Sizzle (St. Martin Family Saga): Emergency Responders

by Gina Watson

Eve came slowly alert. She knew she’d heard Minnie Mouse twice now and something C-S-M. C-S-M… Clay St. Martin. She reached for the radio and mashed the button.

  “Six-Y-five-C-S-M, this is Minnie Mouse. Over.” She didn’t know where the “over” came from, but it felt right.

  “Roger that, Minnie Mouse. State you condition. Over.”

  State her condition. She’d been asleep. Could she say that?

  “Six-Y-five-C-S-M, Minnie Mouse was sound asleep until you woke her. Over.”

  “Roger that, Minnie Mouse. My sincerest apologies. Over and out.”

  She laughed. Then she dozed off again. When she woke, something was different. It was light out.

  She jumped out of bed to peer out a window overlooking the front of the house. Was the storm over? She rubbed her head and stretched. Her body felt both tired and refreshed at the same time, and she smiled. Being safe, warm, and dry did a lot for a body. And a great orgasm didn’t hurt. She smiled wider even as she felt herself blushing.

  She walked to the front door, took the bar off, and stepped outside. The air was still and the street quiet. Limbs were scattered everywhere, full trees were down, and everything was very green. There was still a charge in the atmosphere, as if electricity were lying in wait, and the winds blew heavily, laced with a slight Gulf chill. She took another long look before going back inside and rebarring the door.

  In the living room, she opened the curtains; the fabric was damp. She pulled the cord on the blinds and leaned up to check the windowsill, but it was dry. There were a few droplets of water on the windows, but no damage. The curtains would need to be cleaned so they didn’t get moldy. She went in search of a washing machine. The excursion led her out to the garage where she found a large truck along with a fishing boat and lawn care equipment, but no washing machine. Walking back to the house, she stopped when she heard clucking. She turned and headed toward the sound.

  She ended up in Clay’s neighbor’s backyard, where it seemed they’d had a chicken coop. Now they had just the chickens, the coop destroyed in the hurricane. She knocked at the back door, but the house was empty. Apparently they’d left the chickens to fend for themselves.

  The wood fence marking the boundary between one yard and the other was down, and Eve counted six chickens walking around.

  “I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” She found their feed in a metal trashcan tipped on its side, but still closed tight. She scooped some out and spread it on the soggy ground, watching as the chickens attacked it. She’d seen chicken wire in Clay’s garage and guessed she could fashion something for them.

  Eve gathered the wire and a few tools, and within an hour she’d made a temporary coop. It was cool and breezy now due to the residual hurricane bands, but Eve suspected it would heat up once the storm moved away, so she put the coop up under a shade tree in Clay’s yard and salvaged what she could of the bundled nests, careful to remove the eggs, and placed them in the coop. She wrangled the chickens into the wire two at a time, laughing as they did their best to escape her. A sheet of plywood from the garage served as the top of the coop. She’d bring bowls from inside for water and food. Satisfied for the moment, Eve took the eggs inside and cleaned them.

  Remembering what she’d been doing before she played farmer, she found the washer and dryer in a large utility room at the back of the house, behind the kitchen. She also found a mountain of dirty uniforms, towels, and civilian clothes. She separated the clothes while the curtains washed, and then started in on Clay’s laundry. She found it easy to throw in load after load as she explored the house. She justified looking around by checking for storm damage, but she knew curiosity was the driver. She wanted to know more about the man who had fought a hurricane to come back for her and Ruth.

  She didn’t pry into personal areas, just walked from room to room, admiring the décor, straightening the pictures. Wondering about Clay.

  After a few hours passed, she checked on the chickens. As she was feeding them and giving them fresh water, she saw vines on the fence at the back of the yard—blackberries growing wild. She loved blackberries and there were tons. They’d been banged up pretty badly from the storm, but she picked one and ate it anyway. It tasted earthy and slightly sweet, and even though the fruit was bruised, it was perfect. She’d give anything to make a pie with the busted berries, and wondered if Clay’s kitchen had what she needed. She imagined him sinking his teeth into a juicy piece of pie after a long, hard day.

