Hearts of Fire

by L.H. Cosway

  “You’re someone to me, too,” I whispered into the quiet. We stayed like that for a long time: me standing in the middle of the room, him sitting on the chair, having a silent conversation until Violet came in, completely unaware of the tension.

  “Lille, Lola’s asking for you,” she said, and I grabbed onto her words as an escape. Otherwise, I’d never be free of the prison that was Jack McCabe’s sexy stare.

  ***

  Despite my plans to do otherwise, I ended up sleeping with Lola in her bed, her small frame wrapped up in my arms. She’d been so distraught and jittery that I decided I’d put up with catching the flu because she needed me, and I didn’t want to leave her on her own. I knew that if I were in her place, I wouldn’t want to be alone, either. Violet had to be healthy for her performances this week. I was much less vital to the circus and therefore could afford to get sick. And I had a strong immune system, so maybe I wouldn’t catch it.

  I woke early, Lola still in my arms. Gently extricating myself from her, I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom, needing to pee. I caught sight of Jack on the couch, still sleeping. I’d given him my duvet last night, and felt warm and fuzzy inside to think of him being able to smell me on the fabric. His deep breathing filled the camper and it was a gorgeous sound. With my dad out of the picture, I’d never really experienced living with a strong masculine presence.

  My bladder felt full and heavy, and it was a relief to finally go. When I was leaving the bathroom, only wearing a T-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts, my gaze flicked to Jack to see he wasn’t asleep anymore.

  He lay with his arm behind his head, watching me. His legs hung off the edge of the couch because he was so tall. I cringed to think of him hearing me pee, which was ridiculous, because it was a perfectly natural bodily function. There should be no shame in peeing.

  His eyes ran down my body, from my face to my neck to my chest, lingering on my bare legs the longest. I thought I had nice legs. They weren’t too fat, or worse, too thin, and they were long enough to be considered attractive. I felt myself blushing hotly and staring at the carpeted floor like it was fascinating.

  “That was by far the worst night’s sleep I’ve ever had,” he said, his deep voice hitting me deliciously at the pit of my stomach. Yeah, I definitely enjoyed listening to Jack speak first thing in the morning.

  “That’s because the couches in these camper vans were built for hobbits, and if you lived in Middle Earth, you’d definitely be one of the elves,” I shot back, and received the most delectable low chuckle in response. It sent a thrill right down to my toes. I felt his eyes on me as I walked to the kitchen and popped the kettle on.

  “Do you want a cup of tea? Or coffee, maybe?”

  He sat up and rubbed his hand along his jaw, where there was an attractive bit of stubble growing. “Coffee. Thank you.”

  I glanced at him briefly, allowed myself a second to enjoy his naked chest, then focused on making his drink. I’d seen him topless before, of course, but that was when he was onstage, or from afar as he helped build the Spiegeltent, not up close in a tiny camper van, his presence soaking up all the oxygen. Perhaps that was why I was suddenly having difficulty remembering to breathe. I heard the floor creak, and then a moment later I felt his heat behind me as he brought his hands to my hips and rested his chin on my shoulder.

  “Hey,” he murmured in my ear, all gravelly. I swear I was wet already. His voice, his closeness, his subtle touch — it all worked to soften me, make me a welcoming host for whatever he wanted to give.

  “Hi,” I squeaked, spooning instant coffee into two cups and trying to focus on keeping my hands from trembling. Then his lips were on my neck, his hot, wet, open mouth sucking my skin, and I ended up dropping the spoon, coffee granules spilling over the counter.

  “Jack,” I protested, but my voice was more air than sound, and it did nothing to stop him. I gripped the edge of the counter for support, my legs growing weak. His deft hands spun me around to face him, and his mouth left my neck. He stared down at me, eyes roaming my face, my mouth in particular.

  “You’ve got pretty lips,” he said, cupping my jaw, then lifting his thumb to my mouth. I stood there, immobile, as he rubbed across my lips and dipped inside. Jack groaned as his thumb went in, watching with rapt attention, and I shuddered at the invasion. He started to move it slowly in and out, and I swallowed back a moan. My tongue touched his thumb and he hissed, hips pressing into me, his erection hard and hot against my stomach.

