Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1)

by Mira Gibson

  She resolved to tell Tasha as soon as she got home, but first she needed to make sure her studio was intact.

  As she cut along Lorimer Street, five blocks shy of her apartment, she almost wished the bastard, whose face she hadn’t seen, would dare mess with her again. The gun was power at her fingertips.

  That night nearly a week ago, which she had done a soldierly job of pushing from her mind ever since, Greer had barely made it up to her studio door. It had been dark and quiet in the stairwell. At two in the morning, she hadn’t thought much of the stillness, figuring her neighbors were fast asleep. She would have never in a million years thought that solitude could be dangerous - no one to hear her scream, no one to come to her rescue, or fight off the man, who had snuck up behind her.

  Greer had barely scraped her key into the lock, had only just pushed the door in a crack, when she felt hands on her, jerking her back with such force that a jolt of adrenaline had rushed through her, scrambling her mind. It had seemed like an eternity before she made sense of it, but her assumption had been frantic and unfocused. Her greatest fear of being raped had sent her into a fit of screaming and thrashing. In an instant, she had turned into a wild animal, got a few hard jabs in, elbowing his ribs, stomping on his foot, and riding the swell of blows he delivered to her back and the side of her head that had stunned her so badly she almost lost consciousness.

  She would never forget his voice, which had been laced with urban cadence and harrowing command - Get inside.

  He had repeated it, over and over again, but she knew if she followed his order, it would seal her fate and he would have been able to do his worst.

  When she had refused, he threw her to the ground, kicked her, and called her an uppity bitch. She had been so dumbstruck he let her go that what he said next barely registered - This isn’t your world, bitch. Go back to New Hampshire.

  It had taken every ounce of strength she had to crawl into her apartment and lock the door, and the relief that followed pulled her into a deep sleep, as she collapsed onto the floor.

  If he had been a perfect stranger, how would he have known she was from the Granite State? Days later, she had written the comment off, telling herself there were enough articles about her floating around online that anyone could easily find out such a detail. She had assumed she had a stalker on her hands, and had bought the gun accordingly.

  But as she neared her apartment building, Greer arrived at a much darker conclusion. Whoever had attacked her wanted to scare her into moving back home, and his motivation for doing so had everything to do with The Phoenix Juried Art Competition.

  Voices billowed out into the stairwell, as she climbed the stairs, conversations and arguments muffled through the walls, which she found comforting. It wasn’t so late that her neighbors were asleep. Life was flourishing all around her, though hidden from view.

  When she reached the second floor landing and rounded through to the staircase leading up to her floor, she heard the loud stomps of someone flying down the stairs at her and before she could fathom their velocity, she was knocked backwards, tripping to the landing and barely catching sight of the man who had collided into her.

  “Fucking watch it!” She yelled after him. He hadn’t even bothered to stop and help her up, much less apologize. Getting to her feet, her hip smarted where it had struck the ground, but she decided she would live, and padded up the last set of stairs.

  The second she saw her studio door, her breath hitched in her throat and the worst jolt of nerves flooded her veins.

  The door was open.

  Listening hard, her ears pricking up to detect the slightest sound, Greer only heard her pulse pounding in her ears, as she neared the doorway. Dread was ratcheting up her spine, but she eased inside, grasping the handle of the gun deep in her bag.

  She startled when her cell vibrated in her jeans, but indecision was taking hold. What if they were still here? What if they jumped out at her? Her studio was a sea of shapes and shadows, vaguely familiar, but too dark to spot if someone was hiding. Her cell buzzed again. Answering it could leave her vulnerable. She would have to set her gun back in her purse to do so, but after a moment of hearing nothing but the whirl of radiator blasting heat at the back of her apartment, she dropped the gun into her bag in favor of her cell.

  It was a text message.

  The number she didn’t recognize, but as soon as she read it, she knew exactly who had sent the text.

  How’s the sculpture coming?

  She opened the second text, which was also from Hunter.

  I really think you should come to my place. Stay the night.

  Shoving her cell into her back pocket, she shut the door and flipped on the lights, lowering her defenses. But the moment she turned around, facing her studio, she realized her life might never be the same.

  The place was trashed. Overwhelmed by the mess, she sensed more than saw the damage, but when her gaze locked on her sculpture, whatever initial shock she had felt exploded into sheer panic.

  The clay likeness of Hunter had been smashed in. His head lay on the floor, crushed as if someone had stomped on it. And his legs appeared to have been beaten with a bat, marred with concave indents.

  “No,” she breathed, rushing towards it. She could barely get any air in her lungs. Every inhale was a thread of oxygen flossing up and down her throat.

  She dropped to her knees, tears welling up in her eyes and blurring her vision so badly she couldn’t even see the destruction that had become of her most precious piece of art.

  It was over.

  The Phoenix had slipped through her fingers.

  Chapter Seven

  Greer allowed herself a minute to freak out, to let the emotions in, the rage and despair, the helplessness and urge to scream, the extreme panic that all she had worked for had been obliterated in the blink of an eye.

