Love Debts: Motorcycles and Him in the Dark

CHAPTER 1: A Flirt Gone Wrong, Ending Up... May 15, 2015, Monday. Z: Hey Deer, did the test results come back? Ethan Walker frowned slightly at the line of text on his phone and typed back: The doctor said it's Temporal Lobe damage. The specific treatment plan needs a consultation. The detailed report should be sent over from abroad by Friday. "Z" was a guy in one of his motorcycle enthusiast groups. Ethan had known him for almost three years, but because they lived in different cities, they'd never met face-to-face. Bochy Group, the biggest importer of luxury cars in the country, was hosting three international auto shows in New York City on the 1st, 10th, and 20th of this month. Ethan and Z weren't interested in four-wheelers, but this time, the show had a separate motorcycle pavilion, which was a huge draw for riders. So, Z booked a flight landing midday on the 1st to check out the show. As a local, Ethan was naturally supposed to pick Z up. Unfortunately, he got into a car accident on the way. The auto show was a wash, and he ended up in the emergency room instead. Z always replied fast, and this time was no different—a reply came in a flash: Temporal Lobe? What the heck is that? A wave of frustration washed over Ethan, but he took a deep breath and patiently explained to Z: You've heard of the hippocampus, right? Damage to the hippocampal gyrus on the temporal lobe messes up your memory. He didn't actually know what "temporal lobe" meant himself; he’d copied the sentence straight from his medical report. Just as he was about to elaborate on what a memory impairment felt like, a familiar voice drifted over from the back-left: "How long has he been skipping class? Has it been half a month now?" Ethan was positive that was his roommate's voice. Even though he’d only stayed in the dorm for three days in his two years of college and couldn't even recall the guy's name, he remembered the sound perfectly. It was high-pitched and grating, like that squeaky toy—what was it called? Oh yeah, a "Screaming Chicken." Ethan paused his glass-raising mid-motion, surprised to run into his "chicken-friend"—ahem, roommate—at the bar. A guy next to the roommate chimed in: "About that long, yeah. How does he get away with it, just ditching class for half a month?" The roommate chuckled: "How? Because his family's loaded, duh!" "Just because he’s got a rich daddy, big deal... Wait, I heard his old man cut him off?" The roommate replied: "Only just hearing that now? I know a guy who went to middle school with him. Said Ethan was kicked out to live on his own back then! God knows what kind of messed-up stuff he did for his own father to not want him... Hiss—" Before he could finish his juicy gossip, the spitting roommate abruptly cut off, sounding like the "Screaming Chicken" with its neck wrung. He clutched his stomach, his face stark white. CRASH— Ethan had just hurled his thick-bottomed glass directly at the guy. It bounced off his soft midriff, hit the floor, and shattered. He hadn't thrown it with full force, but having a glass cup smash against you still hurt like hell. The roommate and his two buddies followed the trajectory of the glass and, the instant their eyes locked with Ethan’s, their expressions collectively froze. One of them saw that Ethan was alone and raised a hand to point at him. Mid-point, he seemed to recall something and violently snatched his hand back, eyes wide. "E-Ethan Walker, you can't just assault people in Cos.me!" Cos.me was the name of the bar. Rumor had it the owner had ties to the underworld and employed plenty of big, mean bouncers. If anyone caused trouble, they’d get beaten up and tossed out without distinction. Ethan scoffed dismissively. "You think I need to pick a spot to throw shade at pathetic gossipers like you?" "Ethan Walker!" The other friend piped up, defending his buddy. "Don't push your luck!" "Smashing a glass on your belly is 'pushing my luck'?" Ethan tilted his chin up, pointing at the bottle of scotch next to him. "If I were to smash this on your head, you'd probably sue me for insulting your grandmother's grave." Ethan already had a wild look about him. Now, with his jaw tight and his head slightly raised, paired with the silver hair he'd dyed over Christmas, he looked seven parts wicked and three parts ruthless. The three gossips’ temples throbbed, and they instinctively recoiled! A dozen seconds later, they realized how utterly spineless their reaction was and tried to save face. But Ethan had already turned away, ordered a bottle of imported liquor, and gone back to his own drinking. Honestly, it was just bad luck for those three; they caught Ethan at his most stressed. Normally, he'd just glare or curse them out—he rarely got physical. After hearing this kind of trash talk for so