Into the Flames

by Multi-Author

  I watched the men glare at each for a few seconds. Then Harrison recovered himself, smiled and held out a hand. “Hello, George. I’m Harrison Tucker.” He said the name firmly, reminding everyone in the vicinity that it was the name on the classy granite sign out front and the one on our commission checks. The unspoken: This is my office bought with my money and that in there is my female. I’ve pissed on her leg plenty, so back down, cowboy, ricocheted around the three of us for a few awkward moments.

  Trey or George or whatever his name, narrowed his eyes a moment, shot a glance in my direction as if to ask ‘you all right?’ then took Harrison’s outstretched hand a second after what might be considered polite. My ears were burning by this point, furious at the two of them for acting like a couple of chest-pounding gorillas. Although another, smaller, more selfish part of me kind of liked it.

  Stop it, Jane. You’re an independent woman. These men are evolutionarily befuddled jackasses. Don’t encourage it.

  I sucked in a breath and resisted the urge to preen. It was harder than I expected, which made my heart pound with something like confusion.

  God damn it woman, men do not confuse you. You confuse them. Got it?

  Deciding to interrupt the tableau, I cleared my throat. Both men turned at the exact same time. Knees shaking, I put a hand on the back of my chair. “So, I sent your offer over, George,” I said, working hard to keep the strange quiver out of my voice. “I couldn’t get Granger on the phone, Harrison.” I addressed the slightly taller of the two men directly, referencing the attorney/seller. “Emailed it.”

  “He’s probably on the golf course,” Harrison said. Taking a step inside my space directly in front of George, he turning to face the other man. “You’re interested in the firehouse, eh, George? Would love to unload that thing, I won’t kid you. It’s on the verge of being condemned and then all that work Jane here has done for the last few years on it will be down the drain.” He moved to stand next to me, his large palm cupping my elbow. I flinched. He tightened his grip.

  George stood up straighter, his eyes flashing and taking in Harrison, his hand, my elbow, our proximity. Unable to stop myself, I took a tiny step to my left away from the boss-man, who was doing everything in his power to establish some kind of weird claim on me. George’s eyes flickered around, seeming to take in everything about my office, before settling on Harrison’s left hand, the one still hanging at his side.

  Harrison shoved the hand with the platinum wedding band into his trouser pocket and let go of my elbow. The whole thing took maybe six seconds, but it left me breathless.

  What in the hell was going on right now? Why in the world did near stranger George ‘Trey’ Lattimer the Third think he needed to play big brother protector for me with my lecherous, hyper-sexed up boss? I had this thing under control. He needed to back off.

  Harrison cleared his throat and moved further away from me. George stayed completely silent, yet somehow his silence spoke louder than any of the babbled words coming from Harrison’s mouth; words I didn’t even hear. Taking a minute to study the man filling my office doorway, I came to the conclusion, based on a few months spent working in an upscale men’s clothing store, that Georgie-boy was not totally comfortable in that dark suit. While we’d been in the firehouse he’d buttoned and unbuttoned his coat too much, shot his cuffs a lot and tugged at the tie which was had been arranged in a small and tidy four-in-hand knot, something not many men could pull off.

  While Harrison kept filling the air with nonsense, something about ‘too much deferred maintenance’ and ‘might be a bit of a white elephant,’ I kept my gaze on the man whose deep brown eyes rested with a sort of light amusement on my boss, listening, while his body language spoke volumes about his inattention. I noted that the dark summer-weight wool fabric strained at George’s shoulders, as if the suit weren’t his but borrowed from someone a whole lot less broad across the back. Now, he stayed completely still, in contrast to his earlier fidgeting with the collar, cuffs, and buttons, as if sensing my epiphany about his dress-up clothes.

