Double the Heat (12 page)

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Authors: Lori Foster,Deirdre Martin,Elizabeth Bevarly,Christie Ridgway

Tags: #Erotic Stories; American, #Man-Woman Relationships, #Mate Selection, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Short Stories

BOOK: Double the Heat
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She’d taken out student loans, but to save even more money, she was staying with her widowed aunt Mary in a part of New York called Hell’s Kitchen. She loved the name; it sounded so gritty. Aunt Mary had always doted on Lennie, maybe because Lennie was the only member of the family who didn’t think she was completely nuts. She was obsessed with her pet parrot, Rudy II. Her first parrot, the original Rudy, had died unexpectedly after close to twenty years of companionship, leaving her aunt distraught. On her most recent visit, Lennie had seen pictures of Rudy all over the apartment, and found that her aunt had even made a recording of Rudy talking that she still occasionally played. Birds had always scared Lennie a little (those shiny, beady eyes and sharp claws), but at least Rudy II didn’t screech and squawk obscenities he’d picked up from Aunt Mary’s late husband the way the original Rudy had. When Lennie saw that Aunt Mary still had the old Singer sewing machine she had loved playing with when she was a little girl, she decided she could put up with Rudy II.
Arriving in New York after a grueling seven-hour bus ride, all Lennie wanted to do was collapse. But Aunt Mary had other plans: after giving Lennie a quick tour of the small apartment, even though nothing had changed since Lennie’s visit six months before, they were off to her aunt’s watering hole, an Irish pub called the Wild Hart that was right around the corner. Aunt Mary wasn’t a heavy drinker, but she
was
lonely, and the affection and enthusiasm with which she talked about her friends down at the pub revived Lennie. She dutifully walked with her aunt to the pub. They were no sooner through the door than Aunt Mary took her by the arm and started tugging her toward the bar.
She halted beside a somewhat stout, sad-looking man hunched over a battered paperback. The man looked up.
“Joey, this is my niece, Lennie,” Aunt Mary said proudly. “She’s going to be living with me while she goes to college.”
“Lovely to meet you,” said Joey, flashing a charming smile. “It’s not often I make the acquaintance of charming young women like yourself, women who—”
“Can it, Mouth,” a small woman behind the bar cracked affectionately. She, too, smiled at Lennie as she extended a friendly hand. “Hi. I’m Christie Gibson.”
Lennie could see Christie was sizing her up. Perhaps it was what she was wearing: black Doc Marten boots, a short red tartan kilt, black tights, and a faded Patti Smith T-shirt older than she was. Lennie had also lined her eyes thickly with kohl.
“Mrs. C. has been raving about you coming for days,” Christie continued. “Psyched about living in the city?”
“Absolutely.”
“I just work here a few nights a week to earn some extra money. I’m a firefighter.”
Lennie was impressed. “Wow.”
“Where’s Rudy II, Mrs. C.?” Christie asked.
“Resting at home.” Aunt Mary looked at Lennie. “Usually my boy comes with me. Everyone here loves him.”
“Speak for yourself,” grumbled a strapping, white-haired old man behind the bar. He wiped his hands on his apron before he, too, extended a friendly hand to Lennie. “Jimmy O’Brien. My brother, Charlie, and his wife, Kathleen, own the Hart. I’m helpin’ out till my nephew, Liam, gets back from Ireland.”
Lennie liked his Irish accent; it made him sound soft and gentle, not the voice she expected to hear coming out of such a bear of a man.
“Let me go get them so you can meet them,” said Jimmy, hastily slipping out from behind the bar.
“No, really, there’s no—”
Too late. Jimmy was on his way toward the back of the restaurant. Lennie turned to her aunt. “They all seem friendly,” she murmured, pleasantly surprised.
Aunt Mary frowned. “Not everyone is so friendly.” She discreetly tipped her head toward a somber-l ooking older gentleman sitting alone at the far end of the bar. “That’s the Major. Irish. Barely says a word.” She plucked at Lennie’s arm again, this time pulling her to the left, toward a thin, tall, scruffy man nursing a beer.
“PJ, this is my niece, Lennie.”
The man smiled, revealing a row of slightly crooked, slightly yellowed teeth.
Definitely a smoker
