Kiss Me If You Dare (9 page)

Wow. My own bodyguard. Oddly, I didn’t feel any safer. Where had the guy been when I was dangling on the side of that cliff? I couldn’t recall a pair of arms waiting below to catch me. He was overpaid, whoever he was.

Defused, I took the elevator to the lobby, mulling the whole way. Denton made it seem like I should drop the whole thing, simply because he said so. But it wasn’t that easy. It hadn’t been so long since I’d been jailed, framed, chased, set up, and shot at. I wasn’t about to let down my guard.

I took the bus to Cliffhouse, snuck a sandwich from the fridge, and climbed up to my room.

The alarm clock woke me at the crack of six the next morning. I slammed the snooze. My shoulder paid me back with a shot of pain. Too much time on the sledgehammer yesterday. I should have broken in my body gently.

Even my brain hurt. I hadn’t really slept, just dozed in and out of a bad dream. I’d been chasing a doe through the woods. The crunch of shoes through the underbrush. The scrape of branches against my face. I had to catch the doe. But she was gone, and I was standing at the edge of a babbling brook wondering what I was doing there. Someone called my name from the bushes behind me. I crept close. A pair of muddy Nikes stuck out from beneath a shrub. Everything in me wanted to run away, but I had to see who was there . . . I pulled back the leaves . . .

A face.

Brad’s face. And there was a bullet hole between his wide-open eyes.

The sheets had been damp with sweat when I sat up in the pitch-black, awake. I’d had a hard time falling back to sleep. Each time I dozed off, the doe would be there, and I’d have to chase her again.

I shook off the images and got out of bed. Of course I was dreaming about Brad. I missed him so much.

The shower took a minute to warm up. I brushed my teeth while I waited. It seemed an eternity had passed since Brad and I had last been together. Had it only been two weeks?

I finished my routine and headed downstairs, meeting Denton in the dining room. By now I understood why he sat in the formal area rather than the kitchen. Less drama. Thankfully, Ms. Rigg treated me kindly in his presence, even pouring my coffee.

“Do you recall your doctor appointment at eight, Alisha?” Denton asked.

“Mmmm.” I chewed my bagel and swallowed before answering. “Yep. All set.”

“How have you been feeling?”

I glanced at the gash on my arm, the skin now neatly knit together. “Great. These stitches are ready to go.”

Denton squinted at the wound. “It seems to have healed nicely. You were very fortunate to have such a minor injury.”

I tossed a third of a bagel back onto my plate, losing my appetite at the reminder of the worst day of my life.

Denton took a sip of his coffee, looking at me over the rim. “I understand the gunman was at very close range.” “Gun
woman
, actually.” I saw Candice’s pistol go up, heard the explosion, then lost everything in the flash of white that followed. As always, pain rushed up my arm at the memory.

I must have flinched, because Denton reached over and touched my wrist. “Give it time. The pain will lessen.”

I nodded, pushing away from the table. “Well, gotta go. Have a good one.”

“Goodbye, Alisha.”

I grabbed my tote and dashed outside for the bus. k The single-story medical building was at the edge of campus. I signed in at the seventies-era sliding-glass reception window.
Alisha Braddock
, I was careful to write on the sheet. I sat in a corner by a low, square coffee table covered in tattered, outdated magazines. The room carried a faint musty odor. Dark wood, patchy wallpaper, plastic tub chairs, and mite-laden carpeting screamed for a remodel.

A few minutes later, a woman called my name. I followed her down a narrow hall.

We entered Room 3. She gestured toward the exam table. I hopped up, hands suddenly clammy. As she ran through the temp, weight, and blood pressure routine, I pondered the significance of the multicolored fish that swam across the blue background of her jumper.

“Everything looks good,” she said, writing her findings on my chart. “Dr. Vandenberg will be just a few minutes.”

While waiting, I redecorated the tiny space with brighter lighting, new ceiling tiles, modern wallpaper, and fresh flooring. The re-do disappeared as the doctor entered the room, chart in hand.

Sleek and elegant, the woman looked more like a movie star than an MD. Skin the color of mocha, full lips, and sparkling brown eyes. I wondered why she wasn’t doing her internship at U of C Hollywood instead of here in Del Gloria.

