From the Ashes (Southern Heat Book 1)

by Jamie Garrett

  He had just kissed her. If they hadn’t been sitting in his Jeep, would things have gone further? Had he wanted them to? The more that he tried to convince itself that he didn’t, the more his own physical reaction to her called him a liar. Who was he kidding? A mere glimpse of her most mornings made his cock as hard as stone.

  “I appreciate your spending your days off driving down here and taking me to places you say we’ve been, but nothing is jogging any memories.” She glanced over his shoulder at the restaurant. “That place doesn’t, either.”

  He shrugged. “Well, we have to eat anyway. Then we can go back to the motel . . .” he paused. “Unless you want me to take you back to Monroe tonight.”

  Was she contemplating what might happen if they were alone in a motel room? For all his denying he was looking for anything serious, Mason couldn’t promise he wouldn’t make another advance if the opportunity presented itself. After all, she hadn’t actually rebuffed him. But damn, he didn’t want to take advantage. She was holding her own, as strong as anyone he’d ever known, but Sloane was extremely vulnerable. “You don’t have to worry, Sloane, I won’t—”

  She cut him off abruptly, though not sharply. “Let’s just forget that happened, okay?” She tried to smile. “I don’t typically respond like that . . . or at least I don’t think I do,” she finished with a shrug.

  He was about to respond when her stomach grumbled loudly. She laughed, and at her smile the awkward moment was broken.

  9

  Mason

  They shared a leisurely meal. Mason had forgotten how good the food was there. When they had first entered, he’d eyed Sloane’s reaction carefully. She’d looked around, studying the walls in the dimly lit interior. Sconces buried in clusters of plastic ivy graced the walls every few feet, low wattage. Candles in red containers glowed on the tables. It was as he remembered it. Nothing had changed, not in ten years, but now it seemed kind of kitschy. Back then it had seemed romantic.

  Captivating aromas oozed from the kitchen. Tomato sauce, oregano, baking lasagna, chicken, cheese. His stomach rumbled as they seated themselves at an empty booth in a corner of the room. The mini blinds on the windows were drawn, tilted upward, offering a sense of privacy from passersby outside. Funny how back when they were dating, it had seemed so romantic, so secluded. Now he saw the place for what it really was: a small Italian eatery located at the far end of a mini mall along a sparsely travelled road in an older section of northwestern Savannah.

  Funny how time could change one’s perception. What would Sloane have thought of the place now, after ten years, if she had her memory? He glanced at her as she settled herself on the banquette, still eyeing the decor. After a few moments of stilted silence, she spoke.

  “I want to tell you again that I appreciate your coming down here, Mason, but I don’t remember any of it. I also want to thank you for giving me a place to stay, but I think I’d better strike out on my own. Who knows how long it will take my memory to come back, if it ever does.”

  But I don’t want to let her go.

  The thought startled him, but he ignored it. This was not about him. “What are you going to do?”

  “I honestly have no idea, but I’ll talk to the detectives. Maybe they can help me get access to my bank account and I can head back to Seattle.”

  Why was she in such a hurry to leave? “Are you uncomfortable at my place? Is that it? Because honestly, I could bunk down at the firehouse if you want more privacy.” Why the thought of her leaving left him feeling . . . what? He hated to do it, but he needed to be blunt. “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be traveling alone.”

  “But I can’t stay at your place forever, Mason. It’s as simple as that. And what if my memory doesn’t come back? I can’t hide for the rest of my life. I’ll need to pick up the pieces or start over. To find a job—”

  “I just don’t want you to rush into anything,” he said. “If you’d feel more comfortable, you can stay at my place alone. I can stay at the firehouse with the guys. It’s no big deal.”

  She said nothing but watched him, her shoulders slumped with disappointment. “Did we come here often?”

  “Once every couple of weeks.”

  She fiddled with the paper-napkin-wrapped silverware as a middle-aged woman wearing street clothes and a simple red apron approached their table. She held oversized menus in her hand.

