Hot As Sin: A Bad Habit Novella (Bad Habit Book 4)

by J. T. Geissinger

  In my short absence, a troop of bare chested male fire dancers in grass skirts have appeared and are putting on an exhibition on the pool deck, spinning flaming swords and sticks into intricately woven circles of fire while doing some fusion of martial arts and hip-thrusting tribal dance moves.

  I worry about the girls in the feather headdresses going up in exploding balls of flame, but no one else seems to care that they’re way too close to fire than people wearing highly flammable costumes should be. They weave in and out of the male dancers, shaking their asses and working the crowd into a frenzy as the music blares.

  I catch a glimpse of Marcus’s broad back retreating toward the rave tent. He’s carrying a laughing Rihanna in his arms.

  “If there’s one thing you can say about my man, he sure knows how to throw a party.”

  I turn toward the sardonic voice. Standing next to me at the foot of the staircase is Kat, smiling wryly as she watches the scene. She glances up at me and her smile turns soft. “I’m thinking this probably wasn’t the greatest way to send you off.”

  I sling an arm around her shoulder and give her a squeeze. “Don’t be silly. This is awesome.”

  “Not really your style, though, is it?”

  “Are you kidding? There’s premium whiskey. There’s my best friends all in one place. There’s fireworks, music, and good food. How could that not be my style?”

  “Don’t forget the hot, half naked dancing girls.”

  “They’re great, too. This is all really great, Kat. Thank you so much. I truly appreciate it.”

  She gazes at me fondly, her pretty green eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s one of the things I love about you, Barney.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The only time you ever lie is to keep someone else from getting hurt.”

  I wave off the compliment. “Yeah, yeah. I’m amazing. How are you feeling? Better than earlier?”

  “Tired, actually.” As if on cue, she stifles a yawn. “I must be getting old. I used to just be getting started at midnight!”

  “You’re growing a person inside you. That takes a lot of energy. Why don’t you go up and go to bed?”

  She looks around, shaking her head. “As if I could sleep with all this racket. God, what were we thinking?”

  Noting the haze of smoke hanging in the air, the way everyone seems to be staggering on their feet, and the group of people writhing around half naked on the sofa, making out and groping each other, I chuckle. “The party does seem to have taken on a life of its own.”

  “You makin’ moves on my woman, brother?”

  Nico swaggers up, grinning, holding a cocktail in one hand. As she always does when she looks at him, Kat starts to glow.

  I give her shoulders a final squeeze before releasing her into Nico’s arms. She wraps her arms around his waist and nestles against his chest, closing her eyes and sighing in contentment.

  “I’m keeping her from getting hit on.”

  I narrow my eyes at a guy strolling by who’s leering a little too hard at Kat’s ass. She’s got a classic hourglass figure, so this happens a lot, but I still can’t stand how obvious some jerks are about it.

  When he notices me glaring, he takes the hint and averts his gaze, moving along quickly before my fist becomes acquainted with his face.

  All of a sudden, Nico notices the haze in the air. He stiffens. “Oh hell no. Baby, you shouldn’t be breathin’ all this smoke! And you shouldn’t be up so late, either, you need your rest! We’re gettin’ you into bed.”

  She starts to protest, which, as all three of us know, is futile. Once Nico goes into protective male mode, that’s it.

  He proves it by saying, “No lip, woman. Zip it up and say goodbye to Barney.”

  Naturally, Kat has to sass him before he gets his way. “How am I supposed to say goodbye and zip it up at the same time, superstar?”

  Chuckling, he playfully swats her behind. He drawls, “Now you’re just askin’ for a spanking, aren’t you?”

  She turns to me, rolling her eyes but smiling, and gives me a great big hug. “Not goodbye,” she says close to my ear. “Just good night. And don’t forget, you promised to come visit us at Christmas. New York in December is too cold for your creaky old bones.”

  I laugh, hugging her back. “Don’t worry, you haven’t seen the last of me. I’m like a bad rash. I keep coming back.”

  Then I hear a sound I’d recognize anywhere on earth, because I’ve heard it so many times before:

  Kenji screaming.

