by Shey Stahl
I’m in awe of him and what he does, but also scared when I see other cars driving passed the accident with very little control, two or three smashing into the guardrail only five feet from him. Caleb’s risking his life for the sake of others. People he doesn’t even know.
And he doesn’t look afraid. No, he’s full of determination to save these people, and for the first time, I’m seeing him work firsthand and finally understanding why he does what he does for a living. I can’t even begin to imagine what this must feel like for him.
And then I wonder, how can he do it? How does he maintain a level of detachment that allows him to save small children and then come back out from saving another, only to see them being covered in a tarp?
How can he stomach seeing people crushed to death and then trying to pull them to safety? How can he look into the eyes of that boy and not cry, knowing he’s not going to be okay?
“How do you decide who to save or who you’ll go after first?” I ask when he’s back in the truck. “Is that boy going to be okay?”
“He’s paralyzed, Mila.” His eyes are distant, as if he has to be so he doesn’t feel what his job is really doing to him inside. “You go off instinct usually.” Rubbing his hands together, he cranks the heater to restore the heat in the truck. “Whoever is closer. A child, a woman, or how bad their injuries are.”
“So you can save people aside from saving them from fire?” My thoughts return to the boy and the tears I saw in his eyes.
Caleb looks at me curiously for a moment, his brow drawn together. “I’m EMT certified. All firefighters in Seattle are, but I’m not a paramedic. I could save them if I had to. I’m just not allowed to administer drugs or start IVs.”
I’m proud of what I just witnessed, but I’m also fucking scared shitless. His job is dangerous, and I only saw a car accident. I can’t even imagine what seeing him running into a fire would be like. I’m not sure I want to.
“Why do you do this?” I ask, my anxiety rising as we begin to drive again. Every street we turn on there’s wreck after wreck, and I know he wants to stop and help. He probably would have, but when he glances at me, he sees it how nervous I am.
His haunted eyes command mine, concealing a pain I’ll never comprehend. “Where’s this coming from? You know what I do for a living.”
“It’s coming from me being concerned for you.” My voice begins to tremble, mirroring the actions of my body as I fight the nerves and the cold. “Dude, that scared me. You could have died.”
He snorts, confirming my thoughts that what I witnessed was not nearly as dangerous as his job gets. That’s the easy stuff. “You have nothing to be scared of.”
“Uh, yes I do.”
He nods, knowing exactly what I’m referring to. He knows he’s wrong to say I shouldn’t be scared.
“Is your job the reason for your nightmares?”
Every muscle is Caleb’s body goes rigid and he shakes his head adamantly. His shoulders tense and he lifts his angry eyes to mine. “Don’t.”
He wants me to stop talking, but with what I’ve just seen, I can’t. “Don’t what?”
His expression shifts from hurt to anger in the blink of an eye, a coldness moving through the truck that has nothing to do with the air outside. “Don’t, Mila.” He shakes his head, snow falling from his hair.
We haven’t moved in a couple of minutes. Traffic’s stalled up ahead of us in what appears to be another accident, judging by all the lights. Sirens can be heard in either direction. All around us the snow falls in large flakes that coat the streets in a heavy slick sheet.
The windshield wipers swish on high, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference; it’s packed in white clumps and accumulating more quickly than the wipers can clear it.
I swallow thickly. “I’m just trying to understand you a little more,” I admit, looking out the window, wishing I wasn’t feeling this right now.
Silence spreads through the cab of his truck, the only sounds sirens and the crunching of cars sliding and the low thumps as they hit light poles and parked vehicles. Usually in Seattle, they close certain streets to avoid this, but the amount of snow in such a short time frame hadn’t been expected.
“Don’t try to understand me. You’ll only be disappointed.” His belief in those words rip through my heart, and I’m left shattered.
My eyes find his in the dim light. He appears completely frustrated by my questions. By his irritation, I should back off, but I don’t.
He looks away, his voice too calm, too refined, too matter-of-fact when he says, “You knew going into this I was a firefighter . . .”
My heart aches seeing him turn his face away from me. Guilt claws at my chest, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “Yes, I knew it was your life, but getting out in the middle of the street to save people, dude, that’s really dangerous.”
His shoulders stiffen and he lifts his eyes to mine. He can see through me right now—my nerves, my fears—and I hold his gaze, wanting him to see them. But there are fears in his too. Maybe for what he’s about to say to me.
