I Don't Own Anything!
Complete summary: Logan is the curator of a museum, when a robbery takes place in the museum and he is the only one who knows what happened, but now he is in the hospital with no memory of the robbery and some parts of his past, and things not improve when Detective James D. accuses him of being responsible for the robbery.
He wants to remember his past to prove his innocence, but what he does not know is that his memories hide the love of his life and many secrets about his life. Can he find his memories?
REMEMBER THE TIME
Chapter One
The moon was enormous—ripe, red-gold, hanging low in the sky. From the flowering jacaranda, the mockingbird was scolding. Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk.
Logan stumbled up the brick path. His foot caught and he went down, on his knees, breathing hard. His hands were white blurs on the warm stone. He tried to focus, and he could see the ink splotches of blood—his blood—running down his face and dripping onto the bricks.
His stomach rose in protest. Swallowing down his nausea, he pushed back to his feet. The black velvet leaves of the elephant ears seemed to twitch, listening, as his footsteps scraped unsteadily up the path, past the sundial and palely glimmering statues, past the solar lanterns fuzzily glowing.
The shadows cast by the jacaranda stretched chill and dark in the warm summer evening, but the darkness edging his vision had nothing to do with the deepening night. There was blood in his eyes now; he wiped at it uncertainly.
Logan reached the top of the long, shallow garden steps. The back entrance of Constantine House loomed before him, and he staggered forward, feeling for his keys. He leaned against the door, resting his head on the painted surface, fumbling in his pockets. He pushed a key into the lock; it turned, and the door swung open, spilling him into the hallway.
Half blind with blood and pain, he wove his way down the hallway toward the main exhibit room and his office. His foot caught on the Oriental runner and he went sprawling. Somewhere in the distance an alarm bell was clanging. He opened his eyes. Dimly, as though looking through a telescope, he could see the cool white marble face of Kwan Yin gazing down at him. She held a little vase, pouring nothingness out over his pounding head. But it wasn't nothingness. It was nectar. Invisible nectar to feed the hungry ghosts.
Far, far at the other end of the telescope, the serene face of Kwan Yin receded, grew tinier and tinier…until at last it pinched out like a match spark in the night.
He was chuckling, a deep, sexy sound as he pushed Logan back on the satiny cushions. Was this for real? Was he going to go through with it? Logan blinked up as his tie was unfastened, tossed aside, his shirt unbuttoned, laid wide. The evening breeze—scented of smog and jasmine—felt cool against his overheated skin, like the lightest breath. Unlike their own breathing, which was hot and heavy and strained sounding. Gasps and groans that were pure skin flick. For a moment Logan was thrown out of the mood, his normal self-consciousness and reticence reasserting themselves.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to see the other's face in the summer darkness, but a warm weight lowered itself beside him. Their mouths locked; they were rubbing against each other.
Oh. That felt good. That stiff length of soft skin and hardness—hard as bone—as desire throbbed through Logan, his heartbeat echoing through his body. So much sensation at once. It was overwhelming…but good. Warm breath and the tang of sweat on clean skin, the tickle of chest hair against his nipples, the glide of muscles as powerful arms pulled him close, legs wrapping around his own. Yes, it was really happening, and he wanted it to happen. He was happy to let go, losing his doubts, his concerns, his anxieties, because this just felt right. And he refused to second-guess himself, to freeze up. He had waited a long time for this.
A long time. A lifetime.
Because this was Dak. Dak. His heart seemed to swell with emotion, happiness filling his chest because it was Dak with him. Together. The way they were meant to be. Finally…
Logan's lashes stirred.
He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the cop's hard face. He wasn't sure how he knew the man beside his bed was a cop…he didn't know him.
Or did he?
He was big, tan, tall, broad, and muscular. Like a bull. One of those beautiful sleek, powerful bulls they use in bullfighting. Like Isidore Bonheur's sculptures. Beautiful but fierce features…Brown-dark hair, hard hazel eyes, and a thin mouth that looked inclined to sarcastic asides.