, Lennie thought.
Maybe a coffee drinker too
. He looked a bit like a professor down on his luck, with his threadbare tweed jacket. Even so, there was an aura of charm about him.
“PJ Leary. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I must say, we all feel as if we know you; your aunt here has been talking about you for weeks.”
Much to her surprise, Lennie found herself blushing.
“PJ is our resident novelist,” Aunt Mary informed Lennie. “Famous.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” said PJ modestly. His brow furrowed with concern. “No Rudy?” he asked Aunt Mary.
“He’s not feeling very social today,” Aunt Mary replied with a sigh. “In one of his reflective moods.”
PJ nodded sympathetically, amazing Lennie. Her aunt had told her how everyone down at the Hart loved her parrot, but she’d taken it with a grain of salt, putting it down to her aunt’s somewhat overactive imagination. But it seemed Aunt Mary wasn’t exaggerating.
Aunt Mary pointed toward a table in the dining room, where a group of four men sat laughing. “See the handsome one with the salt-and-pepper hair?” Lennie nodded. “That’s Quinn O’Brien. He’s a well-known newspaper reporter. His parents own this place. I won’t drag you over there; he and his newspaper cronies look like they’re trying to relax. But I’m sure you’ll meet him eventually. He’s taken, by the way. Married to a French woman.”
“I’m not interested in a relationship,” Lennie replied, almost meaning it.
Never say never.
“Good,” her aunt said emphatically. “You keep your head down and study.”
A loud laugh went up from another table of men sitting directly across from Quinn O’Brien and his friends, drawing Lennie’s attention. There were seven of them, all well built.
“Who are they?” Lennie asked.
Her aunt’s eyes cut to the table suspiciously. “Hockey players. Their usual bar closed down, and they’ve taken to spending time here. Charlie and Kathleen say they’re nice, but they look like a pack of brutes to me.”
Lennie ignored her aunt’s melodramatic statement. They didn’t look like a pack of brutes to her; they just looked like hockey players. She enjoyed hockey, and had met lots of players over the years, since Saranac Lake was close to Lake Placid, whose Olympic Center hosted various tournaments year-round. None of the players had ever struck her as brutish.
“Ah, here come Charlie and Kathleen,” said Aunt Mary with seeming relief.
Lennie decided that this time, she would be the first to proffer a hand. “Hello,” she said, taking Kathleen O’Brien’s hand. “I’m Lennie Buckley, Mary’s niece.”
Mrs. O’Brien looked momentarily disapproving of Lennie’s outfit (a fleeting reaction Lennie had grown expert at perceiving), and then collected herself. “It’s so lovely to meet you. We’ve heard so much about you.”
Lennie did her best to hide her discomfort as she moved to shake Mr. O’Brien’s hand. What on earth could her aunt be telling people?
“Lovely to meet you,” said Mr. O’Brien, echoing his wife. “Your aunt says you’re here to get a degree in fashion?”
“Yes.”
“Our daughter, Sinead, dresses very fashionably,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “We’ll have to introduce you to her. She’s a lawyer,” she finished proudly.
“I’d love to meet her,” said Lennie. God, all these people were
so nice
. This wasn’t how she expected New Yorkers to act.
Mrs. O’Brien laid a warm hand on Lennie’s shoulder. “Are you hungry? I’ve just made a new batch of stew.”
“Oh, I’m fine, thanks.”
“You’re sure, now?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then.” She turned her attention to Lennie’s aunt. “We’ll walk over to bingo together Thursday night, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Nice to meet you, love,” Mr. O’Brien said again. He turned to his wife, gallantly offering her his arm. “Back to the kitchen for us, eh,
macushla
?”
“All work and no play, we are.” Mrs. O’Brien chuckled.
Lennie turned to her aunt. “Would you mind if I went back to the apartment? I feel really zonked all of a sudden.”
“Go ahead, honey. I’m just going to stay about an hour or so to catch up, then I’ll be home.”
Lennie kissed her aunt’s cheek. “Thanks.”
Her aunt smoothed her hair. “I’m so glad you’re here. Though I do wish you dressed a bit more—”
“Normal? Don’t worry; I do sometimes.”
“That’s a relief.”
She and Aunt Mary started back toward the bar. Lennie could have sworn a few of the hockey players checked her out as she walked by, but she couldn’t be sure.
 
