by Jc Emery
“Well, this explains a lot,” he says as he looks over my shoulder, his eyes focused on the new bestie. “You would find the one chick in this place that’s as ladylike as you are.”
“Melanie, this is Jameson,” Royal says. I take a step back and welcome her into the conversation while pondering where the hell their parents got their names from. “He’s my brother, just not the one whose heroics landed me in this pretty dress.”
“Wow.” I give her a devious smile that might threaten our new friendship but might totally be worth it when my eyes land back on her brother. “I bet this one’s heroics could land me out of my pretty dress.”
“Not much of a negotiator, are you?” he says with a raised brow.
“You haven’t heard my demands,” I say with a grin.
Royal wiggles her way in between us and places her hands on Jameson’s pecs, pushing him backward. She mouths something to him I can’t quite hear and don’t try to. The door swings closed and I’m left alone. For a moment it’s like the last twenty minutes was a movie and now I’m back in reality where I don’t have a new best friend and said new best friend’s brother isn’t the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life. With the most incredible eyes. And the sexiest fucking smirk. And a body full of possibilities, and he obviously comes from good stock because his sister is pretty awesome, and I’m just desperate enough to push this and figure him out.
“Reality,” I mutter and get ahold of myself. I still have fabric riding up in places that are illegal in several states and suddenly a very full bladder that I need to deal with. Taking a deep breath, I carefully walk to the first stall and maneuver as best as possible into position. When I’m done and fairly certain I didn’t get this stupid pretty dress wet, I go to pull the thong back up and pause. It’s made of a beautiful red satin that would do wonders should anyone have had the chance to see it. I hate to dispose of the damn thing, but it’s just so damn uncomfortable. I can’t even pinpoint if it’s too small, too large, or just cut wrong for my ass. I’m no fan of going commando, but the alternative is far less appealing, so I go with it and remove the thong, flush the toilet, and look for the trash. I just have to dispose of the stupidest underwear alive and then wash my hands and I can make a graceful exit with nobody being any wiser that I’m strutting my stuff free as a bird. Only that’s not how life works.
The bathroom door opens, and before I can think about it, I toss the stupid thong into the trash and hope nobody looks too hard in the wastebasket. Quickly, I turn on the faucet, nab some soap, and proceed to wash my hands, all the while pretending I didn’t just throw away a perfectly good, but evil, pair of panties.
Jameson walks in with hard set shoulders and a sneaky smile on his face. I watch him carefully in the mirror and eye his movements as he comes up behind me. Like the paranoid head case that I am, my eyes dart to the wastebasket and then up to his. He’s so close but not touching me even a little bit, which is equal parts disappointing and smart. If he touches me, it’s going to be all over in a matter of moments, and I’m not the kind of girl to hook up with dudes in fancy restrooms at charity balls, so no. Even if it would fulfill my firefighter fantasy. Well, sort of. We’d actually need a fire pole to do it justice.
He can’t touch me. He just can’t. There’s sexy, and then there’s slutty. Sexy is getting him to ask me out and then thanking him for dinner in a horizontal fashion. Slutty is getting banged by a stranger in a fancy bathroom while his sister is God only knows where.
“List ’em,” he says with a determined gaze. I finish up washing my hands and turn off the faucet but don’t move otherwise. I stand in my stupid expensive designer heels Mom and I went shopping for a few weeks ago and try to focus on everything but the way his eyes bore into mine. He’s intense and beautiful and just . . . everything. And I don’t even know him. Lust at first sight is the absolute worst because it burns the hottest, lasts the shortest, and hurts the most.
“Pardon?” I ask with a shaky breath.
“Your demands. List ’em.”
Suddenly self-conscious and feeling off balance from the champagne I guzzled while enduring Dad and one of his business partners talking shop, I take a deep breath and focus in on his eyes. The sex-kitten feeling has since passed, and left in its wake is this intense need to keep his attention. I give Jameson a soft smile and think about what I want.
