“Vic! Vic! Wake up!” the pounding on the door was loud and couldn’t be ignored. He groaned and tried to roll over. Instead he sat up and he heard himself say, “Stop banging on my door you freak!”
Freak? Why was his voice so womanly? And what was a freak?
The voice came from behind the door.
“Come on! We have, like, 25 minutes before breakfast is over. Get up! Get up! Get up!”
He looked at the white walls surrounding him, the heavy drapes, the dark wooden furniture and realized with a start that he was no longer in his bedchamber. That realization was quickly followed by dismay, then a form of terror, as he spoke again from his mouth, but without his will. “Okay. I’m coming! I’ll jump in the shower and be down in ten.”
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Victorie jumped from her bed, her feet hit the floor hard, and she sighed with relief at finding herself in her very own hotel room, wrapped in her very own body, in control of her very own voice. “I’m me! She said loudly and listened in awe to the sound of her silly feminine cadence. “ Me me me, me me, me me! She danced around her small room and spun in a wide circle. Her long blonde hair flew in her face and she laughed happily.
Catching sight of the clock she said “Shit!” Realizing that she was going to miss breakfast, she headed for the bathroom and her toothbrush.
As she began the process of pulling off her clothes and putting toothpaste on her toothbrush, she thought about her dream. The decision was easily made that it had been just that, a dream brought on by her accidental punch to the face. She had obviously been knocked unconscious and was experiencing temporary memory loss. The shower came on hot, the steam accumulating quickly. The mint of her toothpaste filled her mouth and nose, waking her senses and allowing for much clearer thought. Her brain needed to assimilate the recent dream with current reality. What happened after the punch? How had she ended up in bed? Why wasn’t she in the hospital? After all she had been hit hard enough to lose a day. Hadn’t she?
Victorie spat a mouthful of toothpaste onto the floor of the shower and watched as the water washed down the drain. Her face tipped up allowing the wonderful liquid to cascade down her face, into and out of her mouth and down her chin and then continue its descent, warming and washing as it went. Thoughts of the moment when she began her mystery blackout accosted her: being held by Billy securely, just as planned, then looking up to see Steve walking toward her maliciously as expected, the roaring of the crowd, then his fist pulling back.
She turned the water off and stepped from the shower. The steam had covered the mirror obscuring her view. She leaned forward and swiped her hand like a knife across the moisture. Her image appeared in the glass. No evidence of bruising showed on her jaw. She could still feel the cracking blow as Steve’s fist collided with her face. Yet no evidence remained. Fingers traced along the jaw line. “Weird.” Victorie smiled widely into her chocolate brown eyes, enjoying the sound of her own voice. She sauntered out of the bathroom and slipped into a pair of jeans, a powder blue top and a pair of flip-flops of the same shade. She grabbed her room key, dropped it into her purse and left the room, her stomach growling in anticipation of the feast to come.

To her utter and complete amazement, the blow fell hard and true as shockwaves of pain radiated across her tender jaw. Her head flew to the side as the arms holding her tightened their grip. Dazed, yet somehow still conscious, she gazed through the dark strands of hair that fell over her eyes. That’s not right, her muddled mind tried to tell her. A curtain of almost black hair, far shorter than her own blond locks, whipped away as she looked up into the bright angry eyes of her attacker. “A fair fight was never your strong suit Gregory. Why start now?” The voice that said the words was coming from her; she could feel the strong vibrato as the air left her lungs. But the voice was not hers. It was strong, deep and masculine.