Chapter 5

The next day I returned to the hospital toting a canvas bag full of things for my session with Logan. A CD player and an eclectic selection of music to see if anything roused a memory from him, along with a collection of classic literature, the books most often assigned in high school.

Logan’s case was not the kind of amnesia that resulted from a neurological disorder or head injury. His was a case of dissociative amnesia, essentially a mental illness involving the breakdown of memory and identity, making it all the more fascinating. I knew that dissociative amnesia was brought on by a traumatic event and occurred when a person blocked out certain information. Treatment options were extremely limited. They typically focused on relieving symptoms and controlling problem behaviors brought on by the stress and trauma. Now, newer studies were exploring how to help the patient begin to process and cope with the painful memories.

Since no one had come forward to claim Logan, even after the news outlets had a field day covering his story, I knew that family therapy was out. I decided to focus on art and music therapy, hoping to avoid going the medication route for anxiety and depression that Dr. Andrews seemed to favor. I wanted to see how far I could get Logan on my own. I didn’t think it would be helpful to numb his brain with antidepressants. At least not yet, not until we were sure that was what he needed to recover.

Dissociative amnesia was by far the most interesting to study because the memories still existed inside the mind, but they were so deeply buried they might never be recalled. Sometimes the memories resurfaced on their own or were triggered by stimuli in the person's surroundings.

The guard stationed outside of Logan’s hospital room checked my ID and nodded his approval for me to enter. I opened the door only to find an empty room. I dropped the heavy bag on the floor to stop my shoulder’s aching protest and was ready to parade out to the reception desk to find out where they’d taken him, when a door on the side of his room opened and Logan stepped out in just a towel.

His gaze flicked to mine and he smiled. I was too stunned even to return his smile, with my jaw hanging down by my knees and all. His body was a freaking masterpiece that could easily turn any girl into a drooling sex addict. And glistening with water droplets, with that tiny white towel slung low on his hips, I was no longer thinking of him as a test subject. I was picturing what it would be like to have Logan’s rough hands on my body, to feel the heat of his skin, to breathe in his musky scent and feel the stubble of his jaw against my cheek.

“Ashlyn?”

I realized that I’d just been standing here visually molesting him for God knows how long and I was about to stammer out an apology, when he turned to the side and I caught sight of another tattoo.

There was something familiar about the phrase scrawled along his ribcage. Without thinking, I marched forward and grabbed onto his hips, turning him to get a better look.

It couldn’t be.

He chuckled at me, low under his breath. “See something you like?”

“This tattoo. Do you know what it means?”

He looked down at the curvy text over his ribs and shook his head. “Haven’t had access to look it up just yet. Besides I’m not even sure what language that is.”

“It’s Latin.”

“You know it?”

I unbuttoned my jeans and eased down the zipper.

“Whoa, Ashlyn.” He took my wrist, stopping me, but I could see the heat building behind his gaze, which did nothing to extinguish the jittery excitement I felt. He ignited something in me. I thrust my jeans down just enough so I could show him my tattoo.

Aut viam inveniam aut faciam tibi written in Latin over my left hipbone. The font on mine was smaller, but our tattoos were the same, complete with the flowy script written gracefully in black ink.

He released my wrists, dropped to his knees, and delicately ran a fingertip along the lettering that matched his own. He dipped his fingertips just inside the waistband of my white cotton panties, moving them aside to read the phrase uninterrupted. My stomach jumped at his touch.

“What does it mean?” His voice was husky and thick.

I realized I’d been holding my breath and pulled in a lungful of air before answering. “I will either find a way or make one.”

The phrase had been etched into my mind long before it was permanently inked on my body. It reminded me to challenge myself, to never settle, and to push through my shitty upbringing to become who I wanted to be. It was a saying that would speak to those who had struggled in life and wanted better, and were willing to fight for it. I wondered what would have possessed Logan to have this marked into his skin. By the look on his face, he was clearly wondering the same thing about me.

He rose to his feet, and after trailing his fingers one last time over the words, he zipped and buttoned my jeans. I stood there completely at his mercy and utterly fascinated by him. What were the chances that we’d have the exact same Latin phrase on our bodies? The similarity was unnerving, but also interesting.

There were lots of things about him that were beginning to intrigue me. The way his green eyes followed mine, his musky, male scent. It also probably didn’t help my libido that both times I’d seen him, he’d been shirtless. There was no way not to notice how attractive he was. My two-year sexual dry spell might have also contributed, but my body’s response to him could only be described as primal…needy.