Through Fire (Portland, ME #3) (6 page)

“I don’t like elevators,” I admit to him in a small voice. I feel a rush of embarrassment stain my cheeks.

He squints his eyes and looks at me oddly for a moment, before taking my hand and walking to the stairwell at the end of the hall. “Stairs it is,” he says easily.

A little uneasy, with his big hand holding on to my sweaty one, I toddle along behind him down the stairs and out to the car. I’d nervously cleaned the already spotless apartment, top to bottom, to kill time today. Knowing the possibility of what might be expected of me, I’d freshened up with a shower and shaved meticulously.

Nothing comes without a price, that’s something else Mamá would say. And boy, how right she had been on that one.

“Have you thought about what you want to cook?” Tim breaks the silence, as he opens the passenger door of a shiny black, expensive looking car.

“No. Not really. Sorry,” I confess.

“No worries.” He smiles as he closes the door and rounds the car to get in the driver’s side. “We’ll figure it out when we get to the store.”

“What about Chiles Renellos?” I suggest, as we drive onto the grocery store parking lot. “Mamá used to make those. They remind me of home.” I snap my mouth shut the moment the words leave my mouth. I’m already breaking my own rules of divulging too much.

“Mexican. I was wondering about your heritage. I thought it might have been, but I couldn’t be sure. I barely hear any accent.”

He gets out of the car, and before I have a chance to open my door, he is right there opening it for me. Not having much experience with being treated respectfully, I have to say it feels nice.

“Chiles Renellos is maybe something we can try next week? They’ll take a little time, and I’ll be able to take off a little early next Monday,” Tim continues, as he casually grabs my elbow again, not seeming to notice how the mention of another
cooking lesson
has me stumble a bit.

We end up getting ingredients for simple and fast fajitas. At least that’s what Tim says, because I really wouldn’t know if they are simple to make or not. There is a moment at the cash register when I pull some bills from my wallet to pay. Tim’s big hand comes down over mine, and he bends down so his mouth is close to my ear. “You don’t pay when I’m with you.”

I open my mouth to protest, but an intense glare from his blue eyes has me snap it shut immediately.

I stay quiet the rest of the way to his place; a nice brick, two-story house, surprisingly only blocks from the shelter. When we pull into the driveway, I start getting nervous. What does he expect?

Once inside, I take a moment to take in the space: a large L-shaped room, the short side an open kitchen at the back of the house. Very masculine, with dark brown, worn leather on the couch and love seat, and a beautifully crafted harvest dining table, with the same dark brown leather seats on the rustic wooden chairs. Dark browns and several shades of grey make up the entire color palette. Although it is beautiful, it’s drab compared to the cacophony of color in my sparse apartment.

In the kitchen, Tim wastes no time pulling the produce out of the bag and hands me a colander to rinse the peppers and zucchini.

“Are you okay cutting these in strips?” He wants to know, placing a cutting board and large knife next to me on the counter. “I’m just going to quickly change out of this suit,” he says, one hand already tugging at the tie around his neck, while he gives me a squeeze on my shoulder with the other.

I’m rattled. I don’t know whether he wants me to do what he says, or what his actions tell me. “I...uhh...I’m not sure what you want.” I turn my back to the sink and suddenly find myself facing the broad expanse of his chest. He’s managed to tug his tie loose and is already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. Dark reddish blond chest hair shows between the spread sides of his shirt. I’m tongue-tied.

“I’m not sure either,” he says quietly. When I lift my head back and look up, I find him scanning my face intently.

Lust is something I recognize, so when the full heat in his eyes hits me, I think I have my answer.

With my body wedged between the counter and his big frame, I lower my eyes to a familiar sight. The hard bulge of his cock is something I know what to do with. I slowly let myself sink to my knees, my hands already reaching for his belt. He doesn’t move when I pull the belt from the buckle, or when I open the top button on his fly. But the moment my hands smooth over the large bulge underneath, he hisses and steps back.

“What the fuck, Ruby?”

My eyes fly up to find a look of disbelief on his face. For countless seconds, time seems to be suspended as I get back to my feet, while watching his expression go through a host of emotions. It finally settles in a tight pinch of his lips and a clenched jaw.

That’s when mortification hits me. I rush past him, grabbing my coat on my way out the door.

“Ruby!” is the last thing I hear as my feet start pounding the pavement.

T
im

What the fuck  just happened?

One minute we’re unpacking groceries, and the next, I have Ruby starting to unwrap the persistent erection that had surged to life in the store. A loose curl of her luscious hair had stroked my cheek when I bent close to stop her from pulling out her damn money. That’s all it took for me to lose the tight reign on my body. I’d been affected all the way home in the car, and was about to withdraw for a moment to give myself a stern talking to, when she went down on her knees. She floored me. For a woman so skittish, she sure had some direct moves. I’ll admit, the sight of her big, liquid brown eyes, looking up at me from her position in front of me, was a huge turn on. Not that I needed an extra dose, just smelling her coconut scent and her mere presence seemed enough. When it hit me that her face was a mask of resignation and her actions seemed by rote, heat was quickly replaced with shock.

I don’t really know much about her. Hell, she only just confirmed she was of Mexican descent. Though I know she must’ve had a rough life for her to end up in the shelter, I have no idea what her history is. It hadn’t been difficult to figure out she didn’t have a good experience with some guy, but the look on her face just now, hinted at something deeper.

Standing frozen in the kitchen, it takes the front door slamming shut for me to start moving. I run to the door in my socks and yank it open. Stepping out on the porch, I can just see her running toward the corner of the street. She doesn’t even slow down when I yell her name.
Christ
, what a clusterfuck. Rushing back in, I snag my car keys, throw off my tie, jam my feet into a pair of old work boots, and snag my leather jacket off the coat rack. It takes only seconds, but when I get back outside, Ruby’s gone.

