Playing with Fire: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)

by RJ Blain

  My mother had been right to reject me. I never left anywhere on a good foot, and I specialized in burning bridges. Instead of asking Mary why she had abandoned me for a ride in Chief Quinn’s car, I had lost my temper and quit. If she wanted to go somewhere with Samuel Quinn, that was her choice and none of my business.

  I had no right to be jealous or upset over it.

  What I had done to Samuel Quinn put me on the list of terrible people who deserved to suffer. How could I be so vindictive, stupid, and selfish? Why couldn’t I be a normal person, someone people actually cared about?

  Even my own mother didn’t want me, and I didn’t blame her for it in the slightest. At eighteen, I’d made my stance clear: I had wanted to earn my way in the world without their version of charity, which meant I’d grow up in the job they wanted me to do, carrying on the Gardener name with pride.

  I had chosen to pursue certification with the CDC while working at a coffee shop specializing in legalized narcotics. They hated everything pixie dust stood for and the fact I dared to lower myself to working as a barista. They hated magic.

  Then again, they had hated me from the day I had been born, so it didn’t matter. Nothing I could do would make them happy. That didn’t change facts, however.

  They’d been right all along. I hadn’t been able to afford a college education on my own, and even with certification, I was too poor to transition from my job as a barista to something else. Ten years had gone by, and I ran the treadmill from one day of my life to the next without going anywhere.

  Worst of all, I truly had no one to blame but myself.

  My search for a hotel that accepted cash took me to the worst part of Queens, and by the time I got checked in, my coughs rattled in my chest, promising a world of misery for the foreseeable future. On the bright side, one-twenty got me a room for a week, and it even had a microwave and a can opener. A trip to the bodega down the street stocked me with enough soup to last until I needed to check out or extend my stay, and I bought a few bottles of water to be on the safe side.

  Even if it took me two weeks to recover, I had enough time to find a job somewhere. One-twenty for a smoke-stained, dingy hotel room beat the alternative. I’d be miserable, but I could manage.

  I choked down a dinner of soup, curled up on the rock hard bed, and cried myself to sleep.

  Big mistake.

  Sobbing drained the little energy I had left. I’d been warned in the hospital to avoid exertion. I’d been told to get rest, take my medicine, and take it easy. I still had the prescription slips in the back pocket of my jeans. Without my insurance card, it’d cost more than I had to fill the damned things.

  I could tough it out. I’d done it before. All I needed was to get a lot of rest. My hike across Queens to get my new driver’s license card and debit card hadn’t helped me, but I had needed a place to stay. Why couldn’t people understand that?

  I didn’t have anyone to take care of me, and that was that. I probably never would, but I had no one to blame for that but myself. Through a blur of fever and chills, I forced myself to get up and take care of the bare minimum. I drank all my water, thanked God the tub was somewhat new, and even managed to eat my soup like I was supposed to. Every waking moment I spent coughing so much I could barely breathe.

  Several times I considered reaching for the phone to call a cab and return to the hospital. That would’ve been the smart thing to do, but I stayed put and weathered the storm instead.

  I considered it an accomplishment I managed to leave my room to stagger back to the bodega, pet the owner’s new kitten, and hike back to the hotel burdened with cans of soup, bottles of water, and packs of cough drops. I stopped by the desk and paid to extend my stay. If I didn’t feel less like a plague bearer by the end of the week, I’d succumb to the inevitable and call for a cab.

  The soup would have tasted a lot better if I had heated it before pouring it down my throat. I plunked a bottle of water on the nightstand, flopped into bed, and passed out.

  Hindsight, as always, was perfect, and I should’ve just returned to the hospital on my own like a sane person, as I ended up there anyway. Unfortunately, I had no memory of going, which was never a good sign. Another not-so-good sign was my hallucination of Chief Quinn beside my hospital bed wearing a button-up shirt and a pair of jeans he must have stolen from an incubus.

  Instead of his normal, clean-shaven jaw, the scruff of a new beard turned him from pristine model to rugged and lethally sexy.

