Fireworks

by Sarina Bowen

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “Realized I forgot to tell you something. Even though it’s Sunday, I have to go to work for a couple of hours.”

  “Oh.” The disappointment on her face is hard to miss.

  “But then I’ll come back. We’ll buy a coffee machine, and—if it’s okay with you—we’ll swing by a party.”

  “A party?”

  “It’s for Audrey and Griffin Shipley’s baby’s christening. But that’s just an excuse to throw a party in this space that’s being renovated into a brewery. It’s right next door. We don’t have to stay a long time. Do you remember the Shipleys?”

  “Sure,” Skye says. She’s still holding my hand. “We picked apples at their place. They were super nice. And I caught up with May last night. The Shipleys are still super nice.”

  “Mostly,” I agree.

  “Mostly?” her eyebrows arch in curiosity.

  “Well…” I chuckle. “There was this rough patch when Griffin broke up with Zara and we all hated him for hurting our sister.”

  “They were together?” Skye’s eyes are wide. “I missed a lot of gossip.”

  I laugh, because it’s true. “Briefly. But now Griffin is married to Audrey, Zara’s business partner. And Zara is in deep with her professional hockey player baby daddy. But May Shipley is living with Alec upstairs. Did you follow all that?”

  Skye blinks. “Wow. Small towns.”

  “I know.”

  “How come you’re the only single Rossi?” Her blue eyes study me.

  Because I was waiting for you. “I’m not,” I insist. “Damien is single. And Matteo is probably single. Although who knows. He moved to Aspen, and we never see him.”

  “Oh. Huh.”

  “Now go do whatever it is that takes you a half hour in the bathroom.”

  She gives me an eye roll, then pads off toward the bathroom.

  I lie in bed, picturing her naked under the spray. But I’m a gentleman. So when she emerges wrapped in nothing but a towel, I don’t gawk. I head into the shower myself, instead.

  After a pit stop at the Busy Bean for coffee and excellent pastries with Skye, I take my leave. At the Colebury station house, I sit down with Nelligan. The two of us do some brainstorming.

  “Let’s just say I’m right,” I propose. “Rayanne got tricked into driving drugs down from Gage’s fishing cabin into Colebury. Now Rayanne wants out, so she wants to prove that her father or Sparks is the trafficker. And that’s why she’s AWOL.”

  Nelligan nods because he’s heard most of this before. Our interest in Rayanne started a few weeks ago, when I was casing Gage’s fishing cabin. I saw Rayanne inside, sitting on the sofa, reading a book in front of the picture window.

  It’s not illegal to read a book at a fishing cabin. But she’d driven her father’s car up there. And Lake Memphremagog has the unique feature of lying half in the US and half in Canada. The border isn’t as tight there as in some other spots.

  Furthermore, Fentanyl is highly portable. There’s a Canadian law that prohibits the postal service from opening envelopes below a certain weight. So it’s actually possible to ship a fortune in Fentanyl via ten or twenty ordinary envelopes.

  I think Jimmy Gage has someone in Canada who’s collecting Chinese fentanyl in small batches, then ferrying it across the border. Gage is dealing it widely, but doing a sloppy job of cutting it first.

  I know I’m right. I only need to prove it.

  My phone buzzes with a message. “Sorry, I gotta check it,” I say.

  “Dude, I know.”

  But the text isn’t related to our case. It’s from my fuck buddy. Where’ve you been? she asks. Working? Want a new photo?

  “Fuck.”

  “Any news?” Nelligan asks.

  “Nope.” I shove the phone in my pocket without answering. “Just, uh, a social message.”

  Nelligan snorts. “Don’t let me keep you from your weekend plans.”

  I shake my head, because I’ve had a permanent change of plans with regard to that particular friend. I should really call her up and break things off when I get a chance. “Where were we?”

  “You were guessing that Rayanne has become a one-man sting operation,” Nelligan prompts.

  “She’s trying to be.” The idea that Rayanne’s hoping to take down her father is the only explanation that makes sense.

