by Kacey Shea
Birthday Blaze
A Short Story
Kacey Shea
Birthday Blaze
Kacey Shea
Copyright © 2016 by Kacey Shea Books LLC
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Recognition
Cover Design: Bridgette O’Hare, Wit & Whimsy Cover Design - https://www.facebook.com/WitandWhimsyCoverDesign
Editing: Brenda Letendre, Write Girl Editing Services – www.facebook.com/writegirlediting
Proofreading: Christina Weston
Created with Vellum
Birthday Blaze was written for a charity anthology to raise funds for the Burned Children’s Recovery Foundation. Since the publication is no longer in print, I hope you will enjoy this short and fun story for free!
Contents
Birthday Blaze
Also by Kacey Shea
About the Author
Birthday Blaze
Brennan
I work out every day.
I’m built like a tank. Ink covers my entire back and most of one arm.
I fight fires for a living.
And I’ve been told I’m a good looking mother fucker. I can thank my Irish ancestors for the thick dark locks and baby blue eyes. But at twenty-nine, only days shy of thirty, I have one major problem.
I can’t talk to women.
More specifically, the woman I’m attracted to. And so I stand here, like the fucking joke I am, decked out in my county fire shirt and ball cap, stumbling to remember my words.
“Hey, hot stuff. What can I get you today?” Jenny says. Her lips pull up at the corners and she approaches the high counter that separates us.
Jenny is my neighbor. My gorgeous, sassy, super friendly, and single neighbor. She moved into the apartment across from mine six months ago and has the uncanny ability to make me forget my first name with the power from one of her smiles. She’s also one of the butchers at Bergdier’s and maybe the reason I volunteer to shop for chow when I’m on shift. I’m glad it’s Jenny working today and not the other chick.
“The usual?” she says.
“Big sausage.” I blurt.
“Excuse me! Is that anyway to talk to a lady?” she smarts with a grin.
I clear my throat and try again. “Five pounds of the Italian spicy. Please.” There. I did it.
“Mmm… Love me some Italians.” She laughs, pulls the meat from the encased glass cooler, and wraps it in paper. “Whatcha making?”
Fuck. She’s always so friendly. I clear my throat again. “Pasta e fagioli.”
“Oh, God,” she moans and my dick jumps at the sound. “That sounds amazing! I’m a horrible cook. You guys eat better than anyone I know. Maybe sometime you can bring me over some leftovers.” She slaps the printed sticker on the order.
Yes. Or better yet, I’ll cook for you. How’s my place, tomorrow?
Instead I grunt, “Sure. Yeah. Maybe.”
Jenny’s eyes snap over my shoulder and Joe’s smooth tenor invades our conversation. “Hey, Jenny from the block, how you doin’?” I don’t have to turn to know the booter is doing his chin nod, half lid eye, and smirk number. It pisses me off how easy it is for him to talk to her. Normally I couldn’t care less who Joe hits on. Hell, he hits on every woman we encounter, but this is Jenny. My Jenny.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
“Get outta here, Chavez!” She laughs, her hands going to her hips. “Your man whore ways don’t work on me.”
Joe steps next to me and slaps his chest. “Oh, that hurts, baby. I thought we had something special.”
“I fondle all the customers’ meat.” She winks, hands over my order, and my tongue gets stuck in my throat. Thankfully, I still have control of my motor skills and take the white paper package with what I hope resembles a smile.
Joe’s booming laughter fills the store. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He grips my arm and practically drags me away. “Later, Jenny!” he calls.
I wave and open my mouth but all that comes out is a croak.
“Later, Joe. Bye, Brennan. See you around?” She does the thing—the one where her eyes soften all sweet for a moment and I just know, under all that brash she’s got a little romantic hidden inside. If her long brown hair weren’t brushed back and under that hair net I’m sure she’d be twirling the ends around her index finger.
“Stop growling at the pretty lady,” Joe says low so that only I hear. It snaps me out of my Jenny induced stupor and I turn to walk away.
