Make Me Forget: an Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 8

  I shook my head, and he poured another, thankfully, without comment on how one more would likely put me on the floor.

  I cradled this one and let out a sigh. The alcohol already created a nice cocoon in my belly. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t my fault, nor theirs. I had to figure this thing out, and if that meant sitting with a bunch of guys talking about our feelings for an hour, then I’d do it. No way in hell I’d enjoy it though.

  Murphy put the bottle back on the rack and leaned on the bar. “It probably doesn’t matter to you, but I’m proud of you.”

  Alcohol induced or Murphy being his saint-like self I didn’t know, but I leaned across the bar, captured his neck in my hand and kissed him deep. We broke apart at the wolf-whistle from the corner of the bar.

  “Shut up, Marty, or I’ll cut you off.” Murphy yelled even though he remained an inch from my face. Then to me he said, “What was that for?”

  I shrugged. “Do you need help back there or what?”

  “Nope. I’m good. Slow crowd tonight, and you might do better off taking a hot shower and relaxing. If you know how to do that sort of thing.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, you have shitty taste in music, so you can’t listen to that in an attempt to wind down. What do you do to relax?”

  My face burned hot, and I prayed the low bar lighting hid my blush from him. He didn’t miss the way I ducked my chin and cut off eye contact. “What? Now you have to tell me.”

  “It’s nothing. A girlie thing.”

  “Yes…so…tell me.”

  “I like to paint my toe nails to relax.”

  I checked his expression from under my lashes, and he only smiled, the same all-knowing Murphy smile he usually wore. “Nothing wrong with that. You do whatever you need to do. I think you’ve earned it.”

  And right back to being reminded I’m different. I took down the last shot, pushed the glass his way, and headed toward the door. Maybe that was the problem. I could never escape it. I’d always be that girl: the one shot in the head, the one with amnesia, the one with PTSD or whatever label they put on it this week.

  I hated being the center of attention for all the things that happened to me. More so, it rolled my stomach to watch the realization filter into someone’s eyes as they puzzled through who I was or what I’d suffered. Like my trials were a side show attraction meant to fodder conversation when the good topics ran low.

  I made it to my room and flopped on the bed, the shots now giving me a slow, hazy feeling. As close to oblivion as I could get right now, outside of Murphy’s arms.

  I could close my eyes for a minute…

  Guilt and Hard Liquor

  Murphy

  I knew I should feel guilty for pushing her into therapy, even if help was best for her. My hope lay on the vision of her showing up at my bar without such a haunted look in her eyes.

  I washed some of the dishes and tried to stay busy so I didn’t go to her hotel room. After today’s activity, she probably wanted solitude and space. Anyone who looked at her could see she wasn’t the sharing type. Once I finished the dishes, made a few more drinks, the bar door opened, and in walked a woman. Tall, blonde, thirty, and vaguely familiar. She stepped up to the bar and gripped the edge while she looked around.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, trying to figure out where I knew her from.

  She tilted across the bar and squinted slightly. Suddenly, I felt under inspection. “Murphy?”

  “Yes, and you are?”

  “Martha, from high school. You don’t remember me.”

  I blinked and looked her over. “Well, in my defense, you do look different.” And lost about a hundred pounds since then.

  She ducked her head in a sweet blush and climbed up on a stool.

  “Did you come here to walk down memory lane, or did you want a drink?”

  She glanced around again. “Actually, I came here because I thought I saw Mara Williams at the rehab center today, and when I asked around, someone mentioned I might find her here.”

  I had no idea how much Mara wanted other people to know about her situation or where she lived. “Well, she’s not here.” I gestured at the few patrons playing darts in the far corner.

  “I didn’t see her, but do you know where I might find her?”

  “I’m not in the habit of sharing other people’s business. How about you leave your information, and if she comes by, I can give it to her.”

  Her pink lips spread wide in a genuine smile, and she pulled a card from her purse. “Can you give her this. Tell her I’d love to catch up. I’d take a beer, though, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  I tucked the card under the counter and grabbed her a beer from the ice box. She cupped it tight in both hands but didn’t so much as take a sip. “I can’t believe how much you’ve changed, Murphy.”

  Oh shit. I knew that tone. It was the tone of a woman working herself up to flirt hard. I’d seen it so many times over the years, and I always tried to dodge it as gently as I could. It would be harder considering she had more to talk about with our shared past.

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping a brief end to this conversation would shut it down.

  “I can’t believe Mara is back, though. The last time she was in town had to be what, five years ago?”

  I wiped an already clean and dry glass so I didn’t have to be too close. “Sure, about that I think.”

  “I heard you two hooked up.” She giggled like she’d already had too much to drink, and still not a sip from the bottle.

  Moments like this, I hated living in a small town. Everyone felt the need to know everyone else’s business, and more, they thought they had a right to the information. Like Ms. Martha here trying to look sweet and adorable while flirting the news out of me. Not gonna work.

  “Is that what the gossip is these days? I’m woefully under informed,” I said, deadpan.