  “Your friend Skylar brought her a kayak,” Nelligan muses. “So Rayanne thinks the handoff is happening on the water.”

  “She has a waterproof camera, too.”

  “But Sparks and Gage are here in Colebury,” Nelligan says. “Or they were yesterday around six.”

  “What were they up to?”

  “Eating fast food with their cars parked side by side, the windows down so they could talk. But then they both went home.”

  “Shit,” I said. “I need to track those cars. If even one small-time dealer would just give up either of their names…”

  “One small-time dealer with a death wish,” Nelligan adds. “Would you give up Sparks’s name? That fucker is mean.”

  “No. But I’m not a drug-addicted sleazebag.”

  “No. You’re merely sleazy.” He grins.

  “Pot. Kettle,” I grumble. Besides, I’d rather be done with hookups and bachelorhood. If only I can convince Skye to stick around.

  “Let’s go beg the chief for more resources,” Nelligan says. “If Sparks or Gage heads up north, we’ll be ready.”

  “Let’s,” I agree.

  Eighteen

  Skylar

  It’s Sunday afternoon. I should be headed back to New York after a weekend with Rayanne. But I’m still in Vermont. In fact, I’m wearing Benito’s bathrobe, lying on his bed, waiting for my laundry to finish drying.

  Rayanne texted at noon to check in. I did my usual begging. Please tell me what you’re doing. How does this end? Etc.

  No whining, she’d replied. You’re not the one huddled in a Jeep in the woods, waiting for assholes to show up.

  Just call me and tell me why you’re doing that.

  She hadn’t replied. I’d spent the next ten minutes trying to decide if her message gave me any clues to where she was. The revelation that she’s in “the woods” is no help because most of Vermont is in the woods.

  Benito came home a little later with an espresso machine under one arm and a bag full of groceries under the other. I made us sandwiches while he unpacked the espresso machine and made cappuccinos.

  I almost cut my thumb off slicing tomatoes, because I couldn’t stop watching his forearms flex as he tamped the grounds in preparation for brewing a shot. Moving around the kitchen with him was far too stimulating. I was almost relieved when he’d said he had to pop out again to hand off some documents to the Colebury police.

  Now I’m alone again and washing my meager supply of T-shirts, underwear, and socks. If I’d known I’d be overstaying my welcome in Vermont, I would have packed accordingly.

  Benito’s bed is really comfortable. These are very silky sheets.

  Maybe it’s because I’m a little bored, or because I’m mostly naked right now. I’m just lying here on Benito’s bed, listening to the dryer turn. Yet I feel an unfamiliar hum in my body. My breasts feel heavy against the quilt.

  So I roll onto my back. But that’s no better. When I close my eyes, I can picture Benito’s lips on my naked breast.

  The hum gets stronger. There’s a new sort of electrical pulse in my bloodstream. And it’s focused on my naked breasts and my restless thighs.

  Okay, maybe there’s something wrong with me. Rayanne is missing and my life is in turmoil. And what am I thinking about? Benito’s hands on my bare skin. When he slipped his fingertips down my belly, landing exquisitely on my—

  The phone beside me rings, and I sit up quickly, as if the caller can read my private thoughts. Unfortunately, the number showing on my phone begins with 212—a New York number. “This is Emily Skye,” I say, giving my on-camera work name. “Can I help
you?”

  “Skylar,” the deep voice on the other end booms. “I need you in the newsroom tonight to cover for Smythe.”

  It’s McCracken, my producer. He doesn’t even bother to identify himself. “But you told me to take two weeks off,” I argue.

  “We’re short-staffed,” he grunts. “Need the help.”

  I’m trying to process this strange directive when Benito’s face appears in the doorway, and he smiles at me. The smile doesn’t help my executive function. So it takes me a second to respond to the producer on the phone. “I couldn’t possibly come in tonight,” I say carefully. “Or tomorrow. You gave me the time off. You insisted, actually. So I left town to see my stepsister, who needs my help.”