  I surrendered completely, body limp, as he invaded my mouth, and I welcomed it every time he went deeper. I imagined doing this to his cock, taking all of him in, and the dark, simmering look in his gaze told me he was imagining the exact same thing.

  I broke away from him abruptly the second I heard Violet’s bedroom door creak open. Jack retreated back to the couch and casually sat, like nothing had even happened.

  “Whoa, McCabe, put a top on, would you?” said Violet, giving him a cranky glare. “I don’t wanna see that shit first thing in the morning.”

  And she sounded like she genuinely didn’t. It boggled my mind, because I couldn’t imagine any heterosexual, red-blooded female not wanting to see a topless Jack first thing in the morning. Topless Jacks were what mornings of dreams were made of. Then again, I had just been enjoying his thumb in my mouth, so perhaps I was biased.

  Silently, I returned to making the coffee, cleaning up the spilt granules and making a third cup for Violet. Much to my disappointment, Jack pulled on a shirt, and we sat drinking, getting our caffeine fixes and quietly discussing how to go about dealing with what happened last night. There wasn’t much we could do, given that Lola wouldn’t let us call the police, but Jack said he’d let Marina know and inform the others, make sure they were on the lookout for any strange activity.

  Every time I looked at him now, I blushed. I mean, he’d gone down on me outside just the other night, and somehow I was more embarrassed about what had happened this morning. There was something about the stark daylight and the raw sexuality of how he touched me that made me feel too hot under my skin.

  When he left to go back to his place and take a shower, I finally felt like I could breathe again. Violet made a few back-handed comments about unresolved sexual tension, which only served to put my nerves well and truly on edge. If Jack could get me this worked up by barely touching me, then I shuddered to think how it would be if we had sex. I needed an outlet, a bit of stress relief, so I set up my easel outside and started painting.

  I’d sketched an outline of the painting I planned of Jack, but I wasn’t in the right place to tackle it properly yet. He was taking up enough space in my head already. Instead, I started my three-part painting of the Spiegeltent, which was a much easier subject, given the current state of my emotions. After a while I heard someone approach, and I knew it was him. It was almost like I recognised how his eyes felt watching me, which was downright weird. He sat on a folding chair with a book in his lap, quietly reading just like the last time. Was this going to become a habit?

  Oddly enough, I hoped it would.

  A couple of minutes passed before I asked, “Do you ever think about what your life would be like if your parents hadn’t died in the fire?”

  He looked at me for a long moment, but I couldn’t read his expression. “Feeling like inflicting a little light emotional torture today, flower?” His words held both a bite and a certain level of tenderness.

  “I’m just curious. I mean, I’d think about it if I were you. Don’t you ever feel like contacting your brother? Talking to him?”

  “He left me. What’s there to talk about?”

  I shrugged, looking at my painting because Jack’s stare was too intense right then. “I dunno. I just feel like believing the words of two random nurses and an uncle you never met before is foolish. You should hear it from the horse’s mouth. People make mistakes all the time. Perhaps the nurses got it wrong. Or perhaps your uncle was lying. You never contacted Jay di
rectly. Not once.”

  “Don’t say his name. I don’t want to hear it,” said Jack, a warning in his voice.

  I went quiet for a minute, then said, “Thinking about him hurts, doesn’t it?”

  Jack’s jaw tightened as he stared off into the distance. I didn’t expect him to answer me, so I was surprised when he bit out, “Yes.”

  “Letting it fester won’t help anyone. Believe me, I know. I’ve spent years letting my mother’s meanness fester. All it does is eat you up inside. About a year ago, I started writing letters, telling her just how much she’d hurt me. I never intended to send them, but writing it down helped. The burden wasn’t so heavy afterwards.”

  “What are you saying, Lille? That I should write my brother a letter, tell him how much I fucking despise him, is that it?” he scoffed.

  I gave him the most sincere look I could muster as I replied, “If you think it will help, then yes.” I paused, summoning up the courage to whisper, “I care about you, and I don’t want you to hurt on the inside.”