  She didn’t take the hint and pressed on. “Well, Keith told me he heard it from Andrew who ran the hotel back then. We dated for a bit, but I’m not seeing anyone now.”

  Ah Keith, the pot head turned meth addict who went to prison for ten years. A reliable source of information indeed.

  “Well, it seems Keith shouldn’t talk about his patrons. If there was anything to tell.” Her eyes widened a little at my hardened tone.

  She finally took a swig of the beer and finished with a grimace. Likely, she was more of a cosmo or margarita girl. I served neither in my bar.

  I didn’t see many of the folks I went to school with here. Most of them flew off to the city and left this town behind. The only reason I stayed was for my grandfather in the rehab clinic. Once he passed, I stopped nursing and turned to the bar full time. I’d never be a rich man, but I’d never want for anything either. The perfect spot in my opinion.

  “So how about you? Are you seeing anyone right now?”

  I threw the towel on the low portion of the bar and turned my back to adjust bottles on the shelf. “Nope, nothing serious.”

  A downright lie as Mara and I were end game as far as I was concerned. I didn’t want the gossip queen here spreading our business all over town though.

  “Oh, well, we should get a drink sometime, catch up.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?” I asked, turning back to face her, all pretense of playing along now gone.

  She took another sip of her beer, slapped the counter, and slid off the stool. “Well, I’m going to get home. If you see Mara, give her my card and tell her I’d love to see her. You feel free to use it, too, if you want to do something.”

  She flashed another smile and took off out the door. Maybe I needed to work on my people skills.

  Billy came up to the bar for another round, and once he sauntered back to his friends, I picked up Martha’s card and pulled out my cell phone to call Mara.

  “Hello,” came a hazy reply.

  “How are you feeling?” I couldn’t keep the laughter out of my voice.
The woman had three shots, and she sounded like she spent the night on a bender.

  “Fine. What do you want, Wilcox?”

  Downgraded to last name status. Ouch. “You had a visitor here at the bar. Martha from high school. Do you remember her?”

  “Yeah, cute chubby girl. Sickly sweet.”

  The sound of rustling sheets cut through the line. “Yeah, that’s her. She said she saw you at the rehab clinic today and wanted to meet up with you.”

  “You didn’t tell her how to find me did you?” she shrieked through the phone.

  “Simmer down. Of course I didn’t. I just wanted you to know she was looking for you.”

  Her voice was softer this time. “Sorry. I don’t know how much I’m ready for others to know just yet. I haven’t figured out how to tell them what happened or explain anything.”

  I braced back on the liquor shelves. “You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone, nor try to put a pretty face on what happened to you. I hope you know that.”

  “Not everyone is you, Murphy. Most won’t just accept I got shot and I’m missing a few years of memories. They always ask questions, and pry, and try to do helpful research. As if everything happened to me can be googled and explained away.” Her voice trailed off at the end. I could feel the rawness of it all, scratched deep by therapy today, through the phone. I wanted to wrap her in my arms for a second.

  “Do you want me to come over there?”

  More sheets rustling. “No, I’m fine. You need to stay with the bar. You’re the only one working tonight, and your newest employee isn’t covering for you.” She chuckled, but I could tell it was fake, a placation so I wouldn’t leave.

  “Fine. I won’t come over, but I’m going to order you some food.”

  “Murphy, I can feed myself. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

  I clutched my fists and dropped my head to the wall. “Woman, don’t you get it by now? I want to take care of you. I’ve been trying to do that since you got here.”

  “I never asked you for that. I’ve been taking care of myself, amnesia and all, for over a quarter of a century. Taking care of me is not what I need from you.”

  I covered the bottom of the phone and let out a stuttering sigh before speaking again. “What is it you want from me then? You keep talking about us and saying things like love, and yet, when I try to do something that shows you how I feel, you push me back.”

  “I’m going back to sleep. I can’t talk about this now. If you want to come over tomorrow, we can talk about it then.”

  I shook the phone in my hand, trying to vent the frustration stacking in my gut like a brick wall. Damn her and her fucking pride.

  “Okay. See you then,” I managed to say and hung up before I shouted at her.

  I exited to the back of the bar and tossed around a few books to make myself feel somewhat better. If only a little bit. What I wanted was to shatter glass and shake Mara until I got something through her thick head.

  When I came back out, I focused on dusting bottles and straightening things which didn’t need to be straightened. I was sure I wasn’t getting a tip from the corner as I’d gruffly handed them beers more than once now. Excellent way to stay in business, Murphy.

  Staying busy would be the only thing keeping me from knocking on her door and doing something drastic until I could make her see I only pushed because I cared. And such a visit would likely result in rough sex on the sketchy floor, and that wasn’t how I wanted it to be for us when we got there.

  I tossed around a few more things before I settled on reading the accounting emails my guy had sent a few weeks before. The ones I kept putting off and would likely require another read when I was in a better frame of mind.

  My thoughts couldn’t stay on target, and I kept drifting to Mara. If she needed something, if she wanted something but felt too proud to ask. No.

  Fucking no.

