Into the Flames

by Multi-Author

  “I know. I live over a strip club. It’s great rent though, and the place is huge. They’re moving out in three months anyway. Lost their lease. I’m going to list the space and already have a—”

  “It’s a fucking firetrap. Does this godforsaken city even have an inspector?”

  “How could you possibly know that? Besides, it’s safe. I mean, I got occupancy on it for the two flats upstairs, no problem.”

  “Did you?” He turned to me, still blocking all the dudes looking for some early titty action. “Or did that tool, Harrison Tucker, bribe somebody?”

  “I…” I had to stop and think about that one. “Now that you mention it, Harrison handed me the certificate of occupancy, about five years ago when he bought the place and fixed the upstairs for rent.”

  “Humph,” he snorted, then squealed out onto the street. Silence descended between us. He took a few turns too fast, jerking me around in my seat. But I kept quiet. Nothing was going to spoil this. And the vision in the driver’s seat did a lot to help me keep focused. He had on black trousers and a crisp blue shirt open at the neck. Sleeves rolled neatly half way to his elbows revealed a tantalizing tendril of some kind of body ink. I never thought of myself as a girl who got wet at the thought of a tatted up guy, but the dichotomy of it, the concept that a guy in a suit might be hiding something so utterly secret on his skin made me have to clench my thighs together a bit tighter.

  When he finally parked at one of the new riverside clubs lined with slips filled to their brims with all manner of luxury boats, a tickle of panic hit my gut. He got out, opened my door, and handed me down to the pavement. I froze, breathing in the combination of diesel, cooking odors, and the almost overpowering smell of dead fish. “I can’t get on a boat,” I said, grabbing his arm.

  “Sure you can.” He tucked my hand into his elbow and started walking, more or less dragging me toward the fancy dock. “I just bought it last week.”

  I planted my feet. He stopped, letting my hand drop from his arm. “I’m sorry, George. I don’t do boats.” My feet and hands were getting numb. I began backing up slowly, shaking my head.

  He frowned, then his face softened, leaving me breathless at its perfection and how much I was going to miss him after I got the fuck away from here. He lunged so fast I barely saw him move. In a flash, he’d snagged me and tossed me right over his shoulder like a caveman. I kicked. I screamed, flailed, and pounded his back, no longer noticing—much—how very strong it felt under my hands. He dumped me onto a soft pile of cushions and dropped down next to me, not in the least bit winded—even though he’d carried me a solid two hundred feet, and I’m no Victoria’s Secret model, size-wise.

  I shut my eyes, willing this whole thing in reverse. I would ask him like any sane person would ‘So, where are we going tonight, George?’ And he’d reply ‘To my yacht, fair maiden.’ So that I could say ‘Hell no. How about a nice casino suite instead?’

  But no, I had to trust him, and now I’m trying to decide what to do first: puke or hyperventilate.

  When he draped an arm around my shoulders, I realized I was shaking so hard my teeth were rattling. “Shh…” he whispered, his lips near my ear. That didn’t really help. “Jane, honey, it’s all right.”

  Something about that—how he said my name the way everyone else did—made tears burn my eyes. I clenched my jaw, dug deep for my inner grown up, reminded myself of the goal for tonight, then bent over my knees and puked vodka, lemon, and wheat crackers all over the shiny wooden deck.

  Looking back on it, to his credit, George didn’t even flinch. He barely made a noise, unlike some guys would have done. It was a clue, I now know, of his capacity to handle almost anything as long as it was happening to someone else.

  “Oh Christ,” I muttered, wiping my lips with trembling fingers. “Oh, God. Oh man, I am so, so sorry.”

  “Better now,” he asked, his voice low. He still had an arm around my waist as I contemplated the nasty mess I’d just made, too mortified to sit back up or meet his eyes. I closed mine, squeezing them tight shut. Then after a few quiet minutes, I leaned back and to the side into the warmth of his torso. “Well, I guess I should tell the chef to cancel the sushi?”

