Into the Flames

by Multi-Author

I grabbed Lucy’s hand and threaded my fingers through hers. “I’m so gonna miss you, Miss Luce.”

  She stopped giggling and turned to look at me. “I’m not dying, Janey. I’m not even moving out of the city. Jesus. Our place is all of ten minutes from here.”

  “Yeah….but you know. You’ll be busy trying to get knocked up so he won’t leave you and shit.”

  “Shut up, bitch,” she said, kissing my knuckles and then whacking me with a pillow.

  “Ow!” I squealed and reached over her for the other one. By the time Dante came back to tell us he had to go home and get some sleep, the room was awash with feathers.

  “Ladies,” he said. “Are you still in here? Alive?”

  “Yeah,” I said from the corner where I’d collapsed in a drunken, giggling heap, unable to move. “You taking her?” I pointed to Lucy, who was snoring on the bed, face down.

  “Nah, you get to hold her hair while she throws up. Have fun! See you both tomorrow night.”

  “Night,” I called, waving, willing the room to stop spinning. I got to my hands and knees, crawled to the bathroom, and passed out on the cool, generic white tile floor. I woke to the sounds of throwing up. Lucy was in my shower, fully dressed and puking her guts out. I pulled her out. After helping her strip down and dry off, I tucked her into my bed with a kiss and promises that Dante had left already so he could get to work on time.

  Finding myself awake and still a little tipsy, I wandered through the gloomy main room, touching boxes and sipping water while trying to come to terms with the change—no, changes—I had made and would continue to make in the coming days. I’d already asked around about moving my license and felt pretty good about setting up shop and bringing a few clients with me to Harrison’s closest competitor, a national chain with a sleek office in the Renaissance Center on the river. Once I’d clarified that I was not actually Harrison’s wife, which seemed to be a common misconception, I had two brokers calling and emailing me non-stop, promising me commission splits and bonuses out the wazoo.

  For his part, Harrison had been relentless, even a little desperate, trying to get me to answer his calls and texts. But I’d made Lucy a promise, and I knew she was right. Going out and getting laid when I felt like it was all well and good, but the thing with the older married boss man had to stop—it was unfair to womankind to take someone else’s man, even if the whole thing had been his idea. While he’d no longer be my boss or my broker, I wasn’t about to use that as an excuse to keep falling back into the same old shit behavior with him.

  Time to woman up—grow up—and prove to myself that I was good at this job without having the specter of what if over my head. The ‘What if Harrison hadn’t met me at that bar’ thing kept me up some nights even after I’d spent almost five years learning the ropes, making mistakes, then making serious money and earning a reputation as a pro in an industry full of lazy assholes. I spent a brief moment wondering what box I’d tossed my anti-depressants into, thinking maybe the do-over should involve giving those damn things longer than a few months to actually work.

  When sleep eluded me well after four a.m., I opened my laptop, blessed the gods of fast Internet, and decided to dive into what I’d been avoiding. After typing in ‘George Lattimer III,’ I hesitated, wondering if I really wanted to know any more about him than I already did. He’d avoided me completely while I did my ninja move out, and then into the new place. But I’ll admit wishing he’d call, or text, or something, just to check on me.

  With a snort of disgust, I hit the return bar and watched as photos, videos, and words filled my small screen, changing my world forever.

  * * *

  “Hey.” Someone was poking my shoulder. “Get up. I need a ride home.” Lucy sat clutching a glass of water and looking miserable.

  “God, what time is it?” I rolled and spilled myself onto the bare hardwood with a groan. The light was angling in, but it confused me since I hadn’t spent mornings in the new place and couldn’t get oriented.

  “Nine,” she said. “Come on. I need to sleep in my own bed.”

  I drove her home, then stopped for coffee and a muffin at the new hipster grocery store chain before parking in the underground lot and schlepping a couple of bags of expensive goodies up the clean, austere stairwell. Deciding to take advantage of the pleasant summer day, I opened the windows in lieu of the central air, cranked some music, and set myself to the task of putting the damn place in order by nightfall.