  “Well,” I said, interrupting Harrison’s nervous stream of consciousness nonsense. “I’m headed out.” Unsure how to announce that I was ‘headed out’ with yon hunkster at the door, who was one, much closer to my age, and two, a prime specimen, rather than an aging, slightly desperate and still married one. I needed this job. Hell, I liked it. Despite my own likely ill-advised hookups with the man who’d found me waitressing in Vegas, picked me up, fucked me six ways to Sunday, then hired me and moved me back to my home state of Michigan. He was great at the hooking up. I was a grown woman, not on the make to be the next Missus Tucker. It worked for us.

  Why are you self-justifying any of this, Jane? My inner strong female nattered in my ear. I shook my head again. The inner voice—the Harriet in me—was one I lived with now that I’d cleared my bloodstream of the stultifying happy pills. They didn’t make me happy. They made me dopey and slow and fat. But without them, my inner Harriet was a real fucking nag.

  Determined to get out of this weird triangle and on my way—where? I didn’t care; as long as it was with George, I shot him what I hoped was a pointed look. The man in question straightened from his slouchy nonchalance in the doorway as I made my way away from Harrison and toward him. His full lips parted in a smile that made me feel safe in an odd way.

  “Well, I’ll catch you tomorrow, Jane?” Harrison’s voice lifted slightly, matching George’s from earlier in the not-a-question-more-a-challenge sort of way. I barely heard him when George held out his elbow again, I tucked my hand into it and we exited the place together, every set of eyes on us.

  Chapter Three

  “You should be more careful,” George said as he handed me up into the passenger’s seat of his massive, red SUV. Once I’d managed it—clumsily—in my heels and flopped into the soft leather seat, he opened his door, slid behind the wheel and touched the ignition button. As the engine purred to life, I tried to find something to do with my hands—folded, touching my hair, folded again.

  “How’s that?” I asked when he glanced at me before putting the truck into gear. “D’you mean Harrison?” I waved my hand, aware of it flapping around goofily between us. “He’s harmless.” I clasped my fingers together once more, cursing this near stranger for making me feel like some zit-faced virgin on prom night. I pulled my phone from my bag and focused on it, shooting a text to my roommate telling her I had a date with a smoking hot new client and she should be very jealous. I grinned at her reply: ‘Save some of him for me, bitch.’

  “No, I’m not really worried about him,” George said, which stated a lot of things at once. He eased the vehicle out into the light traffic.

  “Where are we going? You aren’t from here, right?” I freshened my lip-gloss for something else to do with my nervous fingers.

  “I know a place,” he said, back to the muttering guy I first met as he focused on the road.

  “So, what do you mean?” I finally asked, sick of the sudden silent treatment.

  He gave me a weird side-glance before refocusing on the road. “You shouldn’t get into cars with strange men and let them just take you somewhere they ‘know about’.” He stopped at a light and turned the full force of his shockingly handsome face toward me. “It’s unwise for a young lady such as yourself.”

  I frowned. “Well, so this is goodbye then? I’m as good as tossed in the Detroit River? Jesus, George, I’m not afraid of you. I’m going with my gut. It’s served me well so far.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow and a corner of the lips that I wanted to kiss so badly my mouth watered. But I matched his stance—sardonic, wise, and as un-naïve as I could muster—while my heart slammed around in my chest like a moth trapped under a jar. With a chuckle, he faced the windshield and drove on. I mimicked him, never more aware of two feet of space between myself and another human being.

  We ended up down on the river at a new restaurant; a glittery, expe
nsive one with panoramic views and parking for boats along a new wharf. “I’m not really dressed for—”

  “You look fine,” he said as he handed me down onto the pavement.

  “Oh, well, gee thanks. Don’t fall all over yourself with compliments or anything.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and smoothed my skirt. I wasn’t dressed for this place at all but what the hell. I had a feeling this wasn’t about dinner as much as a bit of show-off foreplay.

  Behave yourself, my inner Harriet spoke up loud and clear. This one’s a keeper.

  I bit my lip, tasting gloss and asked her to shut the hell up, nicely—all inside my head, of course.

  He grunted a non-reply and proffered his elbow again like some kind of dashing hero in a nineteen forties movie. I ignored him this time and walked ahead, clicking along the walk and swaying my hips, doing my mating dance. It was all going in one direction and I wasn’t averse, so why not play my part?