“I save people, Mila. That’s my job. And if I wasn’t here—tonight—I hope that someone else would do the same for those people.” There’s so much emotion on his face I can’t decipher which one to focus on. Anger. Hurt. Annoyance. He’s upset with me for questioning his motives at a time like this. I can’t say I blame him. “When I save someone,” he pauses, his words sounding trapped in his throat for the briefest of moments. “I’m thinking about me . . . two years old, the rest of my family dead, burned alive and one man risking his life to get me out and give me another chance.” His voice is devoid of so many emotions I fear he has none. There’s no compassion, inflection, but there is confidence. He knows exactly why he’s a firefighter. “I’m thinking, what if that mother I pulled from her car last week before it caught fire was mine? What if that child I carried down fourteen flights of stairs a year ago and breathed for her as her skin melted off her and stuck to my turnout gear was my niece? What if you were trapped in a burning building, choked out by smoke . . . would I want someone risking their life to save you? My answer is yes.” He spits the words as if I’ve insulted him and I know I have. “My fucking answer would be yes, every goddamn time, and you don’t see it.” He lowers his head so our eyes catch in attempt to reinforce what he’s saying, the darkness in them commanding my attention. “You don’t see it. So why even try to understand anything about me if you can’t see something as simple as me stopping to save a life?” His face is almost shadowed in the low lighting of the cab but it doesn’t hide the darkening of his eyes, the scowl across his face as the temperature around me cools. He’s displaying so much anger and I have no idea where it’s coming from, just that it’s suddenly directed at me. “I do it because I’m very much aware that I could be one call away from being called to save you.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence in the truck. His breathing, my breathing, together filling in the empty space between us.
I’m caught off guard by his honesty because, holy fucking shit . . . I had to dig deep to get any truth, but when he opens up, the honesty’s heartbreaking.
There’s nothing more I can say right now. Nothing. I have his truth.
Pyrolysis
Process of converting a solid substance to combustible fumes by raising its temperature.
The storm that ripped through the city the other night wreaked havoc on everything from knocking out power for days to our hotel, over-booked and me running around like someone cut my head off and burned my body.
Mostly my thoughts are on Caleb. I can’t believe I said those things to him. Who does that?
Undeniably, I’m distracted at work today thinking, no, wishing I had the guys phone number to apologize. I know what you’re thinking, bitch, you don’t have his number yet?
Sadly, no. It hasn’t come up, and most of the time, other than that one time where I stalked him, he shows up exactly when I need him to.
I don’t hear from Caleb for two days, and because of the storm, I think it’s because of that, but I don’t know for sure.
I’m beginning to think he isn’t going to come by anymore until he shows up at the hotel just as I’m leaving this evening.
When he walks in with the rugged arrogance constantly surrounding his presence in my life, “Bad to the Bone” starts playing in the lobby. I’m lying. That didn’t happen. But it should have, huh? It’d be fitting for a man like him.
Making his way over to me by the front desk, he stands there with his hands buried in the pockets of his dark jeans, flakes of snow peppering his dark hair but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything. He only watches me, our eyes meeting for a long battle of silent communication.
I don’t win.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, feeling like the biggest jerk of all time. And that includes the time I faked my own death and word got back to my grandma.
For a week, she thought I was.
He chews on the inside of his cheek, considering my apology. “Don’t be,” he mumbles, watching a couple as they fight in the lobby over which restaurant they’re going to dine at. “I would have come by sooner, but I worked a tour.” There’s something strange about him tonight, something in his eyes I can’t place. He almost looks lost and vulnerable. It’s hard to imagine him being that way, but I’ve also grown to understand that’s Caleb. His reactions are never what I expect them to be.
Or maybe he’s annoyed? Maybe it was just a bad day at work.
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s a tour?”
He stares at the distance between us, then me. “Three days straight at the firehouse.”
My mouth gapes at him and naturally, his eyes move to my lips. “Holy shit, aren’t you tired?”
Those green eyes I dream about find mine. There’s a hint of a smile forming, but it doesn’t go all the way, like maybe he’s not ready to give me a smile yet. “Yeah.”
I take another step toward him, his eyes roaming over my dress and heels, no doubt imagining the last time I wore these particular heels and my legs were draped over his shoulders, and my ass prints stayed on my desk for two days. “But you’re here?”
Caleb shifts his weight, leaning into the concierge desk and nods. Always so relaxed, but I don’t miss the stiffness in his tensed muscles. “I’m here.”
I’m here. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. I’m not sure he does either.
I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it before, but when he’s leaning, I see he’s got something in his hand. “What’s in your hand?”
Licking his lips and swallowing hard, he holds out the bag and says, “Something for you.”
With my enthusiasm, you would have thought he’s giving me a diamond bracelet, which, by the way, that one from Nixon is in the fuckin’ garbage.
“Really?”
“Whoa. Settle down. It’s a bottle of whip cream.”
You’d think I’d know what that means, but I’m staring at him, confused. “For what?”
His brow lifts. “What do you mean?”
“Why’d you get whip cream?”
And there’s the smile I’ve missed. Sigh. “Well, that’s for you to decide. I was going to bring ice cream, but I thought about the choking hazard.” The grin widens, but he’s trying to remain serious as he adds, “You can choke on this instead.”
You’re thinking, no, he didn’t just grab his junk in the middle of a five-star luxury hotel surrounded by guests who probably make upwards of six figures a year. Oh, but you’d be wrong because he does, and it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
I shake my head when he grabs his junk, the same hand that has a bag of candy in it I hadn’t noticed until now. “Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“And those?”
“Those are Swedish Fish.”
“Can I have some?”
He rips the bag out of my reach. “No. These are for me. The whip cream is yours.”
I attempt to smack him on the shoulder, but he catches my wrist in midair and yanks me to him. I land against his chest with a gasp.