 
“To
Ivan the Terrible!”
Laughing, Sebastian Ivanov tossed a shot of whiskey down his throat as his new teammates toasted him. He’d just played his first game as a second-line winger for the New York Blades, scoring a goal in the last two minutes of the third period that propelled the team to victory over New Jersey. Assistant coach Michael Dante had commended him heartily, and head coach Ty Gallagher, a renowned hard-ass, had offered a curt “Good job.” That was enough for Sebastian; after twelve years of playing in Russian and European hockey leagues, the NHL had finally come knocking—every player’s dream. Acknowledgment from Gallagher was a sure sign he was getting off on the right foot. He fully intended to play his guts out to make sure he proved he could play the North American-style game.
“So, Russky,” said defenseman Ulf Torkelson, slapping him on the back, “what do you think of the Big Apple so far?”
“So far, so good.” In all honesty, he hadn’t really had a chance to explore his new town, what with moving, training camp, pre-season, and now the actual start of the season. Even so, what he had experienced so far delighted him. The people of New York were more outgoing than he’d expected. He loved the city’s unique vibrancy, so different from the mood he often encountered at home. Best of all, there was a sizable Russian population out in Brighton Beach; in fact, his father’s only brother, Yuri, lived there. Sebastian hadn’t seen his uncle in years, and was looking forward to making the trip out to Brooklyn the first chance he got, not only to see his relative but also to eat some Russian food.
“You sign the lease on that apartment you checked out the other day?” asked Eric Mitchell. Sebastian had liked Eric from the minute he met him. The guy didn’t take himself too seriously, except on the ice.
“Yes, of course.”
He’d found a small apartment on the Upper West Side, in what the Realtor told him was “a nice, quiet neighborhood.” This suited Sebastian just fine; despite being single, he was not big into the bar scene. To play well, he needed peace, quiet, rest. He was by no means a stick-in-the-mud, just disciplined.
Sebastian glanced around the Wild Hart. “I like this place,” he said to his teammates. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to spend time in the team’s original hangout.”
Jason Mitchell, Eric’s twin brother, grinned proudly. “Great, isn’t it? Eric and me, that’s one of our hobbies: finding new bars to hang out in.”
Ulf snorted. “Oh, you mean like that shithole with the tiki torches a few blocks from Met Gar?”
“That place was great,” Eric shot back.
“Yeah, if you’re over seventy and have cirrhosis of the liver.”
Another teammate, Thad Meyers, looked around. “I think this place is the perfect replacement for the Chapter House. Low key, good food . . .” He raised his beer glass to the Mitchell brothers. “Good job, Mitchy and Mitcho.”
“Thank you,” Eric replied smugly.
Ulf tapped Sebastian on the shoulder, pointing at the small woman behind the bar serving a gaggle of firefighters who had just come in. “What do you think of her, huh? Pretty cute.”
Sebastian studied her. It was true she was cute, but she didn’t stir anything in him. “Not my type.”
“Not my type,” Ulf repeated, mimicking Sebastian’s voice. “I love the way you talk, man. You sound like The Terminator.”
“No, he doesn’t,” scoffed the Blades’ goalie, David Hewson. “Schwarzenegger is Austrian, not Russian.”
“So?” Ulf shot back defensively.
“How would you like it if someone said you sounded Norwegian?” Eric Mitchell chimed in.
“I’m Swedish!”
“Exactly my point, you dick.”
Ulf turned to Sebastian. “Sorry if I offended you, dude.”
“No problem. You didn’t offend me.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Ulf continued, draping his arm col legially over Sebastian’s shoulder, and exaggerating his fading Swedish accent. “The chicks dig the foreign accent. They think it’s sexy.”
Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. Over the years, he’d heard that from other Russian players who had retired from the NHL and had come home to coach or to play again for the Kontinental League. He was glad being foreign might add to his exoticism, but the players had also told him that Americans knew very little about life in Russia, asking silly questions. It mystified him, since the opposite was true with Russians: they knew a lot about the States.

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