Burn

by Shey Stahl

  “No.” Her face falls, immediately replaced with anger. “He checked out this morning.”

  Inside the elevator, she stops her foot. “Goddamn you, Mila. You said you’d hook a girl up.”

  I press the button on the wall to the penthouse suite. “He wasn’t in any condition to meet you. Next time. He’ll be back in two months.”

  “Well—” She pauses and considers something internally, then tells me, “At least I’ll have time to tan my ass. I bet those bitches he sleeps with are all perfectly tan ass cheeks and bleached assholes.”

  I’m not even paying attention to what she’s saying. I’m biting all my nails off because I’m thinking about the repair bills and hoping like hell my dad doesn’t see them and be like, “Mila, what the fuck is this?”

  Remember when Willa said Shade did some damage to the hotel? Her text lied.

  My dad is going to kill me. That’s all there is to it.

  I mean, honestly, I think an F5 tornado would do less damage than Shade Sawyer when he’s pissed off. You’re probably thinking, who could possibly do that much damage, Mila?

  Well, take a hyperactive man with destructive tendencies mourning the suicide death of his “not girlfriend” and combine that with an adrenaline rush, lots of money, lots of alcohol and unsuspecting hotel staff and this happens.

  Among the various broken objects around the suite, that chair I tripped over was thrown against the wall near the door and is actually stuck in the wall. I’m not even sure how that’s possible.

  “Holy shit.” Scarlet steps over a trail of broken vases and tile. “He had to have been high on something.”

  No shit. Though I’m not sure because I’m looking at probably four bottles of tequila and what looks to be a once standing tower of Coors Light beer cans. Now it slightly resembles a bounce house of tin cans.

  I’m sick to my stomach. Putting my hand against the wall, I attempt to catch my breath and not hyperventilate. Scar may need to call Caleb after all.

  As we’re leaving the room, I’m on my phone trying to find a contractor to fix this shit, today, and Scarlet’s babbling about needing his number to check on him. Surely he needs a girl he’s never fucking met aside from handing him a condom to comfort him in his time of destructing mourning, right?

  Yeah, right.

  Tom finds us on the tenth floor and enters the elevator.

  I can tell by the look on his face, the smirking boyish, playful side of him has something to say. While I usually find this version of Tom entertaining, I’m not in the mood for him.

  It doesn’t stop him though. He relaxes, leaning casually into the side of the elevator next to me. “Hey Mila, I found a condom wrapper on the floor in the janitor’s closet. Wonder where it came from.”

  Still on the phone, I put my hand over it and say the only thing that comes to mind. “Shut up, Tom. You’re living with a homeless man.”

  I’m not very good at comebacks.

  Tom frowns. “How’s he homeless if he’s living with me? And you’re sleeping on her couch.” He points to Scarlet, who’s looking rather disappointed and staring at the numbers on the wall as we make our way to the second floor.

  He has a point, damn it.

  Smiling, he adds, “And it has nothing to do with the condom wrapper or the dirty fucking that took place in there.”

  I don’t hear anything on the other end of the phone and realize I’m in an elevator and lost service. Slipping my phone away, I put my hand over Tom’s mouth. “Stop. Talking.”

  He grins and licks my hand.

  I rip it off his face and slide the Tom-spit off by running my hand over my pants. “You have no idea where my hand has been this morning, and you just licked it.”

  He does this thing where he gives me a nod, a cocky yet kinda sexy one and then dips his head forward, shoulders shrugging. “And honey, you have no idea where my tongue’s been today.”

  He’s absolutely right. I’m sick to my stomach for the second time today.

  I manage to get the contractors up to the penthouse suite and cleaning up, but that’s about all I get accomplished. Mostly because every minute of the day my thoughts keep slipping back to last night and Caleb.

  There’s a good part of me that thinks maybe I won’t hear from Caleb again. I don’t even have his phone number. He doesn’t have mine.

  But he knows where I work so when he shows up around nine the next morning, I’m ecstatic with those same tummy tickles again.