  Inside, she rummaged through the pantry. To her utter delight, she found a small can of shortening. She found the other ingredients she needed and set about making the crust. When it was ready, she searched for a pan. No pie pan, but she found a porcelain bake-ware dish that would work. The pie would be huge, but she assumed it wouldn’t go to waste, given all the men at the fire station.

  She usually thickened pie with tapioca pearls, but flour would have to work. Once the filling was done—perfectly sweet, with just the slightest tang—she worked the top crust onto the pie and fluted the edge as best she could in a dish not meant for pie. While it baked, she went back to the laundry. Even after washing for hours, it looked like she’d made little dent in the mountain of clothes to be cleaned.

  On top of the dryer were several cloth badges, at least twenty. Yet only one of the uniform shirts and one fire retardant suit bore patches. Shaking her head, she guessed Clay wasn’t a tailor or simply didn’t have time for the exacting task. She gathered the patches and carried them to the dining table. It was almost noon, and she knew she’d need to keep busy until at least ten, the earliest she figured she could go back to bed. If she didn’t do something constructive, she’d go out of her mind. Plus, she owed Clay her life and wanted him to know that she wasn’t just sitting on her butt enjoying the comforts of his home while he was out working, risking his life. She would just need a needle and thread and a few uninterrupted minutes.

  The problem was finding the sewing kit.

  After searching in the most obvious places, she finally found what she needed in the guest bedroom. Along the way she’d tried the computer sitting on a small desk in the corner of his bedroom. It powered up, but required a password, so she gave up after trying a couple of obvious passwords.

  She earned excellent money from a blog she’d created for freelancers and their services. It was highly successful, morphing into an international forum for all things freelance such as tax filing, contract creation, and even legal advice. Currently she earned about three thousand dollars per week from blog membership fees and dues and blog advertisements. She needed access to the Internet and a computer to manage her business and, since she’d left her laptop at Ruth’s, she was sure it had been destroyed like everything else.

  She’d also wanted to check the news sites for information on the storm, but that would have to wait as well. She’d already tried the big-screen TV a couple of times, but Clay’s cable was out.

  She’d ask Clay if he minded if she used his computer while he was at the station.

  That is, if she was in his home long enough to need it.

  *

  The pie was baking, filling the house with the fragrance of luscious berries, the washer and dryer were both spinning, and the ironing board was set up to finish the curtains: Eve felt quite at home. She’d toasted bread and cheese for breakfast, filching Clay’s last banana as well. And now she worked in the living room, where bright sunlight poured through the large windows.

  She’d sewn on two badges and was starting a third when someone knocked at the front door. She looked through the peephole and recognized the man who’d been with Clay last night.

  She opened the door and welcomed him inside. “Hi. Jack, right?”

  “That’s right, and you’re Eve.”

  He had a nice smile, a sleepy and rather handsome smile, and Eve was instantly at ease with him.

  “Clay sent me over to check on you. Everything cool?” He walked around the living room like he was conducting a fire
inspection.

  “Yeah, pretty quiet now that the storm has ended.”

  She watched as he took in the scene. His smile grew wider as he eyed the ironing board and the neatly folded laundry piled on the couch.

  “I was trying to keep busy.”

  Jack chuckled. “I can see that.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I was just thinking.” He scratched his head, “Clay could probably use you around fulltime.” He had a twinkle in his eye and maintained a smirk as he continued to check out the place.

  “Listen, Jack, I can never repay you for what you did for Ruth and me. You saved our lives. What you do is…” Her voice cracked. “Well, I just wanted to thank you.”

  “I’m glad you’re safe now.” His gaze was sincere. “Do you need anything?”

  “No, I’m good.” Eve thought of the computer. “Actually, there is one thing. Would you mind asking Clay if I can use his computer?”

  “Sure thing.” Jack inhaled deeply, and his face angled toward the kitchen. “You baking a fruit pie?”

