Into the Flames

by Multi-Author

  “All right. My turn.” I cleared my throat too loudly and lifted my glass of expensive wine, unwilling to admit how close he’d come to nailing my actual background. “Rich, upstate New York parent’s divorce when you’re ten, spoiling you for relationships. You drop out of high school after knocking up the prom queen, hitch your way west, settle in California and make a shit ton of money as a paid escort. When your syphilitic dick falls off, you make a zillion dollars suing the condom company for failing to perform. You move back to New York to open some obscure consulting firm, hide your money in Cancun and start buying up shitty Detroit property because somebody told you it’s the cool thing to do right now. ‘FireBrew’…” I used the finger hook air quotes again. “Is some kind of lame ass euphemism for how your genitals felt as they shriveled up and died from the very venereal disease that made you rich enough to buy a three hundred and seventy-five dollar bottle of fermented grapes.” I sipped my drink again, which went a long way toward calming the rage that threatened to burst out of my chest right then. “Little do you know I’m a pretty fucking cheap date. Oh, wait, you knew that already. Never mind.”

  George blinked and burst out laughing so loudly people turned to glare at him. As I attempted not to launch myself across the table and stab him in the eye with a fork, the food arrived. “Whew…damn,” he said, swiping at his eyes and still chuckling. “You are good.” He pointed the giant steak knife at me. “Really, touché, my dear.”

  “Fuck off,” I said, determined to not speak another word to him, eat and get the hell home. I’d never felt so utterly conflicted and contradictory about a man before. Men to me were useful, eye candy, flesh toys, fun to mess around with and easy to discard. I had only entertained one boyfriend briefly. He’d been into the whole spanky-tie-me-up-ice-cubes-on-my-nipples shit that had been fun for about three months until he’d gone overboard, demanding that I dress, talk, and act a certain way to suit him.

  Now, I loved nothing more than a long day at the office making money, putting on my party clothes and heading out to exercise the power I held over a room the second I walked into it. Luring men into my bed was easier than anything I’d ever done. Thanks to my drug-free system I was able to stay focused on my exercise regimen and had worked myself into an alluring five-foot-nine-inch, size eight-bordering-on-ten but with my curves in all the right places.

  I touched the napkin to my lips, barely tasting what was probably an excellent dinner. For his part, my date kept silent, shoveling in food, drinking his allotted two glasses of expensive wine, and ignoring me in a way that made me wish he would speak—so I could ignore him.

  * * *

  My mind was already on the hot shower and warm PJs I required after this bizarre day, but my skin still tingled, and I knew my face must be flushed red like it does when I've had too much to drink. After he screeched into the parking lot where I’d directed him, a block behind and over from my actual building, my new client and impromptu date jumped out and walked around to help me down from my high perch in his SUV. "Thanks," I said, trying not to let on how close one of my ankles came to folding in on itself when I landed. "That was...weird. But dinner was nice. I'll follow up with the seller's attorney tomorrow and let you—hey!"

  He'd not let go of my hand. Instead he yanked me close and not in any nice way either. I could smell the wine and coffee on his breath plus a strange sort of smoky odor that seemed to be coming from his thick brown hair. I'd already decided this guy was not getting anywhere near my bed, or couch, or floor for that matter. He would be high maintenance I sensed—over-protective with a distinct overlay of bossy. Of course, the press of his firm torso against mine brought the hours of fevered fantasy I'd been living with since laying eyes on him earlier that day spilling into my brain. Plus the remembered glimpse of the tattoos on his arms I got when he rolled his dress sleeves up before remembering he wanted to keep covered.

  In a hot second, I changed my mind, smiled and let myself go a little limp in his arms, thoughts of showers and PJs turned to silk sheets and trying to remember if I'd restocked my condom stash. But he just shook me like you would a recalcitrant toddler.

  "What the fuck? Ouch!" He grabbed my face, and for a scary moment, I thought he might pucker up and kiss me with my mouth all contorted like a fish.

  Great, he's a freak too. Probably has a big toe fetish or something equally gross.

