“You can’t see amnesia on a brain scan,” Hertz informed me.
Well.
I closed my mouth then, as did Sam. A pregnant pause suffused the room. I shuddered to think what it would give birth to.
“Most people express shock when the FBI comes to their door,” Hertz informed us.
Sam and I nodded. How very interesting. We said nothing.
“Let’s cut to the chase.” Finally, Agent Anastos got to the freaking point. “You have something you were to bring to us.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your cooperation with the government is a requirement of your immunity for past crimes.”
Sam’s eyebrows flickered toward each other, and his fingers stiffened on my shoulder.
“No, it’s not,” I replied. “His immunity is a done deal, and has been for a long time. Any consulting he may or may not be doing with the government is a separate issue.”
“But—” Anastos spluttered.
I stood. “Don’t come in here and write checks you can’t cash. My memory is flawless, and his immunity is not open to negotiation.”
Sam expelled a breath and smirked into his cup of coffee.
“He has amnesia,” I continued. “It’s real. And thank you so much for expressing your heartfelt concern for the safety and health of one of your operatives, who has been attacked twice now, obviously because of you. If you can’t see the amnesia, can you at least see the giant bandages?”
Anastos, at least, had the temerity to appear a tiny bit embarrassed.
“Or perhaps you’re the ones trying to kill him?”
“No!” Agent Anastos huffed.
Agent Hertz added, oh so carefully, “We regret that you have suffered, although we do not claim responsibility.”
“Wow.” Sam clasped his chest. “My heart is so…stirred by your sincere, blameless regrets.”
“That stirring might be leftover anesthesia, dear,” I said.
We smiled at one another. I then smiled at the charming Federal agents. “Perhaps if you were to share some details with him, he might be able to help you in your quest for…whatever. Otherwise, frankly, he has a helluva lot more important things to remember.”
Agent Anastos descended the stairs into the sunken area, her eyes flinty. “And what if we chose not to honor that immunity deal? What then? If we threw him in a cell and left the rest to you and some lawyers, how long do you think it would be before he saw the light of day again?”
She towered over me, but my fist balled anyway. “We can’t help you if you won’t tell us what you want.”
Flicking a glance from me to Sam, she replied, “You agreed to investigate something for us. You told us you’d found something. And now you conveniently can’t remember what it was. Personally?” She cocked her head. “I believe you’ve decided to use that information for your own ends.”
“What information?” he asked, incredulity tingeing his words with laughter.
Agent Anastos didn’t like that very much at all. “You’d better decide to remember, and fast, Mr ‘Ballitch’.” Yes, she actually made air quotes. Hertz hadn’t. Minus five points. “Or you can find yourself labeled an enemy combatant with one flick of my pen.”
I sucked in a breath. “Really? You’re going to detain my husband? Me, whose face graces billboards from here to LA? Go ahead and try it!”
“What? No!” squeaked Sam, the unicorn flying from his arms in dismay.
I blurted, “Um, I mean, don’t… Please don’t do that.”
Shit! I didn’t usually pull the ‘celebrity’ card, because, obviously, I’m not very good at it. “You’ll be sorry if you mess with us. I’m one of the few who actually has the money to hire one hundred lawyers to turn your life into a freaking nightmare. I will bring the pain! Make my day, punk. I know Steven Spielberg!”
Sam groaned and put his head in his hands.
Somehow, the thread of my threats had gotten away from me. And ol’ Steve was an acquaintance at best. He’d sat very close to me at the People’s Choice Awards, though, where I’d won ‘Favorite On-Screen Chemistry’, with Daniel Zhang, thankyouverymuch. “Get out,” I said. You can’t threaten my husband in his own house and get away with it. Well, okay, you can, but I can throw your ass out after.
They proceeded toward the door, so upset they didn’t even walk in lock-stop. Their coach would be furious. Agent Hertz handed me a business card and said, “We will be back.” These words held none of the charm of Arnold Schwarzenegger, but did reflect his inherent ickiness.
