Nicky's Fire

by Nancy Fornataro

  Turning towards him again, she took a deep breath, and said, "You're a D.E.A. agent. You and I were sent here to bust Max and his whole operation."

  His face seemed to turn to stone, as he stared at her. Seconds ticked by. But then, his lips twitched, and he burst out laughing. "You're a riot, Chloe," he gasped, "what a sense of humor."

  As he started the car, and shook his head, still chuckling, Chloe's hands gripped the seat tightly. She'd taken the chance, and lost.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ellen was at her desk when the phone rang the next morning. Deep in thought, now irritated at the interruption, she picked up the receiver and snapped, "McGafferty."

  "Ellen, it's Chloe. I have to talk fast."

  "What's happening?" she asked, as she put her pen down.

  "Listen, I talked to Nick last night. All he remembers is some childhood friend. His name is Dennis Daley, and they used to call him 'Double D.' I thought if we could find this guy and bring him here, maybe Nick would come out of it."

  "Okay, I'll see what I can do. It's worth a try. Anything's worth a try at this point. What else?"

  Chloe sighed. "I told him last night, Ellen. I told him he was a D.E.A. agent, and he laughed. He thought I was joking."

  "Christ." And the thought occurred to Ellen that she should terminate this operation, in spite of Chloe's wishes.

  "Have you spoken to the doctor yet?"

  "Yes. I talked with more than one. They said it would take time, Chloe," Ellen didn't want to tell her friend, but then she knew she had to, "and they also said there's a chance the memory might not return. What do you want to do?"

  There was silence for a minute, and Ellen heard traffic noises on the other end, before Chloe said, "I'll stay. And if I have to, I'll bring down these guys myself. We're going to Mexico in another week. I think I have Max convinced to show me the factory, so we can get the location."

  "Hot damn!" Ellen cried excitedly, "We're getting close. This is great, Chloe. It won't be too much longer, and you'll be out of there. Listen, remember what I said. Call me if you're in trouble. Even from Mexico."

  "I know. Okay, I'll try to keep you posted."

  And, she hung up.

  Ellen buzzed her secretary. "Lisa, bring in Nick Webster's file."

  A few minutes later, Ellen sat at her desk, looking over the thick folder.

  Nick was a good agent, and the file was peppered with remarks of praise. He'd been sent to Central America, undercover with another operative, and they'd brought down a large cartel. But, in the process, he was beaten badly, and had spent months in the hospital recovering. She remembered visiting him in the intensive care ward. For a while, they thought he might die. But Nick was too tough to die. Too tough. That's part of the reason she chose him for this biker assignment.

  She proceeded further into the file, and found the data she needed. The parents were dead, but he'd attended Taft High School in a small, Iowa town.

  But, before she picked up the phone to call Taft, she sat back in her chair and thought about Chloe. The woman had guts, that much was evident. Ellen wasn't sure, if she'd been in Chloe's place, whether she would have stayed in that situation. And Ellen wondered whether it was just Nick keeping her there, but then she discarded the thought. Yes, Chloe seemed to be in love with Nick, but she also was dedicated to her work.

  Almost too dedicated. The woman reminded her of herself most of the time, as she seemed to live and breathe D.E.A., much like Ellen. And she smiled, knowing she'd put her friend on the assignment for more than one reason. Chloe and Nick were perfect for each other, in spite of the animosity when they first met, and in spite of his amnesia now.

  Chuckling, as she thought of them both, Ellen picked up the phone and dialed Taft.

  Dennis Daley lay deep in sleep. He'd arrived home from his concert at three in the morning, exhausted. An electric guitar lay on the floor of his large, luxurious penthouse apartment in Chicago, surrounded by items of clothing he'd dropped on his way to bed.

  The persistent ringing of his private phone finally jerked him awake. Running a hand through his very long, brown hair, he groaned and banged his hand on the receiver.

  "What?" he said into it, his voice cracking with the effort.

  An authoritative female voice said, "Mr. Daley?"

  "Yeah...what?"

  "Or should I say, 'Double D?'"