  I tried to train my mind back to the email chain. Mara is a big girl, like she said, she can take care of herself. She didn’t need me to run behind her and play nursemaid.

  It was something I’d need to accept if I wanted us to have a future. Not that I didn’t think she could look out for herself. I just wanted the privilege. I’d wanted it since high school when she first started throwing curses my way when I looked at her sideways.

  Finally, the chance to be with her lay in my grasp, and I feared screwing it up on so many levels. If I pushed her too far one way, she’d run. If I didn’t push enough, we would have a dysfunctional shit show of a relationship. Neither option appealed to me. But a healthy arrangement between us would take more work on both our parts. I had to give up this ideal I held of her since high school, and she needed to lose the chip on her shoulder telling her no one gave a shit about what she wanted.

  I could do my part, but could she do hers?

  My phone rang, and I recognized the hotel number. “What’s up?”

  Mara answered, “I changed my mind. What’s Martha’s number? I’m going to ask her out for some food.”

  “You want to eat with Martha?” What the hell changed in the last twenty minutes?

  “Well, I see her as a source of information. Since you gave me the run around about my mother, maybe she will have the details you refuse to give me.”

  Fuck. Shit. Damn.

  “Mara, you do not want to get your information about your mother from that woman. She’s full of gossip and half the story.”

  “Half the story is better than no story.”

  The phone went dead.

  Secrets and Lies

  Mara

  Murphy’s analysis on questionable sources of information proved correct. He would never hear those words from me, however.

  I did pry from the talkative woman the whereabouts of my mother’s death, which, surprise surprise, turned out to be the very rehab center I attended therapy in. Today, I came back for the group meeting but arrived obscenely early to see if I could get some facts from a nurse at registration. It didn’t take long to find, but the old lady behind the desk stared back at me with cold, unyielding eyes. They probably came in handy when people showed up professing clean drug tests.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. More than I expected from her.

  “My mother was a patient here in the last…say…ten years. I’m wondering if you could give me some information about her or if I could see her records.”

  She narrowed her eyes and cocked a hip, and I knew this would not be an easy nut to crack. “Do you have a court order, or are you the legal guardian of your mother?”

  “Well, she died.”

  She relaxed, somewhat safe in the knowledge I wasn’t about to put her physician’s code to the test. “When did she die?”

  Shit. “I’m not exactly sure?”

  “You don’t know when your own mother died? If you don’t know that information, why would you want to see her records?”

  My hands started to sweat, and I could feel the cold rage which poured over me sometimes, stripping away all sense of decorum when it came to people treating me like some criminal. I took a deep breath and tried to focus on keeping my voice level and calm. “Look, it’s not so simple. I was injured in Afghanistan. I don’t remember anything about my mother’s death. I just want to know what happened to her.”

  Another look which said she wasn’t buying my bullshit. “Listen Lady, what do you want me to say?” I pulled apart my hair to show her the scar on my temple. “I was shot in the goddamn head, and now I’m trying to piece together my life from before.”

  And there went any chance I had at getting help. I’d learned when I exploded at people, they didn’t respond well. Usually security or police became involved. And yet, I’d never been able to stop it once it began. It often built until I couldn’t see over the top, and the only way to get to the other side was to let it go.

  Her lips were pursed now, drawing lines through her already smudged Barbie pink lipstick “You listen to me, young lady
. I don’t have to give you anything, especially when you speak to me like that.”

  I threw my hands in the air and stalked toward the meeting room, the anger still on a low boil in my gut. Fuck Parker and his too happy, dysfunctional group. I should leave now and forget I ever tried this stupid shit.

  Despite the cursing in my mind, I entered the room and threw myself in a chair so hard, it skidded across the floor, drawing the attention of the other few men who’d already arrived.

  Parker sauntered over a minute later while I fumed with my arms crossed over my stomach. “Rough day?”

  I shook my head and glared in another direction. It didn’t deter him one bit. “You could tell me about it. Maybe I could help?”

  “No one can help me,” I said, the anger slow fizzling to something worse. The low, sick feeling snaking low in my belly now.

  “That’s not true. And you wouldn’t be here if you thought it was either. Please, tell me what happened.”

  I sucked in a breath and conjured conversations in my head to get me out of talking to him, but nothing stuck, so instead, I rattled off my conversation with Nurse Ratchet, all while not meeting his eyes.

  He clapped one big hand on my shoulder. “I can see how that would frustrate you. Can I try? See if I can get the records for you?”

  I looked him dead on now. “Why would you do that? And why would they give them to you and not me?”

  “People around here respond better to those they know and see often. Also, I’m the psych doc on staff, so if I ask for records, they will likely turn them over, no questions asked.”

  Huh. He hadn’t introduced himself as Doctor Parker or anything resembling something formal. I’d just assumed maybe he was the group appointed leader. I could be thick sometimes, if what Murphy kept saying is true. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  He waved me away. “No, none of that. Call me Parker. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched him go with a mix of awe and guilt for acting so irrationally. Oh well, I’d throw it on top of the shame and instability already teetering in a precarious pile on my psyche.