Very faintly, I can hear the music from the ball room as it changes from a cheesy slow song to a badass slow song that breaks my heart. It’s all about the possibility of finding “the one” at the worst time ever, fighting for them, and having it fall apart before it even really begins. It’s tragic and oh so beautiful. Jameson seems to recognize it, too, as a small smile comes to his lips.
“Dance with me.”
“And?”
“Just that. Dance with me. I love this song. So you’re going to dance with me, and then we’re going to walk out of here and pretend this never happened. You never followed me in here, and I never acted like a crazy hooker.”
“Maybe I like crazy hookers,” he says. He raises his hand and turns it so the backs of his fingers touch the back of my neck so lightly that I second-guess what I’m feeling. A shiver runs through me. I try to fight my reaction to it but fail miserably, and I break out in goose flesh.
“Maybe I want something more than a dance with a beautiful, door-blocking woman in a bathroom who comes on to men she doesn’t know.”
“And maybe I just want one dance to my favorite song.” I slowly pivot to face him. I’m only here for the summer, and then it’s back to school in New Orleans.
He drops his hand to my hip and leans in. His other hand finds its way to my other hip. With a deep breath and an acute awareness of how bad this is going to hurt later, I wrap my hands around his neck, and he guides us away from the sinks.
“You know The Bastard Three?” he asks. Very slowly, he starts to spin us in circles so lazy that it’s almost as if we’re not moving at all.
“Love them. Milo and Lulu almost make—” I stop abruptly. He doesn’t need or want to hear about the real-life inspiration behind the band’s most heartbreaking songs. But he seems to catch on, and a soft, genuine smile lights up his face.
“They almost make you believe in shit that doesn’t exist,” he finishes. It’s not exactly what I was going to say, but close.
“Like no matter how much time passes or where Lulu is, Milo will always love her.”
The smile slides off of his face. He searches my eyes for an explanation—maybe of what’s happening here. Maybe he’s trying to find a reason to pull away and leave me here with my sad little fantasies of a love story that never was and never will be.
“I don’t do this shit. Dancing with crazy women in bathrooms. I don’t hit on them when I have a girlfriend. I’m not a bad guy, no matter how tempted I am.”
He. Has. A. Girlfriend.
Asshole.
“Duly noted.” My voice is clipped. In the five minutes it’s taken for us to get here, I’ve already chosen a name for the kitten we were going to adopt together. You know, in a fantasy realm where I get to keep him. “Must be some relationship if you’re in here with me.”
“It’s pretty fucked, has been for a long time, and it’s not going to get any better. But even with all of that, she deserves better than what I want to give her.”
“So this ends here.”
“I’m not that guy,” he says firmly.
“But you are with me,” I say softly as we make another turn. I mean, he’s still holding me close and not setting up the physical boundaries he should be. If he can’t set the boundary, then I should, but I just can’t seem to pull away even though I know his admission should make me want to. Instead, I cling to him. It’s like wanting to dive headfirst into the deep end of an empty pool. It’s stupid and it’s going to be painful—and it might kill you—but the high is so worth it. One of those once-in-a-lifetime feelings, I think.
His thumb makes sm
all circles at my waist, and I suck in a deep breath. I believe him. He’s a good guy—kind of—but he’s got a girlfriend and he’s still in here with me and we’re dancing and I have no underwear and I really want to do more. I can feel it practically burning my skin—this need to touch and be touched and to have a story to tell later. One that I’ll be proud of for a little while until I crash and I’m overwhelmingly ashamed of myself. Because indiscretions in the men’s room always hurt in the end.
Not that I’ve had any, but it doesn’t take much of a genius to guess how bad of an idea hooking up with him really is.