  Only my twisted psyche would produce an illusion of my heaven and hell wrapped in one glorious package, present him in clothes I wanted to strip him out of, and leave me to wallow in my misery and guilt over my bountiful stupidity.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid me.

  My hallucination was a persistent little bugger, sticking around while I contemplated why I might be imagining him in a chair beside me, close enough I could touch him if I could move my arm. It took me a long time to understand they had me hooked up to a ventilator, which explained the whole sexy hallucination thing.

  Bummer.

  I contemplated trying to say something, but the mask on my face made speaking difficult. Not only did ventilators suck, they blew, too, and made it far too much work to do anything other than stare at the gorgeous imaginary Chief Quinn my twisted little brain had thoughtfully provided for me. I gave up trying to do anything productive and decided to take a nap, hoping for a suit-clad model when I woke up.

  I got the dress uniform model instead. Score. He was talking to another cop, one in a regular uniform, and judging from the tone of Chief Quinn’s voice, the blurry figure had done something to deserve a scolding. I knew all about needing a scolding—or a spanking. Yes, I definitely needed a spanking from Chief Quinn. Then again, if push came to shove, I’d be happy to be the one doing the spanking.

  Imaginary Chief Quinn provided me with a spectacular view of his back, but he ruined it by leaving with the other cop. Far too late, I realized I hadn’t tried to apologize.

  Damn it.

  The next time I woke up, I was free of the ventilator. My subconscious decided fake Chief Quinn needed to be dressed in a… actually, I had no idea what he was wearing, except it resembled a gym uniform of some sort. I didn’t approve of it, not one bit, and after a fierce battle with my own tongue, I told him so.

  Crap. Why did I keep forgetting to apologize?

  It could wait until he came back in better clothes. I promptly returned to my nap so I wouldn’t have to subject myself to his wretched attire for another instant.

  My stupid subconscious decided I needed to be punished for my rudeness, so she inflicted an endless stream of gym model Chief Quinns on me. At least I recognized one of the jerseys as supporting the Lakers.

  Wait a second. The Lakers? Why the hell was a proud member of the NYPD, a chief of police, wearing a Lakers jersey? Unacceptable. “What the hell? Los Angeles? Gym model Chief Quinn sucks. Knicks or bust.” Every last one of my words was slurred, and gym model Chief Quinn stopped tormenting the other cop in my room. “Want suit model.”

  I was whining. I decided I didn’t care. Hallucinations couldn’t tattle on me anyway.

  Gym model Chief Quinn stepped to my bedside and looked down his pretty nose at me. “Do I want to ask?”

  Yay! The gym model could talk, and he didn’t sound too pissed at me for once. “Ooooh. Never mind. Lakers gym model can talk, and he doesn’t hate me.”

  I thought the occasion was worthy of a happy squeal. The Lakers fan version of Chief Quinn didn’t seem quite so enthused. Unsurprising, really. “What are you talking about, Gardener?”

  Not only was he talking to me in a civil fashion with a curious tone of voice, he had asked me a question I could answer. “Jeans model Chief Quinn brooded and didn’t talk. Angry as usual, because let’s face it, you hate me because I’m a terrible person. God help me, the dress uniform model might have lit my panties on fire. Dear God, that view.” I giggled, then a thought struck me. “W
ait. Am I even wearing panties? Did the dress uniform model really light them on fire? Oh, bother. Bad dress uniform model.” I giggled again and tried to focus on the second hallucination my subconscious had so kindly provided. “Right, second hallucination person?”

  “You’re so high right now, Gardener,” the second hallucination replied.

  Oh. I knew the second hallucination. “Perky? Yay, it’s Perky. Hey, Perky! Perky?”

  “This is going to be so, so good. What is it, you crazy woman?”

  Confessing embarrassing things couldn’t hurt when I was talking to the hallucinations my subconscious provided, right? “I want the suit model or the dress uniform model for Christmas.”

  “I’ll have a talk with Santa about that for you. How does that sound?”