  “Yes. You need to come back in a few hours if you want a slice.”

  “Oh, I’ll be back. You can count on it.”

  “Great.” Smiling at his retreating back, she shut and barred the door.

  She went back to sewing on patches and when her fingers needed a break, to ironing Clay’s uniform shirts. She’d found a portable garment rack in the laundry room and now wheeled it into the dining room. Once each shirt had been washed, badged, and ironed, she hung it on the rack.

  She took the pie out when the crust was perfectly browned. Clay’s oven might be dirty—and no way was she tackling that today—but its temperature setting was right on. She couldn’t have wished for a better turned-out pie.

  She helped herself to cold cuts for lunch, promising herself a slice of pie midafternoon. After a swift workout—she wasn’t even slightly inspired to work up a sweat—she returned to the laundry.

  She washed department T-shirts and cargo pants and Clay’s boxer shorts—folding those had her fanning her face as she remembered how he’d looked in them. His physical strength coupled with his intensity had her comparing him to a Roman gladiator, a warrior who knew who he was and what he wanted. And even more than that—a man who knew what he needed to do in order to get what he wanted and who had every confidence in his own abilities.

  She’d been worried he’d be too rough with her, but he was the perfect combination of hard and soft, rough and soothing, dirty and nice. She closed her eyes and replayed the moment his tongue first tasted her. And then she replayed all the moments when he’d tongued her, thrusting deep and nibbling and driving her straight to climax. She was working herself into quite a state, so she opened her eyes and took a slow deep breath.

  Her earlier exercise may not have worked up a sweat, but she was warm now. She went to the kitchen, drank a glass of cold water, inhaled a piece of pie, and returned to the living room. All the while trying not to think of Clay or his nearby bedroom or what they’d done in it last night.

  She doubled down on her work to busy her mind.

  A knock at the door had her checking the time. Six o’clock. She gazed through the peephole and opened the door to Jack.

  “Hi. Come on in.” He appeared tired.

  “Hey, Eve, I came for my pie.”

  “It’s waiting for you.”

  He followed her to the kitchen, his footsteps heavy. He seemed not only tired, but down. Given the filth that covered him head to toe and his slow movements, she suspected he’d had a rough day tending to the storm’s aftermath. She cut him a large slice of pie and set it, and then a glass of milk, on the table in front of him.

  Jack took a large bite. He closed his eyes and moaned. “Mmm. I’m so damned tired, but I couldn’t go to the station without stopping for a slice. I thought about it all day. It’s kind of what got me through.”

  His eyes were haunted. She could only imagine what he’d seen as a paramedic.

  “Is it bad out there?”

  “It’s torment. Hell beyond measure.”

  She swallowed down the lump in her throat. “Where’s Clay?”

  Jack’s intense gaze landed on her. “Clay won’t stop until he can no longer walk.”

  She gasped. “What?”

  “Once the rescues start, he goes without a break. He started just before midnight. Be ready; I’ll send him here. He’ll be falling down when he comes to you. Bathe him, feed him, put him to bed.”

  Her worry before was magnified times a hundred and she wished he were here now, eating with them. Firemen died all the time in the line of duty. Didn’t they? Could he, would he be injured from storm cleanup?

  When he finished his pie, Eve followed a very weary Jack to the front door. “Hey, he said you could use the computer. You may have to use the portable wireless if you can’t connect. The password is Clara.”

  Her heart sank at hearing the name again. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She ate another small slice of pie and then attacked her chores one more time, finishing even the application of all the patches. In addition, she mended several uniforms that had large rips in the pants, wondering what he did that got them so beat up.

  She stood back and admired her work. Her stitching had turned out okay, and she thought he’d be able to continue using the repaired uniforms. She’d managed to finish the mountain of laundry, but wasn’t going to iron the curtains until tomorrow—she was tired and her fingers were calloused from sewing on the badges. She left them resting across the ironing board, which she moved to the kitchen. It was close to ten. She’d have a bath and use the computer before going to bed.