  Easing himself up against the pillows, he shook his head, and tried to wake up. "Who is this? And how did you know my nickname? No one's called me 'Double D' since high school." His voice was husky with sleep, and also from singing the night before.

  She laughed lightly. "Sorry. My name is Ellen, and we have a mutual friend, Nick Webster."

  "Nicky?" His face relaxed into a smile. "God, I haven't seen him in years. What's he doing now?"

  "Well," then she hesitated, "that's why I'm calling. He's in trouble, and he needs your help."

  Dennis had money, plenty of it. He was generous, and often helped friends financially. "How much does he need?"

  She laughed again. He liked her laugh, it was low and throaty, and he wondered what she looked like.

  "No," she said, "I'm not asking for money. What I'd like to know is, how'd you like an all-expense paid trip to California, Mr. Daley?"

  "Huh?" He shook his head again, thinking he must still be dreaming. This whole thing was starting to remind him of the Twilight Zone. Besides, how had this woman obtained his private phone number? Nobody, but nobody outside the group knew his penthouse number.

  "Let me explain," she began. "Nick's been in a motorcycle accident--"

  "Yeah," he said, thinking of the man, "he was always a crazy son-of-a-bitch. Don't tell me, he's a Hell's Angel, right?"

  She paused. "He's a Warrior, but the difference is negligible. Anyway, he had this crash, and you're one of the few people he seems to remember."

  "Wow. Sure, I'll help Nicky." He understood now. Her words were sinking in. Nick had amnesia, and she was hoping his presence would pull the man free of it.

  Just then, hearing he was up and around, his elderly maid popped her head in.

  "Bring me some coffee, will you sweetheart?" he asked her with a grin.

  "Listen," Ellen said hesitantly, "will your wife mind if you come out here for a while?"

  Chuckling, he replied, "Probably, if I had one. That was my maid."

  "Right." She paused, then said, "I'm surprised she didn't answer the phone."

  "This is my private number, and there's only one extension in my bedroom."

  Another silence. "Mr. Daley, can I get personal for a minute, here?"

  "Well," he drawled, "I like your voice, sweetheart. I guess you can get as personal as you want." This phone call was becoming more bizarre by the minute. But, interesting. Very interesting.

  Her voice was clipped, as she said, "What do you do for a living? Are you able to get away for a week or so?"

  "I imagine so."

  The maid returned, and placed his silver coffee tray on the polished, black nightstand.

  "Thanks, Etta," he whispered.

  The old woman smiled at him. She'd been with him for years, and at times, seemed to keep his life from falling down around his ears. "Breakfast?" she asked.

  "Yeah, thanks. You're awesome," he replied.

  She shook her gray head, as she was leaving, and picked up clothing as she walked.

  Ellen's curious voice said, "Mr. Daley?"

  "Call me Dennis," he drawled.

  "So, you didn't answer my question."

  He took a sip of the coffee. "Sorry. Trying to wake up here. I play in a rock group."

  "Oh." He wasn't sure, but he thought she sounded almost disappointed.

  "We just finished up a tour, and I'm exhausted. I could use a vacation. But listen, I can get out there on my own. Don't worry about that." He had his own jet, and seldom flew commercial airlines. For Dennis, flying across country was a common occurrence.

  "No," she said quickl
y, "I insist. I've got a ticket waiting for you at the airport. You leave at three this afternoon."

  "You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" His generous lips curled into a smile.

  "No," she replied slowly, "I'm frantically trying to help Nick. He needs you badly. You're his only link to the past."

  His smile faded. She did have a desperate edge to her voice. "All right," he said, "now let me ask you some questions, as long as you took some liberties with my schedule and all. What are you to Nick? His girlfriend?" He was more than curious about this woman now.

  She chuckled. "No. Just a good friend. His girlfriend's name is Chloe. You'll meet her."

  "Where do they live? L.A.?"

  "Culver City, actually. He's in a bike club called The Warriors, as I told you earlier."

  "And, what do you do for a living?"

  He heard a long silence on the other end. "I'm...I'm on unemployment right now. Between jobs, so to speak. I have time right now to try to help Nick." Her voice was nervous, and he suspected she was lying to him. But, he didn't call her on it. He'd have time enough to find out about this woman.