  I smile, trying not to appear too eager but it’s probably pretty fucking obvious. “Do you ever work?”

  Caleb leans into the counter in the lobby, glances at Heather, then me. “I just got off,” his voice lowers to a whisper, and he motions me forward with one finger. Instinctively, I go, my tits pressed to the granite counter. He looks, naturally, then lifts those smoldering eyes to mine. “Now it’s time to get you off.”

  Well, when he puts it like that, who am I to deny him?

  Heather clears her throat. “Mila, I need you.”

  Stupid bitch. She does not.

  Without missing a beat, I turn to her. “Yeah, what do you need?”

  She points to the guest in front of her. Darting my stare to Caleb, he remains at the end of the counter, watching me. I’m nervous. It’s hard to focus on work with him here, and I know I need to.

  Swallowing slowly, I smile at the guests in front of her. “Good morning.”

  By their tight smiles, Heather’s done something to piss them off.

  Heather points to the screen in front of her. “Their reservation was deleted somehow. There are no rooms available to accommodate them and their handicapped daughter.”

  Below them, I notice they have a child in a wheelchair and guess who’s talking to her?

  Caleb. He’s standing next to her now asking her questions about the stickers on her chair. She’s smiling, red-faced and shy. Me and this little girl have something in common.

  I end up finding them a room and Caleb hands his BFF a Seattle Fire Department sticker to add to her collection of stickers.

  Heather disappears behind the counter, and I’m left with Caleb in the lobby. “That was nice of you.”

  He shrugs. “Sometimes you just gotta make a pretty girl’s day.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “How about I make another pretty girl’s morning?”

  As appealing as this sounds, underneath these tummy tickles is a nagging feeling I’m getting myself into trouble. I’m trying to run a hotel as successfully as my father hopes to have it run and this, getting involved with him, seems, I don’t know, bad?

  “Listen . . .” Drawing in a deep breath, I turn to face him. “This is fun, but we can’t do it here. I have to remain professional here.”

  Immediately his bottom lip jets out. “Please?”

  Well since he said please, I have to do it now.

  I grab his muscle-bound arm. “Okay, fine but not the closet this time.”

  His eyes light up. “Your office?”

  “No way. Remember, floor-to-ceiling windows?”

  “Uh, yeah, I know.” And then he glances at me, like what the fuck is the problem with that?

  Admittedly, I have a vision of all the possibilities of floor-to-ceiling windows, including the strange rush of emotions I’d probably have being pressed up against said windows with the city below.

  No. You can’t do that, Mila.

  I give him a look. One that says, not today but we’re not completely discounting that idea all the way.

  At the entrance to the guest rooms, I rack my brain of where to take him. Though I know Scarlet would stand watch, I don’t want to do it in a room. Jesus fuck, this is a horrible idea but the spa comes to mind. There’s a bed. It’s quiet . . .

  I’m going to hell. Jobless hell.

  “I know a place.” And then I’m dragging him to the spa where I steal a room when Izzy Bizzy is occupied on the phone.

  Like I said, unemployment is in my near future over dick.
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  Caleb takes his shirt off, seeming a little eager, and works on his belt buckle and staring at the oils. “Can I stick it in your ass?”

  “Can I stick something in yours?”

  He actually considers it and then drops his jeans to his ankles. “No way.”

  “Then no, you can’t.” I rip my shirt over my head and then my skirt. I don’t need him to take my clothes off. This is dirty fucking. You get right to business. No messing around.

  “Damn it,” he mumbles, watching me undress. I get to my heels and he slaps my hand away from my shoes. “Leave them on.”

  Like I said, dirty fucking.

  Without needing a push, Caleb reaches into his wallet for a condom and then gives the massage table a nod. “Bend over it.”

  His demand flushes my cheeks. I do as he says, placing my hands flat on the table with my ass in the air. Looking back over my shoulder at him, he winks, placing his right hand on my ass cheek and then stepping behind me.

