Fire Down Below

by Debra Anastasia

Buck leans in and whispers, “Put the sweater back on.”

  I play dumb. “Why?”

  “Everyone can see—” he motions toward my chest without looking.

  I wave him off. “It’s not that obvious.” It’s totally that obvious.

  He shoots me one of his glares. It’s meant to be threatening, but it makes him look constipated. I leave the sweater off to irritate him. It’s effective. His face turns an interesting shade of red.

  “I need another beer.” He slams his mug on the table and eyes me as he gets up and goes to the bar.

  I’m about to put the sweater back on when Waters turns to me.

  “Hi, I’m Alex.” He’s all pretty smile and white teeth. I try hard not to look directly at him, afraid I’ll be ensnared by his rugged, handsome face.

  “I’m Violet.”

  “I didn’t realize Butterson had a sister.”

  Even his voice is familiar; satin smooth and deep. He takes a sip of his drink, leaving behind a milk mustache he quickly wipes away. It’s then that I realize where I recognize him from; the Milk advertisements. Sweet Lord, I’ve been jilling off to him. My mortification reaches new heights, so I say something even more inane than usual.

  “I’m his stepsister. He likes to keep me a secret since he wants to go all Ophelia on my ass.” My eyes widen at my terrible joke, although if he’s anything like Buck, he won’t get the reference.

  “Butterson would make a crap nun, eh?”

  I swear he made an accurate reference to Shakespeare. Stunned, I make direct eye contact. Or I at least try to. His eyes keep bouncing between my chest and my face, so that’s a challenge.

  Normally I’d be put out by his blatant ogling, but I’ve asked for it with the sheer shirt and the ostentatious bra.

  I further my own embarrassment and his when I cup my breasts, giving them a little squeeze. “They’re nice for real ones, huh?”

  His eyes shoot up to mine. Busted.

  “I uh—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—”

  This is one of the most entertaining interactions I’ve had with a member of the opposite sex in ages. I make a snicker-snort noise and look away.

  Buck leans against the bar, talking to a girl whose skirt is so short it’s abundantly clear she’s not wearing underwear. I nudge Alex with my elbow. His arm is like a rock. “Check out Buck’s friend.”

  The timing couldn’t be more perfect; cooter-shower leans forward and gives our table an even better view.

  “Is that—am I looking at her beaver?”

  I’m mid-swig when he says this. I choke on the mouthful of beer, sputtering and coughing. When I’ve recovered enough to speak, I ask jokingly, “Beaver? Are you Canadian or something?”

  Those vibrant eyes of his move back to mine. God, he’s awful pretty. And close. He’s really close. Likes inches away, rock arm brushing mine close. I can even smell his cologne or deodorant—whatever it is, he smells as delicious as he looks.

  He’s silent for what seems like a long time. Or maybe it’s because I’m staring. Or the question may have stumped him.

  My experiences with Buck—and the one hockey player I dated—have led me to the assertion that hockey players aren’t notoriously intelligent. I’m aware this isn’t a universal truth. Buck is a perfect example; he’s definitely not a rocket scientist. He’s not even a rocket scientist’s assistant. However, I’m almost positive Alex made a literary pun a moment ago. Waters could very well be an unexpected anomaly. I’m suddenly intrigued, even though I shouldn’t be.

  “Yeah, I’m Canadian.”

  “Does everyone in Canada call pussies beavers, you know, like the Brits call them fannies?” I can’t believe I ask him this. I’m barely buzzed, otherwise I’d blame it on drunkenness.

  He blinks a few times. “Did you just say pussy?”

  I’m beginning to wonder if his helmet wasn’t up to code and he sustained a head injury during the fight. There’s a sweet bruise on the side of his chiseled jaw. His nose is crooked with a decent bump from what I imagine could be multiple breaks. It’s not ugly, though. It’s sexy, in an I-fuck-people-up way.

  “No, I said pussies, plural, as in more than one.” I’m making a complete ass out of myself.

  Before I can say something worse, I excuse myself so I can pretend to smoke. I grab my bag and sweater and leave the beer. Based on the crap coming out of my mouth, I don’t need to add any fuel to that fire.

  Buck grabs my arm on my way past. “Hey, what’s with you and Waters?”

  I glance at Alex who’s shrugging into his jacket. Maybe he’s leaving. Too bad, he was fun to talk to and nice to look at.

  “Its common courtesy to strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to you, or don’t you know the rules of social etiquette?”

  “Rules of what?”

