Into the Flames

by Multi-Author

  About the Author

  Cindy Spencer Pape is an award-winning author of 19 novels and more than 40 shorter works. She lives in southeast Michigan. When not hard at work writing she can be found dressing up for steampunk parties and Renaissance fairs, or with her nose buried in a book.

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  FireBrew

  by Liz Crowe

  Cover Art and Design by Hang Le

  Jane Terrance has her life in perfect order. Great job selling commercial real estate in Detroit—One of the hottest markets in the U.S. Cool condo in Midtown with her best friend. Plenty of her own money plus complete control over all aspects of her active love life—Including a sexy, no-strings-attached boss.

  When she meets a new client at an abandoned fire station, figuring him for one more greedy investor, she realizes just how tenuous that control truly is.

  Trey Lattimer seems a little young to be retired from firefighting, and at first, he's just another guy to conquer. But the harder she tries, the more out of reach he gets until his continued presence does nothing but wreak havoc on her carefully constructed world.

  Fate throws them together. But the horrific memory of a fiery disaster could tear them apart.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Dedicated to the Muse. He Who drove this one, big time.

  ** Reader Advisory **

  FireBrew is not a typical romance and may not be for all readers.

  This romance contains realistic, dark subject matter including depression and addiction. It also contains scenes of abuse and rape. If you are sensitive to these potential trigger topics, this romance may not be a story you would enjoy.

  ~ PART ONE ~

  Chapter One

  “Are you sure this is the right space, Mister…ah…”

  “Yeah,” the very tall man in the mirror reflective sunglasses grunted out his reply, ignoring my lapse with his name. Which is forgivable, considering he mumbled it to me on the phone, demanded to see my stale commercial listing, then hung up without giving me a half second’s chance to protest. Dropping everything and showing the old building that had once housed a downtown Detroit fire station, which had now languished for so long on the market it was collecting graffiti and wildlife, had not been my idea of a great way to spend a warm Friday afternoon.

  I had a date—a hot date. This jerk was pissing me off the longer we stood shoulder-to-shoulder, staring at the once gleaming fireman’s pole. I glanced at my phone, noting that I now had exactly thirty-five minutes to do about an hour’s worth of personal tidying up in order to make the seven p.m. deadline, for what I was determined would be a very satisfactory evening—at least for me.

  I shifted from foot to foot and waited the guy out, figuring him for yet one more porch-pisser—an out-of-towner at that—eager to snap some Instagram pictures and bemoan the death of a Great American City, historical building by historical building. These people loved their ruination porn. And I for one was one hundred percent not in the mood for it.

  “Listen, Mister…”

  “Trey,” he said under his breath as he took yet another hike around the perimeter of the empty space. I watched him, admiring the rear view despite my anxiety about being late for the date with my shiny, new, internet-garnered friend whom I had every intention of benefiting from tonight. This guy claimed he’d just gotten off a plane and had driven straight down to the heart of what was once the old Irish neighborhood of Detroit—Corktown—just to see this stupid, echoing, useless and likely about to be condemned building. He looked the part of New York money—deep blue suit, dazzling white shirt and blood red tie. The sort of person that would buy up a pile of shit like this and either raze it for condos or lovingly and expensively restore it—into condos.

  He’d made it all the way across what I assumed was a former parking area for fire trucks when he whirled around, whipped off those glasses and pinned me with such a strange look I took a few steps back.

  “I want it,” he said clear as day, his voice low, raspy and firm. “But I’m not paying this,” he declared, shaking the feature sheet he’d yanked out of my hands the second I’d met him at the door. His eyes were of the deepest, darkest brown. I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes like that. They matched his chestnut colored hair, which was thick and wavy in a way that might make a girl jealous if she weren’t inclined to plunge her fingers into it—like I was right then.

  I opened my mouth to reply but my throat had closed up. Shaking my head to clear it, berating myself for thinking anything about the guy at all much less entertaining the mild porn loop running through my head starring us both, I tried again.