Sigh. I missed this.
“Will you come back to my place with me?”
“Hold on.” And then I take off back to the front desk with adrenaline shooting through my veins. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t, but I want him alone. All alone and I know if we’re at his place, Jacey’s there and sometimes Owen. If we go to Scarlet’s place, we do it on the couch and she conveniently finds ways to walk in on us.
You’re going to hell for this. I tell myself swiping the card key from the drawer to the penthouse suite. It just finished its remodel and I should check it out, right?
This is where I should listen to the pathologically moral side of my brain that keeps me out of situations like this. But I don’t. She’s dumb. Might as well become Peter Pan because I’m never going to grow up.
With my heels clicking across the marble floor of the lobby, I run back over to him, hold up the card key and drag him to the elevators with me. “I have an idea.”
Not a good one but an idea.
CALEB GLANCES AROUND the penthouse suite as we step inside but never gives away much of a reaction. Most people gasp when they walk in. Not Caleb. I’m beginning to understand he’s not impressed by much of anything. “You don’t have to clean these rooms, do you?”
“No, thank God.” I flip on the lights, and we find ourselves in the bedroom, conveniently. “But I used to when I was younger. I started working here when I was sixteen, and my dad made me work every job so I knew how it all worked. He always said you can’t manage a hotel if you have no idea what your staff goes through each day. He lives by the motto, you don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.”
“Sounds like a good man.” Taking the few steps toward me, he backs me up against the bed, drops his candy and the whip cream, and puts his hand up my dress. Sliding it slowly up my thighs, he rubs my clit over my panties, making me crazy with need. I want all my clothes off and something filling me. Now.
Reading my mind, Caleb starts tearing clothes away and pushes me back on the bed.
I release a tiny gasp of surprise when he’s crawling up my body. It’s the most erotic crawl I’ve ever seen. He smiles, gazing down at me on my back before grabbing my wrists and securing them above my head.
“Did you miss me?” he asks, dragging his thick cock between my slippery folds and grabs the whip cream bottle with the other hand.
“What do you think?” I whisper, trying not to blush.
Lowering himself so we’re skin to skin, he growls in my ear, “I fuckin’ missed you.”
Just when I think he’s going to enter me, he doesn’t and sits up moving backward until he’s on his knees. Taking the whip cream bottle in his hand, he grabs the bag of candy, rips it open with his teeth, so the bag breaks apart and tiny red candy fish fall over the white blanket.
He picks up two, one for him, one for me and places the candy fish on my lips.
Rising up on my elbows, I smile, the sweetest of the candy hitting my tongue, my shoulders rise and fall with quick breaths waiting to see what he’s going to do next. I can never tell with him.
Chewing on his own candy, he shakes the whip cream bottle and then sprays the thick white cream on his cock. “Suck,” he demands.
That’s what the whip cream was for.
So I do, suck, and it’s sticky as hell, and when he comes in my mouth, it’s sweet.
AS YOU CAN guess, the whip cream had made us both fairly sticky and a shower was needed. But when you’re squatting in the penthouse suite, you take a fuckin’ bath because the tub alone pales in comparison to most swimming pools.
I didn’t even want to imagine the things Shade’s done in this very tub with all this leg room. I’m pressed against Caleb’s chest, my back to him. He’s got one hand holding the soap and running it o
ver my arms, the other’s resting on the edge of the tub.
“What’s your real name?”
I twist my head to look back at him. “Huh?”
“What’s Mila short for?”
“Oh, uh, Milena Presley Wellington.”
“That’s a beautiful name.” He kisses my temple, the warmth of his mouth burning in my memory. Crap on a cracker, I’m falling, beautifully, effortlessly.
“And what’s yours?”
“Caleb.”
“Caleb what?”
There’s a rigidness taking over, I can literally see the muscles in his arms protesting to a reaction deep inside of him. “Caleb Mathew Thomas.”
I swallow. I know what’s coming. I put two and two together based on what Jacey had told me and our conversation in the truck the other night. “Thomas? I thought it was Ryan?”
He gives me a knowing look. “It is now, but I was born a Thomas.” When I twist in the tub and watch his face, I can tell by the way he’s evading my questioning eyes, he wants to forget what he’s about to say. His brow furrows, the vulnerability in his stare masked by the lack of light in the room. “My parents died when I was two. Heath, my adopted father, saved me from the fire that took them and my older brother. The Ryans adopted me, and I took on their name.”
“Do you remember your parents?”
His jaw tightens and he swallows heavily. “No, I don’t think so.”
I’m nervous when I ask, “But you have nightmares about them and Wyatt?”
He nods and turns his head toward the window. “I don’t remember the nightmares later. I have them, yes, but I don’t know what they mean or if they’re real. Just that I have them.” His words are soft, almost whispered.
I say nothing, swallowing, and look out the window.
Part of me can’t help but feel attached to him even more because we both came from a family who could no longer take care of us. Sure, his died but mine were incapable of providing for me, and they knew that.
I can see his vulnerability in his breathing, his eyes slowly moving to mine. “How old were you when your parents gave you up for adoption?”
