I considered speaking up again, but he pulled a set of keys from his pocket and quickly unlocked the handcuffs before shuffling from the room.
Logan sat up in bed and rubbed at his wrists. ‘Thanks,’ he croaked, his voice deep and rough from sleep.
‘You’re welcome.’
I stepped closer and he drew the sheet up higher on his waist, concealing the trace of soft hair trailing down his belly. I felt mesmerized watching him.
My response to him was startling. Was I that starved for male attention that I was attracted to a good-looking prisoner? Damn, maybe my friend Liz was right--I needed to go out more, to get laid, instead of relying solely on my vibrator to do the job.
This certainly wasn’t the most professional of me. I needed to speak up, explain who I was, why I was there, just as I’d done countless times before during the other studies I’d been part of. Of course, those had always been led by Professor Clancy, and I’d just followed his lead, easily explaining that I was Ashlyn Drake, a Ph.D. student studying behavioral psychology and I wanted to ask a few questions. But my mouth refused to form the words, and instead I just stood there staring at him.
He seemed to have a question on the tip of his tongue, but he stayed silent as well, looking me over for a few long moments. ‘Do…do you know me?’ he finally asked. His voice was soft, inquisitive and I immediately relaxed at the sound of it.
The meaning of his question took a minute to resonate. He thought I was here for a visit. There was something innocent and sad in his eyes. Like they were filled with hope and wonder as he looked me over. Did he think I was his girlfriend? A friend? ‘No,’ I answered.
His face fell, and he went back to rubbing his wrists.
I stepped toward him and went to the bedside table where the assistant had left the pitcher of ice water. I picked up the plastic cup and poured him a glass.
I held it out for him to take, but he didn’t react right away. He sat quietly, still meeting my eyes for another lingering moment before he reached out for the cup. His fingers brushed against mine. The warmth and solid feel of him startled me.
He took a sip without taking his eyes from mine. ‘Why are you here and why are you treating me humanely? They say I’m dangerous, that I murdered a man.’
I sucked in a breath of air, forcing my composure to return. ‘I’m a doctorate student, researching the effects of amnesia.’
‘You’re here to study me,’ he said simply. It wasn’t a question and his eyes flicked to mine, challenging me to disagree.
I saw my actions through his eyes, what he must assume were my motives for freeing him, giving him water, and suddenly my actions didn’t feel quite so genuine. I’d need his cooperation, it was true, but I hadn’t been thinking of my research when I ordered the aide to release his wrists, or poured him a cup of water. I’d been thinking of him as a man who needed comforting, which probably wasn’t wise. It’d be in my best interest, and safer, to think of him only as a test subject. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to view him the way I should while watching him sit on the bed, with his chest bare and a five-o’clock shadow dusting his jaw.
I could easily rattle off facts like approximately eighty percent of amnesia patients recover their memory, but I couldn’t comfort him, and that left me unsettled. I’d always dealt with statistics, scientific research, facts and figures, so being face-to-face with a guy my age, who I was undeniably attracted to, had completely thrown me off my game. I needed to pull it together.
‘May I sit?’ I motioned to the plastic chair across the room.
He shrugged his indifference.
Taking it as an open invitation, I pulled the chair closer to this bed and sat, then removed the files from my bag. Just this small act, having the papers in my hands, calmed me. I felt more in control, back to my professional self, and pulled a deep breath into my lungs.
I could feel him watching me. When I looked up, I noted the curious expression on his face.
‘What?’ I asked.
He shook his head, biting his lip.
I looked myself over, making sure none of the buttons on my shirt had popped open or something else awkward. ‘What’s wrong?’ I felt too comfortable, more like I was talking to friend than interviewing a mental patient.
‘You look too young to be a doctor,’ he admitted finally.
Oh. I tucked my hair behind my ears self-consciously and glanced down at my lap. ‘I’m not a doctor yet. I’m still in school.’ And I knew I looked younger than my twenty-four years.
I read over the questions I’d prepared and suddenly, sitting in this hospital room with him, they sounded stupid. Too clinical. Besides, he wasn’t likely to be able to provide the answers just now, so I’d probably only anger him. Not that I was worried about him becoming irate; I already trusted him on some strange level. I just didn’t want to prod him with useless questions that would do nothing but frustrate him. I wanted him to trust me. And if I was admitting it to myself, I wanted him to like me. I closed the folder.
‘I know you don’t remember your name, but I’d like to know what you’d prefer I call you. John Doe just doesn’t seem right.’
He swallowed and looked directly at me again. His eyes were piercing. I’d always thought the phrase ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul’ was stupid, but with him, that phrase held meaning. His eyes were rich hazel, with flecks of chocolate brown and deep, mossy green, fringed with black lashes. They were so expressive I could read his anguish at having no idea how to answer the most basic of questions.
He rubbed absently at the tattoo on his arm.
‘Should I call you Logan?’ I nodded toward the tattoo.
He ran his finger over the script, as if trying to decipher its meaning. ‘Why would I tattoo my own name on me?’
‘I don’t know, I suppose you wouldn’t.’
He nodded in agreement.
‘I just figured it might be more familiar to you than John, though.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Even though there’s nothing familiar about the name Logan to me, I guess I’d still rather you call me that.’
‘Okay. Logan.’ I smiled. ‘Are you hungry, have you had breakfast?’
His expression betrayed his suspicion over my concern and I immediately felt guilty. ‘Let’s just get your questions over with, each day has been a parade of doctors, lawyers and investigators coming through here and not a single one of you can tell me what the fuck is wrong with me. The sooner I can get out of here and back out in the real world, the more likely I am to remember something, right?’
Okay then. That’s a no to breakfast. ‘It’s possible that certain environmental stimuli could provoke a response…’ But I didn’t explain that being under arrest for murder meant he wouldn’t be leaving this hospital anytime soon.
‘Would I know it if I was gay?’ he asked out of the blue.
‘I’m not sure. Studies have shown that sexual preferences don’t change as a result of memory loss. Why? Do you think you’re gay?’
‘No. It’s just… Logan is a guy’s name, right? Why would I tattoo the name of guy on my body?’
It was something I was wondering about, too. ‘You think maybe Logan was a lover?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to think about anything.’ He lay back against his pillow and closed his eyes. I could see him struggling to keep his emotions in check. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was feeling, waking up one day in a hospital, being told you’re under arrest for murder with no recollection