  “All right, Mr. Trey, I’ll have to—”

  “No mister. Just Trey.” He remained far across the room from me as if keeping his distance on purpose. “George Lattimer the Third. Trey, you know, for the third.”

  “Ah, well,” I said, only barely resisting the urge to wipe the sweat off my upper lip. “Right. So…anyway,” I blathered, pissed off at my nervousness. “Because it’s no longer city owned, I have to take any offers, in writing, to the attorney for the estate that holds the title. I assume you’re—”

  “Fifty-seven,” he interrupted me. Again.

  “You’re joking,” I blurted out as I moved across the room and shifted into negotiation mode, no longer giving a shit that he was the hottest thing on two male legs I’d encountered in, well, my entire life. He took a few corresponding steps away, looking like he was afraid I’d spray girl cooties on him if I got any closer. Up close, sans mister cool shades, those eyes were of the sort you’d call mesmerizing—if were the kind of person to think that about some dude’s eyes. “The list price is ninety-nine. I get that the place is a little, um…”

  “Shitty?” He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, smirking at me. “Falling apart as we speak? No better than a rat hole?”

  “It has some deferred maintenance issues, yes,” I said as I walked closer to him. He didn’t move this time. “But I assure you that the seller—”

  “Give him my offer,” Trey said before turning away and wandering into the area that had once housed the kitchen and living spaces, leaving me standing there, leaning forward and ready to engage—how exactly I wasn’t quite sure—now fuming. I trotted after him, clickety-clacking in my dumb stilettos across the concrete, doing all I could to avoid random clumps of God-knows-what detritus that multiplied every month the dump sat here empty.

  I found him in the farthest reaches of the building, near what used to be the storage for extra firemen suits and equipment. He stood at the open door, peering into the gloom. I took a minute to gather my thoughts and words, ignoring the perfect V-shape of his torso in that dark suit coat. I love a man in a suit. It’s a known fact. But this guy was being a rude asshole. I had no room in my life for any more of those.

  He seemed frozen in place, looking at something I couldn’t see. I tapped his shoulder, trying to make my touch firm, in command, and take-no-prisoners. He flinched and turned so fast I stumbled backward, catching my stupid heel on a ball of rags that probably served as home to an entire family of rats. The expression on Trey’s face was one of abject panic, as if I’d poked him in the side with a semi-automatic weapon or a tampon. As I scrabbled around, hoping not to land on my ass in the filth, I was unable to tear my eyes off his model-perfect face. He reached out and caught my flailing arm, his movements calm and practiced. In that instant, I acknowledged if he pulled me closer, I wouldn’t protest.

  I blew out a breath, settling myself back on top of my too-high heels. When he let go and stepped away, I felt rejected.

  Ridiculous, I know. But I did.

  “Wow, sorry,” I said, tucking stray strands of hair behind my ears, not looking at him. “I’m usually not such a klutz, but you—”

  “Give hi
m my offer. He’ll take it.” The man’s voice had the sort of certainty that seemed natural. But he was smoking meth if he thought the seller would take essentially half his asking price. “Give him this,” Trey said, holding out a business card.

  I took it, wishing I could use it as an excuse to touch his fingers or something equally desperate. But he held it by one corner and unless I grabbed the man’s hand, that would not be happening. I took it and glanced down, then without really reading it I looked back up at him. “What do you want the place for anyway? You an investor or a builder?”

  “Neither,” he said, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. The silence spun out between us. I blew out another breath in frustration.

  “Giving the ‘strong and silent type’ thing a real go, aren’t ya?” Without giving the man the satisfaction of my interest, I pulled out my phone and hit my seller’s preprogrammed number, figuring my stupid date was a lost cause now anyway. I just hoped I would have time to contact the guy—oh dear sweet Jesus, what was his name? And give him a heads up that I’d be late, or we’d have to cancel.

  Or he could meet me at my place and eliminate the prelims.