  He tightened his grip more and more until my mouth was forced open. When he stuck his fingers between my lips, I thought I would gag and puke on him—just to end on a high note—then hit him with the mace in my purse somehow. I was working that out in my drunk brain when I realized he'd gone for my chewing gum. He snagged it, frowned at it, and tossed it over his shoulder. After giving me one more shake, he let go.

  "Jesus, what is your problem?" I rubbed my sore cheeks.

  He leaned against the SUV door; smiling again and making me do a third-guess about letting him fuck me.

  "It's the chewing. I have a thing about it. I hate it. It makes me crazy." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone—something I'd not see him do all day. Beyond bizarre if he were the head of whatever the hell FireBrew Enterprises was. "Well, we need our beauty sleep." He smiled and thumbed my chin then started around the car.

  "Hang on a goddamned minute," I spluttered after him. "I didn't notice you absorbing your meal via osmosis earlier."

  "You chew gum like a little kid, Harriet. It's annoying. Don't do it anymore, okay?" He gave me what I assumed was an ironic salute, got into his giant vehicle and gunned it out of the lot, leaving me standing in an empty lot surrounded by empty buildings. By the time I got inside, shaking, breathless, and more turned on than I'd been in my adult life, which is saying something I assure you, he'd sent me a text:

  Harriet,

  Thanks for your help today and for joining me at dinner. I expect to have a positive response from your seller by noon tomorrow. And dinner is at 8. Dress up.

  Trey

  I laughed and tossed the phone on the cluttered kitchen island. "Dream on, dreamboat," I said, flipping off the phone while simultaneously pondering my wardrobe for possible dressing up attire. After regaining some equilibrium from a long, hot bath, a bit of personal time with my latest tiny vibrator toy and a cup of hot tea, I replied:

  George,

  I hope you're right about the offer, but I wouldn't hold your breath. They’ve rejected much higher offers before. As for dinner, I don't think I'm in the mood for more foreplay. How about you just come over here and we work out some kind of mutually beneficial playtime? Oh, and it's

  JANE

  Shocked at myself, I stared at it for a half second and hit send.

  Within about ten seconds I had my reply:

  Harriet,

  I expect a nice dinner, a bottle of wine and some decent dessert before I decide to rock your world with my skills. And I have them. You'll be screaming my name within seconds, and that is a promise. But AFTER dinner, if you think you can manage it.

  TREY

  I giggled, decided not to answer him and dropped onto the couch, relieved things had returned to a level I understood and wanted—or thought I wanted. We’d fuck, probably more than once. He’d move on. That would be that—fine and dandy with me. Hours later, I woke in a cold sweat after a half-remembered nightmare about being caught in a burning house, choking on smoke that I suddenly realized was the smell I’d caught a whiff of for some reason, on George's skin and hair.

  Chapter Four

  “Why are you trying so hard,” Lucy asked as she sipped her beer and watched me primping the next night. “You said he was a jerk. We swore off jerks, remember?”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said, turning my head to check my make up one last time. “I don’t know really. He’s…interesting?”

  “Lord,” my oldest friend in the world muttered. “You’re hooked. Well done, Mister Mystery Jerk.” She held up her bottle then wandered down the short hallway
to the living room.

  “Are you drunk already?” I fixed sparkling diamond earrings in my lobes—my first expensive guilt-gift from Harrison—and checked my teeth one last time. For some reason, the memory of George’s fingers gripping my cheeks hard enough to force me to open my mouth flashed around my brain, making my skin tingle.

  “No,” Lucy said from her position on the couch, staring at the television. “But I will be shortly.” She burst into tears.

  “Oh, honey,” I said, a little put out that she’d chosen this moment to lose her shit over a guy. “He’ll be back. He’s crazy about you.”

  “No, he won’t. He said he was never coming back,” she sniveled. “I’m sorry. I’m in no position to give dating advice. I have my own jerk to pine over.”

  “Please.” I waved my hand and sat down next to her, plunking my newly pedicured feet on the secondhand coffee table slash work surface. “Dante is a doll, an absolute perfect specimen on every level. Remember, we decided that together?” I patted her knee, jealous as shit over my friend’s timing the night she walked into a TGI Friday’s on a whim and met the future doctor man of her dreams, sitting at the bar nursing a broken heart and a beer.

