Arousing Suspicions: An Amnesia Romance Read online

  Arousing Suspicions

  Cynthia Hart

  Arousing Suspicions

  Copyright 2017 by Cynthia Hart

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to a person, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: Due to mature subject matter, such as explicit sexual situations and coarse language, this story is not suitable for anyone under the age of 18. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older, and all acts of sexual nature are consensual.

  Table of Contents: Arousing Suspicions

  Arousing Suspicions

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  EPILOGUE

  Seduced by The Werewolf

  The Boss’s Mistress

  Doing Inventory

  High on Biology

  Chapter 1

  What do you remember, Clara?

  My mom asks me, my friends, the doctors at the hospital, and the police. But the answers aren’t there. My mind feels like a chalkboard, wiped clean at the end of the school day. Sometimes there’s a whisper of what was written there before it was erased, but I can never seem to grasp what it was or any meaning behind it.

  I remember the shining pavement, wet from the recent rain. I remember feeling the moisture soaking through my tights. I remember looking up at the sky, which was now clear of clouds. It was mostly black, just one or two pinpoints of light from the brightest stars. Kind of like my memories. I guess I must have been on my back, somehow knocked down. That’s the clearest part, for now. I don’t even remember going to the hospital, or how I got there. Everything else is in little blurry blips. Dark shapes moving in the night. My head smacking something. Not knowing which way to run.

  I put my head in my hands. It hurts to remember. Literally, my head aches. It’s been aching for the past three days, but it’s worse when I try to remember. The doctor at the hospital said it wasn’t abnormal, that if I hit my head, a little temporary amnesia could be expected. But I didn’t have a concussion or any sign of real head trauma. Just a lot of bruises, some ripped clothes, something like a graze from a knife on my arm. Other than that, though, I’m totally fine. Free to live my normal life.

  I was with a friend that night, Ana, but the doctors say that it’s better if I remember on my own. Not to ask her what happened. Still, I’ve tried to text her and call her, but she won’t answer. She must not have been with me when it happened. So I’m left piecing little spots of clarity together, trying to remember what happened to me. I wish Ana would answer me so we could figure it out together. Maybe she envies my blank mind. Or maybe she blames herself, for not being there with me.

  I remember the police talking to me, vaguely. At that moment, I just wanted them to go away. Looking back, though, it’s clearer: they were exasperated, they wanted me to help them. They wanted me to come with them, to look for the people who hurt me. I can see my past self, curling into a ball on the hospital bed, my reflex to shut myself off from the world like some kind of traumatized turtle. One of the officers keeps almost saying something but stopping himself. As much as they want my help, they aren’t divulging everything to me, I understand. A nurse comes in and chases the police off, saying it’s too early, saying I could be concussed and they wouldn’t want to make it worse, would they?

  I have talked to them, since. They made me repeat the story over and over again, the tiny bits I remember. It seems impossible, the amount of times they asked me to repeat myself. And to repeat so little. ‘We’re just trying to get the story straight, ma’am,’ they told me when I asked why, so many times, holding my throbbing head in my hands. They let me go after a few hours, probably realizing how little help I was. Probably realizing that this is a crime that will go unpunished and uncaught. I am apathetic. I just want to move forward. I remember, at that time, thinking that moving forward would be easy. That healing was just a question of time; it would be an upward trajectory, every day easier than the one before. It turns out recovery isn’t like that at all, some days I feel mostly okay, then the next I feel as if the world is ending, then the one after that is even worse.

  You get used to it.

  Chapter 2

  I may not remember much, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do something about it. I’m sick of sitting in my dorm room ignoring texts from my mom asking how I am. I’m sick of feeling helpless, and like it’s impossible to walk down the road to the grocery store. I can’t feel this way anymore. I need to keep moving forward. I remember a tidbit from a long-past biology class that sharks can’t ever be still. They have to move in perpetuity. I am a shark. If I stop moving, I’ll die. I need to fight back, I need to punch something. Even if recovery is a roller coaster and not a steady climb, at least on a roller coaster, I’m in motion. So much is trapped inside my head right now if I could just open the door and let it all out maybe I could be some kind of okay. Right now, the future seems all tangled up in the past. How can I move on if I don’t know what happened? How can I move on if I’m just as vulnerable to a similar situation in the future?

  I emptied my bag when I got home from the hospital and found a flyer for Mata Leo Combat Sports, a martial arts gym not too far from the university campus where I live. I don’t remember how I got this flyer. But the day or so before the event are all a bit fuzzy, so I don’t question it. I’ve decided to go. They have a class this afternoon, jiu-jitsu for beginners. Why not? I don’t have any experience with martial arts, but I’ve got to start somewhere. In any case, I don’t want something too violent like kickboxing, or even karate. I feel the need to control my body through slow, deliberate movements. I’ve always been one to get out my emotions through exercise; I deal with break-ups by running until I’m out of breath. I like to exert myself in times of stress to distract me from the pain. Like I said, it seems a good place to start.

