The Panty Melter

by Lili Valente

  “And you’re calling me? You know Rafe is the gym rat.”

  “But Rafe’s into that Groupfit cult stuff. I can’t go there. I don’t like people telling me what to do.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Tristan says with a laugh. “I’m at Peak Performance by the mall right now. Going to head in later today, in fact, if you want to come along and try it out. I’ve got a few guest passes.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t today. I’m working the Blues Fest—crowd control with the rest of the volunteer department.” I turn right at the edge of town, heading toward River Road and a straight shot into the valley’s party town. “And I thought you’d be spending the day with Zoey, soaking in newly wedded bliss.”

  “Oh, we’re soaking in it. Even if it isn’t exactly legal yet.”

  “Doesn’t have to be legal to be real,” I say, adding in a gruffer voice, “It was a really nice ceremony, Tristan. I’m glad to see you so happy. You deserve a great girl.”

  “Thanks, man. So do you. Given any more thought to letting Sophie set you up with one of her friends from the coffee shop?”

  I grunt. “Sophie’s dating Dad.”

  “So?”

  “So her judgment is suspect.”

  Tristan chuckles. “Aw, Dad’s not that bad. And he’s been going through some kind of renaissance of the self lately. Reflecting on his actions and making changes and embracing love and forgiveness and all that.”

  “The hippies finally got to him, huh?” I tease, though I know Dad’s always had a free-love side. He did have four sons with three different women, after all, and he only married two of his baby mamas.

  “Yep,” Tristan confirms. “Me, too. I’ve been going to an acupuncturist in Sebastopol for the knee I messed up running cross-country in college. She’s changed my life. You should give her a try. She might be able to help with your shoulder.”

  “Thanks, but if it gets bad enough that being stabbed with needles sounds like a good idea, I’ll just hurl my gimpy old body off a cliff and be done with it.”

  “God, you’re so much like Dad. You realize this, right?”

  “Nope, not even a little bit,” I deny, though his words hit closer to home than I would like. Of all of my father’s children, I’m the most set in my ways. There’s a reason I spent twenty-five years in the military and why I’m working for a fire department now—I enjoy defined protocols and a common mission. I like a work culture that keeps emotions in check and personality quirks from turning a cut-and-dried operation into a clusterfuck.

  Feelings complicate too much of life already.

  Like this strong feeling I have that getting Violet out of my head is going to take more than a hardcore workout…

  Still, I’ve got to try something.

  “Maybe I can take you up on that gym offer later this week?” I ask.

  “Absolutely. We could go after you check out the brush situation at the shelter.”

  “Sounds good, I’ll be there bright and early tomorrow.”

  “Perfect,” Tristan says. “I want to be sure we’re ready for fire season next year. The smoke got way too close this time around.”

  I assure Tristan we’ll get the shelter in wildfire-prevention shape, tell him to say hi to Zoey for me, and end the call as I tap the brakes, slowing as the taillights of the car in front of me flash red. Traffic’s already backed up for miles outside of downtown Guerneville, where the Blues Fest is hosted at the Main Street river beach. Later this afternoon, the trip from one end of town to the other, a journey that usually takes no more than five minutes, will have people stuck in their cars for over an hour.

  The crowds for this event get bigger and wilder every year, making extra peacekeeping staff essential. My crew of volunteer firemen will be focused mainly on cracking down on illegal fireworks and glass containers and assisting the paramedics in the first aid tent. But Chief Brolin over at the main firehouse warned that if things get too rowdy with the revelers, local law enforcement might need my team to step in with traffic control.

  It’s going to be a long day, but I’m looking forward to it. It’s a gorgeous, cool but sunny afternoon, I like the men and women I work with, and I love the blues. If all goes well, I’ll spend the afternoon being a productive member of society and the evening sipping a few beers while catching the last band’s performance from my buddy’s boat.

  And maybe, just maybe, by the time I head home, I’ll be too tired to dream about Violet Boden.

  No sooner has the thought planted roots in my head than a convertible towing a tiny pontoon boat zips past me, zooming around to cut in front of my truck as we both steer into the turn lane headed down to the beach.