  When he grabbed my elbow and steered me toward the door a little rougher than I thought was necessary, I yanked myself out of his grip. “Listen, I don’t know what kind of one-upmanship-bullshit you were playing at in my office, but I don’t need your help, your protection or your advice, okay George?”

  We were blocking the door in a pretty obvious way, glaring at each other. He shrugged, opened the door and walked in ahead of me. Bastard.

  Well, you are acting like a bitch, Harriet reminded me, helpfully.

  I caught up with him at the elaborate hostess station, noting the way the sweet young things raked my date with their collective eyeballs. “Rude much?” I whispered as they twittered about trying to accommodate his non-reservation demand for a window seat.

  He continued ignoring me and led the way, following the hostess as she gave her hip swing a lot more effort than I had just done. She placed our tasteful but sparse menus on the table, shot my date a smoky look then took off. Glaring after her, I fumed. Realizing the man was not going to pull out my chair for me I seriously contemplated telling him to shove his expensive dinner and take me to his hotel so we could get on with the agenda.

  He was occupied with shucking himself out of the too-tight suit coat, unbuttoning his top shirt button and loosening his tie with a loud sigh of relief. I glanced around at the suited up and cocktail dressed crowd. When he dropped into his seat and met my gaze, his eyes were full of amusement.

  “Gonna join me or what?” He gestured to the empty chair. My stomach growled. He leaned back with a smirk. “Sounds like you’d better hurry.”

  “Fuck you,” I muttered under my breath as I dropped gracelessly into the seat. Waiters materialized, filled our water glasses and asked about drinks. “I’ll have a—”

  “Two bourbons, Pappy Van Winkle. I assume you have it,” he interrupted, leaving me with my mouth hanging open. “Two ice cubes each. Thanks. We’ll order wine with dinner.”

  “I’m not…” I was a bourbon drinker but there was no way on this earth I’d let him know it.

  “Spare me,” he said as he glanced down at the menu. I didn’t know what to say to that. There were so many great responses I ended up discarding them all in favor of looking at the meal options. When the waiter brought our two and a half inches of brown liquor over fancy round ice balls—at what I knew damn well was something approaching seventy-five bucks each ball—I grabbed mine and threw it back in one gulp, never taking my gaze from his, contra to everything I knew about enjoying a good sipping bourbon.

  He raised his eyebrow and a hand. “The lady needs another, please,” he said to the waiter. “Better make it a double.”

  “You’re a bossy asshole,” I said, turning the empty glass around on the tablecloth and relishing the warmth spreading down my throat and filling my chest.

  “Yeah, well, you aren’t the first person to call me that,” he said. “What’re you having?” He set the single sheet menu aside and sipped his drink, his eyes gone flat as the twinkling amusement with me vanished.

  “What? You won’t be ordering for me? Let me rest my pretty little mind and think about something else, like what lipstick color to buy next?”

  He shrugged, sipped and looked around the room, leaving me to my snit. I gripped the menu so hard it crinkled in my sweaty palm. “Listen, George.” I put extra emphasis on the name. His eyebrow arched. I nodded my thanks to the eager waiter who placed my double bourbon in front of me, then pushed it aside so I could place my elbows on the table. “I have to tell you, I’ve been the super-dominant boyfriend route. It didn’t exactly suit me.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What d’you want to eat?” He shot me a look of such utter boredom and indifference it nearly propelled me off the chair and out the door. “I’ll have the triple-seared Japanese Kobe. Double up the rice paper, please. The biggest baked potato you can find for me, and the sautéed spinach.” He handed the menu to the waiter. “Dear?” he asked me.

  I bit the inside of my cheek.

  What was it about this guy? Pissing me off and being an insolent asshole one second and a protective daddy-figure the next?

  “Uh, the plank salmon please, with saffron rice and salad. Thank you.” I smiled at the waiter and mentally calculated as I always did, what kind of a tip he’d make off our little twosome. Years of waiting tables everywhere, from diners to five-star celebrity chef penthouse joints, will do that to you.

