Into the Heat

by Tamara Lush

  Leo nodded and his gut clenched. Yeah. My dad and your mom. My dad and everyone.

  He walked over to Jessica and stood near her, but a strained silence filled the air. What did she know? Should he talk about it? No. He wouldn’t bring it up now because he hated the idea of confrontation or causing her more pain in the wake of her mother’s death if she hadn’t already heard the details.

  He cast her a hopeful look, wanting to talk about happier times. “Do you remember that night our families had dinner in the courtyard together? And we played charades? You and I were on the same team and we thought we were so smart by doing charades of dolphins.”

  That got her to smile. Good.

  “And a cowgirl,” she replied, laughing, a sound that Leo loved. “It was pretty inventive that you were the horse. And I rode you into the room, trying to pantomime a rope and a lasso.”

  It was Leo’s turn to grin. “I tried to hold your hand under the table that night.”

  A wistful look crossed her face. “Yep. I thought that was scandalous, wondering if everyone somehow knew. But do you know what I remember about that night?”

  “What?”

  He knew exactly what she was going to say, but he wanted to hear the words. He stepped closer, his heart thumping wildly.

  “That was the night you came into my room. The night we…” Her voice trailed off.

  It had been the night they both lost their virginity. The night they promised to be together forever. The night that he fell for her so hard that no other girl would ever measure up.

  He took another step toward her. “It was all so intense, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  Leo stared at Jessica for several excruciating seconds while the room’s temperature seemed to roar into heat wave territory. Slowly she reached up and traced his cheekbone with her fingers, and he sucked in a breath, suddenly conscious of how soft her fingertips were on his skin. His body had burned with anticipation ever since their slow dance.

  “Jessica.”

  “I’m sorry for earlier,” she whispered. “I overreacted.”

  With that, she kissed him, and the sensation sent a searing, aching need through Leo. Jessica was what he had waited so long for. He knew that there were reasons he shouldn’t allow himself this pleasure, but it was impossible to control himself around her when she was here kissing him and taking charge.

  Her soft mouth molded to his, and she hummed ever so softly. Their lips feathered against each other. The kiss was slow and chaste and erotic all at once, and as his tongue found hers he stroked her face with a gentle hand.

  He nibbled on her bottom lip slowly and ran his tongue over its seam then wound both hands into her hair and claimed her more fully, kissing her mouth as if he was drawing their past from her lips. He needed to feel her body next to his. He kissed her with an open mouth, and an appreciative growl came from the back of his throat when he realized that she was not only surrendering to his desire but also matching his urgency.

  “A thousand times better than my memories,” he whispered. “You’re still a perfect fit in my arms, though.”

  He pulled back to look at her. Jessica’s breath hitched, and her eyes flew open. She said nothing.

  “I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve wanted you for so long,” he said. Looking down, he realized her bathrobe had parted, giving him a glimpse of round breasts and taut nipples. Oh, Christ, the sight of those pink tips made his entire body clench with need.

  “Do you want me to touch you?” he whispered.

  Nodding, she sank onto the couch then reached for him, tugging at his button-down shirt.

  Kneeling at her side, he untied her robe, pushing it clear of her body. She was only wearing a pair of lacy red panties, and he groaned softly when he saw all of her round, full breasts, the soft white of her stomach and the sensual curves at the junction of her thighs.

  “You’re sure you want this?” she said suddenly. “After last night…”

  “Forget about last night,” he rasped. “I wanted you then and I want you now. You have no idea what I want to do with you.”

  “I want to find out.”

  She grinned then, and it was all Leo needed. He took one breast in his hand, circling her nipple with his thumb. She arched her back for him and he reached for her mouth with his other hand, dipping his thumb between her lips. Her slow sucking and teasing drove him wild.

  He glanced from her chest to her face and saw that she had closed her eyes. Her lashes were dark and long, and she looked so crazy sexy. He slid his hand across her cheek and moved to kiss her, claiming again those sensual lips. Jessica moaned and put her arms around him, digging fingers into his shirt, and his shoulders welcomed the feel of her nails.

