Can't Take the Heat (8 page)

Jett sticks her tongue out at me.

The waitress comes to take our order. I ask for iced tea because I don’t dare drink anything alcoholic when I’m driving Wes’s forty thousand dollar convertible. We don’t even have to look at the menu to decide what to eat. At Fusilacci’s, it’s always pastrami and mushroom pizza with extra sauce.

“So,” Jett says after the waitress walks away, “what did the neurologist say?”

I let out a slow sigh. “She was surprised that I haven’t gotten any of my memories back yet.”

“What did she suggest you do about it?”

“Her first recommendation was that I get someone who knows where I live now to take me there. She thought that might shake something loose.”

“Well, I can do that. Your house is only about fifteen minutes away, actually.”

My eyes widen. “
House
?”

I haven’t given much thought to the question of where I live now that Wes and I are no longer together, but in the back of my mind, I guess I assumed I must have an apartment. Probably a small, one-bedroom with leaky faucets and an indifferent landlord. My salary is above the poverty line, but not far enough that I can see how I could have saved enough for a down payment in less than three years, even in a crappy housing market.

But maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. I could be renting a house with leaky faucets and a crappy landlord.

“Yeah,” Jett says brightly, “you bought it right after you—” She claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. That just slipped out. I know I’m not supposed to tell you this stuff.”

The waitress approaches with my iced tea. I take it and the cocktail napkin out of her hand, setting them both on the table.

“It’s all right,” I assure the best friend I’ve ever had. “You didn’t give anything away.”

Or not anything useful, anyway. Apparently, I own a house, but that knowledge isn’t tripping any triggers. If she’d told me I’d bought a villa in Tuscany, it would make just as much sense to me.

If I own a house—even if it’s a small, modest one—I don’t see how I could afford it on what I earn as an EMT. Unless the housing market got way, way worse than I remember it being. This probably means I changed jobs, got one that pays better. But what?

I mean, I’ve never been an EMT for the money. Granted, I’d started out college with the idea that I might someday go to med school, and I’d initially gotten my certification so I could earn a living while I finished my undergraduate studies, but things had changed. I’d met Wes, we fell in love, and I didn’t
need
to become a doctor anymore. I could keep doing what I love, and what I love is helping people, saving lives. Maybe there’s a part of it that’s thrill-seeking. I can’t deny that there’s a rush of adrenalin when you go out on a call and you don’t know what you’re going to find or how things will turn out. But in the end, it’s only a thrill if you succeed. If you save people.

But that’s beside the point. I clearly haven’t become a physician inside of three years when I never even got past premed. Plus, my accident occurred at work. I’ve just been assuming I was in an accident in the ambulance. That kind of thing is rare, but it happens. Despite the lights and sirens, careless, inattentive drivers still pulled into our path or blew through intersections. I’d experienced more than one close call.

Now, though, I’m not sure. And if I’m not an EMT anymore, what the hell am I?

My grip on everything I know about myself just keeps getting looser and looser, and whoever it is I’ve become seems more elusive, more unreal than ever.

“So, you want me to take you there after we eat?” Jett’s question puts a quick end to my thoughts.

“I don’t know,” I admit, putting my spoon into my iced tea and stirring it even though I gave up adding sugar years ago.

Jett raises her glass to her lips and an eyebrow at me. “Afraid seeing it will shake something loose?”

She knows me too well. But then, that’s why I need her advice.

“Crazy, right?” I ask with a sigh.

“Hey, there are times when I’d love to forget the last few years of my life. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Greg and I adore my kids, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could run away with the circus every now and then. What keeps me from doing it is that I’d miss them all horribly. But if I couldn’t
remember
them…” She picks up my hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “So no, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

I squeeze back, overcome with relief at being understood. “It’s just…I know it’s not real, that I’m living in the past, but I’m happy. And I’m afraid that, when I remember, I’m going to stop being happy.”

She nods sympathetically.

“I guess that’s really what I need to ask you. You’re my best friend, so you’ll know the answer. Am I happy?”

Releasing my hand, she leans her head against the high back of the booth and closes her eyes. Not a good sign. When she looks at me again, her blue eyes are bright and earnest and just a little sad. “I don’t think you’re
un
happy.”

The waitress chooses this inopportune moment to arrive with our lunch. As she sets the tray on the table and hands us our plates, the mouthwateringly familiar scent of pastrami pizza wafts into my nostrils, bringing back a montage of memories dating back to when I was just a kid.

The time we came here after winning the soccer tournament in the fourth grade. My thirteenth birthday party, when Jett and I snuck out back with a pilfered pitcher of beer and got sloshed—and then hung over and in a lot of trouble. My first real “date” at the age of sixteen, which was followed by my first real kiss and, a month later, my first real broken heart. And most of all, the incredible party we had here after my mother’s funeral, when so many people who knew her and loved her came to eat, drink, and remember her the way I wanted to remember her: beautiful, healthy, and full of life.