“Hello, Alisha. I’m Dr. Vandenberg. I see you’re new to campus.” She set the chart on the counter and proceeded to feel the glands in my neck.

“I’ve been here a week or so.” I swallowed at her command. “Um, I’m just here to have some stitches removed. Everything else feels fine.”

A stethoscope slid down my back.

“Breathe in,” the doctor instructed.

I took a breath.

“Your chart says you’ve been assigned to the Revamp Program. I understand that is a very rigorous curriculum. I want to make sure there are no other health issues as you go into it.”

“They sure put a lot of extra information in those medical charts.” I couldn’t remember my major being printed next to my weight back at Michigan State’s clinic.

She tapped a rubber hammer to my knee. “At Del Gloria we don’t separate physical, mental, and spiritual health. The mind and soul are parts of the body. We treat them as one.”

“And what does that have to do with me getting my stitches out?”

“Say ahhh.”

A bright beam panned over my mouth, then into my eyes. The doctor clicked the penlight off and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Let’s talk about your stitches. Tell me why you have them.”

A bead of sweat broke out on my forehead. I rubbed at it, pretending to have an itch. How much could I tell without giving myself away? Perhaps it was better to just keep pretending I couldn’t remember the details. I closed my eyes and concentrated, picturing Candice’s weapon, aimed and loaded. The white flash, then the pain in my arm again.

My breath came in gasps. “I was shot.” I avoided her eyes.

“By whom?” She hugged my chart to her chest as if to hide the answers from me.

I shrugged. “A woman with a gun.”

The doctor stared at me, perhaps waiting to see if that was my final answer.

“Well,” I felt compelled to keep talking, “she was a friend of mine. At least I thought she was.”

“And this friend shot you?”

I nodded.

“Are you having difficulties with your memory?” she asked. “Do you forget where you put things, forget what you were about to do next, draw a blank when you try to remember your childhood?”

“No. I remember stuff.”

Dr. Vandenberg nodded and set my chart on the counter. “It can take time to recover from a traumatic event like the one you experienced. Let’s take a look at those stitches.” With a few swift moves, she pulled what looked like fat fish line from my arm. “There. That didn’t hurt a bit.”

I cranked my arm around for a look. The stitches were gone. A patch of red skin remained to prove my tale.

“That will lighten up over time. Nobody has to know about your adventure unless you tell them.”

“Thank you.” I scooted to the edge of the table, ready to make my run to freedom.

“Alisha,” the doctor said, “I want you to start writing things down. Keep a daily journal of what’s going on in your life. Then read back over it once a week to remind yourself what you did.”

I sighed and slid to a standing position. “I don’t really see what that has to do with anything. I have a great memory.”

“I’m sure you do.” She clicked her pen and hung it in the hinges of the clipboard. “It’s just an exercise to keep your mind sharp. Nobody reads it but you. I think you’ll be fascinated by what’s revealed.”

She made her exit.

I stopped at the front desk then hustled outside. Glaring sunshine washed out green lawns. The chatter of birds rang from tree branches as I headed to the curb to wait for Dogpatch.

I sat on the weathered plastic bench, one leg jerking rhythmically. Dr. Vandenberg might have a degree in medicine, but if she knew anything about me, she’d understand why keeping a journal was a bad idea. Three simple words from my past—Patricia Louise Amble— had already stirred up trouble in this new life. Imagine if I had an entire notebook filled with memories. A shudder coursed through my flesh as I imagined the Grim Reaper plunking down next to me on the bench.

11

I arrived at Rios Buena Suerta in time to start shoveling plaster into black plastic bags for disposal. Portia’s way of handling the task alone was to hang the bag from a doorknob, slide the shovel in the top opening, and dump it. I was certain the task would go faster if I held the bag while she scooped.

“Pull the plastic away.” Portia’s frustration came out in her voice.

“I’m trying.” I slid the bag’s opening farther under the shovel. “There. Now go ahead and tip it.”

A fog of dust rose as the debris landed. I pulled the neck of the bag up . . . and a pile of plaster landed on the floor.

“It was easier before you got here.” Portia stamped the shovel on the floorboards. “Do your own pile. My system was working just fine.”

“It’ll go faster if we help each other,” I insisted. “Why don’t you hold the bag and I’ll shovel?”