  The computer with the password Clara.

  She logged in with no problem. She went directly to her email and saw that Clay was still logged in. She was about to log him out when she saw the name Clara St. Martin. Her hand instinctively rose to her mouth. Oh God, he’s married. I had sex with a married man. But then she saw that the subject line of the email read, Hey Big Brother. Brother? Not wife, not girlfriend, but sister. Relief washed over her. She stared at the email, not reading it, just enjoying the relief, until she realized she was invading his private space. She logged him out and signed on to her account.

  Once she’d caught up on email, she took a long hot soak in the tub and then climbed into Clay’s bed.

  A knock woke Eve. It was well past midnight when she padded barefoot to the front of the house. She looked through the peephole. Clay stood on the porch, head bowed. She opened the door, and he stepped, almost stumbled, inside. He was covered in mud from the waist down. His shirt was torn and bloodied; dirt and mud matted his hair. He blinked at her with hooded eyes. His big body was out of steam. He’d given everything he had.

  “I have to lie down.”

  He started lowering himself to the couch, but Eve’s tug on his arm slowed his descent.

  “Let me help you.”

  He hung his head low and closed his eyes. Eve bent and tapped his leg. He lifted it, and she removed the rubber boot. She did the same for the other foot. She removed his shoes and socks in the same manner. She peeled off his shirt next. Then she started on his cargo pants and boxers. Once she had him naked in the entryway, she put his clothes in a pile and led him to the bathroom.

  Eve lowered Clay to the toilet lid while she readied the tub. There was no way he’d be able to stand through a shower, and he was too tall for her to help him if he stood, especially if he continued to sway as he had in the front hallway.

  The tub was large and to close the drain, she had to climb in. She plugged the drain and turned the faucets on, letting it fill with hot water. She went back to Clay. His eyes were still closed. She removed a washcloth from under the sink and ran it under the hot tap. She wrung it out and laid it on his face. He moaned as she gingerly wiped the grime from his skin and hair and neck. She grabbed his toothbrush and applied pas
te. She tried to put it in his hand, but he was too groggy, so she lifted his head in her hands and brushed his teeth. When she finished, she pulled on his hands to help him up, but nothing happened.

  “Clay?” She lifted his head again. He had toothpaste in his mouth, and he needed to rinse and spit. She put her cheek next to his and whispered, “Clay, stand up. Help me please.”

  He groaned and whispered around the paste, “Eve Ivey.” He smiled. “You smell like heaven.”

  She pulled his hands again and he stood. She motioned to the sink and said, “Spit.”

  He rinsed his mouth, and then she helped him lower his big body into the tub. She fished out a clean washcloth and knelt to apply soap and lather up the cloth. He appeared to be sleeping.

  “Clay?”

  He said nothing.

  Eve started to wash his body, but she couldn’t reach it very well, so she put her legs into the tub, but immediately stepped back out. She was just going to get soaked, so she stepped out of her shorts and pulled off her top as well. He certainly wouldn’t notice, and she would be much more comfortable. She got back in, trying to kneel on one side of him, but he was enormous, and there was no other position for her than to straddle him.

  Eve washed his strong bear-trap neck muscles and large shoulders. Blood and mud sluiced down his bronzed chest and into the water. She soaped each arm pit and gave attention to each arm and hand, turning the wash into a massage as she imagined just what he’d spent the day doing with those arms—saving people. Giving them their lives back.

  He moaned and halfway opened his eyes. They slowly focused as he watched her wash him and knead his tense hands. Then he angled his head and looked at her straddling him.

  “Mmm. Have I died? Is this heaven?” He lowered his lids again and sighed.

  She giggled and reached for the cup on the side of the tub. She filled it with clean water from the faucet and pulled up straighter on his lap so she could reach his hair. She poured warm water over his head again and again. Then she lathered shampoo in her hands and slid her soapy fingers through his scalp, massaging his head and washing out the dirt and grime.