  Even above the thump of the music, his high-pitched screech is as distinct as an air raid siren. Kat and I break apart, looking around in concern.

  Nico, however, is totally calm. He takes a swig of his scotch and says, “Uh-oh. Somebody stole Kenji’s favorite lip gloss.”

  “I’d agree with you, brother,” I say, looking out through the patio doors into the yard. “Except I’m guessing that tent going up in flames isn’t part of the show.”

  He whips his head around and follows my gaze. “Fuck. Kat, call the fire department!”

  Nico and I bolt at the same time, shoving through the crowd and shouting at people to get out of the way. Panicked guests stream from the large peaked tent, but thankfully no one is on fire, or appears hurt.

  Then Kenji emerges, wearing nothing but a hot pink feather boa around his neck and his sparkly red Dorothy heels. Right behind him is London, his beautiful, petite Asian girlfriend.

  Well, boyfriend, judging by the look of things.

  London is naked, too.

  Both of them are screaming.

  Meanwhile, the DJ keeps right on spinning his tunes.

  Kenji shrieks something unintelligible as Nico and I fly past, headed toward the opening of the tent, our arms and legs pumping hard as our shoes dig divots in the grass. The entire right flank of the tent is now engulfed in flames. Whatever material it’s made of is going up fast.

  Orange flames leap into the night sky. Smoke billows up in acrid gray plumes. Small flakes of ash are starting to rain down on my head, drifting gently through the air like falling snow.

  Inhaling a lungful of warm night air, I follow Nico through the entrance, then skid to a stop, peering through the smoke with my heart pounding.

  Except for three abandoned bars, black leather lounge furniture, and Kenji’s rolling clothing wardrobe, the tent is empty. Rave music pulses from speakers and lights spin crazy colored pinwheels through the smoke, but no one is left inside.

  We run back out into fresh air, coughing and shouting at stragglers to get back. The heat from the fire is intense, rolling off my back in waves. Nico and I start to corral people off the lawn and toward the house. It isn’t difficult. Everyone is running in that direction, anyway.

  Except for Kenji and London, who’ve decided the best thing for their safety is to be submerged in water. They’re clinging to each other in the shallow end of the pool.

  Within minutes, a mass exodus to the front yard begins. Everyone is on their cell phones. Even the DJ is on his phone, but he’s filming the flames from his elevated booth, bobbing his head in time to the beat of the music. He’s so calm, he’s probably stoned out of his mind.

  I grab him from the booth and give him a shove toward the open patio doors, then pull the plug on the music.

  Meanwhile, the dancing girls in the feather headdresses are being escorted through the living room by the bare chested flame throwers in grass skirts. The men—oiled muscles rippling as they move—have formed a protective phalanx around the girls and are fending off the advances of the six talent agents from CAA, who are following behind them like a bunch of drunk puppy dogs, bumping into each other and catcalling.

  Faster than I would’ve thought possible, the fire department arrives. I hear them coming and head to the front door to meet them while Nico keeps ushering people safely out of the backyard.

  With sirens screaming and lights blazing, three ladder trucks charge toward the house. Br
aking hard, one of them clips the stone fountain in the middle of the circular driveway, reducing it to rubble. Another one mows over a low hedge of manicured shrubs and parks on top of the grass. The third, obviously manned by someone with respect for private property, parks properly along the curb. Then a bunch of guys in yellow Kevlar suits trot up to get the 411.

  “Backyard,” I tell the one who seems to be in charge. He’s a head taller than the rest, barrel chested and eagle eyed, and has that air of leadership. “Got a two-hundred-foot tension tent on fire. Looks like everyone’s clear, though.”

  “Any injuries?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  He gives his crew curt instructions. They scatter, some back to the trucks, some headed through the living room to the backyard, clomping loudly in their big black boots and shouldering through the crowd.

  Kat runs up and grabs my arm. Her eyes are huge, her face is white, and she’s trembling.

  “Where’s Nico?”