  “And for your wine choice,” the waiter said, not catching the go-the-fuck-away vibe my dinner companion was currently throwing—something I learned to pick up on in Vegas: waiting on way too many men treating women not their wives to five hundred dollar dinners. “May I suggest—”

  “No, you may not.” George’s voice cut through the conversations at the tables closest to us. “Marcassin Pinot Noir.” He was looking out over the river as he spoke. I sensed the waiter’s mental cha-ching, even though his words ‘excellent choice, sir,’ were probably the same if we’d ordered his finest boxed wine.

  “Wow,” I said once the guy had finally walked away. “All this and a wine snob too?”

  George flinched as if he’d forgotten I was sitting across from him, much less had the nerve to interrupt his study of the Windsor skyline. “What? Oh, no, not really.” He shrugged and picked up his bourbon. His face had gone pensive. I tried to relax. A genteel sip of my second bourbon helped. “I just know what I like and I’ve never really been able to afford it…until recently.” The last words he mumbled into his ice cubes. After putting the rocks glass down with a firm thunk, he narrowed his eyes at me. “I don’t like that guy you’re fucking.”

  The bourbon shot down my windpipe at my surprised inhalation. It burned a path into my lungs, sending tears streaming down my cheeks and the causing the wait staff to scurry over with water and Heimlich maneuver offers. I waved them away and got myself under control, despite the pain and embarrassment.

  “I have no idea how that’s any of your business,” I managed to say after nearly a full minute. “God.” I flopped back, suddenly wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for hours. This day must have lasted a week already. “You are something else altogether aren’t you, George?”

  “Trey,” he muttered, fiddling with his glass.

  “Right. You know ‘Trey,’” I hooked my fingers in the air, “just reeks of frat bro. You should probably outgrow that phase, even if they were your peak years.” I took a tentative drink of the bourbon, unwilling to waste it since I figured I’d need to be drunk to get through this farce of a date.

  He snorted, giving me yet another once-over with those chocolate brown eyes. “I’m pretty sure being in a fraternity requires attending college. That rules me out.” He lifted his nearly empty glass to me. “Now it’s your turn, Harriet. What’s your major?”

  I hesitated. The myriad fake histories I’d bestowed upon the various men I’d seduced and forgotten floated across my brain, each one of them more ridiculous than the last. I was pretty cre
ative, using them as a protective barrier around myself. The less those walking dildos knew about my real life, the better. I wasn’t particularly interested in theirs either. Just what sort of ride they might provide before we went our proverbial separate ways the next morning.

  “Well, since we’re playing twenty questions,” I deflected, still unsure why I was actually considering telling this dude, a total stranger to me not twelve hours ago, my real story. “No college for me, either.” I sipped; alarmed when I noticed I’d made pretty short work of the second, healthier, pour of the expensive brown liquor.

  “No, you didn’t strike me as the college type,” he quipped, smiling briefly when the wine bottle was presented to him. He sniffed the cork, accepted the tiny pour, swirled it around, and took a sip as I absorbed what would be an insult, except that somehow, I didn’t feel insulted. The waiter filled our wine glasses and whisked away the empty rocks ones. “Let me guess,” George said, staring into the deep burgundy recesses of his wine. “Single mom has too many grabby boyfriends, there’s no money for college, you eek out an associate’s degree, but have no luck finding jobs other than waiting tables. So, you took what little dough you had and hightailed it overseas on a Eurrail pass, slept in hostels and had sex with more strangers than you want to admit. Then one night, you somehow met that douchebag, Tucker, when he was slumming at some Dutch, Eurotrash club, let him get you drunk then fuck you, and lo and behold he ‘finds’ a job for you that you happen to be good at. Double bonus to him, I guess.”

  The term ‘jaw-dropping’ had never really held much meaning to me until that moment. I sensed heat rising from my neck up my face. “You…are…I’m…not…” I had to force myself to stop sounding like the village idiot. His wry, crooked smile softened his words a bit.