  The sexual spark between them hadn’t vanished. It had become an inferno. Repositioning his body between her legs, Leo thrust his hips forward, causing a deeper ache inside him when she met his pressure with her own. With a graceful shift of her body she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he caressed one with his hand.

  She seized his tongue, sucking on it, then released his mouth and gave a little sigh-moan. It was a sound he’d waited for, and if she gave him the chance he’d make certain she’d do it again many times.

  “I shouldn’t want you as much as I do,” she whispered. “It probably isn’t smart.”

  He swept a few curly locks of damp hair away from her face and pressed himself forward, but he felt a twinge of fear along with the delicious ache of desire. A twinge about the recent past and all he’d fled. “I could say the same.”

  “Then let’s not say anything, Leo. Let’s not overthink. Let’s just do this.”

  Jessica cupped his face and brought his lips to hers, seeking a hard kiss. He obliged and plundered her mouth while rolling her nipple in between his thumb and forefinger. He skimmed his hand down her waist, over her curvy hip and pulled slightly away. But when his fingers stroked the damp lace between her legs, he felt her stiffen.

  Then he realized: They were in the lobby of the damn hotel.

  “Umm, Jess?” His voice was hoarse, and he lifted his head to look around the room.

  She cleared her throat then murmured, “The reception area isn’t the place for this, is it?

  Should we…?”

  Something snapped in his brain, and he nibbled on her neck to stall. Sure, they could go to her room and hook up, but then he’d have to leave. He didn’t want that. Didn’t want it to feel like a one-night stand. He’d never had one with any woman, and he sure as hell wouldn’t want it with Jessica. But he also didn’t want the inevitable conversation about why he couldn’t stay the night. The last thing he wanted was for her to wake up and see him freaking out in some PTSD nightmare. And he didn’t have any condoms with him, and that’s how that pregnancy scare had happened five years before.

  “Jess,” he found himself saying, “I think we should—”

  The phone on the desk erupted with an annoying buzz.

  Startled, Leo reared up. Jessica squirmed out from under him, tumbled off the sofa and moved to answer. By the time she reached the desk, she’d firmly belted her robe. With a clipped voice, she spoke into the phone and then hung up. The sensual mood was shattered.

  She turned and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I have to go. A guest is having problems with his air conditioner thermostat. They probably don’t know how to set it properly. I need to help. But…” She looked at him. “You can stay.”

  Leo frowned. “You’re going to a guest’s room by yourself? At this time of night? Why don’t you let me go instead? Or can I go with you.”

  She shook her head and moved close, ran her hands over his chest. “Thank you, Leo, but no. This is my business, and I know how to take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years. And what were you going to say while we were on the couch?”

  “Oh. I was going to say I think we should take this slow.”

  She tilted her head and frowned. Damn. He wasn’t hand
ling this right. Of course she looked confused, because no guy in his right mind would turn her down. He was barely managing despite all the good reasons he knew he had to.

  “I mean, Jess, I don’t have any condoms and I—”

  She smiled then wrapped her arms around him, and when she brushed her lips against his she somehow seemed even more relaxed. Was she, too, relieved not to be rushing into sex?

  “You’re right,” she said. “Slow is better. I mean, we barely know each other, really. So we’ll talk later. I gotta go. Can’t keep a guest waiting.”

  Leo paused and hugged her, wondering how long he could take things slow when fast was what he really wanted. Fast and forever. “Sure, sure. But, Jessica? Are you really going to someone’s room in a robe?”

  She stepped away from him and rolled her eyes. “Of course not, silly. I’m going to change.”

  “Okay.” He exhaled. “I’ll go home. But will you please text me when you’re finished helping the guest? It will make me feel better. Take down my number.”