  “Yeah, well, he hates me now. I’m too…”

  “White?” I asked, aggravated at him for making her miserable for no reason.

  “Bitch,” she muttered.

  “Here,” I said, handing her a tissue. “Your nose is all snotty. That will never do. I’m willing to bet he shows up tonight after his ER shift, all humble in his wrinkly scrubs and ready to make it up to you with that awesome set of oral skills.”

  She shifted on the couch. “Maybe. I don’t care. I’m sick and tired of him getting all pissed off that he loves me and I’m not black. Jesus, I can’t help it. Why is it such an issue? Besides, I haven’t showered in at least two days, so I doubt he’ll be visiting me down south even if he does show.”

  I got up, all tingly again at the prospect of finally peeling off George Lattimer’s clothes and seeing what he had to offer me. I had to do this, I reasoned, putting touches of expensive perfume behind my ears and on my wrists. Getting him out of my system was job one, and the best way I’d found to do that with any man was to let him fuck me. Then I got bored. Easy.

  For some reason, I looked down at the dresser surface cluttered with receipts, pens, business cards, and other random crap I really ought to tidy up. I picked up a silk scarf I’d discarded a few days ago after work. That movement sent something rolling across the surface and to the floor with a bounce. I sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed it—a prescription bottle still full of the tiny little pills that were supposed to help me but to my mind did the exact opposite.

  My boss out in Vegas had been the one to send me to the doctor, insisting I talk about my compulsive, risky behavior and wild mood swings that would have me wishing I could dance on tables one minute and crawl under them and cry the next. “I think you gals should have as much sex as you want,” he’d said, his face nearly invisible from the constant haze of cigarette smoke. “But you’re out of control, Janey.” He’d leaned forward on his desk, eyes squinty, cig dangling from the corner of his lips.

  “How do you know?” I’d been defensive, shocked, but not really caring much.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he’d said, leaning back again and putting his feet up. “You’re one of my best servers, but fucking your way through the rest of my servers, the Sous chef, and nearly breaking up my hot-shit-famous chef’s marriage might be what some folks would call a red flag.”

  I’d flicked out my hair and crossed my legs, going into flirty deflection mode. But my heart had been pounding faster with his every word. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, boss.”

  “Spare me the crotch shot, young lady. I’m the oldest queer in this fucking town. I like you, Jane, so I’m worried. Do me a favor, and go see my doctor. I’ll tell him you’re coming and why.” He’d flipped a business card across his desk at me. “I know a manic depressive acting out when I see one.”

  “Oh?” I’d stood, knees knocking, terrified of losing this prime job where I had indeed worked my way through the staff and all the way up to the pseudo-celebrity chef.

  “How old are you, really?” He’d lit a fresh smoke from the embers of the other one.

  “Twenty…five.”

  “Liar.”

  I’d dropped back into the seat. This man had taken a chance on me. After a year’s worth of working a shitty-ass resort buffet, then a crappy diner—only able to eat thanks to the reduced price meals I got—I’d been desperate but damned if I’d run home with my tail between my legs. I’d hook first. God knows that was a going concern, moneymaking wise. He’d sat at one of my diner tables one morning at nearly four a.m. and chatted me up. Thinking it could be another fun encounter with an older guy, I’d played along. When he slid his card across the table to me before he pecked my cheek and sauntered out at six a.m. I’d had to do a double take at it.

  And so, my boss, the legendary restaurateur Martin Shaughnessy, had sat glaring at me as I’d sat trying not to cry. No one in my entire life had ever shown me as much positive attention in a nonsexual way. My father had ignored me. My stepmother and brother had hated me. I’d never managed to find any real friends. “Fine,” I’d said, getting back up.