  “Never mind. What else am I supposed to do? I was being polite.” And Alex is entertaining.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know these guys that well, yet. Be careful who you get friendly with.”

  I roll my eyes. “I wasn’t giving him a handy under the table, we were just talking. I’m going for a smoke.”

  Leaving him with the Beave, I head for the door. The temperature dropped in the past half hour, so I pull on my sweater, and then rummage through my bag for my smokes. Popping one between my lips I search for my lighter. I can’t find it anywhere.

  “Need a light?” I pull my head out of my purse to find Waters holding up a pack of matches.

  “Are you following me?”

  He shrugs and gives me a grin that could melt my panties off. If I were dumb enough to allow myself to be affected in such a way. I’m not. Mostly.

  “I thought you might like some company.” He flips open the matchbook and tears one free.

  I purse the cigarette between my lips. Alex strikes the match, holding his hand up to protect the flame. He watches while I inhale, the embers burning orange as I take a shallow drag, and cough.

  “Shit!” Tears spring to my eye as I eye toke the smoke. Swearing like a sailor, I cover my eye with my palm.

  “You’ve got a dirty mouth, eh?”

  “Only when I try and smoke with my eyeball,” I say between coughs.

  Alex pockets the matches and waits until I stop hacking up a lung before he says, “Butterson doesn’t seem too happy.”

  Through the window I spot Buck and the Beave. She’s not pulling the selfie business, so he doesn’t seem to mind her hanging off his arm while he glares in our direction. He’s being a colossal douche tonight.

  “Screw Buck.” I take a fake drag of my cigarette.

  Dimples appear in his cheeks as I exhale a cloud of smoke and choke back another cough.

  “Do you even smoke?”

  I debate lying and decide against it. “Not really. I do it as a way to escape awkward social situations.”

  “So you came out here to get away from me?”

  “Not you in particular.”

  His tongue peeks out to sweep across his bottom lip. He’s got a nice mouth, even with the split in the corner. Remembering the way he took out his opposition makes me warm all over. Thoughts such as these are bound to get me into trouble. Hockey players are bad news. Especially ones as hot as him.

  He’s looking at me expectantly. Damn it. He must have asked me a question. My mind is wandering like a squirrel on Redbull.

  “Sorry, what?” I flick the ash on my cigarette.

  “You were reading during the game, what book?” He sounds genuinely curious, and a little offended.

  “Tom Jones, I have to finish it for my book club on Tuesday.”

  Wow. Do I ever sound like a winner? He must have been watching me while he was in the time out box-thing. How embarrassing.

  “Fielding at a hockey game? Kind of cerebral with beer and violence, isn’t it?”

  I’m shocked. Alex knows who wrote Tom Jones, and he’s used the word cerebral in the appropriate context. I was right; he did get my Shakespeare
reference. Alex Waters has singlehandedly obliterated my misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey players in one sentence. In doing so, he’s become infinitely hotter than he was five seconds ago.

  “You’re read Fielding?” I take a step closer. My voice is low as if I’ve switched into phone sex operator mode.

  “I-I-I.”

  It’s adorable. He’s wearing an expression I’m familiar with: panic merged with fear. It’s the one I sport when I realize I’ve inadvertently revealed my extreme nerdiness. Most nights I would much rather be at home curled up with a book or playing solitaire than out at a bar. Hence the excessive beer consumption and the fake smoking crutch.

  “I think literacy is sexy,” I whisper, still using my phone-sex voice.

  “Me, too.” His dimples make an appearance.

  I have one of those rare moments where my brain fritzes and I do something so completely out of character. It’s so outside of my personal code of conduct, for months afterward I know I’ll review the incident, trying to figure out what flipped the switch. For the time being, I’m blaming the beers, jetlag, and nerves.

  I grab Waters by the shirt and pull his face to mine.

  His mouth is soft and warm. The stubble on his chin scratches my skin and I like it. I shove my tongue into his mouth, well, that’s not true. I slide it along his bottom lip, touching the barely healed split and he parts for me. Soft, warm, and wet meets more soft, warm, and wet. He tastes like beer and, more faintly, mint.

  His hand runs a hot trail along my side and he pulls me tight against him. He’s all hard lines and heat and I can feel . . . holy . . . there’s a massive bulge pressed against my stomach.

  After far too short a time he breaks he kiss, trailing his lips across my cheek to my ear. “Do you want to get out of here?”

  “Buck will kill you.”

  “I can take him.”