  She went back to the desk to grab a pen, and when he rattled off his cell number, she scrawled it on a notepad. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, pausing to wrap a curly strand of her hair behind her ear. She looked dazed when he pulled away, and there was a confused look in her eye when he said goodbye.

  He understood. As he walked down the hotel steps, a helpless, out-of-control feeling had settled in his chest.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Toward the end of his tour of duty, one of Leo’s jobs in the military was to gather dead Marines’ personal effects, bag them up and send them home: their books, their clothes, the rings they had on their fingers when their arms were shot off. Anything stained with blood was considered a biohazard and couldn’t be returned. Some of the things smelled like death. Others had the odor of moon dust. Everything had an unmistakable aura of fear.

  Still, he was a Marine, and he was efficient, a machine, numbed by it all. He wore two sets of latex gloves as he inspected good luck tokens, letters, photos tucked in books end envelopes, all from dead people and all meant for their survivors. He logged everything neatly into a laptop.

  Sgt. Mark Leduc, 34, wife and two kids. They’d get his ID card, his wedding ring and a small, blue plastic frog that was found next to his cot.

  Lance Cpl. Jim Blanchard, 40. Leo would send his wife the letters she had shipped him and the unsent letter to her that he was still working on when he was killed.

  Private Chris McLeod, 22. He had a photo of a beautiful redhead in his breast pocket when he died. On the back it said: Come home soon in one piece, you sexy man! I love you, B.

  With those things neatly categorized and bagged, Leo turned his attention to the letters. A long sheet of paper was draped over a stone desk. His task was to write to the loved ones of the deceased.

  He took a pen out of his pocket, but instead of ink, blood flowed from the tip. That didn’t faze him, though, because he was beyond all feeling.

  When he looked up, all three dead men were standing before him, pointing.

  At him.

  Blaming him.

  Leo woke, sweating and gasping. He looked around, felt the area near his body, then exhaled when his fingertips found cotton sheets stretched over the futon mattress.

  Thank God. I’m still in my bed.

  He hadn’t had a sleepwalking night terror since New Orleans—probably because he hadn’t taken any Ambien, or maybe because Palmira was a truly a calming influence—but the nightmares had returned and he hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in days. Some weeks he’d have none and think his mind was on the mend. Then they could come roaring back every night for a long stretch. This was apparently one of those stretches.

  The dreams always involved blood and the dead. Sometimes the insurgents fired upon him, and on the really bad nights his nightmares would replay the day the IED blew up the Humvee and killed Steve. In the small moments of the night like these, he felt hopeless. Alone. As a teenager he had often wondered whether he had what it took to be a man and fight for something right and true like his father and grandfather. Now that he’d been to war, he was left wondering whether things were ever so black and white. His therapist back in New Orleans had said he not only suffered from PTSD but also something called “moral injury,” which involved guilt and shame over the ambiguities of war.

  Flicking on a lamp, Leo grabbed his wallet from the nightstand. He opened it and extracted a photo. It was of Jessica, and he must’ve stared at it a thousand times while he was overseas. She’d given it to him during that vacation. He hadn’t looked at it since his discharge.

  Over the years he’d come to recognize that he didn’t know the real Jessica. Not the woman she’d become. Still, the photo was almost like a good luck talisman. In the picture she smiled sweetly for the camera, her green eyes shining, her cheeks smooth and girlish. The photo represented the one perfect, innocent time in his life when his father wasn’t yelling at him, when he wasn’t grieving his mother who died from cancer, when human suffering didn’t haunt him. In his darkest moments, and there were many, he liked to think back on the day he met Jess and they fell in love. How they had locked eyes when she served him coffee at her family’s hotel, and how he’d made her snort Sprite out of her nose when he did funny impersonations in his Cajun accent. Leo stared at the image and listened to the sound of the surf in the distance.

  Jessica. Back then she’d been sweet and tender, the opposite of his recent life. He was no longer innocent, and maybe the same was true of everyone. Jess certainly seemed like she had her own shit to deal with.