  Once I left the requisite message with the lawyer’s service, I turned back around. Trey had resumed his perusal of whatever was in the storage area, so I resumed mine of his pleasant rear view. Long legs, no-doubt firm ass, skin bronzed. He must be ex-military or maybe a cop—something had that kept him outdoors for a lot of years—but none of that squared with the suit.

  “When will you get a response,” he asked, still facing away from me.

  “Tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to—”

  “Come to dinner with me,” he said, shocking me to my toes. He turned slowly, his chocolate colored eyes intense.

  “No, thanks,” I said, drawing myself up and getting huffy at his assumption. “You’re a rude asshole, if you’ll pardon me. Besides, I have a date.”

  He tilted his head, giving me the oddest top-to-toe eyeballing, and the corner of his unfairly full lips lifted in what might pass for a smile. “Cancel it,” he said, taking a few steps closer.

  “Um, no, I don’t think so,” I said, my voice quaking in an annoying, uncharacteristic manner. I didn’t back up when he stood way up in my personal space bubble, looking down at me as if I were the mouse between his furry cat paws. “You don’t intimidate me, George,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Come on. I’m starving. Tell your boyfriend you have to take a big important client out to dinner.” He raised a dark eyebrow, giving me a moment to ponder his possibilities.

  “You don’t know what you’re getting into with me,” I said, smiling, willing to play along, my body already reacting and knowing full well where this was going even if I was more than a little surprised by his rapid-fire change of mood.

  “I think I just might, Harriet,” he said, his smile widening.

  “Jane, please,” I said prissily, using the middle designation I’d insisted on from the moment I realized my parents had saddled me with my great-grandmother’s horrifically old-fashioned name. How the man knew it was anyone’s guess, but I decided not to ask him.

  I sent a text to the guy I’d planned to let fuck me that night and then tucked my phone into my purse and accepted Trey’s outstretched elbow. It was a moment I will never, ever forget, although many times I did nothing but regret it.

  Chapter Two

  George followed me to my office and waited around, impressing all my fellow agents with his incredible looks and stony silence while I tried to get hold of the attorney handling the firehouse sale. It unnerved me just enough to be interesting.

  My real estate brokerage office takes up one floor of a restored Detroit Midtown building—a former school or maybe a psychiatric hospital, I can never remember. It got a face-lift a few years ago, gutted of its water-ruined interiors then kitted out as loft condos plus chic, expensive, conveniently located offices on first two levels. Laid out in some kind of nod to modernity that felt forced, it boasted an open floor plan with a set of cubicles occupied by the newbies in the center that were ringed by glass enclosed offices for the top producers. I was one of those but only by sheer luck, I assure you.

  Commercial real estate in a town where investors disembark by the planeload on a daily basis is a barrel-based fish-shooting exercise, and I’d managed to latch onto the biggest broker in town—once he got a load of my killer smile, not to mention my legs, my tits and my willingness to let him think he seduced me when in reality it was very much the other way around.

  “Hey, Jane.”

  Speak of the devil, I thought, rolling my eyes before swiveling my uncomfortably modern leather chair around to face the man who’d saved my ass a few years ago by offering to train me as a salesperson. I waved and pointed to the phone at my ear and the computer on the desk indicating myself as ‘Super busy. Making you money. Go away now.’ Or so I hoped. He gave me his best shit-eating grin and leaned in my open doorway, indicating he would wait until I was available.

  With a sigh and an obvious neck-craning glance around him, I tried not to let my frustration show but couldn’t resist crossing my bare, tanned, worked-out legs in front of him—slowly, the way he liked it. Harrison Tucker, owner of the largest and most successful commercial brokerage firm in Southeast Michigan, came as close to resembling a panting wolf as any human could, which pleased and depressed me at the same time. Damn guy was onto his third wife, and seventh kid as recently as six months ago. And he was about as close to a combination sugar daddy fuck-buddy as I had ever gotten.