  Unable to even contemplate such a thing, I jumped up—avoiding the vomit splatter—hand over my mouth, waving the other one wildly in front of my face. Anger wrestled with extreme embarrassment in my brain as I watched him cross an ankle over the opposite knee, both arms now stretched across the back of the long, cushion-covered bench. With his wide smile and flashing brown eyes distracting me, I dropped both hands to my sides, chest heaving, eyes still watering.

  “What is it about you that brings out the worst in me?” My recent mishap lay between us like a talisman as well-dressed people laughed and passed by us on the dock. He just sat, head tilted, contemplating my now limp dress and screwed up hair-do. I sensed myself rushing back in time, standing in front of my father and his new wife, filthy dirty from my latest adventure in the woods and creek around our new, bigger house and being told that ‘little ladies do not act this way.’

  “I need some paper towels or something, don’t you think?”

  He raised a hand and two guys ran out clutching towels, a garbage bag, and some kind of cleaning solution. I watched, still standing, as they worked their magic. George didn’t move. His gaze remained on me the whole time, making me hyper aware of how disgusting my breath must be by now. By the time we were alone again, it had gone full dark. Torches lining the perimeter of the deck had been lit, and their flames danced merrily around us. The distinct odor of grilling meat floated by me.

  “Take me home. Please,” I said softly, never meaning anything more.

  “Why? I have a nice dinner planned, and now all that’s out of your system I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

  “I feel like the world’s biggest fool.”

  “No reason to,” he said, rising to his feet and walking over to me.

  “Don’t. I smell like a middle school lunchroom.” I backed away, wishing I’d never laid eyes on the man. I did not need this. There were plenty of men who wanted me and who didn’t reduce me to a puking, cursing, adolescent-level dork.

  He chuckled—a low, soothing, honey-over-gravel sound that sent a bolt of lust down my spine—and tucked a lock of wayward hair behind my ear. “I like it when women get real with me. Vomit and all.”

  “You’re sicker than I thought then.”

  “Well, I don’t like puke, I’ll grant you that. But it doesn’t freak me out. I’ve seen way—” He stopped, and his expression, which had opened up in a way I hadn’t seen before, clamped shut with a practically audible bang. He took deep breath. “How about a shower?” He held out a hand.

  I frowned. “I can’t. I mean, I’m all dressed up and…oh hell.”

  “Yeah. So it’s that way.” He pointed down a middle staircase. “It’s pretty nice. Take your time. Make yourself at home.” We lingered a moment. He gazed down at me with the oddest glint in his eye. I looked away first, which pissed me off, so I stomped down the steps, gripping both banisters for dear life and wondered if I reached out to what’s-his-name the Internet date guy, whether he might come and get me.

  The stairs ended in a room, a huge room, with a king-sized bed and tasteful, hotel-style furniture and decorations. Convinced the boat was rocking, even though I was slowly realizing it wasn’t, I stumbled to a door I assumed was to a bathroom and yanked it open, my equilibrium still wobbly enough to make me dizzy. I took a step inside only to find it a smallish walk-in closet filled with clothing of the masculine variety. That odd, scorched odor hit my nose again, the same one I’d experienced the night before in close proximity to George.

  As my eyes adjusted, I noted the suit from the other night neatly hung up alongside a row of khakis and jeans. Unable to resist, I leaned in and put my nose to the fabric. The combination of olfactory sensations that would become quintessentially and irrevocably ass
ociated with George Lattimer filled my head. A clean soapiness, a hint of leather, and that odd burned smell made me close my eyes and breathe it in.

  Realizing I must look like a sap, I stepped away, letting my hand trail along the row of razor-sharp pleats in the trousers and against the soft denim of the jeans. A few dress shirts—stiff and crisp from the cleaners—preceded a row of more casual polos and three rugby shirts with the letters “FDNY” emblazoned on the upper left breast like a uniform emblem. Two of them had significant rips in the shoulders. I stroked the fabric, faded from many washings, and noted the different, much stronger, fabric-softener smell at this end of the closet.

  Tucked in toward the very back were some T-shirts, most of them with brewery logos—the kind of craft brewery becoming so very chic here in Michigan lately. I got weekly calls from earnest guys, who’d show up in their jeans, tees and thick beards, hoping to snag a downtown or Midtown or even a Hamtramck property for next to nothing for their dream brewery.

