by Shey Stahl
There’s a man at the register. He clears his throat. “What’ll it be?”
I shift my weight, hiding the whiskey behind my back. I still have that bottle from my parents’ house. “I don’t know what to get a girl. I need to say sorry.”
“Hmm.” The man taps the glass display case. “I know a girl who’ll do almost anything for the red velvet. Maybe try that?”
I shrug and reach for my wallet. “Sure. Give me a couple of those.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”
“That’s what I said,” I snap back.
“Not a dozen?”
I toss a twenty on the counter. “It’s better to go with the simple gestures, my man. Not flashy.”
The man actually considers this. Judging by the Mercedes parked outside of this establishment, he could use advice like that.
I know I shouldn’t go to her in my condition, but I can’t stop myself. Everything inside me begs not to, but she’s everything I can’t control. I burn for her to take this away.
Personal Accountabilty System
Tag “passport” or other system for identification and tracking of personnel at an incident especially those entering and leaving an IDLH area, intended to permit rapid determination of who may be at risk or lost during sudden changes at the scene.
You know when you’re really mad about something but you can’t be all that mad because it’s your own fault?
That’s exactly how I feel. In the beginning, I never intended to fall for Caleb and I knew when I did it was a mistake. That’s the problem with sex. It fucks up your world. It destroys your heart.
Darkness spills over the city as I stand in the lobby of the hotel remembering back to the night in this very spot where Caleb walked away from me.
I wish I had his phone number so I could call and apologize, but what am I going to say to him? He made it clear my drama was too much for him.
I’ve been walking on egg shells at the hotel since that night, afraid my father might actually fire me over the double booking, and the desire to burn Nixon’s Maserati to the ground for the shit he pulled is something fierce.
Outside the hotel, the valet crew keeps the drive clear of snow and ice. It reminds me of what my father said last night. “It’s been brought to my attention you’ve been slipping on your job.”
I know Tom wouldn’t say anything about my performance at work, but he’s the one who told him about Caleb. I’m sure of it.
You know, I bet this is how Salt-N-Pepa felt when they wrote “None of Your Business.”
It’s none of Tom’s business who I’m giving skins to, damn it.
It’s not overly difficult to find the gossip queen. He’s standing in the valet booth with his phone in his hand. I don’t waste time on pleasantries. Like I ever have with Tom. “Listen, you dirty rat, mind your own car parking business!”
Startled by my presence, he drops his phone on the ground. It hits the edge of a stool and cracks the screen. It’s a good damn thing because guess what he’s doing?
He’s sending fucking dick pics.
Tom acts like it’s no big deal, but he does step on the phone effectively shielding my view of the picture. “I’m sorry,” he says, pleading with that pouty lip he uses on all women. Sadly, it weakens me down a notch. “Mr. Wellington makes me nervous!”
“Stop talking trash and grow some balls.” I jab at his hard chest with my index finger. “Or better yet, grow the entire thing.” I press my lips together like I’m holding back a laugh and point to his phone he’s standing on.
Tom’s face screws up in shock. “That’s not my dick.”
“Uh-huh. Sure it isn’t, Tiny Tom.”
With a huff of determination, he bends over, grabs the phone from under his foot and shoves it in my face. “It's a black dick, Mila! I’m white. What the fuck makes you think it’s mine?”
I squint through the cracked screen trying to make out a resemblance to Tom and this black dick. But I’ve never seen Tom’s dick, so I wouldn’t know if it was or not. It is in fact from a black man though. “Well, I didn’t know that. I thought maybe you were tan.”
“No. I’m not. Big white cock.” He grabs it on the outside of his pants. And I fucking look, like a dummy.
How did this conversation go this way? And why am I still staring at the black dick on Tom’s phone?
Chuckling, he rips the phone away. “You owe me a phone.”
“You’re going to owe me a fucking job if you don’t knock it off.”
Tucking his phone in his pocket, he moves past me to lean into the valet stand outside the booth. “Will it make you feel better if I tell you I pissed on Nixon’s Maserati yesterday?”