  And right there, in the passenger’s seat, with her long dark hair pulled into a ponytail and a big grin on her pretty face, is none other than the woman who’s been haunting my dreams—and my dick—like the ghost of Sex-mas past.

  It’s almost enough to make a man start believing in things like Fate.

  But if this is Fate’s idea of fun, she’s got one sick sense of humor.

  I hang back, letting two trucks coming from the opposite direction turn into the parking lot in front of me. And when I finally swing in, I take the long way around to the staff lot, doing my best to avoid a face-to-face run-in with Ms. Boden.

  But the moment I reach the help tent, where the volunteer force will be based for the day, I realize resistance is futile.

  Violet’s friends’ boat is anchored right smack-dab in front of this stretch of beach, and Violet is already on deck, wearing a silky green dress so loose on top it shows the sexy black bikini beneath. And she’s dancing. Again. With that shameless sensuality that unravels every last bit of my sanity.

  And of course, I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Ferris, my second-in-command, catches me gazing out across the water and hums beneath his breath. “I know, right? I wouldn’t mind being tied to her bedpost with some of that hair.”

  “Wouldn’t that get awkward?” Hoover, a newbie who’s testing out the firefighter life as a volunteer before taking the test to join the main force, cocks his head to one side. “Neither of you would be able to move very much.”

  “Don’t over think it, kid.” Ferris claps him on the back with a sigh. “That one’s out of your league, anyway.”

  “And old enough to be his damn mother,” I snap, realizing my words emerged sharper than I intended when Ferris’s brows shoot up and a wounded puppy look flashes on Hoover’s face. “She’s a friend,” I add in a gentler tone. “Sort of.”

  Ferris’s lips curve into a shit-eating grin. “Gotcha. So what is she? Ex-girlfriend?”

  “Never got that far,” I grumble, pretending to be very busy organizing the stack of fishing license fliers at the edge of the table. “She wasn’t interested in dating.”

  “Ouch.” Hoover nods sympathetically. “Hey, it happens. Even when you’re not old.”

  Ferris snorts, and I find myself fighting a smile. “My advanced age wasn’t the problem. It was my distasteful personality,” I say dryly, earning a chuckle from Ferris.

  Hoover’s cheeks flush. “I don’t think your personality is distasteful. You’re way nicer than my grandpa.”

  “Your grandpa?” Ferris thunks Hoover on the back of the head. “Seriously? You need to give it a break, kid, before you dig this hole all the way to China. Deacon’s only forty-five.”

  “Just because I live with my grandparents,” Hoover says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Not because he’s old as my grandpa. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Hoover,” I say, sliding my sunglasses into place. “I don’t get my feelings hurt that easy. I’m headed toward the bridge. When Barkley and Simmons get back from their patrol, you two head down to the dam and back. Chief Brolin wanted us to make sure no kids ended up playing down there. Too many snakes, even this time of year.”

  “Will do, boss.” Hoover gives me a little salute as I head out, and Ferris rolls his
eyes, but I can tell he likes the new recruit. Ferris comes from a long line of volunteer firefighters. His twin sister, Fiona, is also part of the Russian River auxiliary department, but she had a tree-climbing competition today.

  There’s always something to do in Sonoma County in the fall, which means I should have no trouble finding a distraction from the woman presently chugging a glass of lemonade on the deck of a certain gently rocking pontoon boat. Whoever made that lemonade should hire her to star in their commercials. The look on her face as her throat works in the afternoon sun is enough to make me thicker.

  Damn, that must be some really good lemonade.

  She looks almost as happy as she did on Halloween night when I was—

  Don’t think about it, asshole. Think about boiled cabbage, paper cuts on your tongue, the smell of the fishmonger’s garbage by that bar in Korea.

  Memories of the nightmare stink lingering outside that fish stall on my last deployment are about to steer my thoughts out of the lust zone and back to the job at hand, when a chorus of honking echoes through the air, loud enough to give the guitar solo a run for its money.

