Stoking the Embers (New Adult Romantic Suspense): The Complete Series

by Johnson, Leslie

  Minutes later, she’s stuffing tissues in my hand and giving me a cup of water.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, completely humiliated.

  “I’m so sorry, Stephanie. I wish there was something I could do. You’ve always been such a good employee. This breaks my heart.”

  I shake my head. “But I’ve never been arrested. That paper is a lie.” I so desperately want to cry again, but I hold it together long enough to tell her all that’s happened over the past forty-eight hours.

  When I’m finished, Diane picks up the phone and presses buttons. I barely hear her as she speaks to someone in home office and pleads my case.

  “But I think… (pause)… don’t you think we should… (pause)… I don’t agree with… (pause)… very well.”

  She slams down the phone and I nearly jump out of my skin. Her face is red and she looks like the one who needs to breathe.

  “I’ve got good news and bad news. The good news is that you’re not officially fired; they’re willing to allow you to prove your innocence.”

  “And the bad news?”

  Diane blows out a breath, causing her bangs to shoot into the air. “The bad news is that you’re suspended without pay until this is all worked out.”

  “But that could take weeks.” Rent. Groceries. Gasoline. What do I do?

  Diane’s eyes gleam and she blinks rapidly. “Maybe not. Maybe this can be cleared up quickly; you do have the attention of the FBI, surely they can figure this out.”

  Diane stands and turns to her copier and makes a copy of the police report. “I’m probably not supposed to give you this, but screw it.” She smiles as she hands it to me. She gestures for me to follow and I do.

  I expect her to escort me out of the building, but instead she takes me to the back storage room. “I don’t know about you, but if I had to go without a paycheck, it would be a big problem. No way will I let you go hungry. At least let me feed you.”

  She picks up some bags and stuffs them full of groceries. This is the sample room, where vendors leave all kinds of things to try. I just stand there, watching her fill four bags and then a fifth one. Finally, she turns to me and says, “Let’s sneak out the back. No reason for you to have to deal with prying eyes right now.” She tossed the bags in a grocery cart and heads toward the back exit.

  I follow, like a puppy, all the way around the building and to my car. She takes the key from my hands, opens my trunk and stashes everything inside.

  “You okay to drive, hun?”

  I nod, unable to talk.

  She pulls me to her and gives me a big squeeze. “The minute you get this sorted out, you call me and I’ll get you back on the schedule. Hear me?”

  I nod again.

  “If it takes longer than expected, you call me then too. We have more samples where those came from. Okay?”

  Finally able to speak, I say, “Thank you so much.”

  She rubs my arm. “Stephanie, shit happens and you can either wallow in it or wash it off. Believe me, I’ve had to wash it off me more times than I care to admit.”

  I take the keys she holds out to me and thank her again. I watch her push the cart away, the wheels rattling on the concrete. I go back to my place, lug the groceries up to my apartment, call the detective on my case and go to bed.

  The window rattles beside my bed and startles me from sleep. Bam. Bam. Bam. It rattles again and I sit up quickly.

  “Stephanie!”

  It’s Beth’s voice, yelling at me from the other side. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I fall back onto the bed, trying to ignore her.

  “Stephanie!”

  She’s yelling again and then my phone beeps. Six missed messages and four missed calls. All from Beth. The phone rings in my hand. It’s Beth again. I know if I don’t answer, she’ll never go away.

  “What do you want?”

  There’s a long moment of silence before Beth gushes, “Oh my god, are you alright? I’ve been calling, texting, and banging on your door for hours. I was about to call the police.”

  It hit me. She still doesn’t have a key to my new locks. I gave the spare to the building supervisor and planned to make a set for Beth today.

  Ha. Like that will happen now, I think with venom as I remember the picture of Beth betraying our friendship so completely.

  “Steph! Answer me!” I can hear her voice on my phone and also outside my window as she yells.

  “Leave me alone.”

  She’s gone back to front door and is banging on it again. She’s still yelling, “To hell I’ll leave you alone. Open the door. What’s wrong? You missed class. I’ve been worried sick.”

