Chiseled - A Standalone Romance (A Super Sexy Western Romance)

by Naomi Niles

  Eventually, he withdrew his hands and lifted me again, turning me so that my breasts were now resting on his chest. I clung to him, not wanting to move single inch.

  “Are you okay?” he asked me in a whisper.

  I nodded. “Yes,” I whispered back. “I’ve never experienced anything like that.”

  “I’m glad. I’ve been wanting to do that since the first moment I saw you.”

  “I don’t want to move. I want to stay like this for the rest of my life.”

  “Sorry, honey, but eventually you’ll have to eat.”

  Although I didn’t say it aloud, I knew I wanted to eat. I sighed deeply and reached for my clothing, but it was strewn out of reach. I attempted to sit up, and he could see the goosebumps on my skin. He reached behind himself and pulled the blanket from the cot where he slept, wrapping it about my shoulders and trunk. Then he added his arms, and his own chest, and rocked me. It was pure bliss. I turned my head and kissed him on the mouth and he answered my kiss with his questing tongue. “Be ready. The next time I’m taking you totally.”

  There was nothing to say. I just nodded. He helped me to my feet and I walked over to where my clothes were lying and picked them up, dropping the blanket as I dressed. He stood up and came toward me, leaning forward and lifting one breast to insert my nipple in his mouth.

  “I can’t seem to get enough of the taste of you.” He ran the side of his hand beneath my breast.

  “I feel the same way.”

  “Why don’t you go take a nap,” he suggested in a soft whisper. “I think you had quite the afternoon.”

  I didn’t say a word; I didn’t even nod or shake my head. I simply did as he bid me, heading upstairs and climbing into my bed. As I began to fall asleep, I could hear him moving things about downstairs. He was planning what to build. He was planning our space.

  Chapter 8

  I slept far longer than I had expected. By the time I awakened, the city had already settled into its nighttime clothes. I opened my apartment door and looked downward into the open garage bay. No one was moving about; everything was silent. I wasn’t sure if Sean had gone out, or perhaps he had gone to bed early. With a little bit of sadness, I went back inside and flipped on the TV for some company. Rifling through my freezer, I pulled out the ingredients for some chicken stir fry and began cooking it. As it simmered, I settled on the sofa to watch the news.

  To my surprise, the local station was covering a nearby fire. It was the 13th precinct; my dad’s own crew was on the scene. It seemed the fire involved a two-family flat; that meant two separate families. As I watched, I saw Sean on the scene, fully dressed in firefighting gear. A completely new feeling came over me. For the first time, I felt an angst, this thin line of fear that ran from my brain to my heart, making it pound harder. I had seen my dad on the scene several times while growing up. But he was my dad, and dads were perfect and I never seemed to worry about him. But this was Sean; it felt different.

  The reporter had few facts; it was still an active scene and no one would bother to stop and talk to the media. This is one of the situations my dad hated the most. He felt like it made the family involved become a sort of carney act. People would come and stare, clustered in groups and commenting with their opinion on the body count or damage. I’d seen my dad become infuriated with this and suddenly I understood my purpose. That’s when I knew what I was born to do: my job was to be the barrier between human tragedy and human curiosity.

  Every minute of every hour, there was human drama taking place down the street, or perhaps even next door. People fought, they cried, they celebrated, and they laughed. Children were conceived and lives ended when their clocks ran out of time. Because these things took place indoors, away from prying eyes, they seem normal, if not expected. However, people who suffered house fires became a lit stage. Their pain, the very fabric of their lives was suddenly thrown on the street. Despite insurance policies, few people were actually prepared in the event of a fire. Even once their loved ones were safely on the street, there was always a pet, photographs, and family treasures left behind. The early onset of adrenaline-filled survival was later replaced with a shock of upheaval. Not everyone had family where they could take shelter. Not everyone had enough money on hand to simply get through the next forty-eight hours in a hotel, eating from a restaurant. The bills still came in the mail. The children still needed to go to school, and the parents to work. Many times, losing a house meant being relocated from your neighborhood, without warning. Thus, they went from having everything normal, to having everything new and uncertain in a matter of moments. You lost your connection with your neighbors, with your church, perhaps even your school or where you’ve worked. It was as if your life had been wiped clean of everything you knew. Your life had been taken away, yet you lived.

  Then came the spectators, those who felt momentary empathy and then an almost selfish arrogance that their life was still whole. At first there may be the token offer of help: the extra room, a hot meal, some outgrown clothes they hadn’t yet given to the thrift store. Inexperience was demeaning to the victims, even if it was never meant that way.

  I knew then that my purpose in life was to ease the transition for those unfortunate victims. Instead of creating an audience to witness their loss, my job was to make people relate to the tragedy before them. It was not entertainment. It was not a horror movie. It was real life, and it could’ve touched them just as easily.

  Somehow, I had been brought to John Warner’s office that day. He may have been the only newspaper in the entire city that had just the right setting to create this opportunity for me. It felt as though everything had been brought together by fate. Sean included.

