Page 8 of Forget Me Not

“Exactly,” he stammers. “Three weeks out of the three months we agreed was best. Until one of us gets a look at that contract, we don’t know what addendums could be in place.”

“I promise you, everything is going to be fine. I can feel it in my bones. I need a change. I’m starting to get…lonely. This game, it’s not fun anymore.”

“Get a damn cat if you’re lonely. As for the game, it’s not supposed to be fun, honey. It’s a way of life, survival. Did something happen at this past location?”

“Cats are messy. They require care that I can’t give.” I ignore the question and he lets me. If I want to talk about it, I know Dex is there. But talking about it doesn’t change what happened, so I have to force myself to move on.

“It’s not safe, Rhea.”

“Hey!” I snap at the sound of my name rolling off his tongue. “What’s our number one rule?”

“If you’re even considering settling down somewhere, then the first step would be to eliminate your no-name rule. This just goes to show you’re not ready. You’re just bored.”

Walking out of the bathroom, I pace the room as I talk. “I’m not bored.”

“You didn’t choose this life, Doll. It chose you, and it chose you for a reason. You’re the strongest person I know and you’re half my age. I’ve never met anyone so manipulative…”

“Wow. Thanks.” I shrug as I sit down on the bed, huffing like an insolent teenager. I know I’m asking for him to take a risk, I knowI’mtaking a risk, but it feels like it’s time. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in this life it’s to trust my feelings.

“It’s a compliment. Take it and put it in your pocket for a rainy day when those ridiculous thoughts of settling down pop into your head.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna be manipulative anymore.” My voice rises as my frustrations do the same. “Maybe I don’t want any of this anymore.”

My body is tired of being used and abused. Last night didn’t go as planned and while, this time, I was able to get away before any sexual assault, he sure as hell tried. My heart longs for normalcy. My mind is demanding me to make a change…and fast.

“Says the girl who checked out of a weeklong stay at a five-star resort last week.” He laughs as if it’s funny and his words don’t cut somewhere deep inside me.

“This isn’t a joke, Dex. I really want this.”

“You say you’re lonely? You want a friend? You’ve got me. If you want love—”

“Absolutely not. Love is not in the cards for me and you know this. And you’re not my friend, Dex. We deal in business together. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I’m your uncle. That’s a hell of a lot more.”

“Then prove it. Do this for me. For your only niece.”

“What is it you want, Doll? Tell me.”

I open my mouth to speak the words, but nothing comes out. I have no idea what I want. I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen years old. I’m a one-woman army, surviving in a line of work that generally requires a team of people to pull the shit off that I do. Dex is right. I’m cunning and manipulative and my heart is stone. But lately, I feel warmth flowing from it. There’s a nagging urge inside me to do something different.

“I wanna be me, Dex. Make it happen.” I end the call abruptly, wondering if I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.

Excitement ripples through me, mixed with a bout of nerves and nausea. I’m really doing this.

Holy shit, I’m really doing this!

Dexter is my mom’s brother. It wasn’t until my mom got really sick that I even knew he was my uncle. She said it was best not to form connections and put labels on the people we come in contact with. I haven’t seen him since my mom passed away, but we talk often. Even before that, I only met him a handful of times. He's the best of the best when it comes to forging. He’s handled every alias I’ve ever assumed, never leaving a single question mark on my identity. But he’s always done it from afar.

Tomorrow morning I’ll call him again and he’ll argue some more. Try to give me a location with a form of identity that’s not my own. When he does, I’ll kindly refuse and threaten to go where I want to go so I can be who I want to be—twenty-one-year-old Rhea Thorn, born out of wedlock on July 15th to Viola Brooks and Grayson Thorn.

I don’t know Grayson, and thank God, I never will, considering he died three weeks ago.

“Promise me, Rhea. You will never search for him, or stop running.”

I carefully clasp my mom's hands. Her skin draped loosely over her frail bones. I can feel the tiny ridges of her veins, a painful reminder that the end is near. “How can I hide from him if I don’t know who he is? Just tell me,” I raise my voice a few octaves to show how serious my request is. “Tell me his name.”

Silence engulfs us. The only sound is the faint rattling that follows each breath Mom takes. With her oxygen mask secured to her face, a white mist clouds around her nose with every exhale.

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