  “Huh. Santa’s never visited me before. It’s probably his fault I turned out so bad. He never gave me any coal. He should’ve. It’s not fair. If you tell Santa, he’ll agree I don’t deserve the suit model or the dress uniform model,” I wailed.

  “Good job, Perkins,” the Lakers fan version of Chief Quinn muttered. “She was happy for all of ten seconds, and you just had to go and ruin it.”

  Perky shoved his way to my bedside, pushing the complaining gym model out of his way. “I’ll make sure the suit model shows up in time for Christmas, okay? Just please don’t cry. Please? I’ll beg. If Santa tries to tell me you don’t deserve it, I’ll kick his sack.”

  I sniffled. “Promise?”

  “I’m going to hell for this, aren’t I?” Perky sighed. “Yes, Gardener. I promise. You’ll get a suit model Chief Quinn in time for Christmas.”

  “You’re so going to hell,” the gym model muttered.

  “I should tell you to shut up, but you’re the only model who talks to me.” It was a stupid thing to cry over, but I did it anyway.

  Stupid, inconsiderate subconscious, providing me with equally stupid hallucinations determined to make me cry. Damn them all.

  While I was fairly certain the satyr nurse and my doctor were real, they interacted with my hallucinations to screw with me. The oversized pixie doctor with a dust complex and a general inability to cope with my immunity was the worst offender, but I understood why. Happy patients healed faster, and most of the Chief Quinn models made me cry within ten minutes. I wanted to blame the drugs Dr. Valleychime kept insisting on dosing me with, but it was my fault.

  Every time I had tried to apologize to Chief Quinn, it came out wrong. The last time, I had told him he’d look better naked, and he got so mad at me he left. I had thought he’d blushed, too, but then I had decided I was just seeing things.

  To my disappointment, the dress uniform and suit models didn’t make an appearance.

  The Lakers model showed up with Perky in tow, and I sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be one of New York’s finest?”

  “I am.” Chief Quinn dragged over a seat so he could sit beside my bed. “What do you have against the Lakers?”

  “Nothing, except that’s a Los Angeles team. We’re in New York.”

  “He’s doing it to piss you off, Gardener. He’s got his regular clothing in a bag just outside the door.” Perky peered at the monitor near the head of the bed. “Jesus. They still have you on the crazy stuff. Do us all a favor and get better already. Sir, please put on something nice for her so she doesn’t blame me when she believes Santa hates her.”

  “No.”

  It was my turn to sigh. “But Santa does hate me. So does Chief Quinn. It’s okay, Perky. This model talks to me.” I gave my crappy thin blanket a flick with a finger. “Dr. Valleychime hates me, too.”

  Chief Quinn stiffened in his seat. “Why?”

  “Pixie dust.” How could one stupid substance bring me so much misery? “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

  There. After countless hallucinations, I’d finally managed to choke out an apology.

  Perky cleared his throat. “I think it’s because Dr. Valleychime is a pixie doctor specializing in long-term recovery and the mental and emotional well-being of patients in this hospital, sir. He gets sensitive when he can’t just flutter his pretty little wings and make most patient satisfaction problems go away. Considering he’s packing the good stuff, she’s probably stung his pride a little. She’s good at that. She’s a rose, but she’s all thorns.”

  I couldn’t argue with him. “I’m sorry.”

  Hey, I got out two apologies in one conversation. Maybe there was hope for me after all.

  “For once in your life, could you just be quiet, Gardener?”

  The Lakers model hated me, too, and I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry again.

  My doctor fluttered in through the door, took one look at my imaginary visitors, and sighed. “If you can’t stop triggering depressive episodes with my patient, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Great. Dr. Valleychime was talking to my hallucinations again just to mess with me.

  Chief Quinn snorted.

  My doctor glared at the police chief before turning his attention to me. “Do you want me to have him removed, Miss Gardener?”

  “I’m pretty sure you can’t just make a hallucination disappear, but if you could get him to take his shirt off, I’d be totally okay with that.”

