by Cassie Cole
“Sparks?”
He handed a shot to me. “Cheers, Netty.”
I wasn’t the type of girl to turn down a shot, so I tossed it back only a second after him then slammed it down on the table. Honestly, I needed the liquor to make sense of what I was looking at. Sparks wore black slacks that hugged his hips and matching shiny dancing shoes. The shirt he wore was white and starched with a flared collar that showed off a little bit of his chest. He looked the part.
“This isn’t your first time,” I said. A statement, not a question.
He gave me a sly smile. “All the sexiest redheads salsa dance. Didn’t you know that?”
He was a lot more confident about this than his name. “I like to blow off steam too,” I said. “I actually make myself do it once a week. Helps me relax more than just weight lifting or running.”
His smile diminished and he gave me a long, searching look. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Alright, Sparky,” I said. “How about a truce? Just for tonight?”
He looked at my extended hand with confusion, then said, “Yeah. Truce.”
We shook on it.
“Thanks for the shot,” I said. “Don’t let me stop you from enjoying the rest of your night.”
I slid back toward the dance floor before he could say anything else.
I was able to put him out of my mind for a while. It was a large enough club that we could occupy different corners and never see one another. But after an hour we both gravitated toward the center of the dance floor where all the real action was. We watched each other from that point on, catching glances across the floor. Like two territorial animals waiting for the other to do something offensive.
And you know what? He had moves. I hated to admit it, but he was a lot smoother than I expected. Maybe that was a stereotype, but rarely had I seen a ginger who could move like a Cuban.
Eventually I was thirsty, and on my way to the bar I happened to come close to him. “Come to get some of the action?” he said, gesturing at his swaying hips.
I couldn’t walk away or he’d think I was chicken. “Came to put you in your place, you mean.”
“Then show me what you’ve got, Netty.”
We started dancing together. He was definitely good, his moves sharp and crisp. He spun me with the grace of a well-practiced dancer, making me switch directions with only the slightest gesture of his palm.
“You’ve been doing this a while,” I said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is a compliment.”
“You’re no slouch yourself.”
The song became faster. He held my hand above me and danced around me while I performed some steps by myself, his shoulder brushing against mine as he circled. Then he spun me once and brought my back to his chest, clasping me by the forearms as we swayed back and forth for a few steps before spinning me back around to face him.
It was actually nice in a non-competitive way. Seeing Sparks in a different light made me think differently about him.
The music changed, and instead of using it as an excuse to leave I segued into another dance with him. I didn’t care about my drink anymore.
Two songs turned into three, and four, and soon we were dancing only with each other like we’d come to the club together. We both laughed and tossed aside our inhibitions. Sparks was very handsome when he wasn’t frowning at everything. Soon we were sweaty and tired, but neither of us stopped dancing. Neither of us wanted to be the first to walk away, like a salsa version of chicken.
Or maybe we were just having that good of a time.
Before we knew it the lights went on in the club. Sparks and I groaned with all the other patrons.
“Why are they closing early?” I said.
Sparks held out his wristwatch to me. “They’re not. It’s 1:00am already.”
“Holy crap.” I let out a long laugh. “No wonder I’m so thirsty.”
We laughed and left together, his arm over my shoulder to guide me through the crowd.
“Once a week, huh?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“It shows.”
“You could use some work on your transitions,” I said. His head whipped toward me, so I added, “But that’s a very minor critique. You’re just about as good as anybody in there.”
He was quiet for a few steps. “Thank you.”
I slowed to a stop. “My car is over there.” He stopped and turned to face me, that sly grin still on his face. Instead of looking cocky, now it made him look sexy. Someone confident in their own skin, not a douchebag.
Funny how a few hours of dancing could change your opinion of someone.
“This was a lot of fun,” he said, scratching the back of his head.
“It was! More than I expected.”
We paused at that moment, waiting to see what the other person would say. The moment where a night could go one of two ways.
“My jeep is over there,” he said. But instead of turning to leave he said, “The back seat folds down for camping.”
We were making out before we ever got to his jeep. I don’t know how we actually reached it since we were both more focused on running our hands over each other than looking where we were going. He pushed me up against the side, the metal cold against the backs of my bare thighs. His lips tasted like the cinnamon tequila we’d had hours ago, and his tongue was soft and warm.
The back door opened and he leaned inside to put the seat down, turning it into a mattress that could be slept on diagonally. I took the opportunity to run a hand down the back of his tight slacks, feeling his ass. It was like touching a warm boulder, heavy with muscle.
Then I squealed as he pushed me inside, climbing in after me and closing the door behind. “What if someone sees?” I asked.
“Tinted windows,” he said before kissing me some more.
We ripped each other’s clothes off like we were being timed, all the while keeping our lips locked in long, sloppy kisses. I tried to reach down to touch him, to feel him under my fingers, but he was already sliding up inside of me, penetrating me with an intensity that matched the fierceness in his eyes. Which matched my own, no doubt.