“Enjoy your sausage fest!” she shouts, causing the elderly women shopping nearby to scowl as we pass.
Joe shakes his head. “I don’t know what’s with you, B. You need to hit that! Under that god awful white butcher’s coat, she’s hiding a bangin’ bod.”
Wait! Joe and Jenny? My stomach sinks with disappointment. “How do you know? Did you and her ever—?”
“Fuck no!” Joe shakes his head.
“Why not?” Shit. Maybe there’s something wrong with her. Joe taps almost anything that moves.
“Just freaks me out, man.” He gives a little shiver as I roll the buggy to the check-out line.
I stop, my brow pulls into a deep scowl. “Freaks you out?” I try for casual; disinterested even. In the firehouse any sign of weakness, especially crushing on a girl, is fair game for teasing, harassment, and relentless torture. I don’t want Joe to pick up on my interest in Jen because I’ll never hear the end of it.
Joe loads our groceries on the conveyor belt and flashes the cashier a charming smile before he meets my stare. “Dude, have you seen the look on her face? The act of dismembering meat all day with her giant ass knives fills that woman with pure bliss.” He shakes his head again, “Ain’t right, B. Just not natural. I’d never let her anywhere near my dick.”
I burst into laughter, one part from relief that he’s never been with Jenny, and another from the way Joe’s mind works.
The cashier gives us our total and I pay with the bills I grabbed out of the kitty. Joe and I carry the grocery bags outside. The mid-morning sun blinds and I squint, only to have my day grow exponentially worse.
“Brennan,” the sickly sweet voice coos.
Shit! Mayday! Mayday! I glance at Joe and his own eyes grow wide and mirror my alarm. Her hips swing with a strut that can’t be ignored, her blonde locks bounce with each step, and her overly painted face smiles bright as she blocks our path.
Amber. My ex. A classic hose chaser who was able to ignore my inability to talk or ask her out. She took the lead in our relationship and I thought I’d met my dream girl. With her double D’s and perfectly manicured nails that dug into my ass while I pounded her at the end of our first date, what could go wrong?
The answer would be everything.
She didn’t mind the fact I didn’t talk. Mostly because she never shut up. The constant yammering put me at ease for about two dates, and then became a pulsing headache, the kind that snuck up and wouldn’t go away. Except I found a way to shut her up. Kissing, eating her out, and fucking were the three ways to keep her voice from grating on my nerves, so that’s what I did.
Turns out that was a counterproductive plan.
She became obsessed, both from the fact she snagged a fireman, and from endless orgasms. But after four weeks I finally manned up, grew a pair, and cut
things off with her. Hasn’t deterred her level of persistence though.
“Hey, Amber.”
“How are you, baby?” she purrs.
“I’m not your baby.”
“But you could be if you wanted to.” Amber teeters closer in her five inch heels. Practical footwear for grocery shopping. She places her hand on my chest and lifts her chin to whisper loudly, “We were good together. Remember?” She drags those nails down my chest. Fuck. I have to remind my dick we don’t like Amber because all he remembers are the nails. She knows my weakness.
Joe has my back, though. “Hey, Amber. Didn’t I see you at O’Connell’s last week with Curtis? Or you move on to Miller? It’s hard for me to keep track what with your tendency to slut—excuse me—I mean sleep around.”
Her eyes widen and she drops her hand to shoot him a glare. “You really are a prick sometimes, Chavez.” Turning on her heel, she struts inside the store.
“Nice seeing you again!” he calls after her with a laugh.
“Thanks, man. I owe you one,” I say, and unlock the truck.
“Hook me up on a date with your sister and we’ll call it even.” He smirks.
“Fuck off, man! She’s married.” I laugh. “Come on. Let’s get back to the house.”
Off shift, I trudge the path to my apartment door in a sleepless haze. The morning sun hides behind a cluster of angry clouds; the impending storm mocks me in my current mood.