  Something dark caught my eye at the farthest end of the row of clothing. After glancing back to make sure I wasn’t getting spied on while I totally scoped out his clothing inventory, I reached past the tees and snagged it, pulling it toward me. It was a slinky, red dress, made for someone three sizes smaller than myself. One glance at the tag confirmed it was in a price range three sizes larger than what I could afford, even in a good year slinging empty warehouses and office spaces. I let the fabric cascade over my fingers, marveling at its soft suppleness.

  “Hey!” George called down the steps. “You get lost? I don’t hear the shower. Try to hit the toilet if you gotta throw up again. Dinner’s ready in fifteen.”

  I bit my lip to keep from saying anything and betraying my location, deep inside his closet and fondling a dress he obviously kept around for some woman not me to wear. When I shoved it back where I’d found it, I must have jarred something on the rack above. A pile of soft clothing landed on my head, followed by a distressing and very loud thunk. As I scrambled around picking up random cotton items and shoving the shelf back onto its peg, I looked down and noted that I had a tiny, pink T-shirt in my hand. The words ‘I love my daddy. He puts out fires,’ hit my brain. But footsteps on the stairs didn’t give me time to study it. I shoved it on the reassembled shelf and hightailed it across the room and into the bathroom where I shut the door and turned, leaning against it, breathing heavy.

  He rapped on the door behind me. “You all right in there?”

  I took the few steps to the nice, luxury-style, shower and jerked the handles on. Hoping he’d get the message I was simply too busy to answer any silly questions and praying I’d returned his closet somewhat near its original state, I stepped out of shoes, dress and minimal underwear then under the steaming hot water. I had no earthly idea what was happening to me or why I even cared enough to stick around long enough to make a total fool of myself. But I had.

  Chapter Five

  By the time I emerged from the steamy bathroom, the cooking odors were surprisingly tempting. Staring down in dismay at the slinky, easy-access dress I’d chosen for the night crumpled in an ignominious pile on the floor, I spent a few seconds pondering my dilemma.

  “There’s a robe on the back of the door,” George called from somewhere. “If you want.”

  Still trying to sort out his angle and giving up in favor of convenience, I grabbed it and wrapped myself up, taking deep breaths of the George-infused thick cotton. This whole scene had devolved so hideously I felt a perverse sort of comfort in it. If the guy had wanted anywhere near my panties, he’d probably been a little put off by the puke and my bizarre behavior. Might as well eat then get myself home. Then I realized I hadn’t imparted my good news yet.

  “Hey,” I called up the steps, tying the belt and running fingers through my now hopeless hair. “I have an update for you.” I followed the smells of food, finally locating him with his back to me, stirring something on a massive stove. Leaning in the doorway a second, admiring his rear view once more, I allowed myself a brief fantasy—one involving a man like George Lattimer the Third, myself, and easy-going intimacy like this.

  He turned around and pinned me with the sort of look I hadn’t expected but didn’t really dislike. Somewhere between lusty desire and desperation, his expression made the breath catch in my throat and sent me backward a few steps without really realizing it until my butt hit the wall. We stood staring at each other across the expanse of gleaming hardwood. Finally, he seemed to give up, slouching down into himself in a kind of reflexive way I didn’t much care for.

  “What is it?” he asked, turning back to the stove.

  I gulped, pondering the possible answers to that super loaded question. “Uh…” My throat felt like ten miles of parched dessert.

  He made an annoyed sound. “Your news?”

  “Oh, right, that. You’re in. For whatever reason, they took your offer.”

  “I told you they would,” he said, dishing pasta onto two plates.

  “I thought we were dining out tonight. Whatever happened to the expensive pre-sex dinner you promised me?”

  “Spoiled much?” He put the plates on the table, poured us each a glass of wine and took a seat, not meeting my eyes.

  Confusion turned slowly to anger at his attitude. Gathering as much dignity as might remain to me, I drew myself up and crossed my arms over my chest. “You brought it up, remember?”