“Actually, yes, a little.” As I’m walking away, I stop, the frigid air around me sends a shiver through my body and I wrap my arms around my waist. “Tom?”
He lifts his head. “Yeah?”
“Why the fuck to you have another man’s dick on your phone?”
By the look on his face, I don't think I want to know the answer.
And then he smirks, and I shake my head and question my own sanity for asking. “That’s difficult to explain.” I turn toward him, one hand on my hip. I need to hear the story behind this or I’m always going to wonder which way Tom swings. “I asked this chick to send me a picture of her tits and she sent me her boyfriend’s cock.” He shakes his head, a frown set on his lips. “I feel bad for her. She really needs to leave his ass and suck my dick.”
Laughing, I shake my head and step inside the hotel. Like I said, I know Tom didn’t tell my father about my performance. He never would but the fact that everyone’s so concerned with who I’m sleeping with irritates me just as much as them thinking I can’t do my job.
I feel like I can’t trust anyone here anymore. My mom used to tell me: Don’t trust everyone. Even salt looks like sugar.
Ain’t that the fucking truth.
“Mila.” Izzy’s voice comes from beside me, frantic, rushing across the lobby toward me. “Have you seen this?” She points at the televisions in the bar. “What station is Caleb at?”
“Why?” I turn to face the television in the bar, my eyes widening with what’s being displayed. A dozen or so firetrucks and police surrounding an apartment building smoldering with flames and thick black smoke.
Izzy follows me into the bar, my hands gripping the edge so tight my fingers burn. “There was an apartment fire. Apparently a firefighter has been killed from station 25.”
My heart drops, my focus on King 5 News painting a picture of my worst fear.
An apartment fire. One firefighter dead, three others injured.
Is it Caleb? That’s my first immediate thought.
Izzy’s voice trembles when she asks, “Have you heard from Caleb yet?”
Fear grips me. I shake my head, numbness moving through my body. “No.”
I want to call him right now and tell him everything I hadn’t said during our last conversation. The things he wouldn’t let me say. And I don’t care if he won’t listen. I’ll still tell him.
Dread seizes my chest, my heart in my throat, the anxiety building with every second my eyes are on the television. Anxiety blinds me and my motions slow. I raise my hand to my chest. “Oh my God.”
“Breaking news . . .” A red ribbon flashes at the bottom of the screen. “It’s been reported a firefighter has been killed.” My heart drops directly in my stomach. “There’s been no word on the name of the firefighter from Station 25, but it’s been reported he was part of a search and rescue team when an explosion happened.” They cut to a clip of the fire, a fully engulfed apartment building.
Caleb’s search and rescue. My mind reels at the information. What if it’s him? What if I never get the chance to tell him how I feel or how sorry I am?
I need to go to the station. I have to. I’m not sure what it’s going to offer me but maybe then I’ll know if it’s him.
Twisting to face Izzy, I gasp. “I have
to go see if he’s okay.”
“Go.” She nods, eyes wide with concern. “Call me when you know something.”
WANTING TO gather myself before I go to the station, I rush up the stairs to Scarlet’s apartment only to see Caleb sitting outside the door. The rush of relief I feel knocks me sideways, my hands grip the railing for support. Just as quickly, the relief fades and it’s replaced with concern for Caleb. What if it was Owen, or his brother, or any of the guys from his station he considers family.
Caleb’s in the hall, head in his hands with a vulnerable slouch to his broad shoulders. Hearing me coming up the stairs, his head snaps up, and I’m met with a pair of bloodshot eyes. And then his gaze falls to the floor. “Where have you been?”
Lowering his head between his knees, he starts pulling his hair with both hands like he’d rather rip it out than hear what I’m saying, or worse, what’s going on inside his head.
“I was actually looking for you. I heard about the fire.”
Patting the pocket of his jacket, he pulls out a cigarette and then lights it. I had no idea he smoked. Or maybe he didn’t until now?