As soon as the door had closed, Sam shot to his feet. He swayed for a moment, but got his bearings pretty fast. “Steven Spielberg?”
I walked back to the couch. “You think he couldn’t rescue you from a secret prison? He’s the most powerful non-evil man in the world! And then Josh Holloway would earn an Oscar for playing you.”
He uttered a strangled laugh/sob, swept me into his arms, and held my head to his chest. Aw, I hadn’t known he was such a Spielberg fan.
I sighed, or maybe I moaned, and sank into his smell, his heat, nearly dizzy from it. We held each other, tight, for a long time. Such a small, giant thing, a hug is. On tiptoe, I pressed my face into his neck—the pulse jumped there, and he rubbed his cheek against mine.
He pulled away, and I whimpered.
“I’m sorry,” I immediately countered, because it wasn’t fair that I should subject him to my neediness. Him, who didn’t know me from—
He kissed me. He grabbed my face and held me when I would have pulled back. I couldn’t fight him, though, not for more than a token second before I gave in like the weak-willed, love-starved hussy I am.
So warm. He was so warm, and he warmed me. He went after me—almost like this was the millionth time we’d done this—firm and sure and wanting. But it wasn’t the millionth time—it was the first. He seemed to realize it after the fact, pausing, hovering over my open mouth. I held there, my eyes searching his, until he melted into me again.
Slow now. He brushed his lips over mine, licked me with just the edge of his tongue. Tasting me. His arms tightened and dropped lower, low on my back to pull me harder against him. He explored my mouth with every millimeter of his, rubbing, teasing. My knees lost their purpose, and he held me up.
His discovery of me turned me on. I ground my hips against his, knowing what came next, knowing what I’d been missing. God, he smelled divine, and he tasted like coffee. Like sex. I reached up to play in his hair—but there was none. I worked my fingers into the hard muscles of his neck instead, and he grunted. He picked me up off my feet and nearly threw me on the couch beside us. He was on me in a flash.
“Wait—” I whispered.
“What?” he asked, bewildered, on his knees between mine.
I put my hand on his chest. “Wait. I can’t— I can’t.” Haltingly, I disentangled myself to sit out of reach. “You don’t— I’m a stranger to you. For all I know, you’ll leave me because you can’t remember and why would you stay? For all I know, in your head, you have another girlfriend. Someone you care about—”
“Samantha…” He sighed and sat down.
He absentmindedly pressed a hand to his erection, and I had to bury my face in my knees or else I’d help him with it. “I’m sorry. I started it.”
“I wanted it.”
“Ugh, don’t say that.” I peeked up at him.
He laid his temple on the back of the couch and faced me. “Look—I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do. I did call Jane. She told me I was nuts for you, and that yes, I quit stealing for you.”
He said it with such an air of ‘WTF?’ that I laughed.
So did he. “Even if I don’t remember getting here, this is my life. This is what I chose for myself—I know that. I’m everywhere in this apartment—pictures, art, books, TV coasters.”
“The stupid way you line up the TV remotes.”
“The sensible way I
line up the TV remotes. Everything.” He shook his head, one eyebrow rising with wonder. “I chose this, and I think pretty highly of myself.”
I sent him a pointed stare.
“Yes, I do. So if I, in all my wisdom, chose you above everything, then it must have been a smart choice.” He sat up, as did I. His eyes, green and luminous in the morning light, met mine. They glinted with humor. “I have excellent taste. Therefore, you must be excellent. And you have been. You’ve taken care of me, and you saved me from a guy with a pillow. You just basically flipped off the FBI for my sake.”
I smiled and waved my hand. “Oh, shucks.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” His face fell, and he scooted closer. “We can take this slow. I’m sure that’s better, although I really would like to know what you look like naked.”
“It’s pretty great.”
He groaned.
“Especially if you like tits and ass.”
He slid down the couch to land, head first, in my lap. The busted side of his head faced me. “I’m a burden to you right now. I fucking hate it.”