  Once the sixty seconds passed, Greer pacing and stammering like a pent-up bull, stalking around the lump of clay on the ground, which didn’t even remotely resemble the allure and desire she had captured from Hunter, she tried to reel it in and center. But she just couldn’t, so she allowed herself another minute.

  It still wasn’t enough. Her breathing was labored and shallow. The tears streaming down her face wouldn’t stop. She collapsed to the couch, feeling beside herself, as though this wasn’t her life, but a waking nightmare she couldn’t lift out of.

  And because of it, Brandon surged to mind.

  Forcing him out was a futile exercise she soon gave up on.

  Over the months, when she had reached particularly low points, he floated to the forefront of her mind, but she had always managed to hold steady, riding through the impulse until it passed. This time she just couldn’t. The devastation of the break-in, the aftermath that amounted to her finest piece of art being destroyed and lying in chunks across her studio floor, was too much to handle on her own.

  Grasping her cell phone, she told herself not to, but in the same breath pulled up his number. It had been a year since she had seen his face, looked into his sharp brown eyes, traced the lines of his jaw and his lips, wishing things didn’t have to end between them. For as much as they both had enjoyed and maybe even loved the years they had spent together, tangled in a tumultuous romance, which had downward spiraled into something ugly towards the end, though they both had been desperate to ignore it had become so, neither could escape the glaring truth that the relationship was destined to fail.

  She knew moving on was her only option, and for all intents and purposes she had, but the urge to hear his voice, even just for a few seconds as a means to lift her out of the black panic that was gripping her, was stronger than her willpower not to send the call through.

  Already hating herself for what she was about to do, but knowing she wouldn’t be able to stop herself, rock bottom was far too bleak to wallow in alone, she stared at his contact number on the LCD screen. But when she tapped its slick surface, it wasn’t Brandon she called.

/>   One small victory, she thought, but she had no real reason to hope she had done herself any favors by calling Hunter instead. As she listened to the tinny ring blaring in her right ear and tried not to look at the carnage of her studio, she felt torn. She wanted him to pick up, and yet she didn’t.

  Abruptly, she heard Hunter’s deep voice, but it was only his out going voicemail message - cool confidence with a hint of humor, as he reminded the caller that clearly he was far too busy being an artist to pick up the phone.

  Far too busy being an artist?

  Immediately, she ended the call, confused.

  Before she could get bogged down, pondering the possibilities, she found Brandon’s contact again and placed her call, as if it were a reflex occurring without conscious thought.

  The second she heard his voice cut through the earpiece in a tone that conjured a wealth of memories, she blurted out, “I need to see you.” Confusedly, talking and listening, she slowed her point, as she realized she was listening to a recording. If she wanted to, she could recite it, she had heard it so many times over the course of their relationship, another reason things had ended - he never picked up.

  All of a sudden, her throat felt tight and her mind was racing whether or not to leave a message. Clearly, this wasn’t her night and she might need to accept the probability that the universe might want her to rise up from the ashes all by herself and without support. But though deep down she knew hanging up would be the best tactic - save face, have a drink perhaps, and pick up the pieces of her life, figuratively and literally, when she heard the beep, she found herself launching into a scrambled explanation of why she was reaching out.

  “I know I shouldn’t be calling. It’s not fair to either of us, but I’m having an emergency and...” She fell into a heavy sigh and started back up again. “I need you to be here for me. I’m at home.” Then on a dime, she turned, and offered scattered apologies. Listening to herself as if she were someone else, she told herself to shut up and concluded outwardly, “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have called you. Never mind. Just forget I called.”

  She didn’t just hang up afterwards. She threw her cell phone across the room so she wouldn’t have a chance to do any more damage.

  Muttering aloud to herself, she said, “I’m a fucking mess over this,” and jumped off the couch, rushing into the kitchen as though if she moved fast enough, she could shed the turmoil that was suffocating her.

  Nagging at her from the back of her mind was the notion she should call Tasha or Jennifer or both of them, but for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to reach out. She had always been like that. She didn’t want to burden her closest friends with her problems, because she feared they would resent her. It wasn’t rational, but old childhood wounds that had never healed - a father who had always been too busy for her, a mother who would react so strongly to Greer’s pain and grief that it was rarely worth it to clue her in. When she had, Greer only ended up consoling the woman who had raised her, a daunting task, which left her even more drained than the crisis she had turned to her parents for help on.

  Instead, she pulled a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, didn’t bother with a glass, and slugged it back, drinking as hard and as fast as she could.

  As she forced even more liquor down her throat, she became vaguely aware of a faint buzzing sound coming from the studio. The whiskey was already hitting her bloodstream, warming her limbs, and flooding her emotions with a cloudy sort of calm that felt more numbing than soothing. But her stomach was on fire. A few glasses of Shiraz and a wedge of brie hadn’t been enough dinner to combat the hot sting of alcohol coursing through her, so she capped the bottle, and followed the buzzing noise, the bottle dangling from her loose fingers all the while.