  “In the backyard.” When she turns in that direction, I wrap my hand around her biceps and pull her gently back. “No way. Out the front door you go. Wait in the yard until he comes out.”

  Appearing to grow several inches taller, she looks me dead in the eye. “You think something silly like a fire—or a stubborn bodyguard—is going to keep me away from him?”

  I smile at her tenacity. “Not just you you’re thinking about anymore, mama,” I say softly.

  When she purses her lips, I give her a gentle push toward the door. “Go on. You know I’d never let anything happen to him.”

  She debates it for a second, then gives in. But not before threatening me.

  “If he has so much as a scratch on him, it’s your butt I’ll be kicking, Barney.”

  I chuckle. “Copy that. Go.”

  Before she can move, however, Chloe and A.J. appear with the baby, who’s crying in A.J.’s arms. A.J. says, “What the hell’s going on? It’s like World War III down here!”

  “Fire in the backyard. I’ll tell you all about it later, but for right now, you guys should get out front. Take Kat with you.”

  Without hesitating, A.J. hands the baby to Chloe, takes her arm and Kat’s, then marches them all out the front door. As they disappear around a corner, I hear Kat say, “Uh, A.J.? What the fuck?”

  Obviously she noticed he wasn’t having much trouble navigating the way.

  A pair of firefighters jog past, dragging a big hose behind them. I hear the distinct whirr of helicopter wings, and run outside in time to see the bird pass over the house. From the markings on the side, I know it’s not the police or a news crew. It’s privately owned, which tells me all I need to know.

  It’s the paparazzi.

  Because of course it would be.

  Then a hundred-foot geyser of water arcs over the roof, shot from one of the trucks in the driveway. It’s aimed well, falling directly onto the burning tent. Huge columns of steam billow into the night sky as the hissing flames are extinguished. The firefighters who dragged the hose through the house take aim, too, and hit the tent with a stream of water from the side.

  I watch for a moment, until Nico trots up. Inexplicably, he’s smiling.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He stands next to me, turns to look at the steaming disaster area that was recently a rave tent, and shakes his head. “Guess the universe was listenin’ when I told Kat we needed to throw you a party that would burn down the house.”

  The helicopter makes another pass overhead, shining a jittery circle of bright white light into the yard. With an echoing crash, the tall metal tent poles collapse under the heavy onslaught of water. A big chunk of blackened material from the burnt tent flies out of the sky and splashes into the pool, causing Kenji to once again begin screaming.

  Then Celine, Miss Small Town Popularity, sashays up with a glass of whiskey in her hand.

  “There you are,” she says brightly, holding the glass out to me. Her voice drops. Her smile holds an unmistakable invitation. “I’ve got something for you.”

  Nico and I glance at each other.

  At the same time, we burst into laughter.

  6

  The first thing I do after polishing off the whiskey and politely saying goodbye to the alluring-but-much-too-young-for-me Celine is fish Kenji from the pool.

  That’s easier said than done.

  He’s hysterical, for one thing. For another, he’s naked. And—as previously noted—hairless. And therefore slippery as fuck.

  “Stop squirming. I’ll drop you.”

  That gets him to be quiet for approximately two seconds, then he commences sobbing and wailing again, shivering violently in my arms as if I’ve rescued him from the Arctic Ocean in the middle of winter and not a heated swimming pool on a hot summer night.

  I’m in chlorinated water up to my waist, carrying him toward the steps. London’s waiting there with a black-and-white striped pool towel she snatched from a nearby row of lounge chairs. She’s got another one around herself. She’s more composed than Kenji is, but that’s not exactly difficult.

  He’s in full blown diva panic mode.

  “I almost died!” he shrieks in my ear. “DIED! There were flames everywhere and so much smoke and everybody was freaking out and screaming and—oh!” He throws an arm over his face. “It was just awful!”

  I keep my voice low and calm, the way you do when speaking to frightened animals and the criminally insane. “I know, sweetheart. But you’re safe now. Take a deep breath. And please stop squirming.”

  Standing next to the pool’s edge, Nico is trying to stifle his laughter at the picture we make. When I shoot him a sour glance, he claps his hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking.