Even on that first glimpse under the fluttering of eyelids, Logan felt a jolt of alarm, the knowledge that something was seriously wrong. He opened his mouth and a funny sound came out. Then another face slid into view. A woman's face, calm and professional. A nurse. She said soothingly, "It's all right, Mr. Mitchell. You're going to be perfectly all right now."
She sounded very sure of it, and he relaxed. He did feel all right. He felt warm and floating…relieved that the hard, unfriendly face had gone. Even happy. He'd been dreaming about… He'd been dreaming. It was confused and faraway now. He let it go. Let everything go.
The second time was the real awakening. He opened his eyes with a start. There was another nurse at his bedside, and she said something to him, something calming, something reassuring. He responded. Things got a little fuzzy and then sharpened again. His room seemed full of people, and a doctor was there asking him questions.
It was…confusing. Tiring. His head ached. A lot.
"What happened to me?" he mumbled.
"You've got a concussion, Mr. Mitchell."
He thought that over. It wasn't an answer, was it? Or was it? "How?" he asked.
"You were injured during a robbery."
A robbery. Like…a mugging? He couldn't seem to remember, although it didn't seem like the kind of thing one would forget. It was all very bewildering. He wanted to go back to sleep.
"I don't remember," he said, and his eyelids drifted shut.
The next time he opened his eyes, the bull—the cop—was back.
The thin mouth curled into an unfriendly smile. "Well, Logan, we meet again."
"Yes," Logan said, trying to focus. His vision was off. "Do I know you?"
There was silence. The hazel eyes narrowed. "Are you saying you don't?"
Logan's heart began to pound. "No."
"No…?"
"I don't know you."
Another silence. Another smile—a rather cynical one. "Is that so?"
"Should I?" Logan managed. His temples were now starting to pound in time with his heart. All at once he felt very ill.
"What do you remember?"
"I…" Logan stopped. He had the sensation of sand sucking away beneath his feet. "Who are you?" His voice sounded faint and faraway even to himself.
The other laughed, and then the dark face re-formed itself in a sneer. "Honest to God. You've got to be kidding. You're not seriously going to try and pull that?"
Logan stared at him; he couldn't think of anything to say even if he could have forced words out over his rising panic. This couldn't be happening. This… Something was wrong. And he could not let this guy, whoever he was, know how very wrong things were—that much he knew instinctively.
"I think you should go," he said.
"Oh, you do?" Unimpressed, the cool eyes studied him. "Why? If you don't know who I am?"
Logan said honestly, "Because I don't like you."
Another one of those hard laughs. "I see you do remember something. What else do you remember?"
Logan opened his mouth. Nothing came to him. This was impossible.
Wait. He knew…the nurse had called him "Mr. Mitchell" and this idiot had called him "Logan." And the doctor had said…something about a mugging.
"It's… I know who I am. But…some…details are…vague."
"How convenient." Unfriendly mockery. "Well, let me refresh your memory. I'm Detective James Diamond. LAPD Robbery and Homicide Division." Diamond pulled a flat wallet-looking thing out of his jacket and flashed a very large, very official-looking badge in front of Logan's nose.
Logan narrowed his eyes. This made sense up to a point. He had been knocked out—in a robbery—so it was reasonable that the police would interview him. Right? But Detective Diamond was acting like Logan was the criminal, and clearly they had some kind of history.
And that was very hard to believe. Logan doubtfully studied Diamond's face. Logan was a law-abiding person. He knew that about himself. He had no doubt whatsoever on that score. Maybe he couldn't remember everything, but he knew he was not the kind of person who got into trouble with the law.
Right?
And anything else was out of the question.
Ah. So that was an additional something he now knew about himself. He liked guys. He was…gay. And comfortable with the idea.