Ours was a hungry lovemaking, fervent and quick.
He pawed my breasts while fucking me hard against the flat cushion. I reached around and grabbed his ass, urging him to fuck me faster while nibbling at his neck, tasting the faded remnant of his cologne along with the salt from his sweat. Every thrust was hard and perfect, a horizontal dance to go along with the hours of dancing inside. I wrapped my legs around his body and squeezed him tight as he crashed into me, grinding against my clitoris with every frenzied thrust.
The windows may have been tinted to keep out prying eyes, but our screams of orgasm were so loud the entire parking lot probably heard.
25
Amy
He collapsed against me after, breathing like he’d run the last stretch of a marathon. I ran my hand through his hair which was dark with sweat, feeling the bumps and shape of his head underneath.
Sparks planted a soft kiss along my neck, then my collarbone. “You’re a good dancing partner, Netty.”
“Just good?”
“Your transitions need some work,” he teased.
“Well, I must say you’re a good lover,” I said. “You really loved me tender.”
It took him a second to recognize the Elvis song. “That’s not funny.”
“You’re quite the hound dog,” I said, stretching my arms. “Help me find my blue suede shoes?”
“Okay, now you’re stretching things,” he said. “Your shoes aren’t anything close to suede.”
“That’s all right,” I said, giggling and putting my hands up. “Okay. That’s the last one, I promise.”
The teasing was lighthearted. Completely different than the biting insults we’d exchanged at the station. The change was… strange.
It was nice.
He walked me back to my car
like a gentleman, stood around awkwardly, then said he’ll see me at the station. Then we parted ways, driving off into the night.
During the drive home I felt weird, but satisfied. I hadn’t expected that.
I showered to get the sweat and sex off me, then got in bed and stared at the ceiling. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened. Fuck, it was hot! The sex was just a continuation of our salsa dancing foreplay. The exclamation point on the end of a surprisingly fun night.
Sparks and I were similar in a lot of ways. We were both very passionate about our jobs, and suffered large mood swings based on how a fire call went. We were competitive, too. Our similarities were probably why we butted heads at the station during the first week.
But now that we’d had sex?
“No, that’s not what happened,” I whispered into the darkness. “We didn’t have sex. What we did was fuck.”
I giggled and replayed it all in my head.
Despite being out late, my body woke up on its own around 6:00am. I didn’t have anything planned today, so I went for a morning run then came home, sipped coffee, and read the Miami Herald for the first time in a month. One article caught my attention: the local fire inspector was concerned about a sudden rash of suspicious fires from a potential serial arsonist. The fire at the Callaway Building downtown was mentioned: they discovered a rudimentary trigger device attached to a gasoline can on the 12th floor.
“Holy shit,” I said out loud. That was a much bigger deal than insurance fraud over a backyard shed.
I took my time that morning, went to my favorite little cafe for lunch, then decided to swing by my old station. Unlike my new peak hours station, they were in the middle of a shift on a Sunday afternoon. I was afraid my old unit might be out on a call but was pleasantly surprised to see all the engines safely in the garage when I pulled up.
The boys were gathered around the dining table playing a game of poker. Dominguez tossed down his cards and then saw me.
“Amy!”
They all came running like puppies whose master had just gotten home, taking their turns wrapping me in long hugs. A few of the guys in the other units who knew me came up and hugged me too. For the next 15 minutes I felt like a soldier who’d come home from war; everyone was asking me about the new station and what jobs I’d been on.
Eventually the crowd thinned and it was just me, Dominguez, and Vazquez. “Where’s Rogers?”
“Meeting with the Captain. They’re still trying to back-fill your position from one of the neighboring stations.”
“Hey,” Dominguez said. “Can you make us pancakes?”
“Dude, it’s two in the afternoon.”
“So what? It’s always pancake time!”
I laughed and said, “You know what? Sure. I’ll make you pancakes, Dominguez.”
He fist-pumped like he’d just gotten a promotion.
“So how’s the new squad?” Vazquez asked me in the kitchen.
“They’re good.”
“Better than before?”
“Much better,” I said.
Vazquez leaned against the fridge while I poured batter onto a pan. “Why do you say it like that?”
I shrugged. “I’m not saying it like anything. We’re doing better. You know how it is with a new team. It’s easier once you start going on calls together.”
Vazquez nodded but continued to eye me. He totally knows.
“I visited the Carters,” I said.
“Oh? How are they doing?”
“The husband was at work, but Cynthia and the baby are doing great. Already worrying about the holidays next week.”
“That’s better than worrying about where you’re going to sleep,” Vazquez said. “Rogers was able to help them find a rental house in a nice neighborhood. Pulled some strings with a friend.”
“I was wondering how they found a place so fast,” I said. “Shit. I meant to send her a pie recipe.” I started to say remind me to do that tonight, but of course Vazquez wouldn’t be there when I searched for the recipe at Station 47.