  I take my time getting ready to leave, nervous to be out in the world. I run a straightener over my already fairly straight hair. It seems darker than before, a brown so deep there are hints of purple. It’s a contrast with my normally olive skin. Looking into the mirror right now is like staring at a ghost, my skin pallid, my cheeks sunken in. I haven’t been able to find the desire to eat much these last few days, and the effects are as visible on my body as the violent touch of whoever hurt me. I turn away from the mirror, unable to look anymore. My own face is a reminder of how weak I am. I throw my hair in a ponytail. It cascades down my back, ending past my shoulder-blades. Feeling it swish over my back makes me want to cut it off: a new beginning.

  I step out of my building, purposefully placing one foot in front of the other. My heart is already pounding with adrenaline, and I haven’t even cleared the entryway. My pace stays slow as I walk the six blocks to the gym, trying to keep as full awareness as possible of
my surroundings. I hear a branch snap somewhere behind me and practically jump out of my skin. I spin around, muscles tense, ready to run or throw a punch. But it’s just a squirrel. This is how it’s been every time I’ve ventured outside since it happened. Fear around every corner. The inability to ever relax or be at ease.

  I make it without further incident, and I feel myself unwind in subtle ways when I walk into the gym. My heart slows. I feel a smile try to make its way through my lips. I find myself looking around out of curiosity, not the desire to have a full awareness of every danger or to control the situation. It’s loud and rambunctious, with people of all ages, genders, and sizes sparring all over the place. The building isn’t divided into classrooms but is instead one big hanger with everyone together, the floor divided by little foam barriers, tape, and mats. It is filled with a rancid smell of sweat and bare feet, but somehow that’s not disagreeable. It reminds me of the gym where I did gymnastics as a kid. There’s classes going on all around me, teachers guiding children that don’t look any older than four in slow, powerful sequences. In some classes, the kids look focused and determined, others just look like they are having fun. I envy those four-year-olds and the casual confidence they have in their bodies. I want to feel that way. I want to feel both at ease in my skin and like I have the power to protect and trust myself.

  I tell the friendly lady at the front desk what I’m there for, adult beginner’s Jiu Jitsu, and she directs me to the very back of the gym after I sign a few papers. There’s ten of us, a mix of men and women, all looking around a bit nervously. A serious-looking man approaches, tall and muscular. His walk is slow and controlled, like a more refined version of those little kids practicing. I can imagine him just as easily throwing me across the room, twirling me in an effortless waltz. I feel a twinge of jealousy towards him. No one would dare mess with him in the streets after dark. They’d probably cross to the other side of the road instead. He does not smile, but at the same time does not come across as unkind. He is serious and graceful and looks official in his white jumpsuit, complete with a black belt tied around his waist. He looks just how black coffee with one sugar tastes: pleasantly strong, with just a touch of sweetness. I feel his eyes rest on me for a moment longer than is comfortable, a moment longer than he looks at everyone else. Something like recognition crosses his features, but I’m sure it is just my paranoia. That’s the other thing that’s happened over the past few days, I can’t trust my own instincts. Is it an attacker behind me, or an over-excited squirrel? Now is not the time for me to trust what my body has to say.

  “Hello everyone,” he announces, and the moment passes, “My name is Kaleb, and I’m going to be your teacher today. Let’s get started.” He explains that though the class is advertised as Brazilian jiu-jitsu, it will be more of mixed martial arts, with a focus on jiu-jitsu. According to Kaleb, BJJ, as he calls it, is great for self-defense, since size doesn’t really matter. As long as you know what you’re doing, you can beat a much larger and even stronger opponent. This little fact makes my heart leap, I feel like I really will be able to take control using the tools I learn. I feel like I will once again be able to leave my apartment without feeling trepidation at the smallest noise or disturbance in the atmosphere.

  He has us form a circle, sitting cross-legged on the ground like a group of kindergartners. We go around and introduce ourselves, sharing a bit about what brought us there. A middle-aged man named Sal with salt and pepper hair and beer-belly shares that his wife recently left him and he wants to take back control of his life. A woman about my age named Sariah says she wants to be proactive, just in case she ever gets attacked. I wish I had thought of that. I tell the group that I was attacked after a night out, and everyone acts appropriately sympathetic.

