Stoking the Embers (New Adult Romantic Suspense): The Complete Series (3 page)

Easing into the chat, I start grabbing items, helping her bag them up. She says nothing, just smiles her thanks and keeps passing items my way.

“I’m Ken, by the way.”

“I’m Stephanie. Nice to meet you—again.”

“Let me help,” I say as she tries to bend and pick up the three gallons of milk on the bottom of the cart in one fell swoop. I reach past her and we bump together, jostling her backwards. The gallon of milk in her hands slips and I hear her gasp in pain. The milk seems to fall in slow motion as I attempt to grab it with my free hand.

Splash.

The white covers my shoes and my freshly washed pants look like a monochromatic avant garde painting I noticed when I helped at First Friday downtown a few months ago.

Stephanie’s face turns beet red. “Oh my god. I am so, so sorry. Please let me help you clean up.”

All eyes are on us and the puddle of milk spreading beneath our feet. The manager, an older blonde woman, heads our way, her face serious—in damage control mode.

Stephanie is apologizing profusely, way more than necessary, her hands covering her red cheeks. I can’t help but laugh at the ‘I’m so sorry’ puppy dog look in her eyes.

“It’s okay. No big deal. It isn’t really your fault. I shouldn’t have tried to grab both cartons with one hand,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got another set of clothes at the station.”

“Please, let me at least clean you up a bit,” she insists. “You’re dripping.” She grabs a roll of paper towels from some hidden place under the register just as the manager shows up.

“We’re so sorry about this.” Her name’s Diane, or so her badge says. She picks up a phone, presses a button and says, “Clean up, register seven.”

“I’m completely okay, it’s my fault. I was trying to help and knocked it out of her hands. I’ll pay for the milk.”

Relief seems to slide over Diane’s face as she realizes she doesn’t have to placate an irate customer. “No, no. I’ll get you another gallon. Be back in a flash.”

Diane splits and I look down, Stephanie’s now on her knees, cleaning the milk off my shoes. Mmm… I could get used to this, this beautiful girl kneeling in front of me. In a flash I see her, kneeling, waiting for instruction. I imagine walking close to her, telling her to look up before sliding my cock in her mouth. Maybe I’ll pour honey down her breasts, lick it off as it slides down her stomach, dipping my tongue in her navel as I trace my way...

“I’m really so sorry.” Another apology breaks me from my fantasy. She rips another wad of paper towels off and tries to wipe off my sodden pants. Even though it’s useless, I don’t stop her, don’t walk away. As if in a trance, I watch her slim hands wipe at my shins, my knees, moving up my thighs. I wonder if she can feel the muscles tighten under her touch.

She glances up at me and her hand stills mid-thigh. Her red cheeks grow even redder. There’s no way I can hide my growing arousal. I won’t apologize for it. I’m fully turned on.

Standing quickly, wincing in pain as she does, she thrusts the paper towels at me and mumbles, “You’d better get the rest.” She takes a step back and skids on the milk. Reflexes kick in and I catch her before she falls.

She’s light as a feather, almost too thin for her height. Her face is in my chest, her hands curling into the shirt of my back. She’s trembling, I feel the nerves working under her skin vibrate. She looks up, her face is inches away from mine.

“Stephanie!” The manager’s sharp voice pierces the moment and Stephanie pulls away, steps back and slips on the wet floor. I grab her shoulders this time and we both laugh at the comedy skit we’ve both found ourselves in.

“Don’t move.” This time I’m the one kneeling at her feet, tossing down paper towels onto the floor, giving her a safe place to stand. The manager slips and slides her way to us, her own roll of towels in hand to help soak up the mess.

“Car accident with injuries on Windmill and Eastern,” my radio screams at me. “Station 15 respond with paramedics.”

“Gotta go,” I say, just as Jeff comes running in the door.

“Do me a favor?” I ask the manager, who’s nodding readily. “Charge these to our account?”