“We had a lot of calls after that electrical storm the other day,” Dominguez said. “Never seen one roll through in December.”
“Dry air,” Vazquez said as if that explained it. “You hear about the Callaway building?”
“How they think it’s arson?” I said.
Dominguez bobbed his head. “Eleanor over at Station 14 said the inspectors have been meeting every day about it. They don’t think it’s an isolated incident.”
“As if this time of year ain’t tough enough,” Vazquez said.
I shifted the pancakes in the pan. “We’ve had some arson suspicions too. An office building over on 10th Avenue. A few residential cases.”
“Probably unrelated to the Callaway Building fire,” Vazquez said. “Must be a full moon or something. All the wackos coming out.”
“Good thing the new and totally kick-ass Station 47 is up and running to help with peak hours calls,” I said as I tossed the pancakes onto a plate and handed it to Dominguez. He thanked me and left the kitchen. I carried the pan over to the sink to clean.
Vazquez stayed with me, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
“You want some too?” I asked.
“What’s really going on with your new unit?”
“What do you mean? Has somebody said something?”
“No,” he said. “But I know you.”
In our two years together, I’d never been able to lie to Vazquez. He always saw right through me. I spent a few seconds washing the pan before answering.
“I’ve gotten physically involved with one of them.”
I hoped he couldn’t tell I was lying about the one of them part. His sigh was the sigh of a disappointed older brother.
“Amy, you know that’s a mistake.”
“I know.”
“Nothing good can come from that…”
“I know.”
Instead of lecturing me more, he came over and stood next to me until I stopped washing the pan. Then he gave me a long hug, pulling my head against his shoulder.
“There’s nothing I can say that you don’t already know,” he said. “So all I’m going to tell you is to be careful. Alright? The last thing you want is to get hurt.”
“I won’t get hurt.”
He pulled away and smiled sadly. “Or hurt someone else.”
*
I thought a lot about what he said for the rest of the day before returning to Station 47. I knew myself pretty well: it was one of the things I was proudest of. I took the Greek saying know thyself to heart. I had an addictive personality, which I channeled into my work. That spilled over into exercise: weight lifting and running. Years ago, before joining the Fire Academy, I’d made the mistake of throwing myself into relationships with everything I had. Allowing other hobbies and relationships to fall away while I focused entirely on whoever I was dating.
Over time, and thanks to a few bad breakups, I’d learned not to make that mistake. It was easy since my job occupied so much of my time and energy. But now I was allowing my personal life and professional life to merge. I’d slept with all three of my unit mates. Two of them I’d slept with in a threesome.
And it excited the hell out of me.
Ultimately I knew myself enough to be confident that I wouldn’t let myself get hurt. I had no fear of that at all. But one thing I hadn’t considered, which Vazquez had cut to the heart of almost immediately, was that I had no idea how the other three guys would react.
What if I hurt Christian, Angel, or Sparks?
I had allowed myself to fall into stereotypes too easily. They were dudes, so they would love some casual sex with a hot coworker. I didn’t have to worry about their emotions because guys didn’t have emotions.
But that was a stupid way of looking at things. Not all guys were the stereotypical bar crawlers looking to score. And the more I got to know Christian and Angel—and even Sparks—the more I knew
they were different.
“Shit,” I said as I pulled into the station that night. “I really do need to be careful that I don’t hurt them.”
Angel and Christian were in the living room watching TV. They greeted me without getting up as I carried my bag into the bedroom. The other doors were all open and Sparks was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’s Sparky?” I asked.
Angel said, “He’s visiting his sister. Said he’ll be home tomorrow morning before our shift.”
“Ahh,” I said. Had that always been his plan, or was he avoiding me after what happened last night? I couldn’t help but wonder if I was already fucking things up.
Damnit, Amy.
“You wanna watch a movie with us?” Christian asked.
“It’s the new Rocky movie,” Angel said. “It’s probably awful, but Christian loves Rocky.”
“I love the original ones,” he said.
“Oh God, here he goes,” Angel said.
Christian held up a finger. “Now, I consider the first four movies to be the originals. Rocky five is garbage, and so are the newer ones. But I still have to watch them for completion’s sake.”
“You like Rocky four?” I asked.
Angel groaned like I was starting up an old argument.
“The fourth Rocky movie is the best one!” Christian was on his feet and listing off points on his hand. “Best song: no easy way out. Best enemy: Drago. Best montage: training in Siberia, high-stepping in the snow.”
Angel patted the couch cushion. “Come join us. Assuming you don’t mind listening to him point out every cinematic call-back to the first movies.”
They might have meant it innocently. Angel was patting the couch cushion between the two of them, though. Maybe they meant for more to happen.
I kind of wanted more to happen.
But Vazquez’s words were still fresh in my mind: or hurt someone else.
“I’m gunna turn in early,” I said. “See you guys in the morning.”
26
Amy