  The local television station concluded their report quickly, their cameras going on to a stabbing a few blocks away. New York City was a constant maelstrom of crime, most of which was never witnessed or reported. There I was, a young woman living totally alone, in a building that was less than secure. It felt good to know that Sean was there. I realized then that I had begun to think of him as a permanent fixture when I had absolutely no right to expect that.

  I split the dinner in half, plating Sean’s portion and wrapping it with plastic for when he came home. I smiled to myself as I realized once again I had come to think of this place as his home. I watched meaningless sitcoms until the evening news came on. Sean had yet not yet come back, but I was wide awake from having taken that long nap.

  I watched the clock and just as it reported that we had passed into the next day, I heard a door slam downstairs. I scampered from my apartment to the pole descending into the bay.

  “Sean? Is that you?”

  “It’s me. Go back to sleep.”

  “No, I wasn’t sleeping. I took that long nap earlier. I’ve got dinner waiting for you. Come on up.”

  “Give me a minute to grab a shower, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  I went into the kitchen area, popping his plate into the microwave and as it warmed up, I threw together a quick salad and a glass of ice cold milk. He tapped on my door and I called to him to come in.

  “Have a seat there on the sofa and I’ll bring you a tray.” I fixed up the tray and walked into the living area, looking at his face to assure myself that he was safe. He looked tired, his face drawn and somber. There was no welcoming smile. I set the tray before him and curled onto the sofa, just to listen. I noticed his hands were quivering and I realized what had happened. He filled in the details as he began to speak.

  “There was a fire tonight. They called everyone in.”

  “I know, I saw it on the evening news. Was anyone hurt?”

  That was when I heard the raw, heartfelt agony of a man who had seen something no one wanted to see. He put his face down into his hands and his shoulders were shaking. I sat there next to him, not sure what to do. This was his release; this was his moment of realization. Dad had talked about this moment before. Every new recruit faced it eventually. I crawled
over to sit against him and put my arm on his back, massaging his shoulders slightly. There was nothing I could say; it was my job to listen.

  He finally stopped shaking and when he raised his face from his hands, I saw the trails of tears. There was a frown of pain across his forehead and he seemed to be a bit breathless. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded, opening his mouth to speak, but the words just wouldn’t come. I spoke for him. “I know, Sean. I know how you’re feeling; it’s normal.”

  “There’s absolutely nothing normal about how this feels, or what I’ve seen.”

  “There was loss of life, wasn’t there?”

  He nodded. “A mother and three children in the upstairs flat, a young boy in the downstairs flat. By the time we got there, the building was fully engulfed. We couldn’t even get inside to try and pull them out. The floor timbers had already given way; the house had become a single, burning pyre. The remaining family members huddled outside in the cold, shaking and in complete shock. Not one of them could utter a word; they just hung onto one another and stared as their lives changed forever. There was nothing we could do but saturate the nearby houses so the fire wouldn’t spread. We think it was gas, probably a ruptured line in the lower flat. We could tell the fire had originated from an explosion. God, I don’t know, Gwyne. How do you get through something like that?”

  “You don’t. There are no guarantees: not for the victims and not for the firefighters who come to help. Life never goes on the same, the memories ensure that. But life does go on; it does go on for everyone involved. It just becomes the new norm.”

  “You make it sound so easy, almost logical.”

  I had seen this before. Firefighters, like doctors and those who worked with people in trauma, eventually learned to form a sort of protective scab over what they saw and dealt with each day. There were stages to it, just like grieving. Sean was in stage one; this was anger. Anger at lost lives, the cold and careless disregard that life showed. Yes, he was outraged and disappointed and felt useless in the face of this overwhelming tragedy. His anger was not directed at me, but at the fates that had conspired to bring this night about. “There is no way in hell that I am minimizing what you have just seen, Sean. This is going to kick the crap out of you and you’re not going to get over it by tomorrow morning, or next week, or even next year. What you’ve been through tonight is going to be part of the fabric of your life forever. This is when it hits home that the career you’ve chosen will be a constant series of tragedies. There is never anything good that comes from the fire. There is no such thing as a positive outcome.”

  “I thought I could take it,” he began to sputter aimlessly. “We had fires in the little town where I came from. There was a house fire now and then, but it was different somehow. People were more hearty there, more willing to help one another. When someone has a loss, the others gathered together and made them whole again, at least as whole as was possible. What I saw tonight were vultures sitting on a telephone line, bickering and shoving for better vantage point. Here came these surviving family members, staggering from that holocaust and the vultures just stared. I even heard a pair of them making a bet as to who ultimately had survived. I wanted to kick the crap out of them.”

  I wrapped my arm beneath his and lay my head against his shoulder. “I know, Sean. I’ve lived in New York City my entire life, but I know the cold a city like this feels. They’re not bad people; there’s just too many of them. They live on top of one another without lawns or lakes or pastures with grazing cows. Their lives are nuclear, often no further than the block upon which they live. Native New Yorkers celebrate their independence from the rest of the country. They mock your Midwest with a superior attitude. It’s human nature to celebrate that which you have and to mock that which you don’t. You’re getting hit in the gut with all of this at the same time.” He nodded. I picked up the fork and handed it to him. “Eat something. I know you’re not hungry, but you’re sort of in shock yourself. You need some food in your stomach and then you need to get some sleep. I don’t need to tell you this isn’t the first or the last time this is going to happen. We can talk more about this tomorrow, but for tonight, you need food and rest.”

