Unforgettable (6 page)

Rett put her mouth so close to the mike her lips brushed it. Her voice boomed, “Would now be a bad time to tell her I have a photographic memory?” Camille’s heartfelt “shit” was lost in the crowd’s laughter. Rett instantly recognized the opening notes and she laughed into the mike. “Oh, I know this one really well. Been singing it to myself recently.” She’d buy Camille a beer anyway. She was going to sing “These Boots Were Made for Walking,” start to finish, and enjoy every minute.

The line dancers immediately got into the rhythm and their stamp-claps punctuated the number and brought appreciative cheers from the crowd. Every time the chorus got to “gonna walk all over you,” the crowd boisterously sang along. It was a romp.

After that it was easy to encourage women from the audience to take a turn at the microphone to finish the evening. Rett relaxed and faded into the background. From her vantage point on the other end of the stage from where Trish was sitting, she could see a pair of long legs entwined around Trish’s. The legs emerged from a miniskirt that left thighs of steel in plain sight. Toothpick Legs, a.k.a. Cheri, was getting up; they were leaving. Thank God. Thinking catty thoughts about whomever Trish was with was not going to help her do that letting-go-moving-on thing.

As they disappeared from view she thought that Calista Flockhart only wished she were that thin.

Rett sighed, realizing she was both tired and loath to go home. It was cold and empty there. Dark and lonely. She let herself be coaxed into a couple of duets and hammed up background vocals when courage failed a few of the singers. The night was still going to end all too soon. When Camille turned off the karaoke machine she knew she had to face going home. Alone.

“I owe you a beer,” Camille said.

“I owe you — that was a lot of fun.”

“I won’t argue. Make it a Corona with a lime.”

Monica was bubbling with glee at the evening’s success. “You were sensational, both of you!” Rett submitted to another rosewater hug. “Rett, I can’t believe you aren’t turning out number one hits right and left. How come you don’t have a record out?”

“I’d do them if anyone asked—”

“I hear voices coming out of the radio I wouldn’t pay two cents to hear live, and here you can give me goosebumps singing a song I’ve heard a thousand times. Why do you think that is?”

“Goosebumps or —”

“It’s just amazing. You’re a delight.” Monica waved at someone who was leaving, then dashed in that direction, pausing briefly to thank and envelop Camille.

The bartender handed over the beers with a wink. “They’re on Monica. It’s the least she can do.”

Rett clinked her bottle to Camille’s and they settled onto the barstools. After several quick swallows, she felt revived enough to sit back a little and relax.

“Why don’t you have a CD?” Camille was blunt. “You ought to be recording.”

“My top octave is my weakest,” Rett said honestly. “I need someone who’s willing to arrange for a contralto. Karen Carpenter had her brother’s talent to overcome an unfashionably low voice.” It was her standard answer and the one closest to the truth. “I’ve recorded on backups with a couple of people, but I didn’t get very much exposure. Not like when Paula Cole toured with Peter Gabriel. Now she’s big-time herself—deservedly so. She writes her own songs, too, and I just don’t have the talent for that. I tried.”

“It does help if you can write for yourself,” Camille agreed. “The charts have been taken over by women who have complete artistic control because they write and produce their own stuff.”

“I just did a week in New York with a band — jazz standards with updated arrangements. I think it’s pigeonholed as ‘soft adult contemporary,’ whatever the hell that means. They might get a record deal. They said they’d call me for one or two vocal tracks if they did. It could still happen. But I have no complaints.” Rett dug down deep for something positive to say about her career at the moment. “I’m busy all the time.” She took another swig from her beer. “How about you?”

“Running a karaoke machine is just weekend work,” Camille said. “I started doing it to make extra money in college, and I never got rid of the machine. Now I do it mostly because it’s fun and for good causes. Nine to five I’m in P.R. Sort of. Paying my dues with scut work, big-time.” A thirty-something redhead was approaching and Camille hopped down from the barstool. “Gotta go. It was really great backing you up.”

“And thanks again — my ex used to be my manager, too. That song was very satisfying.”

Camille kissed the redhead on the cheek by way of greeting and said, “You missed all the fun.” They began to walk toward the door when Camille paused to slap her pockets. “I thought I had — I do.” She fished for a moment, then came up with a business card. “Just so you can remember my name. I might someday have enough power to actually do us both some good.”

