“I…I…” The words weren’t forming. I wanted them to, but my throbbing brain and sweating, trembling body simply couldn’t reconcile the torrential rain of emotions pouring into me.
He reached over and plucked the keys from the ignition. “You’ve been in an accident. Why did you leave the hospital? And what makes you think you should be getting behind the wheel of a fucking car?”
“I…I…” I still couldn’t speak.
He shook his head and mumbled under his breath. He got out of the car, walked over to my side, and opened the door. “Out.”
But I couldn’t let go of the steering wheel. It felt real and familiar. If I let go, I might start screaming. For Christ’s sake, the man even smelled like the delicious concoction of leather and citrus I’d imagined when I’d made him up.
He leaned down and put his hand on my forehead. “Hell, you feel hot, Dakota. Move the fuck over.”
He pushed me to the passenger side. Meanwhile, my mind went around and around and around until the space between my ears felt like pea soup. He turned on the ignition, backed out of the spot, and headed to the hospital. His phone immediately buzzed, and he dug it out of his front pocket. “Yes, Mrs. Dane. I found her. We’ll be right there.”
My mother had his cell number? Yes, this was a dream, I thought, and closed my eyes. It’s a product of the accident and a very bad fever. Delirium. Yes, wonderful, glorious delirium!
He pulled into a spot at the hospital’s entrance, where my mother waited with a wheelchair, frowning. At least that was something familiar to me. Although, when that look appeared on her face, I knew I was in deep trouble. About two years ago, I had snuck out with Mandy to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight in Berkeley. When I came home covered in bread crumbs and soaking wet from Mandy’s water pistol, that frown had been there to greet me. Just like now. But why? Did she think I was just goofing off and playing a joke on her or something? Couldn’t she see the genuine panic in my eyes?
“Dakota? Can you hear me?” Santiago snapped his fingers.
I looked at him reluctantly, afraid he might seem all too real. But he wasn’t real. He wasn’t. “Who are you?” I hissed.
His head drooped and his dark hair fell over his eyes. “This is never going to work.” He pushed back his hair with one hand and then looked at me; studied me, actually.
“What?” What had he said?
His inquisitive expression soured. “You’re a mess, that’s what I said.”
No, he’d said this would never work. What had he meant?
He broke eye contact, leaned forward, and nodded at my mother, who opened the passenger door.
“Have you lost your mind? Out, young lady,” she fumed.
Oh my God. Was everyone in on this? Had Invasion of the Body Snatchers been based on real events? Because that’s what this felt like.
Crud. Don’t panic. I slipped from the car into the wheelchair, but my mother didn’t say another word, which meant she was beyond completely furious. Silence was reserved for only the most extreme offenses, like the time I crashed her car into the neighbor’s fence because I was late to a fund-raiser for the animal shelter.
Santiago came around. “I’ll take her back, Mrs. Dane, and make sure she doesn’t leave this time.”
My mother nodded and walked off, not bothering to look back at me.
“Mom? Mom? Where are you going?” I called out but she didn’t respond, and she disappeared inside.
I looked up at my captor, searching for some explanation, some clue about who had kidnapped my reality. But when my eyes met with his, there was a moment when something flickered in my head. A moment of recognition or a feeling, really, that I knew him from somewhere beyond just the photo. But that couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be. Perhaps my mind was making up lies as a coping mechanism, trying to sort out the jumbled facts threatening to undo my sanity.
This very bad dream was turning into a very creepy nightmare.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As Santiago wheeled me back to the room, I tried to contain my fear. Although I knew none of this could be real, it sure the heck felt like it was—right down to the busy doctors, nurses, and patients going about their day, taking no notice of little old me. The only thing people seemed to notice was Mr. tall, dark, and scary-as-shit-but-handsome behind me. Every woman within eyeshot tripped over herself or stopped and stared at Santiago who, by the way, acted completely oblivious.
He pushed me into the room and closed the door. “Put the gown back on and get back into bed,” he commanded.
I slowly rose from the wheelchair and avoided looking at him. The hair on my arms and on the back of my neck stood straight up, as if my body instinctually knew danger was near.