  His head turned, and he looked at me for a moment that dragged on forever, like my words had meant something to him. I saw a war wage within his black eyes before some of the tension went out of him in a long exhalation.

  “Go get me a pen and paper,” he said, and I literally felt my heart leap. He was actually going to do it. I couldn’t have been more shocked if he told me he had a penchant for wearing women’s underwear every now and again.

  Not saying a word, I went inside and checked on Lola for a minute (she was sleeping), then tore a few pages out of my notebook and grabbed a pen. Going back out, I handed them to Jack, our fingers brushing absently, then returned to my painting. He sat there for a long time, fiddling with the pen, before he began to write.

  My belly was all aflutter as I watched him. I tried to focus on my painting, but I couldn’t help it. I was dying to know what he was writing. It was private, though, and I wouldn’t pry. I got lost in my painting for a while, working on the details of the stained glass windows of the Spiegeltent, and how they caught the light.

  “Fuck,” Jack swore, startling me out of my concentration. I looked up to see him stand from his seat, scrunch up the paper he’d been writing on, and throw it in the bin. “This is bollocks.” He glared at me, and I felt my throat tighten. Jack McCabe was not the kind of man anyone wanted glaring at them, and I certainly didn’t relish being the recipient of said glare.

  “I never said it worked for everyone. Maybe writing stuff down just isn’t cathartic for you like it is for me,” I suggested quietly.

  “Why’d you even bring it up, Lille, huh? I told you about Jay because I trusted you. That doesn’t mean you have permission to start discussing it all casual like you’re commenting on the fucking weather.”

  He kicked the side of the camper in frustration, which caused Violet to stick her head out the window, looking pissed. “What the fuck, man?”

  Jack gave her a withering stare, and she shrank in on herself, muttering something under her breath that sounded a lot like “psycho” before she retreated back inside and shut the window tight. I stood and strode toward him, reaching out and pushing his shoulder. “Hey, that was uncalled for. I was only trying to help you.”

  He grabbed my wrist, clutching it harshly, and I sucked in a breath. “From now on, my past is off limits. We don’t talk about it. You understand?”

  “You’re angry. People that angry need to sort their shit out, Jack. You can’t just keep ignoring it. Burying your head in the sand just leaves you with sand in your eyes.”

  He arched an eyebrow, and okay, yeah, what I’d just said sounded stupid, but I didn’t know how to get through to him. I also didn’t know why I felt it was so important that he come to terms with his feelings about his brother’s abandonment. All I knew was that it made me sad to think of what he might be missing out on. From what I’d learned about Jay Fields, he was an amazing person, and Jack deserved to have someone like him in his life.

  Something about Jack’s story just didn’t ring true, and it had been niggling at me for a while.

  “Stay out of my business, Lille,” he said finally, voice harsh but eyes sad, as he let go of my wrist, turned around, and walked away. I stood there even after he was gone, wondering if I’d just ruined whatever we had before it had even begun.

  Then my eyes landed on the rubbish bin, where Jack had thrown his scrunched-up paper. My curiosity was about to get the better of me.

  Eleven

  In secret Lille stole Jack’s letter

  Tears stung my eyes and ran down my face.

  I didn’t know what I thought I’d find when I read Jack’s letter, but I certainly hadn’t expected to feel like someone had just buried a bullet in my chest. I was bawling as I crouched behind the camper for privacy, holding the uncrumpled sheet of paper in my hands. Even the way he wrote broke my heart. He used short, simple sentences, with frequent misspellings, and I remembered him telling me about the gaps in his education. You could tell simply from the lines he’d written.

  When I woke up I wondered wer u wer 1st.

  The last ting I remembered was suffocation and smoke.

  Not being able to breathe is the scariest ting.

  I cryed when they said Mam and Dad were dead.

  I cryed when they said our uncle took u and not me.

  I still hate hospitals.

  Being alone feels worse when ur a kid.

  Life seems endless. Endless loneliness.

  U have no 1 and they give u to people and the people don’t want u but they do want u becos they can get mony for u and they want the mony and they’re all so greedy and they take everything until you have nothing and they don’t even care.

  I’ve done bad tings.

  I thought about u every day.