Rett took the card with a confused smile and waved good-bye. It took a few moments to register that Camille was an assistant talent coordinator and her business card was emblazoned with the Disney logo.

A new voice startled her. “You look like you just won the lottery.”

It was the dark-haired woman who had seemed familiar. “I might have.” This was one phone call she would make, all proper and business-like, first thing Monday morning. Maybe Camille could pass her name on to someone who could tell someone who knew someone that Rett Jamison was not a pain in the ass to work with. Even if that didn’t fix the problem, it might help repair the damage her reputation had suffered. She realized the dark-haired woman had taken the barstool Camille had vacated. She indicated the card before she pocketed it. “A good contact — a bonus for the evening’s work.”

“You were great,” she said. Rett had the oddest impression that she was being laughed at, not unkindly, but something she was doing was amusing this woman to no end.

Something in the deep brown eyes was familiar but she could hardly say, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” in a bar. It would sound too much like a pickup line. So she settled for, “Thanks. It’s always good to have an appreciative audience.”

The woman gestured at the empty beer bottle. “Can I get you another? Or something else? You must be feeling dehydrated.”

“I’ll take another beer, thank you.” Rett instantly regretted accepting — it wasn’t like her, actually. She usually would have refused. Usually, she would have been halfway home by now. She didn’t want to go home. “Even though water would be better for me, you’re right.”

“I knew a singer once who was a fanatic about drinking water.” The woman waved the empty beer bottle at the bartender and held up two fingers. She rearranged herself so she was sitting on her leg, then leaned comfortably on the bar. “They never make these things for the height-impaired.”

Someone called, ” ‘Night, Angel!” and the woman waved.

“It was a coworker’s fortieth tonight. We didn’t expect such a nice evening of music. We just wanted to embarrass her into a public display of her Diana Ross impression.”

Rett guessed Angel was about her age. She was just making conversation when she said, “I hope someone will take me out on my fortieth,” then realized it was a major-league depressing thought. It was only a week and a half away, and no one would be taking her out. Forty. Forty and alone. Not even a brother or sister to tease her mercilessly.

Angel’s lips twitched. “I sincerely doubt you’ll have any trouble finding someone to do that for you.”

“You’d be surprised.” Shut up, Rett. God, was there anything more pathetic than pouring out one’s troubles to strangers in bars? The beers were delivered and she took a long swallow and sought frantically for something cheerful to say.

“Spoken like someone on the rebound,” Angel remarked. “Sorry, that’s really personal,” she added quickly. “I just recognized the tone of voice from my own recent experience.”

They shared a wry, mutually sympathetic smile and more beer. Someone turned up the jukebox and the noise somehow made it easier to talk. Rett offered to buy another round but Angel demurred.

“Two is my limit — goes right to my head. I do impulsive but usually wrong things.” She was looking at Rett when she said it, and that small gleam of amusement was back.

“I only have a walk home,” Rett said. “So I think I will have one more.”

“Feel free, please. I hope I didn’t sound preachy. Everybody tells me I tend to do that.”

Rett laughed. “Friends are so supportive, aren’t they?”

“Colleagues are even worse, especially when they have one more master’s degree than you.”

Yikes, Rett thought. Angel was some sort of brain. “What do you do?”

“I’m a research fellow at UCLA. DNA, human immune system, cancer, those sorts of things.”

Rett could tell that Angel had dumbed down the subject for her. She wasn’t that backward. “That must be fascinating.”

“Fascinating and frustrating. I also do a little bit of teaching, but mostly it’s research. Petri dishes, microscopes and genetic sampling.” She munched on a pretzel. “We isolated the gene that creates the predisposition for uterine cancer. That was exciting, to say the least. Then our funding got cut in half. The life of a researcher in a nutshell.”

“You have it almost as bad as a performer.”

“Gluttons for punishment. A performer’s career has a pretty big upside, you must admit.”

“If there is an up.”

“I hear that.” Angel’s eyes flickered with intensity. “There’s a pretty big up for a researcher if you’re in it for the love of the project. I want to be there when we unlock the last code. I know there’s no chance of that — it’s going to take more years than I’ve got left. But think of it — unlocking the secret of what makes us human instead of chimpanzees. How we think, what part of us laughs.”