“Of course.” Diane knows the drill, this has happened before. “We’ll hold them in the cooler.”

I smile my thanks and glance at Stephanie, who’s still standing there, frozen in place but with humor shining in her eyes. Damn, she’s beautiful, why hadn’t I paid attention to her before.

I wink at her. Hot damn, she winks back.

My radio squawks again. I turn and am out the door before it finishes screaming its instructions.

I’m surprised the guys in the truck didn’t hear the accident. It’s only a few blocks away from the store. Glass is everywhere and there’s a street light down, city electricians on the way. It’s a good thing we were so close and able to cut the juice on the live wires that were sparking the ground.

The yellow police tape around the utility locker on the corner is a testament to the dangers of this seemingly out of the way intersection. We must respond to two accidents a month here at least.

Both doors on the passenger side of the Lexus are caved in at least a foot. The Cadillac SUV must have floored it to beat the red. The airbags fully deployed, no doubt saving some lives, but luck also has a part to play. Thank God for modern cars.

Neither car has passengers or we would certainly be calling for the Coroner, not an ambulance. The driver of the Lexus is in fairly decent shape, just shaken up. He probably didn’t see it coming and was relaxed until the impact. The Cadillac driver isn’t so lucky. She has cuts all over her face, a broken arm and probably a broken rib or two, all in spite of the airbag deploying. Nothing life threatening, but serious nonetheless. I don’t like to dwell on the misery of others, but at least I get to help Ed and Octavio with the paramedic duties.

“Gasoline!” I hear Freddie yell and notice the aroma as he runs to the truck to set up the foam. Shit. Our work here isn’t as done as I’d hoped.

As I yell at the rubber-necking bystanders to get back, I see an idiot smoking a fucking cigarette on the sidewalk. I run his way, hampered by the heavy suit I’m wearing, shouting, “Put that out. Cigarette out.”

He’s oblivious, holding up his phone and videoing the paramedics doing their work. I watch him lift a hand to the cigarette, inhale deeply, the end glowing red for many seconds.

“No!” I yell, at full speed now. Is the guy deaf? No, I’m close enough to see the black earbuds protruding from his ears.

Another inhale, another flash of red, then he pulls the cig from his lips. He’s going to fucking flip it. I see his fingers move into position. There’s no gas, the liquid kind, near him, but in this heat the vapors spread quickly. One spark and we’ll all barbeque, with a little firework display for extra effect.

“No!” Even though he can’t hear me, I can’t stop the word from screaming from my lungs. I wonder what he’s listening to… heavy metal, throbbing a deep bass line into his brain? Maybe rap, words spilling out at rapid speed.

No no no no no.

With the most casual of releases, the idiot flicks the cigarette into the street. I zero in on its course, high school football instincts kicking in. I dive… watching the butt circle end over end and catch it mid-air. I squeeze the damn thing into a fist, pulling it to my chest as I hit the pavement and roll several yards from the scene.

I’m on my feet, anger fueling me and stomp over to the asshole who is—-for the love of all creation—now videoing me.

“That was righteous, dude,” A-hole says, and it’s quite clear that cigarettes aren’t the only thing he smokes. “I caught the whole thing. Film at eleven.”

I snarl, ready to shove his phone up his skinny ass. But Jeff intercedes, saving me from a certain lawsuit. A dick-for-brains can toss a lit cigarette into a gasoline infused accident scene, but I’d probably be the one who gets sued for breaking his precious iPhone.

Some freakin’ society we live in.

The sun is blazing down with full desert fury when we finally get back to the store to pick up our groceries. I’m a sweaty mess, the milk from earlier still souring on my clothes. But better to get this errand done, take a long shower and then get on with our Fourth of July celebration while we have the chance.

Fuckin’ Jeff couldn’t keep his big mouth closed and told the guys about my little milk adventure. The guys are now moo’ing at me as I walk away from the truck. My one finger salute only makes them moo louder.