  Missed class? I look at the time and sure enough, it’s late afternoon. In a panic, I say, “My alarm didn’t go off,” before I remember I wasn’t talking to her. It pains me at a cellular level. I walk to my front door and look out the peephole. Beth’s pacing on my landing, running her hand through her hair.

  As I watch, she stops and says, “Let me in. I spoke to Professor Donovan and she wants to meet with us.” She’s no longer yelling.

  Oh great. Am I going to get kicked out of school for being a porn star prostitute too? If so, it needs to wait until tomorrow. I can’t handle one more thing today.

  I sigh. “Go away, please.”

  I watch her place her hand on the side of her face, then a soft, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  A sound comes out of me that resembles a grunt. “Well, let’s see. This morning, I get a picture of you giving Ken head and then I’m suspended from work for being a prostitute. Which do you think takes precedence?”

  The door hits my forehead and I jump backwards as Beth starts wailing on it again. “Open up this door, right now. I never gave Ken anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  God, I want to believe her. But the pictures are on my phone in full color.

  “Open this door!” She is screaming now and I’m beginning to worry someone will call 911. Just what I need, getting arrested for disturbing the peace.

  Stepping forward, I turn both locks and swing the door open to a red-faced and crying Beth. She steps inside and slams the door behind her. Soon, we’re face-to-face. I’m not sure which of us is more upset. Neither of us seems to know where to begin.

  “I never ever, ever gave Ken a blowjob. How can you even think that?”

  Well, I guess that was as good a place to begin as any. I hold up my phone and scroll to the text message and pictures. I thrust it at her and she gapes, thumbs sliding from one image to the next. She looks up at me and back down at the pictures, mouth open, shaking her head.

  “That’s not what you think it is.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Really? How is a picture of you sucking Ken’s dick not a picture of you sucking Ken’s dick?” I challenge her.

  “Do you see a dick?”

  I stare at her. “No, because it’s in your mouth.”

  Her face scrunches up in fury and I’m sure she’s going to hit me in the face. Game on, sister, I think.

  “It was not in my mouth or anywhere outside of his pants. I can’t believe you’d even think that.”

  “Duh.” I point at the phone. “Who needs thinking when I’ve got eight megapixels in full definition fucking color?”

  Beth growls—growls—at me. She’s kinda scary when she’s angry. “Well, let me tell you the truth about your megapixels. Ken was getting a migraine and I was giving him my famous acupressure relief procedure.”

  I wince, my face reacting in terror at even the thought of her pressing under my cheekbones. I’d been the victim of the Beth Richard’s Migraine Death Grip several times.

  “Exactly,” she points at me. “Ken was a super wimp too and pulled back and I lost my balance and fell into his lap. Then I rolled off onto the floor.”

  I grab my phone from her. At first glance, Ken’s face looks like he’s in ecstasy, but now I see how it could possibly be agony. I look
up at Beth, who flips me a bird.

  I sink to the floor in relief. I swipe to the last picture. “What about this one?”

  She sits down beside me and thinks for a second, then her face contorts with horror. “Oh my god, Steph. We had been talking about everything that had gone on and he asked if the detective had swept my apartment. I told him no and he got up to look around. He couldn’t find any holes in the walls and looked at my computer.”

  She blows out a breath and shudders. “Steph, my laptop started playing Welcome to my Nightmare as loud as the speakers could go. Scared the shit out of me. I hadn’t been on YouTube all day and I know I hadn’t searched for that song. This morning, I called the detective and they’re doing a sweep of my apartment tomorrow. They’re going to look at my computer too.”

  She looks at the pictures on my phone again. “We need to give these to the detective. The angle looks like they were taken from my laptop camera. I can’t believe it. I wonder what else they’ve done.”

  I grasp her hand in sympathy, knowing exactly the fear she must be feeling. “I’m sorry I thought…” I couldn’t go on, couldn’t put words behind it.

  “It’s okay. Jerome did a bang-up job making something innocent look bad.”

  “That shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

  “Well, no. You shouldn’t have, but I can see why you did.”