  I glance up to see a flock of geese soaring low, no doubt coming to check out the picnic scraps blown off blankets by the increasingly serious wind. I watch them for a beat, admiring the elegant curves of their wings and long, feathered necks before starting down the beach, keeping an eye out for contraband I’ve been authorized to seize and destroy.

  I’ve barely made it five steps when the music is pierced by a sharp pop pop pop, followed by an animal wail of distress and a sudden burst of cheering from a group of kids near the roped-off swimming area. In my peripheral vision, I see one of the geese drop from the sky, plummeting toward the water with one wing thrust out awkwardly to the side. A quick scan of the shore reveals a red-haired boy with a missing front tooth thrusting a BB gun into the air, while the kids surrounding him—mostly boys and mostly locals judging by the looks of their tattered swim shorts—slap him on the back and pump fists in the air.

  It’s a scene straight out of Lord of the Flies, lawlessness without a voice of parental reason in sight.

  A frown pulling at my forehead, I start toward the group. Weapons of any kind, even BB guns, are forbidden on public beaches. I’m going to have to confiscate the weapon and probably run this entire crew off the beach. I seriously doubt they have tickets to the festival, and the beach isn’t open to the general public today.

  I’m about to give the entire rabble a talking to in my Mean Dad voice, the one Jacob and Blake assure me scared the shit out of them until they were at least thirteen or fourteen, when a woman cries out, “No, Violet! Don’t! The current is too strong.”

  I turn to see Violet—who clearly doesn’t listen to anyone’s good advice—diving into the water not far from where the wounded goose is honking and flapping a few meters away.

  Her head goes under, and I curse, but I’m not too worried. Surely she can swim, or she wouldn’t have jumped in.

  Surely…

  I count to ten, then to twenty. By thirty I’m shucking my jacket and running for the shoreline. I kick off my shoes, heart racing as the numbers climb higher—thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty—with no sign of Violet. She must have hit her head or gotten tangled up in something under the water.

  Grabbing one of the red emergency flotation devices hanging from the empty lifeguard stand—I’m going to strangle that kid when he gets back from the bathroom or the beer tent or wherever he’s gone—I rush into the water, swimming hard for the place where I saw Violet’s head go under.

  CHAPTER 5

  VIOLET

  I plunge beneath the surface of the rocking waves, screaming with my mouth closed as every cell in my body howls in protest to the sudden, frigid assault.

  Son of Zeus, it’s fucking freezing!

  My head swims, and my shocked arms stiffen in the water, not sure what to do with themselves. For a moment, I can’t remember where I am, who I am, my mental slate wiped clean by the trauma of going from sun-warm on a boat deck to submerged in frosty, early November river water.

  I sink fast, plunging through the increasingly murky depths until I hit bottom. The moment my toes squish into the soft sand and gravel of the riverbed, my thoughts jolt back into motion.

  Move, Violet. Swim! Up to the surface. Swim. Fast. Now!

  I push off the bottom, pulling hard through the water toward the surface with my half-numb arms, my heart thudding fast as I realize how little air is left in my lungs and how far I’ve managed to sink beneath the surface.

  I refuse to die like this, to leave my girls alone in the world to fend for themselves because I underestimated Mother Nature. I should have known better. It’s still warm during the day, but the nighttime temperatures have been getting down to the low forties, probably even lower here in the river valley.

  As I break the surface, pulling in a deep lungful of air, I silently vow never to set foot on a boat after Labor Day. I will save that goose, get to shore, and stay there until summer comes back around next year.

  “Violet! Oh my God, are you okay?” Mina shouts from the boat behind me.

  I wave at my frantic-looking friend and call out, “Fine. I’m fine.”

  Mina’s caramel curls bounce as she races across the deck. “I’m going to throw you the flamingo floatie!”

  “I don’t need it, it’s fine,” I insist, knowing the giant pink inner tube will only make it more difficult to maneuver through the choppy water.

  Shivering hard, I shove my hair out of my eyes and scan the waves around me, almost immediately spotting the struggling bird. Its wide eyes and panicked honking resonate with me in a major way.