“You found me,” he says, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth with his thumb and index finger. Slowly he lifts the bottle in his hand to his lips. It’s then I notice the whiskey, half empty and judging by his appearance, it was probably full earlier. “Or I found you?”
His words are a question, but I’m not sure he means them to be.
Caleb tilts his head to the side as he looks at me, finally displaying shame and despair he’s trying desperately to hide, then nods once. Unshed tears brim in his haunted eyes, his broken soul reflecting back at me.
“Evan’s dead.” His voice is gruff, every word bleeding with misery. The tears glossing his eyes spill over, and I watch them fall down his beautiful face.
Tears burn the back of my throat as I move to kneel in front of him, my hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Caleb.” My heart shatters for him, for his family and the sob I wanted to hold back explodes past my lips.
His eyes fall away to the floor, my words only adding to the torture etched on his face. Smoke filters through his nose, his jaw flexes, chest heaving as he desperately attempts to hold his pain in.
The moment he says, “Evan’s dead,” my thoughts immediately go to Jacey and how in this moment, regardless of her life with him being hidden in the shadows, her heart is in a million pieces.
The pain radiating from Caleb blankets my heart in black. I want to comfort him, but I have no idea how.
So I’m a real dumb ass and say, “It’s a no smoking building.”
Oh God, shut up!
Caleb takes another drag of his cigarette and eyes me suspiciously while he exhales through his nostrils. Then takes another. And though he’s sorta smiling at me, he looks scary as hell. A cold darkness fills his eyes, a shield of armor raising.
“Caleb, what’s . . .” I draw in a careful breath. I have to be cautious about what I say to him. “Um.” I pause again, licking my lips as I hold my keys in the palm of my hand. “Are you okay?”
Stupid question. I’m peering into the face of someone alone, vulnerable, and aching for me to take that away.
“Nope,” he says, shaking his head and then puts on the cigarette against the floor and tosses it aside. Beside him, there’s a box, and he hands it to me. “I got you a cupcake.”
I smile and take the box, thrilled he brought me a cupcake. “Can I do anything for you?”
Caleb looks past me down the hall. Just when I think he’s going to ignore me, he flicks his eyes to mine and says, “You can do something.” The words are drawn out slowly as he moves to stand, his body supported by the wall because I’m sure in his condition, he can’t stand on his own. “I’m going to have sex with you until I forget or pass out, whichever comes first.”
He wants my comfort in his fucked-up way, but it’s not what I expected.
I stare down at him, my heart breaking for him and his pain. “You don’t want to talk?”
Staring straight ahead, he exhales a puff of smoke through his nose. His jaw muscles flex and his eye narrow. “You don’t drink as much as I have tonight if you want to talk.”
He has a point. And then he slides down the wall, like he can’t stand up any longer. A laugh escapes, but it’s not from amusement. “Fuck.”
“So um.” I put the keys in the lock, unlocking the door. “You think I can make you forget?”
Caleb flashes me a look that says he’s done with my questioning and then exhales slowly. His eyes narrow again, evaluating me. He clenches his jaw and nods, staring straight ahead. “I don’t know . . .” His voice trails off, and I can see his mind is going somewhere else.
I push the door open, and he crawls on his hands and knees inside and over to the couch.
“Why are you crawling?”
“If I stand, I’ll more than likely end up here so I’ll save myself the effort.”
Drunk Caleb is pretty logical.
I get him on the couch, and we’re sitting next to each other, him staring straight ahead in silence, his whiskey on the end table, his breathing low and steady.
As I’m eating my red velvet cupcake, I notice his appearance a little more. He’s silent, face impassive. He’s gone inside. He smells like smoke, and his hands and arms are covered in bruises and cuts. There are also all kinds of black smudges covering him. He hasn’t showered since the fire.
“What happened?” I ask, my tone dancing unevenly as I twist to face him, my legs pulled up on the couch.