Portia held up her stunted hand. “You’re brilliant. How’s that going to work?”

“Watch this.” I forced a corner of a fresh bag over the doorknob and showed her how to hold the rest of the bag wide with both arms.

“Like I said, you’re brilliant.” She scooped up a load of debris.

“What are you doing? I’m supposed to be shoveling.” Dust rose as she dumped it in. “Looks like you’re an expert bag-handler. Stay right there.” Another scoop landed in the bag.

I tested out my new anger management techniques.

“You know, Portia. You act like you know it all when it comes to this renovation project. But Professor Braddock put me in charge and I’d like you to stop acting like you’re the leader.”

“Professor Braddock?” she asked in a mocking tone. “Don’t you mean Uncle Denton?”

The bag fell out of my hands and I straightened, hands jammed on my hips. “You make it sound like you don’t believe he’s my uncle. Is there something you’d like to confess?” I waited for her to tell me she’d snooped through my notebook and written Hello Patricia Amble just to agitate me.

Instead, a look of surprise flashed across her face. “I meant that of course he put you in charge, being your uncle and all.” Her eyebrows scrunched together. “Are you saying he’s not really your uncle?”

Her sincerity took me off guard. Maybe she hadn’t been the one to rip out my signature page. “No, that’s not what I’m saying,” I stammered. “Of course he’s my uncle. I mean, why would he tell everyone I was his niece if I wasn’t really his niece?”

She stared at me squinty-eyed. “Good question.”

“Oh, come on, Portia, he’s my uncle. I just thought you were trying to say he wasn’t. You know, trying to imply that I’m not really Alisha Braddock.” Backtracking didn’t seem to be doing the trick.

She shook her head, a disgusted expression on her face. “Then who are you?”

I waved my hands through the air, like an umpire calling it safe. “Come on. I’m me. I really am Alisha Braddock, the professor’s niece. Who else would I be?”

She put a hand on her hip. “I’m dying to find out.”

I gave a sigh of exasperation and ruffled my hair. “So, I take it you weren’t the one who left that note in my binder.”

“What note?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Just forget about it, okay?”

“It’s a pretty tough conversation to forget about.”

I tied up the top of the bag, avoiding her eyes.

She touched my hand. “Are you in trouble or something?” I jerked upright, tears threatening to flow. “Of course not. Why would you even suggest it?”

Portia rolled her eyes. “The girl doth protesteth too much. You want to talk about it?”

I wavered, lured by the temptation of stepping out of the lie and into the light. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re being ridiculous.”

She turned her back to me and pushed the remaining mess into a central pile. “If you ever change your mind, give a holler. We might have more in common than you think.”

As we worked another hour in silence, I couldn’t help but wonder. If Portia hadn’t written that note, who had? And besides informing my so-called bodyguard, what did Denton plan to do about this threat to my security?

Downstairs, Koby and Celia had their own cleanup system in place. Celia acted as bag lady while Koby did the dirty work. They stopped at our arrival.

Koby leaned on the shovel like a cane. “Time to go already?”

Portia looked at her dust-covered wristwatch. “Yep. We’ve got an hour to get to class.”

Koby wiped a hand across his cheek, leaving a smear of white. “How do you think the other team is doing?”

We helped Celia out the door and down the steps, each of us sending bold glances toward the competition’s row of houses.

“I don’t see anyone over there,” Portia said, locking the door and stashing the key. “I’d sure like to know how far they’ve gotten. Who wants to come with me?”

I shook my head. “Not on your life. After the way we chased Simon out of here the other day, I don’t think they’d appreciate us snooping.”

Portia got a mischievous look on her face. “Come with me, Alisha. They owe us a peek.”

“No way.” I put my foot down on spying. It only brought trouble.

She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the street. “We’ll meet you at the station,” she called to the others.

I pulled back in token resistance, still following as she went up the steps of the opposition. She gave a quiet knock at the front door.

“Nice time to be neighborly,” I said under my breath. “Nobody’s here, anyway.” Portia shielded her face against the glare and looked through the window. “Wow.”

At her exclamation, I crowded next to her at the window, looking inside.

Portia gave a low whistle. “It doesn’t look like they’ve done anything.”