  “You looking for a late lunch or an early dinner?”

  Mason quickly glanced down at his wristwatch. Four-thirty. “Dinner, please.”

  With a nod, the waitress handed each of them a thick brown folder with Dinner scrawled in gold embossed script on the cover. “Sorry, but don’t order anything with clams. We’re out. Can I get you something to drink?”

  He glanced at Sloane and then back at their waitress. “You have iced tea?” She nodded. “Two unsweetened iced teas, please, with lemon.” Sloane ordered veal parmesan and linguine with a creamy alfredo sauce. He opted for the pork sausage lasagna.

  Without another word, the waitress walked toward the kitchen behind the swinging doors. He glanced at Sloane with a lifted eyebrow. “I don’t remember her, but the staff seemed a lot friendlier back then.”

  Sloane smiled. “It could be the end of her shift and she’s probably tired.”

  Leave it to Sloane to think the best of people. He grimaced as he glanced down at the menu he still held. Sticky, probably from spilled soda. He glanced up at the wall sconce a few feet above Sloan’s shoulder. Dust covered the plastic leaves. The banquette seat had a patch glued over a tear or something, its edges curling. So much for nostalgia. The place looked neglected despite the appetizing aromas that filtered from the kitchen. When he glanced up, Sloane was watching him.

  “You’re thinking that this place looks a bit different than when you . . . when we used to come here, aren’t you?”

  He offered a half-smile. “Am I that easy to read?”

  She shrugged. “A lot changes in ten years.”

  He nodded in agreement. They enjoyed a companionable silence until the waitress arrived with their food. At least that was something familiar. The lasagna tasted fresh, the cheese topping melted to perfection and bubbly brown. He dug into it with gusto as Sloane sliced her chicken Parmesan into bite-sized pieces and then focused on cutting the linguine.

  “You used to do that.”

  “Do what?” she asked, glancing up, hands poised over the linguine.

  He gestured. “Cut all your food up before you even tasted it.”

  She said nothing and they ate in silence. It wasn’t an awkward silence, though, but a comfortable one. He wished she could remember. He wished that she remembered him, how much fun they used to have, and the laughter they had shared. Toward the end, the laughter had faded and they had realized that relationships took work. It wasn’t all just sex and fun and going out.

  He had swallowed the last of the lasagna and was mopping up the last of the sauce with his perfectly browned piece of garlic bread when he glanced up and saw her lean back, set her fork down on her plate, and wipe the corner of her mouth with the napkin. She had only eaten about half of her dinner. “Your food okay?”

  “Fine,” she nodded. “I’m full.”

  He glanced at her tea glass, noted that it was almost empty. “Want a refill?”

  She shook her head. Was something troubling her?

  Of course something was troubling her, idiot. She’s lost her memory.

  He was dragging her around all these places they used to go and she didn’t remember a damn thing. Maybe all he had managed to do in the last couple of days was make her feel even more lonely and depressed than she must have been when he first saw her sitting in a hospital bed in Monroe.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you down here. I wasted your time.”

  She shook her head. “No, I was just as hopeful that something would jog my memory. But it’s all just a big blank.”

  “Maybe if we go back to the college,” he sug
gested. He tried to catch the waitress’s attention before glancing back at her. “You think?”

  “No point,” she sighed.

  The waitress came and handed him their order slip, turned upside down on a scratched black tray. She waited while he pulled out his wallet and put the credit card on the tray.

  “Be right back,” she said, walking away.

  “It’s like visiting a city for the very first time.” She sighed. “But thank you.”

  “It’s all right, Sloane. Try not to worry. The doctor said not to push it. Who knows? It might just take a smell, a sound, or even the sight of something that will trigger your memory and bring it all rushing back all at once.”

  The waitress returned with his credit card and the credit card receipt. He wrote in a tip, did the math, signed it, and then tucked the thin piece of paper onto the plastic tray. Sliding his card back into his wallet, he rose from the banquette and tucked his wallet into his back pocket before holding out his hand for Sloane. She didn’t take it, but he didn’t take it personally. Old habits die hard.