  I nearly accomplished it, the only thing lacking was the stupid, flatpack kitchen table I’d opened once every single box was emptied, broken down, and placed in the parking lot-level recycling dumpster. Figuring that four o’clock was close enough to five, I opened up a bottle of wine and poured my first glass, humming along with Sheryl Crow and admiring my handiwork.

  The bathroom and bedroom spaces were light and airy, catching breezes from both front and side, helped along by the giant ceiling fan over the bed. The huge closet was organized. The small office nook off the living room set up was still a bit of a jumble, but the kitchen was a damn work of art, complete with food, booze, pots, pans, dishes, and flatware all put away as if they’d always been there. There was a big flat-screen TV I’d paid an exorbitant amount of money to get professionally mounted on the wall. Pictures were hung. Lamps had bulbs. The damn place looked like I’d been living in for months, not just hours.

  All except for that fucking kitchen table that lay there unassembled and mocking with its aggressively Swedish or Danish or whatever directions, demanding that I find the FLUD and insert it into the VOKANG. It made my head pound and a familiar creeping sense of anxiety filled my chest as the day waned. But I knew Lucy and Dante were at some dinner party or another with a bunch of doctors and their WAGs or whatever. I poured a second glass and flopped onto my new leather sofa, running my hands across its supple surface and trying not to acknowledge how much its smell reminded me of George.

  Thoughts of him made me suck that second glass down fast. I got up and poured myself another, figuring why the hell not. It’s my place. I wasn’t driving anywhere that night. I was celebrating…something. I glared at the still unassembled table, got up and cranked the music louder. Dancing around the living room, I realized I’d run through the bottle and decided to open another.

  Two glasses into that one, I experienced a different kind of urge. I grabbed my phone and scrolled around, seeking a name to match with a face and a body that might help me out. Two text messages later, I had a date. I jumped in the shower, marveling at the cleanliness and safety of my new home and at how high functioning I was despite having consumed so much wine.

  As I waited in the small, but very clean, foyer of the building I now called home I felt positively radiant and a bit self-satisfied knowing that thanks to my own hard work, ability to save and energy to find, I now owned part of the building. And it was all thanks to the actions of a guy who’d been a stranger to me a few weeks ago and who now still haunted my damn dreams—the bastard. The cab arrived. I got in, told him my destination, got out, paid, and teetered into the building that housed a new club, one I’d not tried since it opened but had heard lots of great things about.

  The guy I was meeting was, ironically enough, the one I blew off in favor of George Lattimer a few weeks prior. He’d stayed in touch via our little chat space and by text, eager to resume the light flirtation with the promise of more to come. I found him where he said he’d be, at a private table with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. I grinned and slid into the seat next to him.

  After a couple of ice cold, lemon infused shots of booze I barely recalled the next few hours. He was a great dancer, that much was true, and we did our requisite making out on the dance floor until I grabbed his hand and said loudly, “I’m done with foreplay.” He smiled and followed me back to our table.

  The next thing I knew we were in my place, his hands on my ass and the small of my back jamming over and over against the vi
rginal white of my condo’s wall. I blinked, wondering how in the hell I’d gotten home, much less all the way undressed and somehow in this weird position when there were plenty of soft, pleasant, horizontal spaces all over the place.

  He was grunting and thrusting and sweaty, and just as naked as me. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” I said. “Let’s take it over there.” I pointed in the general direction of the couch. He pulled out of me, and I nearly fell over when my feet hit the floor. His eyes were dark, almost covered by a flop of black hair. I grinned. He frowned, grabbed my arm, flipped me around, and jammed himself back into me hard, forcing my face against the wall until I managed to get my arms propped.

  “Ow,” I protested when he smacked my ass. But it wasn’t all that bad. I liked it fast and rough and must have told him at some point because that’s how I got it. I did come, with a loud cry of satisfaction once I grabbed one of his hands and pulled it around so he could touch me. Even after that he kept pounding so hard my hand slipped, jamming my nose against the wall and making me think “wow, that’s gonna hurt tomorrow.” He finally finished with a guttural howl and a final thrust.