long, he was mostly numb to it. While he was having that little battle with the classmates, three more messages popped up on his phone, all from Z. Z: I just read up on the temporal lobe structure. Z: Damage to it definitely causes some memory loss. Z: But why are you losing your memory every Monday? And what caused the condition in the first place? Ethan took a big swig of his drink and typed: That’s the stuff we have to wait for the full report to find out. In the car accident on April 1st, Ethan’s injuries weren’t serious; the hospital diagnosed him with minor scrapes and a slight concussion. But when he walked out of the hospital and called the car insurance company to file a claim, he paused for a long time. He couldn't remember a single detail about the crash! He figured he was just tired and stressed, so he brushed the agent off with a quick excuse. What happened next was even scarier: on Monday, April 8th, he woke up, and his memory had snapped back to April 1st. He got up, showered, made a restaurant reservation, and frantically drove to the airport to pick up Z! Thankfully, Z was there to make him look at the calendar and the chat history, eventually convincing him that the auto show was already over. And then came today. He woke up this morning, repeating the motions of going to the airport to pick up Z. Z repeated the process of showing him the date and the chat history. ...Ethan couldn’t handle it, either. He went back to the hospital for a third check-up, but the results were the same. Due to temporal lobe damage, he had lost his short-term memory function. The longest his short-term memory could hold out was seven days. The day of the car accident was a Monday. So, every Monday morning, his memory from the previous week would be wiped clean, and he’d reset to April 1st, stuck in an endless loop. No one could handle this—living a life that forever circles between two points. So, after leaving the hospital, he rode his bike around the suburbs for a few laps and came to Cos.me to drink once it got dark. His phone vibrated again. It had to be Z, but Ethan ignored it. He flagged down a waiter: "Another round of beer, please..." In the deepest booth of the bar. James Sterling's best friend had just returned home from abroad, and a few old childhood friends were throwing him a welcome-home party. James was in a great mood and had tossed back quite a few drinks; he was feeling tipsy. After excusing himself from his friends, he leaned against the sink in the bathroom, slowly drawing on a cigarette. Just as he was about to finish it, the door of the opposite stall swung open, and a young man stumbled out, seemingly not noticing James! In the chaos, James couldn't make out the youth's face, only his silver hair, black hoodie, dark jeans, and sneakers—he looked like a high schooler sneaking out to party. The guy was coming in too fast to dodge. Instinctively, James reached out and grabbed the young man's arm to stop him from slamming into him. James was a lifelong gym-goer, so he had plenty of strength. Ethan managed to steady himself but gasped in pain, looking up at the man. Ethan was almost six feet tall, pretty tall by most standards. But the man opposite him was half a head taller—easily six-foot-three or more. He had a pair of deep-set, captivating almond eyes that slanted upwards, profound as the ocean and breathtaking. Ethan's heart skipped a beat. Afraid to meet his gaze, he instinctively looked down at the hand clamped around his arm. It was clear the man took care of himself; his arm muscles were sharply defined and powerful. His fingers were long and straight, and faint blue veins spread across the back of his hand—incredibly handsome and sexy. Ethan had a hand-fetish, and, fueled by the alcohol, he brazenly checked the hand out for a few more seconds. James raised an eyebrow and finally let go. Catching a whiff of the man’s tobacco, Ethan also wanted a smoke to clear his head, so he turned to lean next to the man. He patted his pockets, searching left and right, but couldn’t find his pack of cigarettes anywhere. Maybe it had fallen out in the stall? He was too drunk to see straight and didn't want to go back into the stall and repeat the embarrassment of stumbling into the man. He cleared his throat. "Hey, buddy." James responded: "Hmm?" Ethan asked: "Spot me a smoke." "Everyone else asks for a light, but you ask for a whole cigarette," the man chuckled. "New move?" He was definitely taking him for someone trying to hook up, which instantly fired up Ethan’s irritation. "Forget it if you don't wanna. I'll go find my own." A drunk person has very little impulse control. After saying that, he actually turned and headed back to the stall. He could vaguely see a cigarette box floating in the toilet water. Ethan put his hands on his knees, leaning in to