He ignores my question and leans over, grabbing me by my ankles, and I’m on my back with him hovering over me. “I don’t want to talk. At all.” His voice is dark and serious, the green in his eyes nearly swallowed by the widening of his pupils.
He grabs my hips to position me in line with his, his knees spread my legs, and his hands work on his belt buckle hastily and then unzips his jeans. All the while, his eyes are on mine, dark, pleading, wanting . . . aching.
His chin begins to quiver and angry tears surface. I’ve never seen someone so broken when I finally allow myself to meet Caleb’s pained expression. I cry against his chest, silently, gripping his shoulders. Pulling him in, this is me letting him know it’s okay to take refuge he so desperately needs. His eyes never leave mine, hurling me into the darkness he’s captive to.
The arms of the man I thought could never break down hold me, pulling me into his embrace. And then he’s kissing me, trying to love me, but he’s also tugging down my panties. Holding both my hands over my head, he looks down at me.
“Tell me no. Don’t let me do this to you,” he begs again, pushing his jeans down to his knees, trying to fight his desire and need for this.
I don’t listen. I don’t want to.
“It’s okay,” I tell him through tears. My hands seek his erection between us. When I grasp him firmly, he groans, his head falling forward, and it sounds like he’s starving. “I want you, Caleb.”
“Do you know what you’re asking for?” He plants his right hand firmly on the arm of the couch, his other resting by my head as he moves closer, his legs shifting, trying to gain room we don’t have on a couch. His whiskey breath blows across my face when he whispers, “You shouldn’t want someone like me.”
“I do though. Always.”
His arms tremble with resistance, and he leans in further, giving me a warmth so intense I’m lightheaded, suffocating in the presence of his grieving.
Engaging my stare, his eyes are a regretful storm. He sighs, shaking his head, hands trembling but wanting to go further. “I shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles.
“I want you here, Caleb. I do.”
Pressing his weight forward, his hips connect with mine, no barriers, and his eyes fall between my legs, watching as he enters me.
Caleb’s jaw flexes and he drops his forehead on mine, his sorrowful eyes bearing a repentance he’s buried so deep inside of him it might never leave him.
Sadness grips me, his arms desperately holding my body to his all the while his tears never let up. The sight of his tears wreck me. Uncontrollable trembles move through him as he drops down on top of me, burying his face in my neck and soaks my skin with his sadness.
“Caleb, it’s—”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t want me talking. Clamping his mouth over mine, he drowns my words with, “You’re beautiful,” as he harshly slams into me, but his words don’t sound like a compliment. It sounds robotic.
His thrusts are harsh, and I’m not prepared for how rough he’s being, hands gripping me so tightly like his life depends on this. I think in this moment he believes it does.
I know he’s fucking me because the last thing he wants is to feel what’s going on inside of him and he thinks, no, he’s praying by fucking me it will rid him of these demons. I’ve never felt so powerful and so weak in my whole fucking life. I can offer him something. I can take away this pain if only for a fraction of a second by providing myself.
It’s certainly not right, but I don’t stop him. I think in some ways this is what he’s done with me all along. It’s why he constantly showed up at the hotel when his shift was over. He can’t explain the reasons and the only way for him to forget whatever is haunting him are these brief moments when he’s either fucking someone, or drinking.
Judging by the tears falling, he’s done both tonight and neither has worked yet. It hurts that he’s using me, but it’s nothing compared to the desolation that I can’t give him what he needs.
His lips press into the side of my neck, whispering, “I’m sorry.” Kissing the side of my throat and the corner of my mouth, he angles my face to kiss under my chin and my throat again. “I’m sorry,” he cries against my lips.
I don’t know why he’s apologizing, but the words feel more like goodbye, as if he’s trying to let me go. I can’t have that. I can’t have him saying goodbye.
Pulling my hair to the side, he uses his teeth against my neck, barely brushing but enough to make me moan in pleasure, his lips hovering over my ear. “I’m constantly fucking up.”