  Slowly, his other hand slides up my spine to my hair he tangles around his hand and fists it, tugging back slightly. His hand on my ass squeezes and then drops to his cock where he slides it back and forth between my slick folds. “Miss me?”

  I nod. I don’t have words. They’re not needed for what we’re about to do.

  Stepping back, Caleb gets the condom on and then returns, one hand in my hair, the other gripping my hip.

  Before I know it, or have a chance to respond to his urgency, Caleb is inside of me and all I can think about is, Jesus, he can fuck.

  Every touch his gives, my skin burns, as though he’s on fire, or I am because of him. Either way, it’s hot, both physically and . . . whatever.

  At some point, my right leg moves to the table and it provides exactly the right angle for him to go deeper. Deep enough it causes me to scream out, “Oh God,” or something similar. I’m not even sure what I said.

  He curses under his breath but doesn’t say anything, his thrusts coming harder and faster, every stroke giving me a new burst of pleasure. I like that he doesn’t say much during sex. In my opinion, you shouldn’t. You should be fucked speechless, and he knows how to do that.

  Just as I’m about to come, there’s a knock on the door and the handle jiggles.

  My panicked eyes dart to Caleb and he stops, midthrust, panting, and mouths, “Who’s that?”

  I push him back and we stand there, both panicking.

  “Mila, I know you’re in there. What are you doing?”

  Oh thank God, it’s only Izzy.

  Letting out a sigh of relief, I yell back, “I’ll be just a minute.”

  Caleb glares, appearing offended. “What? No, you won’t.”

  I put my hand over his mouth but I know Izzy heard him. “You be quiet.”

  “You better not make a mess in there, Mila. I know you have that guy in there. Tom told me all about him.” She knows me a lot better than I thought but still, that motherfucker Tom needs to mind his car-parking ass. “I have a client in twenty minutes.”

  Just as I’m about to tell her I’ll clean up, Caleb opens the goddamn door, completely fucking naked. “Give us ten minutes.”

  Izzy Bizzy, meet Caleb’s cock. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

  “You’re naked,” Izzy notes, her face the color of the fires Caleb puts out. And then, as though she’s really trying not to, her eyes deceive her mind’s orders and make a quick glance at his cock.

  I’m not sure the size of Gigantor’s stick, but I think she’s impressed by Caleb because she does that fish out of water gaping and widens her eyes.

  “We’re busy,” Caleb barks, annoyed, then slams the door and locks it.

  I smile when he closes the door. “That’s impressive. No one’s ever made Izzy blush.”

  He slaps my ass. “I’ll show you something impressive.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  And we’re back at it.

  I’M TREADING THE seas of instability and denial. I’m also working my ass off after Caleb leaves. That is until Nixon comes by the hotel acting like I owe him a favor.

  “I have the Vance Benefit tonight at the Grand Hyatt.” He pauses, clearing his throat and checking his ten-thousand-dollar watch. “Come with me?”

  If I had to guess, I’d say he flashes his watch to draw my eyes toward what he can buy.

  His words are asked in the form of a question, but if you say those words back in your head, it’s something like, “I won’t tell your dad about the firefighter in the storage closet if you come with me.”

  Our eyes meet and I want to slap him across the face for the implication, though it’s not what he said.

  And then he says, “You know, Mila, your dad would be disappointed in your choice of men.”

  Yep. I want to junk punch him. “What are you talking about?”

  “The boy from the closet.”

  Boy? Judging by the way he fucks, he’s no boy, but I won’t tell Nixon that.

  Nixon shifts his stance, leaning into me, the smell of leather and expensive cologne drift over me. “Your father is well aware of who comes in and out of this hotel and if he knew you were messing around with people like him in the closets, I can’t imagine he’d be happy about it. Not to mention fire you for your lack of attention.”

  How dare he threaten me, but then again, I’m surprised he is. It’s just like him. “Nixon, I’m perfectly capable of—”

  He interrupts me with, “Daddy’s girl fired for slumming?”