As the automatic doors open, the tell-tale Vegas cold breeze hits me in the face. Life in the desert—115 outside, 68 inside. I zero in on register seven. Stephanie isn’t there. Looking around the store, I don’t see the cashier anywhere.

Before I can ask, I’m accosted by the manager, who had spotted me walking in. She looks me up and down… grimy face, t-shirt clinging to me from sweat. I’d shucked my jacket in the truck, not giving a damn how I looked. I normally like the way women look at me, let’s me know my daily work-outs are paying off. Right now, I’m on a mission. I look over the blonde woman’s head, still looking for my target.

“Ready for your groceries?” Diane asks, overly solicitous, her words dripping with artificial sweetness.

“I’m looking for the girl who waited on me earlier.”

“I’m so sorry. Stephanie left at noon, but she’s working tomorrow, six to twelve. I’m sure you’re still upset by what happened earlier, but I hope you won’t be too hard on her. She’s a wonderful person, one of my best employees. I’ve never had a problem with her before…”

“No, nothing like that,” I interrupt her. “Just checking to see if she’s alright.”

“Well, I’m sure you could tell she was mortified and very sorry for the accident. Let me help you get your groceries out. I even added a tray of cookies as an apology.”

Cookies and milk. As I follow the manager to the cooler, I smile at the irony.

Chapter 4—Stephanie

“You’ve saved my life!”

I hug my best friend, Beth, as she walks through my door, two bags of take-out Chinese in her hands. The smell makes my stomach growl. I hadn’t eaten all day.

“Well, you’ve saved mine a dozen times,” she says, hugging me back hard. I wince and she steps back, her mouth falling open. “Damn girl, you look like hell.”

“I know. Good thing you can’t see all the internal injuries.”

Beth goes into full nursing student mode, dropping the bags of food to the floor and begins to check me out. I laugh and love her at the same time. “No real internal injuries,” I promise. “Just the heart and soul kind.”

Her face morphs into sympathy. “Jerome again? Shocker. Help me get this served up, then you can tell me all about it.”

Twenty minutes later, I feel like a new woman. Stir fried rice and extra egg rolls hit the spot. A glass of wine washes it down and I feel the alcohol take effect.

We hadn’t started talking about Jerome yet, instead I told her about the accident and showed her some of my bruises. She promised to help me trim my nails and help salvage some of them if possible.

We also bitched about school and the exam we took today. Both of us always worry if we’ll get a good grade.

“Hopefully there will be a big-ass curve,” Beth had said, between huge bites of lo mein. She isn’t bigger than a grasshopper, but this girl could eat a football player under the table. We’d been friends since our freshman year when we’d been assigned as roommates, which at first had been a horrendous disaster.

If I’m Yin, then Beth is Yang, two people couldn’t possibly be any different. She was head cheerleader at her high school, her doting daddy a successful lawyer—need I say more. She hated being stuck in the dorms as all freshmen were required to do and had decoupaged pink material on the walls on her side of the room. Eventually mine as well.

The first few weeks of school, I’d barely seen her at all. She partied hard, barely studied and attended every frat party on campus. Then one night, during the wee hours of the morning, she staggered into our room, throwing up and crying. I had held her hair back, placed a cool cloth on her neck and stayed with her while she continued to sob on the bathroom floor.

It had taken hours for her to get the story out. Bottom line is—she was raped by two guys at a frat house, each holding her down while the other took a turn. They had worn condoms, so there was no DNA to recover and she’d never had a chance to claw or scratch. Worse, she couldn’t even remember what they looked like, wasn’t sure she could identify them if she saw them again. She’d gotten very drunk on the punch and remembered dancing and kissing one guy as another moved in and kissed her neck from behind. She couldn’t remember going with them to a bedroom, couldn’t remember taking off her clothes. She only had moments of memories—a hand over her mouth, the pain of one of them trying to enter her anally.