“No—”
“Yes, I am. Some husband. I have no idea how to do it.”
I rubbed the top of his head. It was quickly becoming one of my favorite things to do. “We said for better or for worse. I meant it.”
He closed his eyes and let me pet him. My insides leaped into a gleeful dance, knowing that he’d resolved to give me a try. I simply needed to make sure that he wanted to marry me the second time around. Simply. Ha ha.
Hmmm… I should probably stop messing up the TV remotes just to be a dick.
I said, “Do you remember anything about what you were doing for the scary Federal agents?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.” I strayed my hand from his head to his chest.
He made a happy noise and snuggled farther into my lap.
“I think it’s time to start reading your emails and stuff—try to figure out what you were up to. I don’t want the unknown bad guys to hurt you any more than I want to rescue you from a secret location in Cuba. If we can retrace your steps, we can solve this mystery.”
“Can I have a Scooby Snack first?”
“Does that mean breakfast?”
He woofed.
Giggling, I replied, “Yes. I’ll take you out for breakfast on the way to the doctor’s. You have a head hole check-up in a couple of hours.”
“I’ll show you my hole if you show me yours.”
“Instead of breakfast?”
He turned onto his back and flicked his eyes up to mine. “I’ll be eating.”
Oh, you wicked man. Suddenly, everything below my waist didn’t need coffee to wake up anymore. I slid out from underneath him and hurried away. “I have to take a shower.”
“That’s even better.”
I ran. I hoped the ‘find out who’s trying to kill Sam and why’ plan would go better than the ‘keep our distance’ plan. I gave the latter one, two days—tops.
* * * *
A week later, I’d managed to keep him out of my bed. Barely. My strategy of wearing ugly, scratchy, and shapeless clothes around the house would only work for so long. The doctors had told him to not partake in strenuous activity for at least another week. His protestations that he would make me do all the work did not seem to sway them, although they had quite an effect on me. The performer in me wanted to earn an award for Best Sorta-First Bang by a Naked Actress.
Every time I turned, Sam was behind me, brushing a naughty hand on my hip. Or staring at me over the dinner table—not saying anything, just staring. And undressing me. With stares. Sometimes I’d awaken on the couch to find him sitting up in the middle of the night, examining me. It got so I could tell when he tried to remember—if his brain could have shot laser beams of concentration, I’d have been a Swiss cheese. I never asked him about it, though—he’d begun getting supremely frustrated with the situation. The docs had said he might have started to come back by now. But he hadn’t, and now he’d begun panicking that he never would. It was all over him, in the tense set of his shoulders, or the press of his lips when he thought I wasn’t looking.
We shared long talks about the past, and I told him the story of how we’d met, and our various adventures. “You married me despite all this?” he’d asked.
Still the same person, my Sam, except…tentative, with an undertone of fear. That was new, and horrible. I went out of my way to be bright and reassuring, to the point where he’d growl and shoo me away. I didn’t want to be his mother. I wanted to be his friend and lover, so I tried to be winning in every single freaking way possible. My muscles hurt all the time, it seemed. It was exhausting, like spending every day screaming, ‘Please love me!’ at the top of my voice while tap dancing.
The hospital had recommended a psychiatrist to help his memory loosen up, and he’d returned from the first visit shaken and quiet. He wouldn’t lean on me, but deflected his emotions into lust or flirtation, which was fun, but frustrating on so many different levels. It was as if he trusted himself enough to stay here with me, but didn’t know me or trust me enough to really confide.
It all basically sucked great big elephant trots.
Early Friday morning, I’d just managed to dodge Sam’s groping hands after my shower when my cell rang. Mom. I always picked up the phone for Mom because when I didn’t, catastrophes happened. I didn’t need another one today. “Hi, Mom.”
“Our plane lands at JFK at three p.m. Are you picking us up, or did you get a car service?”
Catastrophe!
“Um…” I wiped the dripping water from my forehead.