  “No, you brought up skipping the prelims and hopping into the sack.” He took a huge bite of food, chewed, swallowed then shot me an aggravated look. “Sit down and eat already.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a jerk on top of being borderline schizophrenic?” I sat and took a bite, surprised at the delicious combination of flavors on the fork. “This is good.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.” He kept shoveling the food into his mouth.

  “Who are you anyway, George Lattimer the Third?” I sipped my wine, deciding to slide back over to flirt mode as my body was giving me clear signals that it wanted to close whatever deal I’d come here to transact.

  He grunted, wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and reared back in his chair, his eyes hooded. I made a valiant attempt not to fixate on anything about him, but it was a losing battle. There was so much pleasant about the man—his wide shoulders, strong arms that had lifted and carried me so easily, his full lips, those dark chocolate eyes, and squared off jaw. When he snapped his fingers in front of my face, I blinked, realizing he’d spoken and I hadn’t heard a single word.

  “I said, I’m the guy you sold a crumbling, empty firehouse to, then whose clean boat deck you befouled before I offered you the use of my shower, my food and…” His eyes flicked down my front. “My robe.”

  My hands were shaking, so I clasped them together in my lap. “Yeah, all right then, to business. The seller takes your offer but wants proof you have the cash. A letter from your banker will do.”

  “No problem.” He remained in his leaning back position, studying me like a bug under a microscope. “What’s your deal about boats anyway? Spend some time kidnapped on the high seas or something?”

  “No.” I picked up my fork and speared a garlic-and-olive-oil-drenched shrimp then stuck it in my mouth, enjoying the way his frown deepened when I didn’t elaborate. I ate another bite, then another as his ire rose in an almost visible cloud over his head. I took a sip of my wine, dabbed my lips with a napkin and set it down. “Contrary to your preconceived notion of a fiction, I was not raised by a crack-whore single mom. My mom died when I was a baby, and my father pulled a bit of a Cinderella on me and married a very rich, very nasty woman with an equally nasty son. They were into sailing, and I hated it. It terrified me, but I was forced to engage in it. Kind of like the eight week summer camps I got shipped off to, the horses they made me ride, the stupid fucking country club life they made me live.”

  “Huh,” he said, before resuming his inhalation of the food. We ate for a while i
n silence. When his plate was empty, George looked at me. “How did you escape such a horrible situation, poor baby?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, unwilling to let on how much his words bugged me. “I ran off with the college kid who sold me weed my senior year of high school. We moved to Vegas. He played guitar in some bar for a while, and I waited tables. I made good money. He never did, and one day, he just didn’t come home from whatever gig he was supposedly working. Which was fine. I didn’t like him. I just liked what he represented for me—escape.” I took a bite of salad, embarrassed at how lame I sounded.

  “Escape, huh,” he said, driving that embarrassment deeper.

  “Listen, George, I’m not really interested in—”

  “I know,” he said, getting to his feet so fast it startled me. When he grabbed my hand and pulled me up with him, the bizarre switch of mood in the room made me dizzy. Or maybe it was just the damn boat. “You don’t do small talk.” He kept pulling me until our bodies touched, even though somewhere in the back of my mind I thought I should resist. But he was so warm, so tall, so….

  His lips covered mine, shutting out everything—logic, worry, embarrassment. Everything disappeared in a whirl of need combined with relief. The kiss was slow starting, testing me I supposed, but deepened into something significant as I parted my lips and put my arms around his neck. I had to go up on my tiptoes in my bare feet but never in my sexual history had I felt so utterly perfect in a man’s arms. Sappy, I know but one hundred percent true.

  He broke the kiss and put his finger to my lips. His eyes had gone midnight dark, and there was no mistaking the press of his erection against my stomach. “You’re something else, aren’t ya, Harriet?”

  I shrugged, trying to get my body to calm but not wanting to do that—wanting this man to go further, faster, harder—the sooner the better. He grinned and let the finger slide across my jaw, down my neck, and to my shoulder where he peeled the robe down and put a line of tingly little kisses where his fingertip had just been. Shivering, I threaded my fingers in his hair, aware of the combined sounds of our breathing.