look, seemingly debating whether to fish it out. James watched his actions for a moment and suddenly smirked: "Catch." As soon as he spoke, a square little box flew towards him. Ethan caught it, pulled out a cigarette, and stayed right there, leaning lazily against the stall wall to light up. Just as he was about to hand the pack back to the man, he heard a squeak as the door of the stall next to him opened. Due to the angle, Ethan couldn't see the person, only the sudden halt of the other guy's footsteps. That other guy also stumbled right toward James! This time, James reacted and stepped to the right. But the other guy changed his trajectory, too, and still ended up nearly falling onto James! Damn it! A lot of Ethan's earlier irritation evaporated, and he couldn't help but smile. —This guy was the real hook-up artist. He turned and leaned right next to James, just as Ethan had, and asked in a delicate voice, "Hey there, handsome. Got a light?" James pondered for a second, then pointed at Ethan: "I gave my cigarette and my lighter to him." Instantly, Ethan felt two dagger-like stares stab him. He wanted to applaud the man—what a brilliant way to shift the focus and create drama! But he had indeed taken the man's cigarette. Plus, the slick, heavily made-up hook-up artist frankly wasn't a good match for James. If you looked at him through normal eyes, the other guy was above average in looks. But Ethan was the recognized campus heartthrob at NYU, and he had high standards. In all these years, few people had impressed him with their looks. A few minutes ago, James had become the most impressive of all. Ethan shrugged, signaling that he had no intention of sharing the light and couldn't help. The other guy immediately categorized Ethan as a rival, shot him a dirty look, and continued his pursuit. "So, handsome, do you come to Cos.me often?" James smiled faintly: "Not often." "That explains why I've never seen you. Are you seeing anyone right now?" James was still smiling: "Nope." Well, looks like this guy enjoys being hit on, Ethan thought. He didn't have a habit of eavesdropping. He checked his phone while taking a drag from his cigarette. Z’s notification was still there. He hadn’t opened it earlier because he didn’t want to see anything related to his medical condition. Now that his mood was better, he couldn't just ignore Z. After all... he didn't exactly have a lot of friends. He unlocked the screen. Z, sensing the mood, didn't bring up the cause of his condition again but mentioned a new engine that had launched earlier this year. Ethan looked up the specs and messaged back that he was interested, too. After hitting Send, he tossed his phone back into his pocket. His cigarette was almost done, and the other guy's flirting had reached a fever pitch. "...Look, handsome, my gaydar is totally on point. I can tell you like guys. I'll be straight up with you: I'm the bottom." The guy looked at James with eyes full of expectation, the message being loud and clear—Wanna go? James was standing there, arms crossed, the same little smile playing on his lips. He opened his mouth. Seeing his attitude, the guy thought he had hit the jackpot and pulled out his phone to book a hotel room. But then James just laughed and said: "I’ll pass. Beat it." The other guy’s eyes went wide with shock. He hadn't expected the man, who had been so mild-mannered just a moment ago, to flip the switch so quickly. He protested, unwilling to give up: "But, handsome, you..." "You want me to repeat myself?" James asked. The guy was humiliated and about to start a new round of whining and begging. Having received the favor of a cigarette from James, Ethan felt he couldn't just stand by. He took a few steps and inserted himself between the two men. The other guy threw his hands on his hips, enraged: "Hey! What the hell are you doing?!" Ethan couldn’t be bothered with him. He braced his hands on either side of James, effectively pinning the man between his arms. Then, he leaned in and gently blew a puff of smoke toward James's face: "Hey there, handsome. Wanna come home with me?" A cloud of smoke enveloped them. James froze for a split second, then the familiar smile returned. Ethan inwardly sighed with resignation—it looked like he was about to get the same embarrassing rejection: “I’ll pass. Beat it.” He hadn't expected the man to cooperate when he came over to rescue him from the persistent guy. If James refused, the persistent guy would at least see that James truly didn't want to hook up and would leave them alone. However— Just as Ethan was preparing to dust himself off and claim his glory after a job well done, James reached out with that exquisitely beautiful hand, took Ethan's chin, and drew the last bit of smoke from Ethan’s mouth into his own. "Sure. I'll go with you." Ethan: "..." Ethan: "???"