  A decent lover, Harrison preferred it quick and dirty—in semi public places with little after-chat—and that had worked for me up until about, oh six months ago when he started waving pictures of the little red-faced, ugly bawling baby around like some kind of dude who deserved to be a father. That event had coincided with me firing my most recent talk therapist in a snit over her insistence that weaning myself off the strong antidepressants I’d been taking for the past two years was delusional. “Don’t kid yourself, Jane,” the bossy, gray-haired hippy had declared while glaring down at me through a set of half-glasses set on her unmade-up face. “Your system needs them. You’ll spiral out of control—again—if you try to go without. It’s not a weakness. It’s a physical fact of your life. If you were diabetic you wouldn’t wean yourself off insulin, would you?”

  I shook my head to clear it of that memory. I’d been absolutely okay without those damn drugs. By that time, I’d whittled my dose down to half in hopes of stopping completely. They should do a scientific study of how goddamned good I was now—thinner, sharper, and more focused on my work. Harrison smirked when I uncrossed my legs and spread them a little while rolling my seat back and forth, the phone still held to my ear.

  I had cut him off cold and told him in no uncertain terms that I’d really had a lot of fun, fucking around in the office after hours, which was pretty much the extent of our encounters, but that the whole happy new daddy thing creeped me out and I needed a break. He’d been amenable then but was now moving in once more in a familiar way. I’ll admit that something in me had missed him—or at least missed how he made me feel.

  I listened to the hold music while some overpaid secretary hunted down her boss so I could relay the paltry offer on the firehouse. As I swiveled back and forth out of boredom, I sensed Harrison’s gaze, like a horny homing beacon, on the back of my neck. I cursed myself for being so easy with the guy. Realizing that was a path I’d best not travel—one of self-flagellation over my past few years’ worth of personal choices with my body—I snagged George’s card, flipped it around and tried to figure out why he’d insisted that the seller would take his offer if I handed over this little rectangle of information. It was innocuous and boring in this day and age of sexy, full color, two-sided cards full of coupons, QR codes and little social networking icons with an oh-by-the-way-this-is-my-name-and-number in the mix somewhere.

&nbs
p; George R. Lattimer, III

  FireBrew Industries

  New York, NY, it stated in classy Times New Roman. That along with a phone number I memorized and an email trey@firebrew.com graced the front. On the back: “FDNY. Never forget.” With a sigh, I tossed the card onto my messy desk, pulled the phone from my ear and glared at it, then hung up. After a quick glance over my shoulder to ascertain the big horny boss’ lingering presence, I flipped open my laptop and wrote a quick email to the attorney handling the sale, copied the contents of George’s card into the message, along with the pitiful offer, then hit send with a wince.

  Still trying to concoct an excuse to slide past the man now blocking my exit, I stood with my back to him, straightened my skirt and plucked the matching trim jacket off a hook on the wall. Using my phone as an excuse to fiddle around and not look at Harrison for a few more seconds, I tried to account for how fast my pulse raced at that moment. I figured it for anxious anger over his insistence that we reassume our positions, as it were. Or, it could be the existence of one tall, brooding, handsome new client.

  “Hello,” a deep, raspy and somehow comforting voice intoned behind me. “I’m George Lattimer the Third. And you are?” His voice went up at the end in a way indicating not so much a question but a challenge. I whirled around, astonished to find the man who’d grunted his name out to me as Trey not an hour before standing almost toe-to-toe with Harrison. I blinked fast, trying to parse the strange aura that permeated my office doorway—that of full-on, revved-up testosterone.

  Harrison drew himself up, meeting the challenge. No surprise there. He was no slouch in the alpha male department. I’d never seen the man in anything but immaculately tailored suits and ties, even when we were screwing around. He never got completely undressed, nor did I considering it was usually me bent over the desk or straddling his lap in his giant office chair. Today he wore a charcoal gray suit, my favorite, with a blue shirt and red and blue patterned tie. He was of the silver fox variety of alphas—nearly fifty-four I think—with a shock of thick gray hair and the body of a healthy twenty-five-year-old. Something I knew he took pride in and worked hard at.