No, some of those memories aren’t exactly happy ones, but I wouldn’t be better off without them.

“So,” Jett says, lifting a slice from the tray. She loops her fingers under the cheese to catch it as she places the pizza on her plate. “Do you want to go by your house after we’re done?”

A lump forms in my throat, but I nod. And then I wash down that lump with the best pizza on planet earth.

“You can’t be serious.” Wes had never known Aaron Castro to be anything but serious when it came to business, but there was a first time for everything. “We’re booked through the next eighteen months, and you should know it. They’re all your acts.”

Aaron, who somehow managed to look more professional in a short-sleeved dress shirt—no tie—and jeans than most men looked in a three-piece suit with pinstripes, chuckled and shook his head. “That’s how I know we can make it work. I booked Purl with you, which means I can unbook it. There are other venues for that show, but you’ve got the best stage on the Strip for
Mystique
, and that’s why I’m giving you first crack at it.”

Wes studied his friend and business associate, trying to figure the angles. Aaron had never once steered Barrows wrong when it came to talent. Every show he’d ever brought them had been a hit, to the point that Wes no longer considered using any other booking agent. But this proposal was way the hell out of the ordinary, and there had to be more to it than just Aaron’s confidence in the act he was pitching. An act that just happened to star a woman who, based on the photographs arrayed on the desk in front of him, was an exceptionally striking and voluptuous redhead. Right up Aaron’s alley, if Wes’s recollection of the women he’d seen dangling on the man’s arm was any indication.

Those were angles—or more accurately, curves—Wes would be working if he were in his friend’s shoes.

“I don’t know, Aaron. We’ve already started promoting the sale of tickets for
Purl
, and now you want me to put a total unknown in its place? Inside of three months? Not to mention that this is a magic show. They’re a dime a dozen these days.”

“I promise,
Mystique
is different.”

“Well, yes,” Wes admitted, picking up the photograph that depicted the show’s star in the altogether. The lovely Ms. M—M was her stage name—stood facing the camera, her gaze unflinching and unashamed. Although her red hair curled artfully over her full breasts, covering her nipples, the rest of her body was on full display. A brightly colored tattoo in the shape of a flame started above the small triangle of hair at the juncture of her thighs and spread outward and upward, across her hips and around her belly button, ending just beneath her breasts. It was a striking effect, and Wes couldn’t help wondering whether the tattoo was permanent or not.

One thing was certain, however. The carpet matched the drapes.

“No one would mistake her for Penn or Teller,” he said dryly.

Aaron grinned. “And I won’t deny that that’s part of the reason I think she’s going to be a huge star. Let’s face it: most illusionists aren’t about to win any beauty contests. But it’s so much more than that. The show is flat-out phenomenal.”

“But what’s the hurry? Why can’t this show wait in line with everybody else?”

For the first time Wes could recall, his friend couldn’t meet his eyes. “Because this one’s special.”

Wes glanced at the photo again. Oh, yeah, Aaron was all over the angles on this one. “So I see.”

“Look,” Aaron said, his brown eyes narrowing with impatience, “if you don’t know me well enough to know I wouldn’t steer you wrong, even for personal reasons, then maybe we should stop doing business together. All I ask is that you come see the show. If you disagree with my assessment…no harm, no foul. I’ll find somewhere else. But I don’t think you’re going to disagree. I think you’re going to think three months is too long to wait to have her on a Barrows stage.”

Wes set the photo back on his desk and studied his friend. Aaron Castro had worked his way up from backstage grunt work to Las Vegas’s premier talent scout in a little less than fifteen years. He’d done it through a combination of perseverance, smarts, and complete integrity. His business depended on that reputation. He wouldn’t risk it for a piece of ass.

Even a really hot piece of ass.

“Fair enough.”

“Good, since I already got you a ticket for tomorrow night.” Aaron pulled a small envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to Wes. “The show was already sold out for tonight.”

Wes started to take the envelope but hesitated. He couldn’t be sure that Delaney would be staying with him even one more night, let alone two, but if she was, he couldn’t very well leave her alone in the apartment.

He handed the ticket back to Aaron. “Make it two, and you’re on.”

I pull up to the curb behind Jett’s minivan and slide the Lexus into park. The neighborhood looks familiar, but I suspect that’s only because I used to walk through it on the way to school. I recognize the house, too, but for much the same reason. This is a post-WWII tract, and every fifth or sixth house is the same model with slight variations in trim.

But even though no memory bells are ringing, I can see why I’d have chosen this particular house. It’s a Spanish style design with a deep front porch that runs half the length of the house. There’s a small, one-car garage on one end, and a room with a large, floor-to-ceiling window on the other. The tiled roof of the porch is supported by a series of broad arches, and a large Palo Verde tree that’s probably as old as the building provides a lacy shade to the xeriscaped front yard and the Saltillo tile walkway that leads from the sidewalk to the front door.