But maybe Diamond didn't like guys who liked guys? Maybe that was the problem with James Diamond. Although how would he know about Logan's sexual preferences? Logan couldn't imagine him confiding such a thing to…well, really to anyone. Nor did Diamond seem like the kind of guy anyone would want to confide in. Even had he been Logan's type. Which he wasn't. Even if Logan couldn't quite remember what his type was, he was quite sure Diamond was not it.
"Is your memory coming back?" Diamond inquired.
"I was knocked out."
"Oh right. And now you have amnesia. That's the story?"
Diamond did not like him either. That was clear. And Logan did not feel well enough to deal with it. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Said, "Can we…talk about it later?"
"You're not curious about what happened to you? I'd think you'd be very curious…since you can't remember anything, right?"
Logan watched him. "I was mugged?"
"Try again."
Logan tried again. "I was…robbed." Diamond was from robbery and homicide, so that was a safe bet.
His thinking processes must have been transparent, because Diamond said slowly, "You're guessing. Or you're pretending to guess."
God. This idiot was too much. Logan closed his eyes. He couldn't deal with this right now.
Silence.
When the silence stretched—when Diamond didn't go away— Logan opened his eyes and surprised an odd expression on the detective's face. Mostly suspicion, or maybe wariness, but there was some other emotion that Logan couldn't read. It vanished the moment Diamond saw that Logan's eyes were open.
"Why don't I help you out with a few points? Your name's Logan Mitchell. You don't like to be called 'Logie'. You're twenty-five years old, unmarried, a native of Minnesota. You studied the career of doctor, but you have not practiced it, instead you took the job of curator at Constantine House. Is this ringing any bells?"
Logan licked his lips. There was a horrible taste in his mouth and his head was pounding sickly. He knew he didn't want to hear anything more. He knew he needed to.
"You've been curator there for a little over two years—during which time the museum has lost slightly over a hundred thousand dollars worth of antiquities and art objects."
Diamond paused politely. Logan moved his head in slight negation. He couldn't have spoken even if he'd known what to say. His heart was thudding as though he'd found himself cornered by an attack dog—which was kind of how he felt. Diamond wasn't quite baring his teeth, but somehow the effect was the same.
"Two nights ago, for reasons known only to you, you went down to the grotto in the back of the museum garden and, to all appearances, surprised thieves in the process of removing a priceless, tenth-century painted mural."
Tenth century. A very bad year—all one hundred of them. The "Leaden Century" as described by Cardinal Baronius. The darkest of the Dark Ages.
"What was a priceless artifact doing in a grotto in the back of a garden?"
Diamond ignored that feeble protest. "Apparently, you were struck over the head and left unconscious while the thieves made off with the wall painting—at which point you regained consciousness, made your way back to the museum, and triggered the alarms by not disarming the security system when you let yourself inside the back door."
As Diamond spoke, Logan had a dizzying and fleeting impression of images. A small cave…flashing shadows…voices echoing in argument…the delicate lines and muted colors of a painting…two riders on horseback…Chinese, yes. A tomb painting…yes. He did remember…
He remembered…something.
It took a few seconds to absorb the implications of Diamond's flat pronouncement.
"You don't think that's what happened?"
"I think it's convenient. Like your amnesia."
Logan let that sink in too. He had the disconcerting sensation of trying to feel his way through the smoke.
"You think I was involved in the robbery?" he managed at last.
"Were you?"
"No! Of course not."
"I thought you couldn't remember?"
Logan tried to sit up. Not a good idea. Quite a bad idea, actually. Despite the railing, he nearly overturned right out of the narrow hospital bed. His stomach overturned too as his brain seemed to slam the roof of his skull. Dimly, he was aware of Diamond grabbing him and putting him back against the pillows. Diamond said something to him, but he couldn't make it out. Maybe Diamond rang for help, because he could hear a buzzer going off. Logan felt sick and woozy and cold all the way through. He needed to make Diamond understand, needed to convince him, and he already knew that was going to be a hopeless cause. Diamond's mind was made up. He believed Logan was guilty.
