Page 19 of Finding Storm

I have a shit memory, and I forget faces easily, but I wouldn’t forget her face anytime soon—or, well, ever.

She’s the chick who screwed me ’cause I’m Jonny Creed’s kid and had his posters all over her bedroom wall.

And this was where I met her all those years ago.

How am I only just remembering this now?

“Storm.” She beams at me like we’re old buddies.

We fucked once, lady, and you’re as crazy as a box of frogs.

What do I do? Let her know that I remember her or feign ignorance?

Pretend I don’t know who she is?

I’m totally going with the latter.

I smile my best I don’t know you, but I’m being polite and congenial smile. I use it often. “Hi. I’m here to meet Jasper Marsh. The table’s in his name.”

Her gaze sharpens. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Oh boy.

I remember you all right, lady. I just wish I didn’t.

“Sorry, have we met before?”

I’m a rock star. I meet loads of people. This should fly.

Or not.

She’s looking at me like she wants to stab me with the pen she’s holding. “Have we met before?” Her voice pitches high.

Abort! Abort!

“Oh, wait.” I click my fingers, trying to rectify the crazy. “I do remember you.”

Nothing. She doesn’t even blink.

She’s just staring at me, eyes scarily wide.

“Yeah … of course. You and me … yeah, I remember you.”

Wow. Well done, Slater. Oscar-worthy performance there.

“What’s my name?”

“Huh?”

“My name. If you remember me, you know my name.”

Shit.

My eyes quickly scan her shirt, looking for a name badge.

And wouldn’t you know it? She doesn’t have one on.

See, this is why you should go to IHOP. The staff there wears fucking name badges.