  “Your sister? Are you pulling my chain? You never visited this sister before. You’re always right here at your desk where I need you.”

  This is true. But what has that ever gotten me?

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” For once I let myself sound mad. “I followed your instructions, and I am unavailable. I’m also more than two hundred and fifty miles away from the office. Tell Smythe he can’t go to the hockey game with his buddies this time.”

  While I say this, I’m conscious of Benito’s eyes on me. Maybe I’m getting all this courage from him. I don’t want him to hear me behaving like the doormat my colleagues expect me to be.

  But it’s possible that Benito isn’t listening. His eyes have gone dark, and his gaze drifts down my body.

  I tug the bathrobe a little more tightly around myself, and I almost miss what the boss says next.

  “Get your tight little ass back to New York City. You’re always telling me how badly you want to cover news items. I’m not impressed right now. This isn’t the holidays.”

  “No kidding, I always work the holidays,” I sputter. But he’s already hung up.

  I give a little shriek of rage and slap my phone down on the bed.

  “Things aren’t so good at the office?” he asks, entering the room.

  “It’s just the usual bullshizzle. The producers want perfect obedience, and yet they’re constantly contradicting themselves.”

  “That sounds…shittastic,” he says, sitting next to me on the bed.

  “Nobody ever quits,” I point out. “News jobs are scarce. I stick around hoping that something will change for the better. Rayanne offered me a story.”

  “A what?” Benito asks, covering my hand with his.

  “A story. A lead. She said…” I frown at him. “Are you listening?”

  “No,” he admits with a shake of his dark head. “I’m sorry, but my IQ is compromised right now, because you’re wearing my bathrobe and you’re essentially naked on my bed.” He reaches up and closes the robe where my boobs are in danger of spilling out.

  I look down at his hands near my body, imagining them opening the bathrobe instead of closing it. And…

  The buzzer on the dryer sounds.

  I shoot off the bed. “Laundry’s dry. Now when does this party start?”

  “It’s starting now. Are you ready?”

  I give Benito a look. “Do I look ready?”

  “You look ready to…” He rolls his eyes toward heaven. “Let me know when it’s time to go. I’m going to wait in the living room…” He walks out the door, adding something under his breath. It might have been, “…and ice my crotch.”

  Whatever. I can’t worry about those hot looks Benito gives me. And I can’t worry about my body’s strange reaction to him. I can’t even worry about Rayanne right now, because I have got to fix my face. It’s quite possible that everyone who ever snubbed me in high school will be at this party. I cannot look like that scared teenager from the trailer park.

  So I spring into action. I put on my closest-fitting cashmere sweater—this one is blue, and it brings out my eyes—and my shorter skirt. I blow out my damp hair, thanking the lord above that I brought my own hair dryer and round brush on this jaunt.

  Then it’s time to do my face. I go for a smoky eye—but it’s subtle. And I use my favorite Urban Decay mascara, because it makes my lashes look long enough to reach the moon. Lastly, I add my favorite Chanel lipstick in Cécile.

  “Ready!” I finally announce as I trot into the living room in my high heeled boots.

  On the sofa, Benito makes a show of looking at his watch, as if a great deal of time has elapsed. Then he turns his chin and looks at me. “Holy fuck,” he says, his voice strained. “I guess that was time well spent.”

  His gaze burns me. He doesn’t even stand up—he just sits there, appraising me.

  “Are we going to this thing or what?” I squeak. I may have spent ten extra minutes on my appearance hoping that he’d notice. And yet I’m not all that comfortable with the obvious results.

  “I suppose,” he grunts, getting off the sofa. He walks around behind me and sets his leather jacket on my shoulders. “Here, honey.”

  “What about you? Do you have another jacket?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t need one. I’m from Vermont.”

  “You’re too much of a bad—” I almost slip up and curse! What’s gotten into me? “—a tough guy to feel the cold?”

  “I’ll just stand next to you,” he says, opening the door. “That’ll keep me warm. Now let’s go eat some barbecue and admire a new baby.”