  We warm up, and then he starts to teach us the basics. I doubt I would be able to remember exactly what he taught us, I entered a trance-like state as soon as we started kicking and punching and ducking, much like how I feel going on a long run. I feel my body moving, following the instructions given by Kaleb. My body moves fluidly from move to move, each step building on itself. I don’t have time to reflect, I just do. As I move, something strange begins to happen. Stranger than feeling out of my body, I begin to see flashes. I see an image of Ana, her back to me, arm entwined with some guy she met at the bar. I remember her asking, syllables slurred together, “you sure you’re okay alone?” No, Ana, I was not okay. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t been answering me. Maybe she blames herself. I flash to remembering that I told her it was okay, and that she should go have fun. My head was turning ever so slightly, but not unpleasantly. Just perfectly tipsy. Tipsy enough to take my shoes off, though. I can feel the weight of them in my hands, the heels balancing on my palms. I hear steps behind me, I’m not sure if they are real or imagined, in the present or in the past. I swing my leg in an arc and bring my hands up to protect my face against an attack.

  “Oof,” a sound, very near proximity to me snaps me back to the present moment. It’s our teacher, a bemused smirk on his lips. He’s looking at me expectantly, along with all of the other people in our class.

  “Um… did I miss something?” I ask, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. I notice a tingling feeling in my leg as if it just came into contact with something solid. Like a heavily muscled thigh, for example.

  “Yeah,” he replies, rubbing his leg, “you didn’t see me coming to help you with your form, and you gave me a kick to the leg.” He doesn’t look mad, just amused. And slightly confused, probably as to how I didn’t see or hear him coming.

  I feel my embarrassment deepen. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry! I totally zoned out there… are you okay?” All I want to do is run out, find a new gym, but I breathe deeply and tell myself it isn’t the end of the world.

  He chuckles, and I can’t help but feel like he’s making fun of me, “Don’t worry about it, I’ve had worse. And though you’re not bad for a beginner, you don’t really know how to use your power just yet. But you should still be careful.”

  Well, that was condescending. But I still feel bad.

  We move past it and continue with the class without further incident. Kaleb shows me some helpful tricks of how to subdue an opponent once already on the ground using the side of your body as a weight. Despite the fact that this is a class, it feels strange to let someone I don’t know touch me. It’s hard for me to trust I won’t get hurt, but I’m fine. When the hour is up, I take my time lacing up my shoes, waiting until everyone but Kaleb has cleared out. I approach him.

  “Hey,” I say, dumbly.

  “Hey yourself, Chan,” he answers bemusedly.

  “Uh, it’s Clara?” I’m confused.

  “No, as in Jackie. Jackie Chan. It was a joke,” He’s smiling at me, a more sincere smile than the mocking one from earlier.

  I laugh, taken aback at his humor. “Look, I wanted to apologize for earlier. I feel really bad, even if I didn’t do any damage. Could I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

  A strange look passes over his face, or at least I imagine one does, but he nods, and off we go.

  Chapter 3

  We make our way to a nearby coffee shop. We stay mostly silent during the walk, and I begin to feel embarrassed about asking him to come with me. Will he think I’m flirting? Any kind of romantic relationship is the furthest thing from my mind right now. And I don’t even know this person! What got into me to ask him to go to a second location with me? All I did was accidentally kick him. He probably hurt me more than I hurt him. He accepted my apology, I should have just left it there. I feel a ball of anxiety form in my stomach. I have no reason to trust this person. He’s a talented martial artist. If he wanted to, he could do anything he wanted to. I try to think of a way to run away, but my mind draws a blank.

  “Clara? You there? We’re here.” It’s Kaleb, his hand on my arm, stopping me from continuing down the street.

  “Right, sorry,” I answer, my thoughts stopped in their tracks by hi
s hand on my arm.

  He removes his hand, leaving a tingling sensation where it was. “You do that a lot, don’t you? Zone out for a bit?”

  “I guess so,” I shrug it off with an awkward laugh and we enter the café.

  Five minutes later we’re sitting across from each other, mugs of coffee in hand. I close my eyes, appreciating the warmth seeping into my fingers. I realized that they’re sore from being clenched in fists for so long. My body feels good, though, like it finally got a little bit of a release after all these days of being tightly wound.

  It’s been about 30 seconds and, once again, we haven’t said a word. I decide to jump in, awkwardly, “yeah, so, I don’t know why I asked you here really, it’s just… I’m sorry. I feel like I need to take responsibility for my lapse in paying attention. Not that I know much about martial arts, but I know that it’s about the mental stuff, too. Like, I shouldn’t have let my mind wander. I know I didn’t hurt you, but maybe I could have. Or myself.” Oh god, I’m rambling, aren’t I?

  He gives me what is becoming a familiar smug smile. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get better with time, both at the physical stuff and the mental stuff. You can try to kick me more often if it means I get to admire such a cool woman from across a coffee mug.” I look up at him and notice he is blushing just the tiniest bit.