  “You wanna help me out here, brother?”

  “Oh, no, my friend. Looks like you’ve got the situation well in hand.” With a snort, he turns and ambles over to the firefighters near the smoking remains of the tent.

  “Here you go, honey,” murmurs London to Kenji as I step out of the pool. She drapes the towel over his nude body, tucking it between my arms and his back, making a big production out of fussing over him because it’s obviously what he requires. He watches her through teary eyes, his lips quivering, one of his false eyelashes hanging sadly askew.

  When she pats him on the arm and tenderly asks if he’s okay, he bursts into tears all over again and buries his head in my chest.

  I try not to sigh. This must be what it’s like having a teenage daughter.

  “It’s all right, Kenji. I’ve got you. Let’s get you two upstairs and situated, okay?”

  My only answer is a hitching breath and more sobs.

  London follows beside me, holding Kenji’s hand, as I carry him through the yard and up the stairs, headed for one of the many spare bedrooms on the second floor where they can take some time to decompress. My sodden boots squish with every step, and my wet jeans are uncomfortable. By the time we reach the top of the stairs, Kenji’s tears have reduced to hiccups and sniffles, and he’s wiping his nose with the sleeve of my T-shirt.

  I don’t bother to point out that he’s physically unharmed so there’s really no need for all the melodramatics, because I know it would earn me a scathing dressing down and he probably wouldn’t speak to me for six months. When I come back to visit for Christmas, I’ll still be getting the cold shoulder. So I simply carry him over to the bed and wait patiently as London pulls back the covers and fluffs the pillows. Then I carefully set him down on the mattress and pull the blankets up around his chin, snugly tucking him in, striped pool towel and all.

  “London’s gonna take care of you while I go downstairs and check on everything, all right?”

  He nods like an obedient child. I look at London for confirmation, and she nods, too.

  “Good. Do you want me to have anything to eat or drink sent up?”

  After a pause for sniffles, Kenji says, “A glass of milk. And some cookies. Oreos if possible. Or chocolate chip. With nuts
. Not walnuts, though. Hazelnuts.” He hesitates, biting his lip. “And…can you please get my sparkly red heels out of the pool? They’re my favorites.”

  I press my lips together, hiding my smile. “Done.”

  I turn and head to the door. When I’m halfway there, Kenji calls, “Hey.”

  I pause, looking back.

  With his brow furrowed and his fingers curled into the sheets under his chin, he says in a small voice, “I love you, Nasi.”

  “Love you, too, Kenji.”

  I leave the room smiling.

  To my surprise, I find the catering staff hanging out in the kitchen, calmly packing up their equipment and passing around a bottle of tequila. Everyone freezes when I walk in.

  One of them, a guy in his mid-twenties with bad skin and lank brown hair, says nervously, “We were just, uh, cleaning up.”

  He shoots a glance to the pudgy blonde girl standing beside him, who guiltily moves the bottle of tequila she’s holding behind her back.

  I chuckle. “No worries, guys. Take it easy. I’m just surprised you didn’t run out with everyone else.”

  “Oh, gawd,” says the pudgy blonde, clearly relieved I’m not angry to catch them filching booze from the host. “We’ve done enough events where something gets set on fire that it doesn’t even faze us anymore.”

  The group murmurs their agreement, and she warms to the subject.

  “Last month we did a wedding where the groom and the best man got super drunk and started arguing in front of everyone at the reception about who should’ve really married the bride. They got in a literal dick-showing contest. After shouting incoherently at each other for a while, they both pulled out their dicks to compare sizes. Not surprisingly, that didn’t solve anything, so next they started rolling around on the floor, fighting, their dicks still out.”

  The guy with the bad skin says, “It was totally like those gay wrestling videos on YouTube.”

  Everyone stares at him for a moment.

  The blonde goes on. “So they smashed into a dining table, toppling it, which sent the candelabra centerpiece flying into the draperies, which went up like a box of matches. And then the ceiling was on fire, and a guest went running through the kitchen with his suit on fire, and it was a total mess.”