“I am with you,” he says as he pulls me closer. The smell of bourbon washes over me. It’s sexy, knowing he’s been drinking. That maybe he really is a good guy, but his judgment is clouded. It’s kind of like a get-out-of-jail-free card. Our bodies touch but just barely. A chill runs over me as I fight back the urge to press my pelvis into his and press him into the corner of the room. The tightness in my arms becomes too much to take. I need this. I need him. I should leave him alone and let him continue to be a good guy, but I don’t want to. My hands tighten around his neck, and I pull his face closer to mine. His eyes drop to my lips, and he reaches out with his lips for mine. He wants this. It’s not my problem if he has a girlfriend or he’s a good guy who’s about to be a bad guy. But it is my problem. I don’t want to be and won’t forgive myself if I let myself be that girl. I hate that girl.
The lyrics of the song cloud my judgment as Milo Anderson pours his soul into his performance.
You’re my torturer and my salvation
The only thing stopping my damnation
My demon temptress
You got the world’s worst timing
Lulu, you’re nothing
Nothing I made you into
Lulu, you’re something
Nothing
Anything but mine
You exist now only in my heart
“Saw you toss your panties in the trash. That for me?”
“Yes,” I lie. I’d have thrown them away even if I hadn’t ever met him, but I bet it’ll make him feel good. Spur him on, thinking it’s for him.
Jesus Christ. My mother didn’t raise a hooker—despite all evidence to the contrary.
“No,” I say quickly. He doesn’t seem to believe me, though. I guess the truth just came a little too late.
This is so fucked. If I let this happen it’s going to fuck him up. I just know it. I don’t even know him, but I choose to believe he really is a good guy. I have to believe it. He’s got a beautifully unrefined New York accent. Totally blue-collar with rough hardworking hands and a confidence about him that I don’t often find on the Upper West Side. He’s one of the city’s bravest, and his girlfriend is probably all kinds of awesome and sweet, and she takes care of her man so he can take care of the city, so I’ll settle for just this dance.
His lips ghost over mine when I pull back and push him off me. He stops and stares at me with a mixture of confusion and irritation on his face. He’s not a guy who fucks around, from what I can tell. He made the choice to dance with me, and he made the choice to kiss me. He wanted to be a bad guy, and I’m not a big enough bitch for this to be cool. I want to be a good person, so I have to act like it, and that means not leading hot heroes into temptation.
“You don’t want to do that,” I whisper. “You’re the good guy, right?”
“I used to be,” he says. He brings one of his hands up to my face and ghosts his fingers along my jaw from my ear, curving around the tip and sliding down my throat and across my collarbone.
“No, you still are.” I don’t really know if he’s a good guy or not, but the temptation isn’t worth the repercussions. “And if you’re not, then you’re not the guy I want anyway, and I so badly want you to be that guy because there’s so many out there who aren’t that guy, and I kind of need to believe that you can be that guy even if you don’t want to be.”
“So this ends here,” he says. It’s not a question.
“It ends here,” I say. “For now.”
He rights his shoulders before nodding and walking out of the room. He pauses at the door and turns, giving me a smirk over his shoulder.
“You’re a real heartbreaker, Lulu.”
I’m left alone and wondering what the hell just happened.
Lulu.
Holy shit. He called me Lulu.
I’d like to pretend that I have no clue how I got here—alone and disappointed in myself—but I don’t. I give it a minute before I compose myself and head for the door. Across the landing near the stairs is Royal. Her hands are on hips, and she’s giving me a curious look.
Chapter 3
Jameson
“What the hell?” Royal asks. Her eyes are narrowed. She’s judging me. Hard. She pushes off the railing and strides toward me with determination. When she’s close enough for me to hear she whisper shouts. “You have a girlfriend—a kind of controlling, snobby, pain-in-my-freaking-ass-who-Mom-doesn’t-even-like girlfriend. Stop hitting on my new bestie.”
My jaw ticks in response. If there’s one thing I can say about my sister, it’s that she’s fucking opinionated as all get out. She doesn’t like Lydia and just made that perfectly clear, as if I was confused beforehand, but far be it for me to point that out. I’m a big enough asshole without trying to find ways to justify my behavior.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Yes, okay,” I snap. If I don’t say something, she won’t ever shut up. I run my hand through my hair and curse when it gets stuck in all the fucking dried gel I let Royal put in it earlier. Because apparently you do shit like that when you go to a black-tie event. Don’t know where she learned about this crap. “Girlfriend, got it.”