  Remember u taught me how to throw plastic knives?

  U were so much better than me.

  I’m probably better than u now.

  Sometimes I want u 2 see.

  But I hate u.

  I hate that I still love u.

  Why didn’t u come back for me?

  Why did u leave me?

  Why did u leave me?

  Why did u leave me?

  Those last lines became harder to make out the more he repeated the question, like he’d stabbed the pen in so harshly it tore the paper, a manifestation of the pain he felt inside. I read it so many times the letters started to blur, mostly because I was still crying.

  I hate that I still love u.

  That was the line that made me cry the most. Jack still loved his brother. Even though he hated him, he still loved him. The declaration was so raw, I could almost feel the hurt like it was my own. Somehow I had to figure out a way to help him. I smoothed out the letter more, then folded it neatly and tucked it in my pocket. I had an idea, but it was so fucking risky. I definitely wasn’t Jack’s favourite person right now, but if I did this, I could ruin things between us completely.

  Would it be worth it to reunite him with Jay?

  Inside the camper, Violet gave me a look as if to ask, What the hell was all that with Jack earlier? Then she saw my reddened eyes and kept quiet. It was clear that I’d been crying. Lola was groggily eating tea and toast in bed. She still wasn’t over her flu, and last night’s attack had only worsened matters. I asked how she was, then asked if I could use her phone. Weakly, she told me I could use it whenever I wanted, that I didn’t have to ask.

  It didn’t take me long to find two mailing addresses for Jay Fields. One looked like a P.O. Box, and the other was for a hotel in Las Vegas. I decided to use the latter, because who knew how many adoring fans sent letters to his P.O. Box, and mine would only get lost amid the masses. I was incredibly nervous as I composed my message to him, and I still questioned if I even had any right to be doing this. My heart fluttered like an electrocuted butterfly. It was completely dodgy, but I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. Something in my gut told me this was the right thing to do.
I had to sacrifice what little Jack and I had in order to give him something more.

  Dear Jay,

  You don’t know me. My name’s Lille Baker. Very recently I met a man named Jack. Our relationship isn’t an easy one to explain, but I feel very protective of him. I want to help him, even if he doesn’t know he needs it yet.

  He confided in me. Told me about how his parents died in a house fire and how his brother abandoned him.

  I think that brother is you. And somehow, I feel like there’s more to this story than meets the eye. Jack’s feelings are still all messed up, so I encouraged him to write you a letter telling you how he feels. We never planned on sending it. It was supposed to be therapeutic. After he wrote it, he got upset and threw it away.

  I picked it out of the rubbish and decided to send it to you.

  He doesn’t know I’m writing this. He’s a performer with the Circus Spektakulär. We’re currently doing shows in Orléans in France; next week we move on to Lyon, and after that I’m not sure. I think you should come find us. Come see your brother after all these years, Jay. He’s an incredible person, and I’ve been fascinated by him since the very first time we met.

  I hope you read this letter sooner rather than later.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lille.

  ***

  I walked to the post office and sent the letter right after I’d written it, because if I waited, I knew I’d lose my nerve. After that I explored the city for a while, visiting an old church and browsing in the shops, mostly in an effort to calm my beating heart. Sending that letter could either turn out to be the best thing I’d ever done, or the worst.

  I found an electronics store and bought a cheap phone, then sat in a little café by the river and had something to eat. When I arrived back at the circus, there was only enough time for me to give Lola some flu medicine before I had to go and cover for her at the refreshments stand. It was much harder work than painting faces, and by the time the show was over, I had blisters on my feet from standing for so long.

  My stomach complained about not being fed, so I made my way to the gazebo to see if there was any food left from dinner. There wasn’t. In fact, I briefly considered leaving right away because there was a wild party going on, lots of local men and women mixed in with the circus workers. It was a little too rowdy for my tastes. Still, seeing King sitting by himself in a corner, nursing a bottle of cheap-looking vodka, I went and sat beside him. He didn’t smell so great, which made me all the more curious about my urge to be in his company. Even though he was drunk all the time, and even though I was a tiny bit scared of him, there was something about him that made me feel like he saw the world more clearly than any of us sober people.