  He followed her to the front door, stepped around her to open it, and allowed her to pass through before he did. The evening had cooled. His Jeep, parked about thirty yards away, was barely discernible in the growing evening darkness. He shoved his hand in his pocket, retrieved his key ring, and out of habit, pressed the button that would unlock the doors.

  He heard the double chirp and turned toward Sloane. Her face was reflected in a bright flash. Before that image even registered in his brain, he heard the huge bang. No, not a bang. An explosion.

  He instinctively reached for Sloane and pulled her into his embrace, turning his back toward the parking lot. What the hell—a whoosh of flame, a blast of heat, the groan of torn metal. The odor of gasoline and motor oil filled his senses. Burned rubber, the chemical smell of seat cushions burning. He tried to turn his back in an attempt to protect her from flying shrapnel.

  A huge gust of hot air hit them, knocking them both to the ground with its force. His head hit the pavement. Hard. His vision faded. Glass shattered. Facing the parking lot, all he saw was an orange-red black wall of fire where his car used to be.

  Someone was screaming.

  Sloane!

  10

  Sloane

  A blast of hot air blew Sloane off her feet. She landed hard on the asphalt and continued rolling backward, scraping her shoulder blades as she flipped ass over teakettle, banging the back of her head and biting her tongue in the process. She cried out in pain and fear as she landed face down, the asphalt rough against the skin of her cheek. A cloud of black, oil-laden smoke rolled over her, leaving her gasping for breath.

  What the hell?! An explosion ripped another startled scream from her throat. She rolled to her side in a fetal position, lifting her arms to cover her head. Her left arm didn’t want to cooperate. Mason called her name as if from a great distance, but she couldn’t hear clearly. Her ears rang. That, and her heart pounded a million miles an hour. Could a heart burst because it was pounding so fast?

  “Sloane!”

  Debris fell all around; bits of plastic landing with a dull thud on the pavement, metallic parts clanging with the impact. Glass shattering. Car alarms squealing. Shouts of alarm, screams, someone cursing a blue streak. Something hot landed on her leg, burning through her jeans and scalding her skin. She jerked and it fell off. Something else warm and sticky dripped from her forehead down onto her cheek. The gut-wrenching whoosh of flames, the smell of gasoline and motor oil.

  The sights, the sounds, and the smells seemed eerily familiar. She saw a flash of a room with glass walls. Just as quickly, it was gone. Nothing else, but she knew it had been a memory. A memory of what happened in that abandoned auto shop before she lost consciousness. Before Mason saved her.

  Sloane lay curled on her side, eyes squeezed shut, knees pulled to her chest, every muscle in her body tensed in self-preservation. She mewled in fear as something suddenly covered her, melding itself to her; something big and solid, sheltering her from the falling debris. It was Mason, the warmth of his body seeping into her suddenly chilled skin. She opened her eyes. He was covering her body with his. She was just about to turn to look at his face when a loud metallic clatter pulled her attention to the pavement not ten feet in front of her. A twisted, charred bumper. Her gaze honed in on the sticker attached to that bumper.

  “Mason! Your car—oh, my God!” Mason’s car had exploded? Is that what happened? But why—

  “You’re going to be all right, Sloane. You’re going to be all right.”

  His voice was in her ear. Thank God he was all right. If they had been any closer . . . the car exploded?

  “Lie still, Sloane, you’re going to be okay!”

  Was she? She mentally assessed. Her head hurt, again. Throbbing in time with her pounding pulse. Burning sensations scorched her skin on different parts of her body. She tried to move, to test her legs and arms but bit back a startled gasp as pain shot through her left arm as she tried to pull it from her head. She stared at it in horror. A jagged piece of metal had embedded itself into her forearm, sticking up like the fin of a great white shark from the ocean’s surface.

  “Oh, my God!”

  A hand grasped the injured limb gently but firmly.