  “Thanks for forgiving me and thanks for not giving my boyfriend a hummer.”

  She laughs. “Ex-boyfriend don’t you mean.” She pops me in the forehead with her palm. “By the way, what the hell where you thinking breaking up with him like that?”

  I rub my forehead and shrug. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  Beth narrows her eyes. “Uh huh. Florence Nightingale trying to save the world.”

  “Another stupid move?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “Yep.”

  “So I should call him?”

  “Nope. You should go see him.”

  “Does it have to be tonight? I think my bones have turned to gelatin and I can’t get up off this floor.”

  “Tomorrow’s fine. Just don’t wait any longer, okay?”

  “Okay. Promise. What if he won’t open the door?”

  She looks at me and lifts an eyebrow, “Bang on it until he does. Worked for me.”

  I laugh. “Thanks for banging.”

  She laughs too and then sobers and looks up at the ceiling. She lies down on the carpet. “Speaking of banging. What’s up about getting fired for being a prostitute?”

  I sigh, lie down beside her and tell her the entire story.

  Chapter 8 – Ken

  I trudge into the station bright and early, feeling like my boots were made of cement. Now that the shock has worn off, I know the damn guys are going to give me hell. They’d give me a day or two to recover and then all bets are off. For the sake of the brotherhood, they’ll have to bust my balls.

  “Oh look, it’s lover boy,” says Jeff, still sporting a shiner.

  Yep. And just like that, it’s started. Might as well get it over with. I keep walking toward my locker.

  Trevor bends over and Tristan starts smacking him on the ass. Trevor shouts out in faux orgasmic bliss. “Harder, Ken. Harder,” Trevor says in horrible falsetto. “Do as I say, bitch,” Tristan says back, spanking Trevor as if his life depended on it.

  Great.

  Seems like everyone has seen the newest video of me spanking Stephanie. God, I hope fucking Jerome didn’t record the time she spanked me back.

  Bob twirls around the pole while Vince sticks a dollar in his pants. Not quite sure how strippers came into all this. I’m absolutely certain we didn’t pole dance. Well, Steph did dance on my pole numerous times.

  Steph.

  I shake my head, trying to get her out of it.

  Octavio is leaning against the row of lockers and I stare him down as I approach. “Not you too.”

  “Me? Would I ever give you a hard time?”

  I snort and yank on the handle of my locker, still giving Octavio the evil eye. Something whips out and smacks me across the face. It’s a freakin’ flogger, duct taped to the inside of the door. A second later, Octavio is howling on the floor.

  Station 15—Code 3 at the intersection of Green Valley and Sunset. Multi-car. Possible fatality, utility pole down.

  I might go to hell for being happy to have a traffic accident to work, especially since it appears to be a bad one. But I’m the first one suited up and the first one in the truck.

  Bill Martinez is a cop friend I love to hate; we’ve had a long running friendly rivalry. He’s directing traffic and trying to give us space to get close. I’m sure he’ll bust my chops about all the shit that’s been going down, but right now I’m given a reprieve. This accident is all to hell and right now, Bill’s struggling to keep a bunch of ogling tourists at bay.

  “Prius first,” Bill yells. “She’s not got long.”

  I look around and don’t see a Prius.

  “Under the truck,” Bill shouts, reading my mind. I see it, or what once was it, under a beer truck that’s turned on its side. Rescue’s heading that way, breaking out the jaws-of-life. Hoses are on to damp down any hotspots that may popup. We were lucky an NV Energy truck was only a block away—they cut power to the downed line before we got here.

  “What else?” I yell over the sirens and screaming people.

  Bill blows a whistle as two idiots try to jump a barrier for a better view. They’re nabbed by another cop and hauled back to the sidewalk.

  “The beer truck driver is shaken up, but okay I think,” Bill yells, pointing in the guy’s direction. He’s holding a towel against his bleeding head and trying to stop people from grabbing cases of beer lying on the pavement.

  Bill calls for more backup and grumbles, “Fuckin’ freeloaders.”

