The gears in my head started turning, and my memories from last night slowly fell into place: the fight at Rusty’s, the punch I had taken to my left eye, the taxi cab ride home, the frozen peas and bottle of Fireball, the game of ‘two truths and a lie’ with Beck, that kiss…
That fucking kiss.
“Fuck,” I grunted again, thrusting my head back against my pillow.
Waves of sharp pain were pounding through my skull, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the black eye, a hangover, or something else entirely.
I pinched my eyes shut and saw visions of Beck stepping towards me in the living room. I remembered her hands on my chest, and my fingers in her hair…
I remembered her asking — no, telling — me to kiss her. I remembered the way her lips had tasted like whiskey, and I remembered wanting her…
Each vision of Beck hit me just as hard as the visions of that fist slamming into my eye socket.
I wanted to disappear, so I yanked the covers over my head and everything immediately went black around me.
When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time buried under the covers of my bed. Not because I was hiding from the boogeyman or reading comic books or jerking off to my father’s Playboy stash or anything like that. (For the record, my father didn’t have a stash of Playboy magazines. Instead, he had a mistress. She lived in the East Village and she probably saw my father more often than I did.)
I was burying myself under the covers because I wanted to escape. When I was a kid, I believed — genuinely believed — that if I concentrated hard enough, I could make myself disappear. Never mind the limitations of basic physics; I was convinced that it all came down to sheer will power. If I just tried, I could do it.
I didn’t just want to disappear; I wanted to teleport myself to some corner of the world that was far the fuck away from Manhattan.
I used to daydream about an alternate universe where the Williams family lived in the suburbs and ate Eggo waffles for breakfast and Mom’s Mystery Meatloaf for dinner.
In this alternate universe, my suburban dad would take me fishing on the weekends and grade my math homework on school nights, and my suburban mom would remind me to eat all of my vegetables at dinner and brush my teeth before bed.
At twelve years old, I had only ever known that kind of idyllic family life to exist in prime time sitcoms and parallel universes. Night after night, I would hide under my covers and imagine that world. I would pinch my eyes shut and clench every muscle in my body, straining to disappear…
And every morning, I would wake up in the same bed in my parents Manhattan apartment.
Now, I blinked up at the blackness of my bed. I had given up on trying to disappear a long time ago, so what the hell was I doing here, hiding under the bed sheets like a child?
Look at yourself… you’re being a coward.
I jerked the sheets off of my head and felt the glare of the morning sun sting my eyes.
I knew that kissing Beck was on the top ten list of stupidest things I could possibly do, right up there with getting into bar fights and shotgunning Fireball. But the truth was, I didn’t regret any of it.
So what was I so afraid of? I asked myself as I stared up at the bright whiteness of the bedroom ceiling.
Was I afraid of Beck? Was I afraid that she would hate me, blame me, reject me, never want to speak to me again…?
I blinked my eyes, and I saw my fingers grazing under her chin as I pointed her face up towards mine…
Was I afraid of myself? Was I afraid of what I’d felt last night? Was I afraid that I had wanted to kiss Beck? Was I afraid that even now — even sober — I still wanted to kiss Beck?
I didn’t know the answer to any of those questions, but I did know that I wasn’t a snot-nosed brat living on the Upper East Side anymore. I couldn’t hide in bed like a child. I couldn’t make myself disappear.
I had to be a man. Whatever was waiting for me on the other side of the door — rage, regret, rejection — I knew that I had to face it.
So that was exactly what I did.
I pulled on a clean Firehouse 56 t-shirt and a pair of Tom Ford sweatpants, then I armed myself with a deep breath and threw open the bedroom door.
Beck was already wide awake. I found her in the kitchen making breakfast. Her hair was damp from taking a shower and the only thing she had on was an oversized Van Halen concert t-shirt that came down to the middle of her thighs.
My cock throbbed, remembering the way I’d had my hands around her last night…
Now she was standing tip-toed over the gas cooktop, using a spatula to scrape around some ominous yellow goop that was festering in a hot skillet.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I greeted her as I shuffled into the kitchen.
“Oh, hey,” she said in a flat voice without glancing up from the skillet.
Well this is awkward…
My head was still throbbing and I knew the only cure was caffeine, so I made a beeline for my espresso machine.
The commercial-grade, polished chrome behemoth occupied an entire corner of the apartment’s kitchen. I had imported the machine straight from Italy a few years ago, back when I still blew my nose on hundred dollar bills. Now, that espresso machine was one of the last remaining luxuries of my former life.
I had never considered how ridiculous it actually looked until Beck had bought herself a mint green Keurig and positioned it on the counter space directly next to my Italian stallion.
Ridiculous or not, it still made a damn good shot of espresso. I popped the portafilter out and started to pack the head with coffee grounds.
“I’m making breakfast,” Beck stated the obvious, still refusing to glance up at me. “How do you take your eggs?”
“Anyway that I can get ‘em.”
“How about rubbery, barely edible, and overcooked beyond recognition?”
I glanced over my shoulder at the stovetop. The contents of the skillet had taken on a gelatinous consistency, and the color had shifted from neon yellow to an ominous grey.