  "Okay. So, how do we connect?"

  "I'll meet your plane at L.A.X.."

  His eyes narrowed, as he took another sip of coffee. L.A.X...he'd be mobbed. But for Nick, he'd do it. "What do you look like?" He was curious about this too. And he wondered if the woman was as sexy as her voice.

  "Mmmm...I'm five foot even. Blonde hair down to my shoulders. I'll be wearing jeans and a white shirt. Oh, and black boots."

  He heard a pencil tapping on the other end, and a typewriter chattering somewhere in the background. Unemployment, right. She was sitting in an office, he was sure of it.

  He grinned. "Sounds interesting. How much do you weigh?"

  Groaning now, she said, "Come on...that's personal. Not much, though, I'm still a size six."

  He raised his eyebrows. Small woman. "And how old are you?"

  She laughed that wonderful, throaty laugh. "I should have been expecting this. I'm thirty-two, and that's all the personal info I'm revealing. You'll know me. All right, what do you look like?"

  He glanced at himself in the large mirror across from his bed. His tangled brown hair fell way past his shoulders, and his face had graced the cover of 'Rolling Stone' magazine more than once. He was famous...very famous. She knew him as Dennis Daley. The world knew him as Derick Sands.

  He heard her voice. "Mr. Daley? Dennis?"

  "I'm thinking..." He studied the face staring back at him. Lips a little fuller than they should be, but the women loved it. High cheekbones, along with brown eyes that 'Rolling Stone' had labeled 'charismatic' and 'riveting.' To him, he was average. To them, to the rest of the world, he was a sex symbol. But he didn't mind. It was simply part of an image he'd created. However, the image was far from the man himself.

  "I'm five-nine, a hundred seventy-five pounds, brown hair, brown eyes...and my hair is long...very long."

  "That's good," she said quickly, "the bikers will be more likely to accept you."

  The remark struck him as unusual. But then, this whole thing was turning out to be unusual. "So, what's the plan?"

  "We'll have to play it by ear. I thought we'd go to visit Nick at his house. Sort of a surprise visit. See if we can jog that sluggish memory of his."

  He sighed. "Sounds great. I'd love to see Nicky again."

  "Listen, I really appreciate this, Mr....Dennis."

  The maid signaled from the doorway that breakfast was ready.

  "Gotta go, sweetheart. Can't let breakfast get cold. See you tonight."

  "Oh, by the way...what's the name of your group?" she asked.

  "'The Hellcats,'" he breathed, before he hung up the phone.

  Ellen stared at the receiver in her hand, not believing what Dennis just told her. Then, she buzzed her secretary. "Lisa, don't you like that rock group, 'The Hellcats?'"

  "I'll say! Why? Don't tell me we're investigating them."

  Ellen laughed. "No, nothing like that. Do you have one of their tapes with you?"

  "Of course."

  "Does it have their pictures on it?"

  "No, but I've got a Rolling Stone magazine article down in my car, along with some other stuff."

  "Bring it up."

  A few minutes later, the young secretary entered, with a curious look on her face. "What's this all about, Ellen?"

  She placed a pile of articles and pictures on Ellen's desk, before she brushed a hand through her short, black hair.

  Flipping through them, Ellen came to a photo of the group. All the men had long hair, twice as long as Ellen's. Scanning the photo, she saw there was a blond—haired member, one had black hair, and two had brown hair. All were handsome, in a wild sort of way, and all four looked virile and sexy in their shiny tank tops and black leather pants. But one caught her eye immediately.

  He stood slightly in front of the others, guitar in hand. It was a posed, publicity picture. The man had his hips thrust forward, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes were half-closed, as they stared forward. His hair flowed over his shoulders, and down his chest. But, he had such a blatantly sexual look, it nearly took her breath away.

  "Who's that one?" she asked Lisa.

  "Oooo, he's my favorite. Derick Sands. And can he play the guitar! I went to one of their concerts last year, and you just want to get on stage and start humping the guy. Wait, Rolling Stone had a cover picture." she leafed through the stack. "Yes! Here it is."

