on you, spoils you, and is all ’round your ‘dream guy’.” He uses air quotes while rolling his eyes.
“I said that?”
“Yeah. And don’t ever make me repeat it again. My balls shriveled saying it that time.”
“I don’t want to hear about your balls again. Ever.”
“You gave us a scare. Still going to, I see. Glad you’re okay, though.”
“Okay is relative. I have a husband. My brain isn’t braining. My face hurts, and I’m in a hospital. I’d say I’m zero for four right now.”
The man in question stalks out of the bathroom. Exhaustion lines his face. He seems angry or disappointed or inconvenienced. Nothing gets me like someone acting like I’m inconvenient. There’s rude and then there’s dismissive. And something about the latter riles me up and sets my red-headed personality ablaze. I can be as fiery as my hair. And I don’t give a single fuck about it.
Hell, I think it’s a strength.
I want to cross my arms over my chest, but the IV really cramps my style. Instead, I use my voice and let it rip.
“Why do you look angry?”
“Why am I angry? Hmm. Let me see.” Sarcasm drips from every word he speaks. “You’re lying in a hospital bed, unable to recognize your husband, with no recollection of some window of time in your life. We’re lucky after the kind of tumble you had that you’re alive and not braindead, but I want to be the asshole who puts an end to the early mornings, the steep climbs, and the risks that come with ‘chasing the light.’ And, Princess, to add to all of that, I’m at a loss.”
He leans back against the wall, his hands stuffed into his pockets, looking the picture of calm, cool, and collected. Despite appearances, I know he is anything but.
“About what? Christian, right?”
His lids fall shut as if my words spear him.
His eyes are ravaged when he looks back to me. “About what to do right now. I know what I’d like to do. I know what I can legally do. But we’re…” he pauses. “We’re new. At least to you. So, I can do what I believe I should. Or I can do what my wife would want. But I need to know what you need. Because the Ayla I know would want a choice.”
He holds my gaze, lines creasing between his brows.
“You speak like I’m two different people. Like I have multiple personalities.”
Liam pulls out his phone, gives me a quick nod, and silently exits the room.
My eyes follow his back before returning to the stunning man standing in front of me.
“Multiple personalities? Two different people? Hell, I don’t know.” He shrugs off the wall and begins pacing. “I don’t know how to explain what it’s like to know someone intimately, inside and out, know their heart and soul. Know their fears and failures, their highs and lows. Know the sounds they make when they come.” He stops his path and captures my gaze, holding me captive. “To be with them in their worst moments and in their greatest ones. And to have that person… your person, the one who’s your in-thick and in-thin, look at you with no recognition. I’m dying.”
“Christian—”
“So I’m asking, Ayla, because I know what I want to do… What do you need right now?”
“What would the Ayla you knew want?”
The anguish on his face would be heartbreaking if I had any connection to the stranger at the end of my bed. His pain is obvious.
But, like walking into a dramatic scene in a movie when you have no history with the characters, it doesn’t move me.
“The Ayla I know. Not knew. We are not past tense, Princess. And we never will be.”
The romantic in me would swoon if this were a movie. The feminist in me would fight if this were a book. But the woman in me in my very real life feels more threatened than loved by that statement.
I pull back, pushing my shoulder blades into the hospital bed, and move as far away from the danger at my feet. Like hell I’m going to be railroaded.
Not today.
“Don’t you threaten me—”
Before I have time to finish my thought or he has time to reply, the hospital door swings wide and my larger-than-life dad pushes his way in with my mom hot on his heels. His frame fills the doorway. He’s a big man—tall with broad shoulders, and more than a bit of age settling around his softer middle. Even his feet are large. He’s a terrifying teddy bear.