“Oh,” I blinked down at the mess, then added unconvincingly, “I mean… yum! I love scrambled eggs.”
“This isn’t scrambled eggs,” she scowled. “It’s a ham and cheese omelet.”
“Oh,” I glanced down at the grey matter again, trying to discern how the shapeless pile of mush could resemble an omelet. I cocked my head. “There’s really ham and cheese in there?”
Beck slammed the skillet back down on the stove and glared up at me, pinning her fists onto her hips.
“Nobody’s forcing you to eat it,” she growled. “I was just trying to be nice.”
“It was very nice!” I said, throwing up my hands in surrender. “I do want to eat it! It looks really… fancy.”
She kept on glaring as she grabbed a pair of plates from one of the kitchen cabinets, then divided the steaming grey goop — correction: omelette — into two servings.
In the interest of surviving breakfast, I dumped an extra shot of espresso into my coffee mug before I joined Beck at the table.
My plate of egg medley was waiting for me when I slid into my seat. Up close, the grey egg mixture looked and smelled even less appetizing than it had in the skillet. My stomach twisted and turned, but I tried to remain stoic.
Beck watched me through narrowed eyes as I picked up my fork and shoveled up a clump of mysterious mush. I started to raise the fork to my mouth, bracing myself for the worst, and then—
“Wait!”
I froze, fork hovering inches from my open mouth. I glanced up at Beck.
“Before we eat, I think we should address the elephant in the room.”
I gulped, trying to decide what was worse: eating the grey omelet, or talking about that elephant in the room.
I glanced down at the grey mush again. The omelet is definitely worse.
“I agree,” I said, dropping the fork onto the edge of my plate. “We should talk about what happened last night.”
We
stared at each other in silence for several seconds, and I realized that she was waiting for me to speak first.
My mind raced, trying to put together the right words to express the way that I felt:
I don’t regret it. I didn’t want it to end. I wouldn’t mind doing it again…
The words were already forming on the tip of my tongue. I opened my mouth to speak, but so did she. Our voices overlapped.
“Listen, Beck. I don’t—”
“Last night was a mistake.”
We both went silent again, and she pointed her eyes down at the grey mush on her plate.
“Last night was crazy and we were both drunk, and I think that things just got out of hand,” she said, addressing her severed half of the omelet instead of me.
A mistake. The word echoed over and over again in my head.
She sighed, and her shoulders slumped down under her baggy Van Halen shirt.
“Moving forward, I think that it’d be best if we just forget the whole night ever happened,” she said. Then her eyes flicked up, and I was pelted by her ice-cold stare.
Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.
I was shell-shocked, and I couldn’t stop that word from ringing through my head.
My mouth still felt glued shut, but she was waiting for an answer so I forced myself to nod.
“Good,” she nodded. Then she dug her fork into the pile of eggs on her plate and shoveled a bite into her mouth. Her face immediately twisted into a grimace. “Oh, fuck… that’s really bad.”
I didn’t give a shit about the eggs anymore.
Feigning indifference, I scooped a giant blob into my mouth and mashed it around. It didn’t taste like anything.
“Tastes fine to me,” I grumbled through the mouthful of mush.
“Duke, you really don’t have to eat the eggs,” Beck said.
I ignored her, shoveling another scoop into my mouth. She sighed as she jerked her seat back and stood up from the table, then she muttered something under her breath as she carried her plate to the kitchen sink.
My mind had already wandered back to disappearing when I felt something vibrate in the pocket of my sweatpants. I slid out my iPhone and glanced down at the screen to see an incoming call from Brie Wallace.
I swallowed the mush in my mouth as my eyes flicked between the two options on the phone screen. Tap green to accept the call, or red to decline.
I glanced up at Beck, who was feeding her omelet to the rumbling kitchen sink disposal. Then I glared down at the phone screen again.
That’s when I realized that Brie had been right about me all along. I was just a bad habit. I was just a mistake.
Maybe I was just being cocky, but I had always considered myself a catch. I thought of myself as a hotshot fireman or a town hero or a debonair billion-heir… but in reality, I wasn’t any of those things.
In reality, nobody wanted me. I wasn’t a catch at all. I was just the midnight vice that turned into morning-after regret.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN | OLIVIA
“Happy Monday, Donna!” I greeted the secretary by name as I strode across the lobby of the Hartford Fire Department headquarters and sauntered up to the reception desk.
Donna’s abnormally small head poked out from behind her computer monitor. She squinted up at me with a pair of beady black eyes, then she glared down at the jumbo plastic cooler that I was carrying.
“I’ve got your usual!” I announced, plucking up a cup from the cooler and passing it over the desk. “Venti iced nonfat hazelnut latte.”
Donna grunted ambiguously, and I plastered on my friendliest smile as I readjusted the cooler against my chest and trudged onwards through the office.
It was Monday morning, and today marked the start of my second week at the Hartford Fire Department. After a borderline disastrous first week on the job, I was determined to turn over a new leaf and start things off on the right foot.
Step one: turn those lemons into lemonade.