  “I hear you, m-mama,” I say, pulling toward her. “I’m coming. Don’t worry.”

  I’m trying to figure out the best way to tow her back to shore without getting pecked to death in the process—she won’t know I’m trying to help her, the poor thing, and will probably put up a decent fight, despite her wounded wing—when I’m suddenly snatched from behind.

  A massive arm latches around my waist, pulling me against a warm, lightly furred chest and a puffy red life preserver that bonks me solidly on the head.

  “Wait, I’m okay! We n-need to help her,” I say, teeth chattering so hard I can barely hear myself over the music throbbing across the water. Seems I’m the only person who thought a wounded goose was reason enough to stop the party.

  “You were under the water for almost a minute. You’re going straight to the first aid tent,” comes a familiar voice so close to my ear I can feel his lips moving against my damp skin.

  His full, warm lips…

  By some mad twist of fate, it’s Deacon. Deacon’s arm around my waist and Deacon’s hand oh-so-close to my breast and Deacon’s legs tangling with mine as we tread water in the increasingly rocky waves.

  And just like that, I’m on fire. Still freezing, yes, but I’m also burning, aching, my blood turning to lava as the urge to rub against Deacon like a cat in heat returns with a vengeance.

  I make a silent note to make a doctor’s appointment first thing tomorrow—surely there has to be something medically wrong with me that I’m dying to hump a man’s leg while in danger of hypothermia—and shove lust away into a dark mental corner where it belongs.

  “I’m fine. Really. But she’s not.” I jab a finger toward the goose. The current is picking up, too, dragging the struggling animal downstream. “We have to at least try to help her.”

  Breath rushing out, warm and sweet against my neck, Deacon says, “I’ll take you in first and come back for her.”

  “There’s no time, she’ll be too far away by then. We have to go now.” I try to paddle closer, but Deacon has me locked up tight. He’s huge. Even bigger and stronger than my ex. There’s no way I’m going to be able to physically overpower him. My only chance is to appeal to his softer side—assuming he has one.

  I glance over my shoulder at him, breath catching as our eyes
meet.

  He looks so worried. Almost…scared. For me.

  On instinct, I reach up, laying a hand on his cheek. “I’m fine,” I assure him again, holding his troubled gaze. “I promise.”

  “You shouldn’t have jumped in. A bird isn’t worth risking your life.”

  “She’s a creature in pain,” I say, willing him to understand. “I can’t stand by and watch another living thing suffer. Not if there’s a chance I can help.”

  “People eat geese,” he snaps.

  “I don’t. I’m a vegan. But if I did, I would eat a goose that had been humanely raised and slaughtered, not one who’d been injured and doomed to a slow painful death by drowning or infection or being chomped on by coyotes because she’s too injured to fly away.” I cast a quick glance across the water, heart leaping as I see the bird beginning to sink lower as she’s dragged away. Turning back to Deacon, I funnel every ounce of passion in my shivering body into my words. “Would you want to die like that? Scared and alone and hurting and not even knowing why? She won’t understand what happened to her, Deacon, but I do. And I know that animal doesn’t deserve to go out that way.”

  His brow furrows and his jaw locks tight, but after a beat he sighs again—an exasperated sound that makes it clear I’m the most frustrating person he’s ever had the misfortune to attempt to save—and nods sharply. “Fine. Two minutes. If we don’t have her by then, we’re going in and you’re not giving me any more shit about it.”

  A smile curving my trembling lips, I nod. “Deal.”

  Deacon shifts the long red flotation device, tucking it under both of our arms until we’re side-by-side in the water. I kick hard, but it soon becomes clear that I probably don’t need to bother. Deacon’s churning legs carry us across the surface at fighter-pilot speed, closing in on our little girl so fast I don’t have time to get nervous about how the actual rescue is going to go down. One moment we’re surging through the waves and the next I’m gripping the back of the wounded bird’s neck firmly in one hand while cradling her body against the squishy red rubber of the floatie with the other.