  I clap him on the shoulder. “I’m going to help the driver out until backup arr—”

  Screams fill the air from several directions, competing with the sound of metal on metal. I turn to see a black SUV bounce off the beer truck, its engines roaring. It’s now heading directly towards me.

  “Watch out!”

  Before I can react, I’m pushed from behind, a giant heave that sends me flying forward several feet. Pain flares in my leg just before I hit concrete. I roll to break the fall just as the huge vehicle thumps over Bill.

  I try to stand and fall immediately to the ground. Shit. My leg. I stand again and limp over to Bill, who’s not moving and has, good god, tire marks across his pelvis. The black SUV is gone; I see bystanders chasing it down the street. Two more pedestrians are down, still as death. Others are holding wounded legs or bloody heads. The damn truck slammed through the crowd and kept going. Right now I have one focus: my frenemy.

  Dropping beside Bill, I assess his injuries. Bad. Really bad. I feel for a pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there. His breathing is shallow but steady. A piece of thigh bone is sticking out of a hole in his pants, blood gushing from the wound. As gruesome as that looks, it isn’t what worries me most.

  Jeff drops beside me. I give him a brief, “He’s alive, but barely. We need OR now. I can’t do anything for the internal injuries I’m sure he’s sustained.” All I can do is put pressure on the femoral artery above the wound. I press down and blood seeps between my fingers. Bill moans… the most beautiful sound a paramedic can ever hear.

  “Bill, we gotcha man,” I start talking to him, keeping my voice steady as Jeff runs back to the truck for the equipment we need. Bill’s unconscious again, no response to pain. Keeping one hand on his thigh, pressing down hard, I use the other to check for additional fractures. Shit. His belly is swelling. I yell to Jeff. “We need a hospital. Now.”

  Octavio joins Jeff and they’re steering a stretcher in our direction. The scene is chaos. It’s gone from a bad wreck to a madhouse in seconds. Kids are crying, although another quick glance at the scene doesn’t show any of them hurt. The i
nitial panic is dying down as people start pitching in to help the injured. Bent over one of the victims is… holy shit, it’s Stephanie’s friend, Beth.

  The guys are back and we quickly collar Bill’s neck before turning him and sliding a spine board beneath him. In less than a minute he’s strapped down and we’ve lifted him onto the stretcher. Seconds later, the guys are hurrying him to the one waiting ambulance just as additional ambulances begin arriving.

  Thank God, back up’s arrived. Although I’d probably been on the scene less than ten minutes total, I feel completely wiped out. Drained.

  Grabbing the kit the guy’s left me, I limp my way toward Beth and the person she’s hovering over. She’s winding what looks like a scarf around an injured woman’s arm. Her eyes widen in surprise when I drop beside her.

  “Laceration, she’ll need stitches.” Beth gives a report without me having to ask. I have a flashback of Steph in that van where we first met. Scared to death, but helping out anyway. Might have another paramedic in the making.

  I pull gloves, bandages and tape from the kit—more appropriate tools for an injury— and pull on a fresh pair. Beth smiles and begins unwinding the scarf. “Looks like you’re going to need stitches too,” she says.

  I look at my leg for the first time and see blood trickling into my shoe through a gaping hole in my pants. Damn. I didn’t realize I’d been cut, although I remember something hitting my leg. Adrenaline is good medicine.

  “I’m sorry I got your pretty scarf dirty, my dear,” the elderly lady says and pats Beth’s hand. The woman’s husband seems more upset than she is. He’s bent down behind her, massaging her shoulders. “Ralph, for good heavens, Mary and Moses, stop that.” She smacks his hands away. Ralph stands, wincing as his knees creek and complain about lifting him. Then he begins pacing; the white socks he’s wearing glare brightly.

  “Can you stay with her?” I ask Beth after I get the sterile padding on the wound and taped up. It’s a half ass job, but it’ll have to come off anyway for the stitches. I pat the woman on the shoulder and assure her we’ll get her to the hospital as quickly as possible. Then I limp over to the victim Gage is working on; my leg is starting to hurt like a mother.