I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be the office errand girl, but if Perkins was going to keep me on coffee duty for the foreseeable future, I could at least get the Starbucks routine down pat.
Inspiration had struck on Sunday night when I spotted a display of plastic coolers at the grocery store.
Turns out it’s hell of a lot easier to haul around a dozen plastic Starbucks cups when they’re neatly packed inside of one jumbo-sized picnic cooler, as opposed to those flimsy cardboard drink trays.
Streamlining my coffee routine was a good start, but I knew that there was a much bigger lemon waiting for me at the office. I also knew that this was one lemon that couldn’t be turned into lemonade.
Scott Fuller.
After spending the weekend replaying the scene from Rusty’s Tavern in my head and weighing my options, I had finally determined that the only way to move forward was to confront that lemon head-on.
I knew that I had to go to Perkins. I knew that I had to tell my boss what had happened on Friday night.
Even though I had rehearsed the conversation a dozen times over in my head, I still felt pangs of dread flood my body as I strode through the office with my jumbo-sized cooler full of Starbucks drinks and a cheesy smile plastered on my face.
On the outside, I looked confident and strong. On the inside, I felt about as confident as my mushy grey omelet.
I had planned on making a lap around the office to deliver drinks before I went to talk to Perkins, but my boss beat me to the punch. Before I could distribute the first Frappuccino from my cooler, Perkins intercepted me:
“Beck, can I have a word with you in my office?”
My fake smile immediately slid straight off my face and my heart plummeted in my chest. Everything had just been turned upside down. In my head, all of my worst fears were instantly confirmed.
Scott Fuller got to Perkins first. He convinced Perkins this was my fault. Perkins isn’t going to believe me. My reputation is ruined…
I followed Perkins silently into his office and he closed the door behind us. That’s when I noticed that we weren’t alone.
A woman in a stiff black pantsuit was sitting, cross-legged, in a folding chair beside Perkins’ desk.
“Have a seat, Olivia,” she said to me, motioning to an empty chair next to her.
I glanced down at my cooler full of Starbucks cups. Thirty seconds ago I had felt so innovative and clever; now I just felt stupid. I dropped down into the chair, then I placed the cooler at my feet.
“My name is Sydney Walsh,” the woman introduced herself, offering her hand. I gulped before taking it apprehensively.
“Miss Walsh works for the Hartford Police Department,” Perkins explained to me as he squeezed behind his desk and took a seat. “She is here to assist the Fire Department as we conduct our own internal investigation. She will also be your advocate throughout the investigation.”
Hartford Police Department? Internal investigation?! Advocate?!
I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. I must have looked like one, too, because Sydney leaned forward and told me:
“I want you to know that I am on your side, Olivia. I am here to listen and to fight for you.”
“I’m… so confused,” I glanced back and forth between Sydney and Perkins, trying to make sense of what was going on.
“The department has an anonymous whistleblower hotline dedicated for employees,” Perkins explained. “On Saturday, that hotline received an anonymous tip about an alleged assault involving two employees.”
I swallowed heavily as my brain started to piece everything together. I was numb with shock.
“We take reports of assault and misconduct very seriously,” Sydney chimed in, nodding meaningfully at me. “When that tip came in, the chief immediately opened an internal investigation.”
“Miss Walsh and I have already spoken with other employees who were able to corroborate that initial report,” Perkins continued. “But we need to get a detailed statement from you, as well.”<
br />
I sunk back into the chair. My head was spinning and my heart was thumping against my chest.
“We have already taken measures to ensure your safety,” Sydney added. “The employee accused of assaulting you has been placed on unpaid leave, pending the results of the investigation. He has also been barred from being on the premises or contacting you. Any violation will result in an immediate arrest.”
Oh. My. God.
“I know this is hard,” Sydney said sympathetically. “But try to remember that we are on your side.”
Those words stuck out to me: we’re on your side.
“Are you ready to make a statement?”
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that summer day in Rhode Island when the fire chief had tried to kiss me in his truck. That day felt so distant now… I wasn’t that girl anymore, and this wasn’t Rhode Island.
I opened my eyes slowly.
“Yes,” I nodded finally, finding strength from somewhere deep inside of me. “I’m ready to make a statement.”
***
It took half an hour to provide my detailed statement and answer all of Sydney’s questions.
Afterwards, I felt like a hundred pounds of deadweight had been lifted from my shoulders.
“Thank you for being so honest and brave,” Sydney told me as she was packing up her briefcase and preparing to leave Perkins’ office.
“So what happens now?”
“At this stage of the investigation we’re still collecting information,” she explained. “I can’t reveal much, but I can tell you that this isn’t going to be a cut-and-dry case.”
“What do you mean?”
Sydney turned to Perkins, and he sighed grimly behind his desk.
“Once we started interviewing other employees, more allegations of misconduct and harassment started to come out,” he said.
“More allegations… about Scott?” I gulped.
Sydney and Perkins exchanged another look, and I knew that they had already told me more than they should have.
“We have a duty to get to the bottom of every allegation,” Sydney said finally. “No matter how long it takes.”
March Heat: A Firefighter Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 11