  I’m not stupid. I know exactly what this is and I don’t appreciate Nixon bribing me into going on a date with him, but what else am I going to do?

  Let my father find out about my lack of self-control in his hotel?

  Not an option.

  “What time?”

  Nixon’s eyes take a slow and unapologetic tour of my body. I fight the urge to slap him across the face. His eyes lift to mine. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  I want to throw myself on the floor and kick and scream and punch.

  Goddamn it!

  I’M DISAPPOINTED IN myself. Twice at work now. Twice. That’s dirty and well, addictive. It’s like doing it on the couch with your parents in the room obliviously fifteen feet away watching a movie while you cuddle your boyfriend under the blanket. And by cuddle, I mean his dick buried inside of you and you’re thankful for the pleather couch you can easily slide your ass back and forth against when a fleece blanket is underneath you. Leaves for little to no noise.

  You know what else I’m disappointed in?

  I didn’t get Caleb’s phone number, again, and the fact that I agreed to go out with Nixon to the Vance Benefit.

  I’m not one for these black-tie events. Hell, I don’t even like going to the company Christmas parties. I can’t avoid them, but I’m never comfortable.

  What makes this event even more uncomfortable is being here with Nixon.

  I once dated this guy. Actually, it wasn’t dating. It was only a few late-night hook-ups, and then I realized he was sleeping with four other people and still married.

  Remember when I said I slept with a married man? Remember when I said don’t date bankers? That guy was Nixon’s dad.

  I know what you’re thinking, slutty. I’m frowning at myself just thinking about that awful, misguided portion of the year I turned twenty.

  Believe me, it’s one of the many times I wished I hadn’t spread my legs.

  Ever since then, and I’m not sure how he knows about it, but Nixon has been asking me out and acting like we’re destined to marry.

  Not happening.

  There’s a good part of me who thinks the only reason Nixon asked me to come with him tonight was because of his dad and what happened in the storage closet. Like maybe he’s thinking because I was once dumb, I’ll just go ahead and sleep with the rest of the men in the Shaw family.

  He’s delusional, and I’m beginning to understand Caleb’s right: he wants to fuck me.

  But I agree to go to the eve
nt with him because I know he knows about Caleb and the closet, and I do not want him telling my father.

  We’re done with dinner and Nixon’s giving a speech about numbers and nothing that interests me. I excuse myself for some fresh air to think.

  I’m leaning against the railing when I notice there’s a firetruck parked at the entrance. How I didn’t see it before is beyond me?

  Straightening my posture, my heart pounds, my stare wandering around the lobby of the Grand Hyatt.

  And then I see him, because when he’s near, my body knows it.

  His eyes are on mine as he leans into the wall with his shoulder. The other firefighters standing next to him look over their shoulder at me too.

  A heat of embarrassment heats my skin. Why are they staring at me?

  Because you’re wearing a bright red dress with a slit up the side and they’re firefighters. They like red.

  I bite my lip when I see what he’s wearing. Christ Almighty, he’s wearing turnout gear. Black and yellow gear with a hat and gloves and oh. My. God. My panties are drenched.

  I wonder if he keeps this gear at his apartment. I might need to come over later to try this out.

  Motioning me forward with his hand, I willingly go, and the other firefighters near him walk away, like he has command over them just by a flick of his stare.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, standing before him.

  His penetrating stare drags down my body. “Some lady fell in a fountain. Some bystanders thought she was drowning.” He nods around the lobby. “Do you manage this hotel too?”

  “Oh, uh, no. I’m here for a dinner with Shaw Investments.”

  He seems disinterested but smiles, adjusting the strap of whatever that tank thing on his back is.

  I mimic the movement of his eyes made over me and look over him in his gear. I’m not disappointed. I’m insanely turned on. My stare moves from his black coat to his hands and what he’s holding. Memories of the spa return and I’m envisioning him spanking my ass with whatever that is.

  As if he can read my thoughts, the fucker strokes the crowbar thing in his hand. “Like what you see?”