  “Good,” he’d smiled and waved me out. He was a busy guy after all. I’d gone, gotten doped to the gills, promised all sorts of miracles with regards to my attitude, my constant low-lying anxiety, the urgency with which I’d been hopping from bed to bed. What I’d gotten instead was a fifteen-pound weight gain and the sort of woozy, sleepwalking feeling that I’d have to slam back sugary energy drinks to keep at bay.

  By the time I’d met, seduced, and been rescued by Harrison, I’d stopped taking the damn things. When I’d moved back to Michigan and begun learning the ropes of commercial real estate, I’d found a new doc, and a therapist thanks to my boss’ generosity with insurance.

  I turned the little orange-colored pill bottle over and over in my hand, biting my lip, wishing I were a better person.

  “I’m really worried about it this time,” Lucy called out from the hall. I stuffed the full bottle under a pillow. I’d never told her about my emotional weaknesses. It would have served no good purpose.

  “No reason to be,” I replied, unwilling to remind her that every single time he’d left before, he’d returned contrite, eager to please, and in love. “Get the good stuff out. Time for our toast.” I emerged from my bedroom, hand on hip, lips pursed.

  With a grin, she pulled a bottle of imported vodka from the freezer and two shot glasses out of the dishwasher. I grabbed the precut lemons and handed her one after she poured us each a healthy portion.

  “To boyfriends who love to eat out,” I said, lifting my glass. “I mean after your shower. Gross.”

  “And to no more boss fucking,” she said. “Even if it means letting yourself fall for some strange jerk.” I frowned but squeezed a lemon slice into my mouth then downed the shot.

  She poured us another. “I’m not falling for anyone, Luce.” But something about the trip-hammer way my heart had been pounding all day long belied that brave talk. I hadn’t looked forward to a date this much in years. “Well, I’ll fall into the sack with him, that much is guaranteed. He claims he has skills guaranteed to make me scream. And I’ll bet he’s hung. I can just tell.”

  “Slut,” Lucy said amenably, holding up her second shot.

  “Takes one to know one,” I responded with a grin. “Now, go get your shower. And don’t wait up for me.” I slipped my feet into teetering, high-heeled sandals. “How do I look?” I turned, anxious since I’d put on a few pounds during my latest bout of medicated responsibility and had to pull out something dressy from the size-up end of the closet.

  “Like a million bucks, sweetie,” Lucy said, pouring herself a third shot. “Have fun. Let the poor guy down gently—I mean after
he fucks your brains out of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, grabbing a tiny gold handbag, checking to make sure I’d stashed condoms away for later. I felt alive, fairly humming with energy. I loved this moment—the edge of the erotic, the anticipation of the deed. Sometimes I think once said deed was accomplished, it triggered a kind of addiction in me—I needed more of that feeling, not the one that meant breakfasts in bed or walks in the park.

  I liked challenges. Trey Lattimer—George—was all that and a bag of chips. No wonder I was so revved up. I honestly felt as if my skin was shimmering and sparks might fly off the tips of my fingers. Plus I had some shocking good news for him. Harrison had called me himself to let me know—and fish around for my evening plans. The sound of his baby squalling in the background went a long way toward reminding me that shaking him loose should be at the top of my to-do list, once I got Georgie-boy between my legs of course.

  One project at a time, I said to myself, checking my watch for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes.

  When the text came stating he was five minutes out, I decided to make him wait a bit. It wouldn’t do to let on how eager I was after all. Exactly eight minutes later I got another text:

  “Hurry the hell up. I told you I was almost there. I’m triple parked.”

  “Well, Mister Wonderful is demanding my presence,” I called down the hall.

  “Have a great time, Jane,” Lucy said, sticking her head out of her bedroom door. “Condoms? Panties? Tiny toothbrush?”

  “Check.” I opened the door and traipsed down the four rickety flights, emerging out into the still sultry night air. I spotted George’s giant vehicle, waved and made my way between two sets of waiting automobiles, then climbed up into my seat. For a few seconds, I didn’t realize he was practically seething, but the longer we sat, not moving, the clearer it became. “What?” I asked, peering around, wondering what his problem could be.

  “That building—it’s…” He was white knuckling the steering wheel so I put my palm on one of his hands on impulse or maybe reflex.