  She pulled out the cover, and Ellen let her breath out in a gasp. The man was even more sensual-looking in this close-up shot. His full lips were just beginning to curve into a smile, and again, his brown eyes were languid. Ellen stared at the picture. "Looks like he just got out of bed after he made it with someone."

  Lisa laughed. "He always looks like that. Isn't he a doll?"

  "I'll say," Ellen replied dryly. Then she looked at the group photo. The other brown-haired group member was very tall. He couldn't be Dennis.

  "This must be the one," she muttered, looking back at the cover shot.

  Lisa crossed her arms, and tapped one foot. "I assume you're going to tell me why you have this sudden interest in Derick Sands?"

  Ellen smiled at her. "Eventually. By the way, I'm taking a week off."

  Lisa frowned now. "Well, isn't that a strange coincidence. Still won't tell me?"

  "You know I can't." She handed the stack of material back to Lisa.

  "Well," the secretary said thoughtfully, "I'm just speculating now. But, if I could some day meet Derick Sands, I'd probably never complain again about typing those twenty page reports of yours."

  Sniffing, Ellen replied, "I'll see what I can do."

  Lisa's eyes lit up. "Cool...."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ellen spotted Dennis Daley, otherwise known as Derick Sands, as soon as he deplaned. Unfortunately, so did four teenage girls, who quickly clustered around him, eager for autographs.

  Leaning against a wall, waiting for him to finish, Ellen took the opportunity to look the man over. His shiny, straight, brown hair was loose, and fell almost to his elbows. He wore tight, black leather pants, the type Ellen's young secretary called 'dick revealing.' His long-sleeved shirt was a loud, brown, white and black jungle print, and the material looked like silk. His black boots were shined to a high gloss, and he wore dark, aviator sunglasses, although she didn't know why. It was fairly obvious who he was.

  She watched him sign one girl's hand, then the other pieces of paper they held out to him. The teens seemed mesmerized by him, as they stared up at his lazily grinning face. He appeared to be enjoying himself, and didn't seem in any hurry, which Ellen found vaguely annoying. He also looked energetic somehow, and she tried to analyze it. There was an aura about the man, like a sexual tension under the surface. No wonder the women flocked around him.

  Sniffing, as she crossed her arms in front of her, Ellen thought it must be nice to be rich and famous. Then, he
finally looked up, scanned the area, and saw her. She raised her eyebrows and nodded her head. He nodded back, and started strolling towards her, as the teens bid him a sighing farewell.

  "'Double D' I presume?" she said dryly, as he stood in front of her. She was trying to be casual, but having a hard time with it. The man was positively awesome up close.

  "The same," he replied, slowly looking her up and down. He was even more attractive in person, and she fought the urge to tell him the sunglasses were hiding the view. She wanted to see those eyes of his.

  "You have luggage?" Her voice sounded tight.

  "Yeah. We'd better grab it and get out of here."

  As they walked to the baggage claim area, people stared and whispered. Some pointed. And a gaggle of women seemed to be trailing them at a discreet distance.

  "Do you always cause this much commotion?" she asked.

  "Sometimes," he replied casually. "I'm used to it by now. I don't fly commercial planes ordinarily. Too much of a hastle. The concerts are worse, though. We had to hire a bodyguard, after some whacked-out babes tried to tear my clothes off one night."

  "Is that why you wear leather?"

  Looking down at her, his lips twitching, he replied, "No. I like the feel of it."

  Touche, she thought.

  They reached the baggage claim, and it became worse than the boarding area scene. About twenty women surrounded Derick, a few of them appearing as old as Ellen, thirtyish, all clamoring for autographs, all talking loudly.

  "Which suitcase?" she yelled, over the din, wondering if she'd made the right decision by asking him to come here.

  He grinned at her, a slow, lazy effort, and she felt her stomach contract. God, the man was handsome!

  "White, with black stripes!" he yelled back, before he turned to another doting fan. Fortunately, she was able to grab the thing before two teenagers got to it. And they still eyed the suitcase hungrily, even as it was held in Ellen's firm grasp. What would they do with his clothes? Ellen wondered. Then she realized she probably didn't want to know.