“I like her,” she says. She shifts from one foot to the other and lets out a heavy sigh. Royal’s never made friends easily, especially not female friends. With three older brothers, Royal has always tried to fit in with the boys. Our older sister, Bailey tried to have an influence on the baby of the family, but they’re very different people. Bailey wanted to teach Royal about nail polish and eyeliner, while Royal was more interested in learning how to block a shot in the basketball court than she ever was in makeup. Works for me. At least we have stuff in common. And we’re about to have a lot more in common soon since she’s just graduated from the fire academy. She’ll have to spend some time serving as a proby on Engine before she can be transferred to Ladder, which means she won’t be at the house with us, but it’s a start. We’re all proud of our badass baby sister.
“So do I.”
“Jay.” She grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. She doesn’t ask for much, so I guess I can give her this and back off. “Mel and I are besties now.”
How the fuck are they besties? They can’t have spent more than half an hour together.
“Seriously. We’ve bonded and I kind of love her, so don’t pull a Hennessey and screw her over.”
Bonded? Just when I think she’s enough of a dude for me to understand her, she pulls this kind of shit on me and I don’t understand her any more than I understand Bailey or Lydia.
“One, I’m not H,” I say. “And two, Lydia may be difficult at times, but I wouldn’t cheat on her.” If Melanie hadn’t stopped me, I might have cheated. I don’t want to cheat, and I wouldn’t forgive myself for doing it, but Melanie’s sparked something in me that I thought was total bullshit.
She raises her hands in the air and gives me a big smile. I shake my head and cross the landing to the top of the grand staircase. I have to get out of here before Melanie comes out and this conversation goes from weird to too-awkward-to-come-back-from.
Downstairs, the event is in full swing and the dance floor is packed. Somewhere down there are the rest of my siblings and half my firehouse. Dad’s probably at the bar by now, and Mom is probably bored out of her mind. They only really came for Jack, my older brother, who’s receiving an award tonight.
I make my way dow
n the stairs and find the bar area. Seated in the middle, barely fitting on one of the barstools, is my father, Roy. He’s a tall SOB—taller than any of his children—with broad shoulders and an intimidating smile. He’s half-turned toward my mother, Janet, towering over her and listening as she speaks. He could be there listening to her yap for hours, and still he wouldn’t complain. It’s a terrifying example they’ve set that I have yet to see recreated. He practically worships the ground she walks on. As he should. My mom kicks ass.
Nobody’s ever been in love like Mom and Dad are. They fought tooth and nail to be together and don’t take each other for granted. I thought it was all bullshit—that instant pull Mom talks about feeling the moment she met Dad. I’ve never felt it with Lydia, and as far as I know, Jack never felt it with Theresa. The closest I’ve heard is Bailey talking about kissing Rae for the first time. They couldn’t stand each other when they first met, but eventually that hate turned into something solid and real.
“Hey, you,” I shout as I approach. Dad’s head jerks around at the sound of my voice. Mom turns on her stool and stops talking when she sees me. A smile lights up her entire face as she waves me over. I give her the same smile I did when I was twelve and busted her kitchen window with a baseball. “This guy bothering you?”
Mom whispers something to Dad that makes him roll his eyes. She’s probably telling him how handsome I look—which I do—but the old man is kind of tired of hearing her go on and on about how attractive her kids are. Don’t know why. I’m not tired of hearing it.
“Son,” Dad says and raises his glass of whiskey—it’s the only thing he drinks—and then tosses it back. He taps the polished-wood bar top and signals to the bartender for a refill. “Tell me your night’s more interesting than mine.”
“Met a crazy blonde in the men’s room. She’s hot,” I say with a nod. Both Mom and Dad just give me a blank look like they think I’m shitting them.