  I dropped to may hands and knees, blind drunk and reeling, crying I think, which made my nose hurt where that asshole has mashed me up against the wall of my own damn house. “Get out,” I croaked, crawling toward the kitchen and hauling myself up to the sink. “Leave,” I said, when I sensed him hovering, saying words I couldn’t hear. “I mean it, you douche bag. Get the hell out!” The last word was a screech as I hurled something at him that I didn’t find until much later the next day—a tea kettle shaped like a goofy looking chicken I’d bought since Lucy had claimed the old one—embedded in the drywall next to the gas fireplace.

  Chapter Nine

  The following set of weeks I spent buried in work, getting myself re-established, reintroduced to the market, and oriented to a different corporate culture at the new brokerage in the Ren Cen. Not to mention swearing off alcohol. The almost forty-eight hours it took to recover from that horrible night imprinted on me like nothing ever had, giving a serious glimpse at how close I’d come to true disaster—had that dude been any more inclined to abusing me than he had been.

  As it was I hurt all over, especially between my legs, which made me wonder a couple of things—one: how much making out we’d done before I came to while the guy was actually fucking me and two: if he’d worn a condom. The second thing kept me up a lot of nights until my period showed the same day I got the all clear from the clinic on any random nastiness. That made me wish I could throw a party before remembering I wasn’t drinking.

  I did recover. My nose was only a little bruised but my psyche had taken a beating that kept me home nights, sober, staring at the untouched pill bottle I’d placed in the middle of my kitchen counter like a talisman. Helping Lucy plan her dream wedding, which would be held up in Mackinac at the Grand Hotel in late August, took a fair bit of time as well. A good thing too since Dante had already knocked her up.

  On the third Friday at my new office I sat contemplating my plans for the night—a salad, a long walk, a movie, and early to bed. A random anxiousness crept across my skin for the first time since waking crumpled on the kitchen floor, blood crusted under my nose, and an awful ache between my legs. When one of my colleagues, a relentless flirt machine named Trent with a total frat-bro attitude to match his name, peeked around my cubicle wall and invited me out for happy hour, I smiled, tossed my hair and noted the gleam in his eye with satisfaction.

  I found myself easing back into the scene that night, sipping weak gin and tonics and flirting harmlessly with the office gang at a new bar on the top floor of a building our company managed, a few blocks from the firehouse I’d sold to George. As if summoned by my thought of him, he materialized, catching my attention with his deep laugh. I peered around the guy blocking my view at our table and spotted him, dressed in dark blue trousers and a gleaming white shirt, with his arm around…I squinted…an attractive, petite woman with long blonde hair.

  I gulped and got up; propelled by something I couldn’t explain even if asked. Somebody put a hand on my ass. But I barely felt it. Before heading toward him, I glanced down at the table, realizing I’d consumed four of the supposedly weak g&ts and acknowledged that I might be making a huge mistake. At the last minute, I veered right and ducked into the ladies’ room.

  I took a minute to observe myself, the way you do when you’re halfway to drunk-town and plan to make it a round trip. Leaning forward so I fogged the bathroom mirror with my breath, I took in my high cheekbones, carefully arched eyebrows, and hair I’d kept highlighted and colored light brown-slash-blonde for so long I don’t think I actually knew my real color anymore.

  I moved back, smoothing my hands down the thin, silk, sleeveless blouse and classic cut navy blue short skirt. My legs were heavier than I liked, but I’d long ago given up hiding them under longer skirts and just counted on the fact that four to five hours a week on a cross-trainer and decent monitoring of my caloric intake would suffice. It did, if the attention I’d been getting from the male contingent of new sales buddies was any indication.

  I shivered a little in the over air-conditioned space, recalling I’d left the cutesy little suit jacket in my car.

  Shit.

  My car. There was no way in hell I could drive home now. After splashing some cold water on my face and neck, knowing full well that only made me a damp drunk, I wiped everything dry with a paper towel. Then I applied a bit of lipstick, fluffed my hair and thought hard about my next move.

  When I emerged from the bathroom hall, my eyes landed on him as if drawn by magnets. Cursing under my breath, I lowered my head and snuck past him and his cutesy little date. “Oh, Trey,” she was gushing. “You haven’t changed a bit.” Her accent screamed New York City. It made me want to gouge out her eyes. But I kept going and located my group. After bestowing my sexiest look on Trent, I slid into my seat.