  The two of them had been so young. Had they really been in love? The idea seemed more complicated now. Was he even capable of loving someone after what he’d been through? Had coming to Palmira been a good idea?

  Still, her kisses. And her body. And her eyes. And the way she hooked her legs around him, wanting more. He’d never felt such craving, not even when they first met.

  She had texted him that she was okay, as he had asked. He was grateful for that. He definitely didn’t like the idea of her being alone at that hotel. What if something happened to her? What if some sleazy guest tried to get physical? What if she was hurt somehow? The very thought filled him with anger. He couldn’t bear to lose another person in his life, and Jessica was impossibly special. Which was the trouble with getting close to people. They could get hurt or die. Their suffering would become his.

  Shaking his head, Leo smacked his mouth, which felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. Wearing only a pair of sweat-drenched boxers, he trudged into the kitchen and guzzled a giant glass of water.

  He was one of the lucky ones, he reminded himself. He didn’t have traumatic brain injury. His physical wounds had healed well, except for the scars on his arm. A doctor said plastic surgery could fix most of those, but for some reason Leo wanted to keep them. He wanted a reminder of what he had been through.

  As if he’d ever forget.

  His emotional wounds weren’t even quite as bad as other men he knew. Leo didn’t have rage issues, and he wasn’t inspired to drink or take drugs to numb the night terrors. At least, he hadn’t thought he had rage issues, but that night in the New Orleans park made him second guess his entire psychological state. Could he trust himself?

  Shaking, he went to his laptop on the makeshift card table he used as a desk. He opened the computer and clicked to a bookmark he’d saved days ago, the New Orleans Times-Picayune. His eyes went straight to the headline on the left hand side of the page.

  Still No Arrests in Recruitment Center Arson

  Leo scanned the article. By now the details were familiar. The Marine recruitment center building had been empty, and no one was hurt. Thank God. Officially, there were no suspects, but an alphabet soup of federal, state and local agencies were investigating.

  Tonight there was a new detail, and he read the paragraph over and over. Officials had revealed that they’d found a red T-shirt in the bus
hes near the strip mall and were analyzing the fabric for evidence and DNA.

  Oh, I’m screwed now.

  Leaning back in his chair, Leo pushed out a breath. Of course he’d woken up shirtless and didn’t recall what he’d been wearing earlier. Where was his red T-shirt? He got up and went to a small bureau he’d bought. Yanking open the drawer, he pawed through, hoping to jog his memory.

  Yeah, he owned a red T-shirt. He’d gotten it when he’d done a 5K in high school. But it certainly wasn’t in his drawer now. And it’s not like he could call his dad, now—or later, for that matter—and ask him to look through his crap back home.

  Wide awake with fear, he went back to the computer and read more of the details he’d read a hundred times already, trying to quash the anxiety in his chest.

  DNA. They’ll be at my dad’s house within a week. Or less.

  His eyes scanned each sentence, read and reread every word. Unnamed police sources and local politicians opined that the arson was the work of homegrown Islamic terrorists. But Leo knew otherwise. It had to have been him, right? He’d been nearby, he had ash in his beard, he couldn’t remember anything about that night. And his red T-shirt was missing.

  Was he capable of doing something like this?

  Possibly.

  He’d been so tweaked out earlier that day, his anxiety at record levels because it was the two-year anniversary of Steve’s death. Could he have slipped into a fugue state and taken out his rage on the place where he’d enlisted?

  Definitely.

  He’d been so angry over Steve’s death. There had been rumors of friendly fire, rumors that were never substantiated but still. Friendly fire was more common than anyone wanted to admit, and it was often swept aside and never properly investigated.

  If he was responsible for that arson, there was only one honorable thing left to do: turn himself in. But, no, he couldn’t do it now. He wanted to do one perfect thing for his father before humiliating him with this arrest. He’d make his father proud, at least for a day or two. Then he’d go to the authorities.