  He took the fork with an almost mechanical movement and began to eat. He didn’t argue, didn’t turn to try to override my motherly instructions. I knew he was in a bad place. He pushed the plate away after a few bites and then just sat there. Unmoving.

  “Shawn, don’t sleep downstairs tonight. Stay here with me.”

  Sean never said a word. He stood up and headed toward my bedroom, peeling off his clothes as he walked. I quickly shut off the lights and locked the door and followed him inside. There he was, lying naked in my bed, turned to one side in a sort of fetal position. I turned off the lamp and slid under the covers beside him, putting my arm over him and laying my cheek against his back. He was shivering, but I knew it wasn’t blankets that he needed. He needed rest. He needed time.

  He needed me.

  * * *

  Sean had already left when I awakened the next morning. My hand passed over the space where he had slept, seeking comfort from it. It was cold and somehow I knew that his life had changed forever. By the time I got down to the fire station, the trucks were out on another call. Dad was in his office. I went in.

  “I heard what happened last night. It was rough, wasn’t it?”

  Dad nodded. “It’s always rough, Gwyne.”

  That was how Dad had learned to handle this. He became brusque, a man of few words. He insulated himself because he knew there was not enough of himself to go around. I had seen Mom hurt by his attitude. I’m not sure she ever realized what he went through on a daily basis. Even though he was hardened by war, human misery was a relentless reality of his firefighting life.

  “Give me something productive to do, Dad.”

  He looked up at me, a vulnerable look on his face. “I know I never say it, Gwyne, but honey, I love you.”

  “Oh, Dad…” I circled his desk and wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. “You know I love you, too.” He nodded, patting the back of my hand.

  His unexpected and brief display of emotion had now left the room. “Go downstairs and straighten up the bays,” he told me. “The trucks will be back soon. Most of the guys are still exhausted from last night. Just stay out of the way, but help them however you can.”

  I nodded, gave him one last, quick hug, and went downstairs to do as he asked. The trucks returned within a half hour. I had brewed fresh coffee and made sandwiches. I’d swept the kitchen and washed up the dishes in the sink. I made sure there were no hoses or misplaced equipment cluttering the bays. It was as though I were cleaning house, waiting for my soldiers to return home. I felt oddly useful.

  They climbed off the trucks, pulling off their gear and mechanically replacing it on the hooks and in the lockers where they were kept. I could see that the tragedy from the night before had affected everyone. There was the normal undercurrent of orders as Dad directed the men through the stages of preparing for their next call. The conversation was normal, but the atmosphere was not. There were a few smiles, most of them smiles of kindness and understanding toward one another. There was a lot of back patting, the comforting motion that men seem to be able to offer and receive without compromising their masculine façades.

  The sandwiches and coffee disappeared quickly. The increased humidity from the shower room drifted throughout the building, somehow making it feel warmer in the early winter morning. Slowly, and only with intent, the hubbub that was a firehouse returned to its normal alarm status.

  I saw Sean the moment he climbed from the truck. He looked at me briefly and managed a sort of half smile, but said nothing. I understood. I didn’t interfere; I knew he needed time and space. When I caught up with him later he was sitting with a sandwich and a half cup of coffee before him. “Hi. I’m guessing we won’t be training today?”

  He shook his head. “Not today, Gwyne. I
’m needed here.”

  “Of course. I’m going to head back to my apartment and do some writing. There suddenly seems to be a lot say.” He nodded and gave me sort of a half salute with his hand. Both of us had to keep in mind that no one knew we shared quarters; that would be devastating, to both of us. So I had to make a marked effort not to share with him. There could be no familiarity aside from the fact that he was training me and I was his boss’s daughter.

  When I got back to the apartment, I dressed in sweats and thick socks. I took my laptop to the sofa and sat cross-legged with it balanced on my knees. It was dark before I looked up and realized that I had been writing for five, solid hours. I looked back over what I had written and realized this was more of a book than a series of reports or commentaries, or whatever it was you called such a thing. I reread my work and I felt my own pain. Living next door to misery had been an ever-present factor in my young life. I had learned to accept tragedy as other children accepted a pan filled with fresh, chocolate chip cookies when they arrived home from school. It had been my norm. As I reread, I realized I was going to have to find a direction for all of this. This couldn’t appear to be my personal memoir; that would be selfish and defy the purpose of the work I was trying to accomplish. I knew I needed to look at these things from the survivor’s point of view, and from that of the onlooker. My goal would be to bring those two worlds together. It wasn’t going to be an easy job because it was contrary to normal human behavior. I heard the door downstairs and knew Sean was back. He knew where I was. When and if he wanted me, he would come upstairs.

  I was hardly surprised when he did just that minutes later. There was a light tap at my door and I called to him to come in. His face was still somber and I knew he had something to get off his chest.