  He leaned back and did his silliest imitation of a middle school boy on a date, yawning and dropping an arm across the back of my seat, miming a boob grab. The table chuckled. Trent ordered another round. I glanced over and caught George staring straight at me, his dark brows furrowed. I raised my half-empty glass in his general direction, sipped and ignored him the rest of the evening.

  We talked business, mostly about the new development deal we were brokering in Campus Martius Park. It was ballsy, and the investor group was prickly and demanding. But it would net the three of us some serious coin if we pulled it off. I’d actually snagged the original investors from the book of business I’d brought to the company with me, so I was the darling, the procuring cause, as it were, for a deal that would create jobs, housing, shopping, and many thousands for my new broker’s coffers. A hand landed on my bare knee at some point. I smiled over at the hand’s owner, leaned into his ear and widened my legs so he could go a little further if he wanted. He did.

  “I’m done I think.” I put my fourth or maybe my fifth empty glass on the table with a too-loud clunk. My handy new friend, Trent, leaned forward in his seat and grinned at me. “You?”

  “No, no, don’t go,” one of the other guys insisted, waving down the cocktail waitress. I shot her a sympathetic look. I remembered the clots of drunk businessmen who’d wander into the fancy restaurant where I’d been working just five years ago. Harrison Tucker had been one of those, I realized, as I attempted to get my vision to stop doubling.

  “Water, please,” I said, putting my hand on Trent’s arm. “I’ve got to get a cab.”

  He turned to me, putting our faces too close for anything but a kiss. His lips were firm, and the hand he’d dropped between my legs had a purpose that I valued. The room darkened and spun. The inner nag I’d been living with for the past few months reminded me I’d broken my no alcohol rule and with a serious vengeance.

  Shoving that bitch out of my head, I broke the kiss and leaned my forehead against Trent’s. His hand
traveled up my skirt under the table. Fingers found the edge of my panties. I shifted closer, breathing fast, wanting it, and loving the sensation of getting my mojo back.

  “Closer,” he whispered. I glanced across the table. The other two guys were watching us. Something about that creeped me out. But Trent was kissing my neck, and his finger located its target. I didn’t care. I wanted this. So I went with it.

  “Like that,” he said, his lips near my ear again. “Mmm…” he said when I gripped his arm under the table and shoved my hips up, letting the little orgasm take me. “That was fucking hot,” he breathed, filling my immediate space with whiskey fumes and sending a small surge of nausea into my throat. I dropped back in the seat, eyeballing him when he put his fingertip between his lips.

  Trent held up the shot glass of whatever the hell they’d had delivered without taking his eyes off me. The other two men clinked theirs to it and knocked back the liquid.

  “Where’s mine? I was the star of that show after all,” I said, feeling powerful as I saw how Trent had to shift around in his seat.

  That was what I loved—observing men lose all control based on a few actions from me. I drank, thankful it was vodka since tipping brown liquor into the slosh of gin in my bloodstream was a recipe for disaster, and put it upside down on the table.

  “Take me home,” I declared, staring at Trent. “Sorry boys, I’m a serial monogamist. You’ll have to check elsewhere for a gal who wants a train ride.” Trent grinned, tossed a hundred dollar bill down on the table and rose, offering me his elbow. I stared at it, thrown back to that moment when George had done the same thing. Something about that made me look over to find him glaring right at me. I batted my eyelashes, put my hand in the crook of Trent’s proffered arm, and kissed his cheek. “My place,” I whispered. “There’s more fun to be had there.”

  And fun it was—Trent was a real go-getter, an adventurous type, and we shared a bottle of champagne that he mostly licked off my naked skin as I lay giggling on the hardwood floor of my living room. I remembered most of it this time, but by the time he’d tossed me down on my bed and flipped me over after I’d brought him right to the edge with a stellar blow job, I sensed myself fading. He yanked my hips up and draped over my back, sliding into me slowly. “Harder,” I said, shoving my butt back against him, afraid if he went the soft and gentle route I’d pass out, and that would be embarrassing. “Come on, damn you. Fuck me like you mean it.”