  Downstairs, he holds the door open for me, and then leads me in the opposite direction from his car. “Wait. Don’t we have to drive?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s right next door. My crazy brother is opening a beer-tasting room with a couple of other businessmen, including Griffin Shipley. We can just walk through the woods. Here…”

  Benito slips my hand into his. Long fingers close around mine, and he leads me across the gravel parking lot to a wet path through the woods. It’s March, so everything is slowly melting. There are still piles of snow between the trees, but they’re uneven.

  I inhale the scent of pine and mist, and my heart beats faster. It’s like stepping backward in time. Trees, fresh air, and Benito’s nearness.

  “What are you doing?”

  Whoops. Busted. “Sniffing the air like a weirdo.”

  “No place smells better than Vermont.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?” He stops walking. “Don’t you like Vermont?”

  “Nope. Can’t say I do.”

  He puts a hand over his heart like I've wounded him. “Wow. Okay.” He takes a comical, shaky breath. “Let me just try to recover from that.”

  “Look,” I tell him. “I literally ran away from here. It doesn’t leave a girl with fond memories.”

  He takes a step closer. “So it’s like a phobia. You see maple syrup, you break out in hives?”

  “Something like that,” I agree. This is one of the sillier conversations we’ve ever had.

  Benito snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it. We’ll just give you some Vermont aversion therapy.”

  “And what would that entail, exactly?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to milk a cow, and then scrape shit off your shoes.”

  I giggle.

  “Then you’ll drink some very craft beer and eat a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.”

  “That might work,” I admit. And now I’m craving ice cream.

  “Also?”

  “Yeah?”

  He comes closer, his free hand cups my chin, and I only get a split second glimpse into his big brown eyes before they fall shut as he kisses me.

  And oh his kiss. It’s slow and teasing. It’s both too much and not enough, so I lean in for more. Benito makes a sound of approval, then parts my lips with his tongue.

  I wrap my arms around his neck, as if I really know what I’m doing. Even I can handle a kiss in the woods.

  Or can I? As he licks into my mouth, I feel my body melt into his. When Benito strokes my bottom with his hand, I feel it everywhere. My knees get squishy and my tummy flips. And as our tongues slide together, I actually sway on my fe
et.

  “Easy,” he says with a chuckle against my lips. “How does anyone walk in heels, anyway?”

  But it’s not the heels that are putting me off balance. I take a deep breath and steady myself. “What did you do that for?”

  “Aversion therapy.” Benito smiles. “And because I had better self-control when I was eighteen than I do now.”

  He’s smeared himself with my Chanel lipstick, so I cup his chin and wipe it off with my thumb.

  “I’m not afraid of a little lipstick,” he whispers. “You can mess me up any time you want, honey.”

  Honey. I like the sound of that too much. Every time he says it, I light up inside. And I feel dizzy from his kisses. The scent of pine trees and the feel of his whiskers against my skin has put me on some kind of emotional overload. “Let’s go to this party,” I suggest. Although I’ll need my game face for that.

  I think I left my game face in the missing Jeep, along with my jacket.

  He takes my hand and leads me farther down the path. Our walk through the woods is over just minutes later, as we emerge in front of a big, brick building. There’s a sign overhead reading, The Speakeasy. And when Benito opens the door, I see a groovy party space with fairy lights wrapped around rustic wooden beams, and candle sconces on the walls.

  At one end of the big room there’s a table laden with food, and also a bar. And at the other end there’s a platform, where a banjo player, a fiddler, and a guitarist are tuning up.

  “Wow,” I can’t help but say. It irks me that Colebury is so much cooler than it was in high school. I always thought I’d left behind a backwater of a town for better opportunities. But I keep finding things to like about this place, darn it.

  “There’s going to be contra dancing,” Benito says.

  “What’s that? Is that like a square dance?” I vaguely remember being made to learn that during gym class at the high school here.

  “Sort of. Are you game? No pressure.”