“What about why we think and laugh? Is all our behavior part of our code? Or is there room for improvisation?”

 Angel took the question more seriously than Rett intended. “The mystery of what we can do is there, written on our genes.”

It sounded too much like predestination to Rett. “But can’t a building be more than its blueprint? Isn’t that what art is all about?”

“What may seem like improvisation may really be growth. Finding the potential of your personal code. Doing things you didn’t think you could do.” Angel took a quick breath and her deep brown eyes never left Rett’s. “Getting in touch with the parts of your code you ignore, or thought weren’t even there.”

Rett swallowed hard. Why did it seem like Angel was talking about something else entirely? Or was she just hearing something that wasn’t there? “So spontaneity is just doing something you could have done all along?”

Angel reached for Rett’s half-finished beer and at Rett’s nod, took a quick swig. “Doing things that aren’t typically you. Like this.”

The kiss was quick but supercharged. Rett felt the zing through her spine and thighs.

Angel had her hand over her mouth. “I don’t know what made me do that. I mean, I do know. But I’m sorry.”

Rett wanted to say, “Don’t be,” but she was too startled by her physical response to have much ability for speech left. She found herself staring at Angel’s lips while all the things she should have said, like “I’m not ready for this” and “Shouldn’t we get to know each other better?” failed to come out of her mouth. She had never done what Trish referred to as “kiss and boff.” Trish had been the quickest to get her into bed — and it had taken three dates. Trish had blamed Rett’s prudish sex mores on a Minnesotan upbringing, but then Trish didn’t know her mother’s proclivities, and Rett had never enlightened her. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop looking at Angel’s lips. She was short of breath and a prickle of sweat dampened the back of her neck.

“I think it’s time for me to head home. It’s a bit of a drive,” Angel said. “Maybe … maybe I could give you my number.”

Rett’s mouth outstripped the rest of her body’s opinions. “No, I mean yes. I mean it would be okay, you don’t have to go —”

“I think I should. This is crazy.” Angel laughed nervously. The hand that was writing her number on the bar napkin was shaking. “If you ever want to get together, give me a call.”

“Okay,” Rett said. She was already kicking herself for having blown the moment.

Angel slid the napkin toward her and Rett pocketed it without taking her gaze from Angel’s. Lovely brown eyes, clear and topazy.

“I’ll call.” Rett meant it. She turned to her empty beer as Angel walked toward the door, but looked up when she realized Angel was coming back.

“An incentive,” Angel said huskily, and she pulled Rett’s mouth down to hers again.

Rett gasped and returned the kiss with more fervor than she had been willing to admit she could feel. Had she cared about Trish so little in the end that it had taken only a week to get over wanting her? You’d left her a while ago, Rett reminded herself, just as she’d left you. That you were living under the same roof is beside the point.

Angel’s hands cupped her face as their kiss continued. Any rational woman would stop it here, Rett thought. I must be crazy. It felt too good to stop. She closed her eyes. In a minute, she promised.

A minute turned to two and her hands were on Angel’s waist. She opened her mouth to Angel’s eager exploration and then bit the fingers that Angel slipped between their lips.

Angel was the one with the sense to stop. Rett was breathing hard into Angel’s shoulder, dizzy from all the blood draining out of her head to other places that were doing all the thinking.

“I think you got my message,” Angel said into Rett’s ear. “Maybe I could walk you to your car?”

Rett managed to lift her head, though she had to grip the bar to keep from appearing unsteady. “I walked, remember? I don’t live very far from here.”

Angel’s tongue flicked over her upper lip as she digested that information. “My car is right outside. I could drive you home at least. No expectations.”

“I think you know that if you did I wouldn’t say no,” Rett said. She managed to make eye contact, which was hard when she felt so emotionally naked. “Though I… I would rather not go to my place.”

Angel’s mouth opened as if she was going to kiss Rett again, then she glanced down at their entwined hands. “It’s forty-five minutes to my apartment even at this hour and I think I know what you mean. Home is still too full of someone else.” She squeezed Rett’s hands. “Maybe we both need a little more time.”