  When she realized it was her cell phone, she picked it up, and simultaneously saw Hunter’s name flashing and that the screen was cracked badly straight down the center.

  She said, “Fuck,” in response to both, but answered the call anyway.

  “Did you call me?”

  “No,” she said then blurted out, “Yeah.”

  “Like you butt-dialed me?”

  She sighed and took a moment to curse herself for what she was about to do: be honest.

  “Someone broke in.”

  There was a pause on the other end and then Hunter’s voice cut in, deep and angry. “What?”

  “I wouldn’t give a shit. I have nothing of value, but they wrecked my sculpture.”

  He didn’t have to say anything for her to sense he was fuming.

  “I guess someone has been going around, messing with the local artists,” she went on, her tone sounding weak in a way that scared her. Had she completely given up? Refusing to believe she had, she added, “Maybe we can book more time? I have to start from scratch.”

  “I’m coming over,” he stated.

  “I’m not in the right frame of mind to work.” Even before she finished talking she heard a door click shut on his end of the phone, and background noises picked up, as though he was rushing down the street.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “I think I’m drunk. Hello?” She glanced at her cell and saw the home screen, but finished her thought anyway. “I just want to go to sleep.”

  She made slow work of getting to the couch and when she tossed her cell to the cushions, she whispered, “Why did I call him? And why did his outgoing message say he was too busy making art?"

  Miraculously, her laptop, which she had left on the coffee table, was completely unscathed. It would have been a good idea to clean up if he was on his way, but she opened up a browser window instead and typed the name Hunter into Google along with the word artist.

  The search results were staggering.

  Sculptor Hunter Black Presents Work in Germany.

  Black Nominated for the McArthur, The Youngest Nominee of All Time.

  An Interview with Hunter Black: Why Starving Artists Stay Starving.

  The articles were endless, but as Greer kept slugging whiskey and combing through the results without reading them, all she could think was that he had never mentioned he was also a sculptor.

  Why would a sculptor accept a modeling gig? She wondered. And if he had undergone an entire interview with Vice Magazine about the plight of the starving artist, why on earth would he turn Greer’s payment down in exchange for an impulsive romp?

  Greer startled with the sound of the studio buzzer blaring and as she got to her feet and padded over to the intercom, she was momentarily thrown by how quickly Hunter had walked over.

  “Yeah?” She asked, pressing the Talk button.

  “It’s me.”

  She pushed the Door button, letting him into the building, and then rushed to her hobo bag, which she had set near the door. Kneeling, she rummaged through it and found the gun, such an unreal piece of metal that hadn't yet saved her from her worst fears coming true. Shoving it deep into the bag, she made her way through the studio and into her bedroom where she set the bag on the nightstand then quickly returned to the front door to open it a crack.

  As soon as she saw him approaching the door - his cool green eyes locking onto her, his lips slightly parting as if he was winded from the three story climb, his face drawn with concern - she apologetically blurted out, “You didn’t have to come.”

  “I wanted to,” he said easily, as he came to a stop in front of her.

  For a moment, her gaze traveled the length of him, eyeing or admittedly drinking in the sight of his broad shoulders, the way his jacket hugged his arms though it wasn’t zipped up the front, exposing the wall of his chest, she didn’t for one second think he might have been cold out there. Rather, heat seemed to be washing off of him, whether it was his natural temperature or rage, she couldn’t decide. But that’s how he seemed - furious yet bottling it up.

  “Who broke in?”

  Easing the door open for him to pass, she said, “I have no idea.”

  “Did you report it?”

>   “What are the police going to do? Take up hours of my time and not be able to do anything, that’s what.”

  She caught him breathing a slight sigh, which looked like relief, though he was standing in profile and staring down at what was left of her sculpture. She approached, folding her arms and glancing down at he wreckage as if with fresh eyes. It was even worse than she had thought.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, glimpsing her quickly before surveying the rest of her studio - sculpting tools scattered across the floor, paintings and mementos shattered and strewn across the floor, and bricks of clay smashed into grisly shapes.

  “I almost wish I’d been home,” she said with a sarcastic snort then turned a bit thug, adding, “I would’ve popped a cap in his ass.”

  “His?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted then suddenly she remembered the guy who had slammed into her after rushing down the stairs. “No, I do,” she said out loud, but to herself. “I fucking had him.”

  “You saw someone?”

  Struck once again by a wave of futility, she said, “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

  Shifting his focus from the mess to Greer, he neared her with a sense of intimacy that reminded her of Brandon. Not that she was pleased she was thinking about her ex during a moment that felt strangely electric, but she couldn’t let go of the mystery of Hunter, why he had popped into her life so abstractly, and yet was someone who had more in common with her than anyone she’d ever been with.

  To shut down wherever he was going with that look in his eye, she explained, “I’m not giving up on the Phoenix. I still have a week and a half. I didn’t tell you, but after you left I finished my sculpture. I don’t need time to create art, just inspiration. So I may need to hire you.”