“Samantha, did you forget I was coming? The fundraiser is tomorrow night! And I’m the guest of honor!”
Things that are true—
I forgot she was coming.
The fundraiser is tomorrow night. I’d forgotten that, too.
Things that are soundly untrue—
She was the guest of honor. The guest of honor was, in fact, the famous director putting on the fundraiser for the Bby Bodashus Breast Cancer Beatdown. Or Bby Bodashus herself, the white rap sensation who’d made millions by appropriating black culture in a really offensive way. Is there an inoffensive way? She’d survived breast cancer at twenty years old and now raised gagillions of dollars for the cause. In either event, my mother was not the main draw tomorrow night, even though, a year ago, she’d had to fight the cursed disease herself.
Things that are profoundly, horribly true—
Breast cancer is a fucking asshole that can bite my butt from here to eternity.
I teared up, like almost every time I talked with or saw my mom nowadays. While the horrid woman generally drove me from whatever brain cells were still rattling around in my skull, I loved her fiercely, and the whole C-word thing had scared the shit out of us. If I didn’t dye my hair every three weeks, I might see all the gray she’d given me.
“I can’t wait to see you, Mom,” I told her, very honestly. “We’ll come and pick you up! Wait—how much luggage do you have?” Sam’s car, the Austin Healey 3000 Mark II Roadster—greatest car ever invented sans the Delorean—was a small convertible and not practical for, well, anything except being sexy.
“Only a couple of suitcases.”
In Suzie Lytton math, that meant eight plus a stylist named Stefan. We’d hire a car. “We’ll be there,” I told her.
“What is this I read on the Internet? Your husband was mugged?”
“Have a safe flight!” I gracefully evaded.
“I’m going to use the time to practice my speech.”
“Speech? No—” She hung up. Speech?
“We’ll pick up who from what and why?” Sam, behind me, sounding alarmed.
“Um…” I wiped the sweat from my forehead.
“Samantha, did you forget to tell me something? I’m not really up for visitors.”
I took a deep breath and sank onto the side of the bed. “We have to go to an event
tomorrow night. We co-chaired a fundraiser for breast cancer. Against breast cancer. She’s coming to stay in New York for a week because of it.”
His eyes widened in panic, his chest rising and falling fast. Faster. “Your mom? Is she nice?”
“Er—” I licked my lips. “She loves you.”
“Ugghgghhghgghhh.” He fell onto the bed, face down, beside me. “I can’t go out in public.”
I turned and rubbed his back. “Everyone knows about your amnesia, Sam. It’s been in the papers.”
Yup, some as-of-yet-undiscovered and yet-to-be-sued hospital employee had immediately leaked to the press the nature of his injury. Along with our picture splashed on every website from here to Iraq. Sam, er ‘Zachary’, was the most famous witness protection participant in history. Not really a title one should strive for.
“How could you have not told me about this?” he whined, justifiably.
“I forgot, okay? People forget things!”
He turned a baleful face toward me. “No shit.”
“See? You understand perfectly.” I stopped patting his back and twisted my hands. “Too soon for Samnesia jokes?”
“Too late, more like. Besides, I don’t want to ruin half your repertoire.” He flipped over and covered his eyes with an arm. “Tell me about your mother.”
I opened my mouth, yet no descriptors issued forth. How did one recount Suzie Lytton? What’s pink and proud and disapproving all over? “She adores you. She might be under the impression that you used to be a doctor, fell in love with me the moment we met, and quit being an oncologist in order to be my assistant because you worshiped me so much.”
He arose, slowly and gravely, like a confused vampire from an equally confused coffin. “How many lies overlapped to make that story?”
“Two…three?”
“Okay.” He smiled, his shoulders falling a little. “That could be fun.”
“Right? You could literally say anything tomorrow night to anyone, and they’ll be nice to you because your brain is sick. Just don’t give my mom cancer advice, Mister ‘Oncologist’.”
His eyebrow quirked.
The Wrath of Dimple Page 6