Then the room was full of people. There seemed to be a lot of noise and activity. Somewhere behind the wall of sound, he could hear Detective Diamond protesting—and being overridden. Logan put a hand to his head, touching some kind of bandage; his skull felt like it was about to split in half. Someone leaned over him; there was pinch in his arm, and suddenly the commotion faded out.
It was quiet again. Warm. Dark. There was black tide rushing toward him and he stepped out to meet it.
Mouths locked, their cocks awkward, poking, stiff as they moved against each other. A slow wriggle that turned into humping—uncomfortable, embarrassing—but then slowly, rhythmically finding themselves in step, moving faster, faster, picking up a frantic kind of speed. No longer awkward or strange, just give-and-take, a lovely reciprocity. He could hear the hard, steady pounding of the heart beating against his own. A husky voice speaking against his ear… The words were lost. But that was all right. Even without the words, this was what he had been waiting for, what he had wanted for so long.
Why had he been afraid of this? Why had he thought this wasn't possible?
"Dak?"
He woke, startled, to sterile silence. Had he spoken aloud?
"So, Professor Peabody, I guess your memory is coming back?"
Professor Peabody? He opened his eyes.
Blue sky and clouds. That was nice. Strange but nice. Ah. Fluorescent lights behind decorative diffuser panels. He turned his head—very carefully. Medical paraphernalia…and a face he'd hoped he'd dreamed up. Although…given his most recent dreams, maybe not.
Detective Diamond was at his bedside once more, faithful as any lover. Well, he'd known that reprieve couldn't last. Diamond had been a no-show yesterday evening, but here he was bright and early, as though standing in for Logan's nearest and dearest. That was unsettling, now that Logan thought about it.
"Why isn't anyone here?" Logan asked.
"I'll try not to take that personally."
"I mean…my…"
"Your?"
But Logan had already figured it out. There wasn't anyone. No family. Friends… He looked doubtfully at Diamond. Those hazel eyes that didn't seem to miss anything. Even if Logan had a crowd of friends queuing up outside the room, Diamond would not be letting them in till he got whatever it was he wanted from Logan.
Which was what? A confession of guilt?
When Logan didn't speak, Diamond said, "I guess you're wondering where Dak is?"
"Dak?"
The flash of impatience was almost concealed. Not quite. "You woke up asking for him. Now you're pretending you don't know who he is?"
He had to tread warily here. "I was half asleep."
"You're trying to tell me you don't remember Dak?"
Dak. Did he know who Dak was? He couldn't picture him. And yet the name seemed imprinted on his consciousness. Too important to forget.
And yet he had forgotten.
Logan's stomach knotted with tension. He was sliding out onto some very thin ice; he could feel the chill. What division did Diamond work for? Robbery and…homicide? Was that what he'd said? Logan couldn't remember. But there was something about Dak. He could feel it. Something bad. Something too painful to bear.
"Who is he?"
"Dak Zevon? He's the great-great-grandson of MacBride Zevon."
Logan must have looked blank, because Diamond's sarcastic mouth quirked and he said, "Captain MacBride Zevon. The founder of Constantine House. The salty old sea dog who ripped off all those treasures from foreign climes and dragged them home to Southern California."
"What is Dak to me?"
Diamond's slanted eyebrows rose. "Good question. For one thing, he's your employer. Well, one of them. He's on the trustee committee for the museum. And"—he seemed to be scanning Logan's face closely—"you were college roommates and best friends."
"What else?"
"You tell me."
Logan stared. Diamond had a thin, cruel face, he thought. His eyes were wintry, like old ice.
"Has something happened to him?"
"Like what?"
The tension knotting Logan's muscles seemed to wrench tighter. He was afraid now—starting to shake with it.
"Like…something bad." He blurted, "Is he dead?"
Diamond laughed. "Worse than that. He's married."
I Hope You Like The Story! =D