Page 63 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

Will I remember what my brain really doesn’t want me to remember?

Dr.Swanson gives me a sad smile. “With Rohypnol, the brain doesn’t encode those short-term memories. So no, it’s unlikely your memories will return.”

I nod slowly, forcing my brain to analyze every word in her answer—and try to accept them.

“You may remember bits and pieces,” she offers, still giving me her attention.

Bits and pieces. Like flashes of a raging storm.

Blood.

…and Storm.

“Yeah,” I reply with a small smile. “But it is what it is, right?”

Dr.Swanson pulls her lips in an approximation of a closed-lip smile.

Turning back to her computer, she taps at the keyboard in silence for a few more moments before scanning her badge and turning to me.

“Someone was looking out for you, Ms.Rivers. Things could have been a lot worse. I’veseena lot worse happen.” Her face goes dark. “Take care of yourself. I’ll make sure your discharge paperwork is prepared before you go home tomorrow.”

I nod, not able to say anything to her statement. She’s right. It could have been so much worse.

I was drugged. I was with Storm. We were attacked…Why does all of this feel like a badLifetimemovie?

Because you know something’s not adding up.

Dr.Swanson exits my room, and I settle back into the pillows, allowing the bed to support me.

I put my hand on my stomach and breathe in and out to the count of four.

You’re okay, Shae. It could have been worse.

I allow my thoughts to drift to Storm—to why he’d save me and put himself on the line when he so clearly blew me off after The Incident. I mean, he obviously has a girlfriend.

I cannot and will not be the other woman.

Okay, delusional. He’s not asking you to be his other woman. He’s asking you to be nothing but a classmate.

For some reason, that thought causes tears to burn my eyes, and I breathe in sharply through my nose, trying to stave them off.

I don’t want to cry. It would be idiotic for me to cry over Storm Sandoval.

Even if he did save me.

A calm knock comes from the hospital room door, and I blow out a breath and wipe my face, preparing for my family’s return. But after I yell out, “Come in,” I’m stunned into silence when no other than Storm Sandoval stands in the doorway.

Neither of us speaks, and it’s like there’s a gulf of unsaid words between us. A gulf of…feelings.

Storm is the first to move, entering the room and closing the door behind him with a quietsnick.

I’m so flustered, I don’t fully register the massive bouquet of colorful flowers in his hands until he places them on the long table opposite my bed.

He adjusts the blooms in their vase, positioning them one way and then the other with his back to me, and I greedily take the moment to look at him.

I watch his back muscles flex in his crisp black polo paired with deep blue jeans.

I don’t know what those muscles are right above his bent elbows, but when they twitch with his movements, I want to drool at the sight. It’s then that I realize I must look a mess, and I don’t even know if anyone removed my makeup from last night.

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