  “Keep still, Sloane. I hear sirens. Help will be here any second.”

  People had gathered, a surprising amount considering the fact that they were practically in the middle of nowhere and she hadn’t seen anyone other than the waitress at the Italian restaurant just moments ago. Where had they come from? The motel?

  Sirens blared in the distance, coming closer. A fire engine honked two short blasts, the sound echoing through the parking lot. She cringed and tore her eyes away from the twisted bumper and turned her aching head toward the sound of Mason’s voice. His face was mere inches from hers, blood streaking down the side of his face, also smudged with dirt. His eyes were wide and staring down at her, eyebrows lifted in worry, his mouth slightly open, his breath ragged.

  She rolled onto her back before he could stop her. Mason straddled her, one hand still holding her injured arm, the other clasping her shoulder until it stayed behind her head. Frowning darkly, he moved his hand to cradle the back of her head, cushioning it from the hard pavement.

  “Sloane, don’t move. Lie still, please.”

  “You’re bleeding!” She emerged from her daze and quickly took in the scene. Darting from Mason’s face to the crowd gathering, semi-blocking her view of his Jeep—or what used to be his Jeep—now engulfed in flame. One of the bystanders aimed a cell-phone camera in the direction of the conflagration. She opened her mouth to protest when the crowd suddenly parted and a state trooper and two paramedics pushed their way through the bystanders.

  “Get back!” The policeman shouted, strong-arming a couple of stubborn lookie-loos out of his way. He gestured toward the far side of the parking lot. “Get the hell away from the vehicle!”

  The two paramedics continued forward, each carrying small duffel-bag-like equipment. Mason was already talking.

  “Took a blow to the back of her head, so a possible concussion. Pupils dilated. Pulse one-forty. Breaths twenty-eight. And the obvious.” He gazed pointedly at her arm.

  What? He got all that information? When? Had she passed out?

  “We got it, sir,” the paramedic knelt beside Sloane. The other one headed for her other side, gently forcing Mason to readjust his position. “Ma’am, can you tell me your name?”

  Sloane almost laughed. Almost. “Sloane Maxwell.”

  “Sloane, let me take a quick look at you, and then we’ll get you into the ambulance to take you and your boyfriend here to the hospital, okay?”

  She opened her mouth to clarify that Mason wasn’t her boyfriend. The paramedic gently grasped her arm and stared at Mason until he let go. She decided to keep her mouth shut. It would take too much explaining, and she was short on explanations. In a matter of moments he had her
arm immobilized in a splint. The piece of shrapnel sticking up from the bandages around it looked so incongruous. He then palpated her skull, his fingers gentle yet firm at the same time. She kept trying to turn her head to look at Mason, now on his feet, gazing down at her. His jaw was tight, his lips firm, the scowl still pulling at his eyebrows. Surely he wasn’t angry with her, or was he?

  “Is she going to be all right?” Mason asked.

  A state trooper approached and spoke to him. “Let the paramedics take care of you too, Son.”

  The paramedic spoke without looking up from his examination of her. “He’s got a nasty cut on his head, but otherwise seems okay, far as I can tell. He’s not exactly being compliant—”

  “That’s my fuckin’ car!” Mason jabbed a finger toward the burning hulk of his Jeep. “If we’d been closer—”

  “Mason, that you? Mason Rawlings?”

  Mason turned toward a quickly approaching firefighter who had broken away from the group hosing down the remnants of the Jeep. They doused a few flames that had spread to the roof of the boutique in front of which he had parked.

  “Hey, Brad!” The firefighter hollered toward another state trooper interviewing members of the crowd that had been relocated at the opposite end of the parking lot. “It’s Mason!”

  The trooper let his partner take over, separated himself from the witnesses, and headed toward them. Did Mason know everybody in this state?

  “Mason, haven’t seen you down in these parts for a while.”

  “Hey, Brad,” Mason said, turning to glower at what remained of his vehicle. “We were coming out of the restaurant—”