I’m in my car, driving in the direction I last saw her, when it occurs to me where she may have headed, likely on her way to Florence House. The shelter is only a five-minute walk from my place, and I wonder if I shouldn’t just let her go and turn my car around. Something about that just doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t know what that little scene in the kitchen was all about, but I want to find out.

I spot her turning onto Preble Street, no longer running but walking fast.

“Ruby,” I call out when I roll down my window and pull up beside her. “Get in the car.”

She doesn’t slow her stride, but throws a glance in my direction. I suspected her to be upset, or angry, but the look of blatant fear on her face is a complete surprise. Without thinking, I pull up to the curb and turn the engine off. Getting out of the car, I see she’s already at the gate to the shelter, and I just catch up as she steps up to the big, ornate, wooden door.

“Talk to me.” I step up right behind her, noticing how she pulls her head down between her shoulders defensively.
Jesus
. “Ruby, please,” I try. Her only response is that the fist, which was poised to knock on the door, is now suspended mid-air. I talk fast. “I’m not sure what happened.  I’m sorry if I upset you, but you caught me by surprise. I didn’t expect you to...I mean...
Fuck
. I suck at this.” Frustrated, I run both hands through my hair. I’m not sure what the hell I’m trying to say, I just know I have to fix this. “I like you,” I blurt out. “I just...Ruby?” Looking at her rigid back, I can’t see her face and don’t know what she’s thinking. So I put my hands on her shoulders and turn her around just as the door opens.

“You might want to take those shovels you call hands off my girl, or I’ll help you.”

I look over the top of Ruby’s bent head, straight into the unmistakable barrel of a gun. “Jesus, Pam. Put that damn thing down. You’ve known me long enough to know I’d never harm her.”

The statuesque woman only shrugs her shoulders before dropping her eyes down to where Ruby, at maybe five foot one or two, is wedged between us. We dwarf her.

“Ruby?” Pam gentles her voice as she tries to get her attention. “Are you okay?”

Ruby’s head comes up slowly and she turns at Pam’s probing. The sharp intake of breath is evidence the sight of the weapon Pam is still aiming in the vicinity of my head startles her. In a surprising move, she steps into me and raises her arms as if to shield me. “It’s my fault,” she blurts out. “I made a mistake. Don’t hurt him.” Panic is clear in her voice, and I put my hands on her hips in an attempt to reassure her.

“She’s not going to shoot me, woman,” I mutter into her hair. Her body stills when she suddenly comes aware of my proximity. She immediately moves away. Pam seems to observe the interaction with a keen eye and finally lowers the damn weapon.

Truth be told, I don’t think she’d shoot, but looking down the barrel of a gun is fucking unnerving.

“I need to talk to Ruby,” she says, looking directly at me. “Alone,” she adds pointedly.

When Ruby takes another step toward Pam, it’s clear she’s made up her mind. “Okay,” I direct at Ruby, whose back is turned to me. “I’ll leave you alone. For now. But you’re a friend, Ruby. We’re gonna have to talk at some point. Soon.” With that, I give Pam a nod and turn to head back to my car, hearing the door close somewhere behind me.

R
uby

“You like him.”

It’s not so much a question as it is a statement of fact, so despite the fact Pam’s words startle me, I don’t bother denying them.

I do. Like him, that is. I also know it counts for nothing. Not when the careful balance of my reality could be jeopardized with one wrong word. Not to mention the possible danger I’d put him in if I spent too much time with him. This whole thing was a big mistake right from the beginning.

Pam places a steaming mug on the kitchen table in front of me and takes the seat across. “Have you eaten?” she asks, casually sipping her tea and looking at me from under her eyebrows. The question draws a snicker from me.

“I’m not hungry,” I claim and when one of her eyebrows raises in question, I explain.

I tell her about the fiasco in the pub’s kitchen, Tim’s unexpected help, and finally his offer to teach me to cook.

“I’m sorry,” Pam says to my surprise.

“I don’t understand?”

“I could see how eager you were to try your hand at it, and when you were struggling in the kitchen, I just took over instead of offering to teach you. I should’ve made the time...”

“Don’t,” I caution her, reaching to touch my hand to hers. “I didn’t even realize at the time how much it was something I wanted to learn. Besides, you have more important things to keep you busy than to worry about teaching me.”

“Fair enough,” is her simple response. “So are you ready to tell me what happened?” she asks after a pregnant pause.

I don’t bother hiding my big sigh. I knew she’d probe. It’s what she does. “I’m not good at reading men. Well.” I shrug, correcting myself. “I thought I was, but maybe I was wrong.”

Sipping hot tea and sitting at the table in the warm, comfortable kitchen, I tell Pam everything from the start. The disaster at The Skipper, letting it slip to Tim that I never had the chance to learn cooking, and the sequence of events after. I even tell her about wanting to cancel, but not having his number, and being too chicken to ask Viv. When I finish with the embarrassing moment on my knees in front of him, my hands still cupping his big erection, Pam leans forward with her elbows on the table and her chin resting on her folded hands.

“You know he’s not a John.”

Her observation doesn’t surprise me. Over the past months, she’s pried loose enough information to know the world I’ve been running from. The violence I’d witnessed that put me in danger. She’s even aware of the life I’ve lived. At least in large part. In all these months, Pam never pushed me to go to the police, and for reasons I’m keeping to myself, I never did. She is the only person I know who doesn’t seem to judge me by what she knows, but life has taught me not to expect that kind of acceptance from anyone else. It’s rare.

“I know,” I admit. And I do, but it’s hard not to taint every man by what you’ve known most of your life.

“He’s a good man, Ruby. A decent man.” Pam’s voice has gone soft as she smiles gently at me.

“I know,” I say again.