One of the reasons Wes had absolutely had to come in today—aside from the very real possibility that his father had managed to fire half the staff in his absence—was that Aaron Castro, the casino’s primary talent scout, was dropping by to pitch some new acts. At just shy of thirty-five, Castro was obscenely young to have as much influence as he did, but that was because he was also obscenely good at his job. He’d been the driving force behind a slew of Las Vegas’s most successful acts. His ability to turn unknown performers into near household names was unparalleled. When Castro had called two days ago, his had been one of the few messages Wes bothered responding to. Because when Aaron said he had a sure thing and wanted to give Wes and the Barrows first crack at the show…well, Wes knew better than to put him off.
Once in his office, Wes sat down at his desk and tried to decide whether to conquer the stack of paperwork or the blinking light on his telephone first. He didn’t have time to make up his mind.
“So, how’s she doing?” His father leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad, Armani-suited chest. For a man pushing seventy, Sam Barrows still cut an impressive figure.
The gruffly delivered question took Wes by surprise. He raised his eyebrows. “When did you start taking an interest in Delaney’s well-being?”
“Not her I’m worried about.”
There it was again. First his sister, now his dad. Did no one think he was capable of handling his own shit?
Chelsea’s concern was sort of understandable. In the first few months, she’d seen him drinking a bit too much, eating a bit too little, and spending way too many hours at work. But way too many hours at work was exactly what his father wanted. He would have thought Sam would be rooting for a second, even more catastrophic breakup. Was his father turning sentimental in his old age?
“Well, don’t worry. She hasn’t got her memory back, but we both know this situation is temporary.” Which was why it had been so damn hard to leave her this morning. To be entirely honest, if she hadn’t reminded him that she had a nine o’clock appointment with Dr. Fernandez, he might have given in to temptation and blown off his meeting with Aaron. As it was, he’d lingered a half an hour longer than he intended. A quickie was better than nothing.
“I just want to be sure you’re not going to blow off your responsibilities nursing her back to health. This business doesn’t run itself, you know.”
Wes snorted. “So I’ve noticed.” He patted the stack of papers on his desk, most of them undoubtedly invoices, checks, and other documents his father could easily have signed off on.
“Good.” His father turned to leave, hesitated, then turned back around. “Your mother and I are planning our second honeymoon.”
Wes’s mouth fell open. He could not have been more surprised if his father had told him he had decided to sell everything, donate it to charity, and become a Buddhist monk. Maybe Sam really was turning sentimental in his old age.
“We’ll be leaving six months from now,” Sam went on. “On our thirty-fifth anniversary.”
Wes couldn’t stop blinking in disbelief. As far as he could remember, his parents had never even acknowledged their anniversary—no flowers, no presents, no celebration. He was kind of shocked to discover that his father even knew the date. And had his mom and dad even had a first honeymoon? If they had, Wes had never heard a word about it.
Finally, he managed to squeeze out the words, “That’s nice.”
Because it was nice. He had just never associated niceness with his father.
“Erm, yes, but that’s not why I brought it up.” Sam cleared his throat. “You see, we’re going to be gone for a year. An around-the-world tour.”
“A year?” Wes echoed.
His father nodded. “So I figured this would be as good a time as any for me to retire. No point in my making you CEO if I’m just gonna take it back in a year.”
Wes was glad he hadn’t stood up, because his head was spinning. “You’re turning the business over to me? For good?”
“Well, technically to you and Chelsea, but I see you in the CEO position and Chelsea as Chief Operating Officer. Unless you’ve got other ideas.”
Wes sat there, simultaneously stunned and exultant. In his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined taking over the company while his father was still alive. And since he had also never believed that Sam would countenance the inconvenience of dying, Wes had pretty much envisioned himself in the passenger seat for the rest of his life.
“I—um—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll get the damn job done and not run what I’ve built into the ground inside of six months.”
Now there was the Sam Barrows Wes knew and loved. The latter part of that thought was almost as big a shock to him as his father’s announcement, but he recognized the truth in it. His father wasn’t an easy man, but he was—mostly—a good one. Yes, he was demanding, judgmental, and prone to occasional petty cruelties, but he was also hardworking, reliable, and never expected more dedication or effort from anyone than he expected of himself.
“You won’t be disappointed, Dad.”
With a curt nod, Sam backed out into the hall. “And if you have any sense, you won’t let that girl get away this time.”
Wes stared at the doorway for a long time after it was empty. Wonders never fucking ceased.
When I pull Wes’s Lexus coupe into the lot at Fusilacci’s, Jett’s blue Honda Odyssey is already parked in a space three slots down. At least a few things haven’t changed in the past three years.
And a few others haven’t changed in twenty.
Fusilacci’s falls into the latter category. Jett and I grew up in the housing division a few blocks from here, and I can’t remember a time when this place wasn’t here. With its faux Leaning Tower of Pisa entry and kitschy interior décor consisting primarily of plastic vines wrapped around cheap redwood trellises, it’s one of the few places in Las Vegas that delivers exactly what its appearance promises—solid but unpretentious Italian comfort food at reasonable prices.
My eyes need a few seconds to adjust to the dim interior, but on a blazing hot day like this, the cool and the dark are welcome. Only a few of the tables are occupied—it’s a little early yet for the lunch rush—and once I can see properly, I quickly locate Jett in our favorite booth in the corner nearest the bar, twirling the stem of a wine glass full of Chianti. Her nearly black hair is shorter than I remember, cut in a stylish bob that makes her big, blue eyes seem even bigger. She waves enthusiastically at me, just in case I haven’t seen her, and I smile back. It’s so odd to know that my last memory of seeing her and her last of seeing me probably bear little resemblance to each other.
I drop my purse onto the red-upholstered bench seat and slide in. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
I’d called her a little over an hour ago from Jessica’s office to ask—no, beg—her to meet me for lunch. After my conversation with my neurologist about my progress, or lack thereof, I needed someone to talk to, and I knew that someone couldn’t be Wes. Not that he’d be available when I got back to the apartment, anyway.
“What did you do with the kids?” Jett and her husband have two girls and a boy. Or, at least, I think they do. She said after her son was born that she was closing up the uterine shop, having successfully provided the requisite male heir, but that was almost five years ago. Maybe she changed her mind and had another one I don’t remember.
“I left them at the neighbor’s house. She has a girl and a boy about the same ages as Lily and Zach.” Lily is Jett’s middle child, but there are only eighteen months between the girls, so I bet the oldest, Violet, is just fine with bossing her younger sister and the neighbor’s daughter around when they play together.
“I hope your neighbor doesn’t mind taking care of them for a few hours.”
Jett waved her hand. “Hell, the kids are over there more than they’re at home these days, anyway. They have a swimming pool. And now, thanks to you, I
have this.” She lifts the wine glass from the table and took a sip. “It’s noon, isn’t it?”
“In Montana,” I tease, “but who’s paying attention?”
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 unhappy.”
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.”
Can't Take the Heat Page 5