  At the rate my doctor was sighing, I worried he’d have an aneurism. Lifting his hand, he rubbed his temple. “What did I do to deserve this? Miss Gardener, Chief Quinn is not a hallucination, and neither is Dr. Perkins.”

  I squinted at Perky. “You’re really a doctor? I thought you were some kind of awesome super geek who just happened to know a lot about forensics stuff.”

  “I can’t tell if you hate me or like me, Gardener, and that’s really screwing with my perception of reality.”

  “You don’t have a perception of reality. You’re a figment of my overactive and drugged imagination.”

  Dr. Valleychime tapped on the monitor near my bed, probably to adjust my medications. “They’re both quite real. Now, granted, you’ve had several legitimate episodes involving hallucinations, but this is quite real. Unfortunately, so is that jersey.”

  My doctor wasn’t supposed to try to trick me into believing my hallucinations were real. “I would like to dispute your claim.”

  “Any disputes you might make won’t change reality.”

  Scowling, I shook my head. “There is zero reason for either one of them to be here. I’m an insufferable bitch, Dr. Valleychime. I have no friends, and there’s a very good reason for that. Chief Quinn has at least a hundred good reasons to hate me, and don’t get me started on Perky. If murder were legal, I’m sure they would’ve gotten rid of me by now. They’d do whatever it is manly cops do to call dibs for the right to off me.”

  “Yet you want Chief Quinn to take his shirt off.”

  “Hell yeah. Are you blind? Take a good look at him. He’s proof God exists and wants to make women happy.”

  My doctor coughed. “That was incredibly sexist. I’m genuinely astonished.”

  “Hey, men might appreciate a chance to have him, too,” Perky added.

  Chief Quinn sighed and covered his face with his hands before running his fingers through his hair, making it stand up every which way. “Can we not discuss this?”

  “Why shouldn’t men be able to enjoy your masculine beauty, sir?”

  “Perkins.”

  Oh, nice. Chief Quinn could growl, and he sounded amazing when he did it. “If you take your shirt off, we can discuss your virtues and come to an educated decision. It’s an important matter we’re talking about here.”

  “Gardener.”

  The way he growled my name was so much better than the way he growled Perky’s.

  I wanted to hear him do it again, so I said, “How can we properly discuss your sexiness if you’re hiding it behind that jersey?”

  “She has a point, sir. We can’t properly objectify you if you’re still wearing your shirt.”

  “Perkins!”

  “As her doctor, I would
like to point out that it’s my duty to ensure my patient’s emotional health and general well-being. Hospital stays of any significant duration can cause psychological strain, and as Miss Gardener doesn’t respond to traditional measures, this might be an acceptable alternative.”

  I beamed at Dr. Valleychime. “I have finally met someone who likes me. It’s a miracle.”

  “Emotional well-being does play a major role in recovery, and Miss Gardener has been a very sick young woman, Chief Quinn. You’d be helping to facilitate a good healing environment for her.”

  Perky made a sound suspiciously like a giggle. “You heard him, sir. You’d be facilitating her healing.”

  “This isn’t funny, Perkins.”

  Damn, that growl sure was nice. “Make him do that some more, Perky. That’s great.”

  “She’s really into you, sir. I never would have guessed.”

  “Damn it, Perkins!”

  “Come on, sir. It’s for her emotional well-being. Just take the jersey off already. It won’t kill you.”

  “Fine. Just shut up.” Chief Quinn stood and pulled his jersey over his head, revealing a white t-shirt.

  I clapped my hands. “Take it off, take it all off!”

  The glare Chief Quinn leveled at me should have burnt me to a crisp, but I somehow managed to survive. “I’m only doing this because it’s my fault you’re so damned sick.”

  Wait. Being sick entitled me to a free showing of a half-naked Samuel Quinn? “Thank you, God. You’re still wearing your clothes, Quinn. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.”

  Heaving a sigh, the kind I reserved for when someone tested my patience to the absolute limit, Chief Quinn yanked his shirt over his head. It even ripped a little, and it was the sexiest sound I’d ever heard.