Today is my birthday.
Thirty years old. Fuck. When did I get old? Besides my firefighting career and my health, what do I have? I pictured myself in a little ranch style house, married with at least one kid by now. Instead, my plan for this Wednesday afternoon is to sleep the day away and hope my friends don’t remember it’s my special day because they’ll drag me to the bar. Fuck. I am old. I don’t even want to get wasted on my birthday.
I slide the key in my lock and the slam of another nearby door pulls my gaze to the neighboring unit.
“Hey! I’m glad I caught you!” Jenny huffs between labored breaths.
Oh. Fuck me. Maybe the universe is feeling generous. Jen’s covered in a sheen of sweat. Droplets form between the valley of her breasts and disappear beneath her sports bra. Her tiny black shorts are practically painted on her skin and it takes all my willpower not to stare.
“Hey, Jen,” I stutter.
“So . . .” She flashes a playful grin and walks over. “I have to work ’til four, but a little birdie told me it was your birthday and I have a surprise for you. Do you have plans later so I can drop by?”
“No plans.” I blow out a breath, take off my ball cap and run my other hand over my head. “Wait! How’d you know it’s my birthday?”
“Facebook reminders.” She laughs and backs up to her door. “Okay, I’ll stop by about five? Gives me time to wash off the blood.” She scrunches her nose up and it’s so fucking adorable I almost forget we’re discussing slaughtered animals.
I smile and mumble “sounds good,” as she retreats inside her apartment. I open my own door and my cell phone chimes from my pocket. I glance at the screen and grin. She never forgets.
“Hey sis,” I say.
“Happy birthday, little bro! I love you! Want me to sing?”
“God, no!” I laugh and she scoffs through the line. “It’s a gift for my ears if you don’t.”
“Fuck you,” she says with a smile in her voice. “So . . . any big plans for your dirty thirty?”
“Not really. Cruz is on shift, so we’ll go out this weekend for beers.”
“You are the worst bachelor ever. What I would give for a night out without crying, midnight feedings, and diapers.” Emily sighs.
“How is my nephew, anyway?”
“Sucking on my boob as we speak.”
“God! Don’t say things like that.” We’re just two years apart and best friends as much as siblings, but she has no filter, especially now that she’s a sleep deprived mom.
Emily just laughs. “Sorry, I can’t help messing with you. But really, you have no plans? Maybe I should come over tonight.”
“No!” I answer a little too emphatically.
“Oh, so you do have plans. Maybe a booty call? You are a first responder, after all . . .”
“God, stop. Sister-brother boundaries. Is nothing sacred?”
“Sorry. It’s been so long since I got laid. Seven weeks exactly. If I’m not getting lucky tonight then you should be. Who’s the lady?”
“It’s not like that. It’s my neighbor, Jen. She mentioned stopping by tonight. She has something for me. It’s probably nothing.”
“She sounds hot,” Emily teases.
I chuckle, because Emily never stops. “Yeah. She is hot, but she’s also really sweet, funny, and smart; but I don’t think she’s into me.”
“Then she has horrible taste in men. But I think if she’s coming by she might be into you. Now’s your chance, Brennan! Sweep her off her feet. Take charge. Be the man! Besides, it’s your birthday; luck is on your side.”
“I don’t know . . .” Maybe Emily is right. Maybe I should stop pussyfooting around and make a move.
“Do it! Now, I’ve got to go change stinker’s diaper. Love you, Brennan. Have a great day. And use condoms!”
“’Bye, Emily.” I smile and end the call.
Before I crash I check the fridge and pantry. Emily’s right. If I want a chance with Jenny I need to pull out all the stops and go with my strengths. I may not be a smooth talker but I can cook like a top chef. Today’s forecast: baked ziti with a side of romance.
The mouthwatering aroma of sauce, garlic, and onion fills my apartment. I sprinkle one more layer of mozzarella on the pan and place it in the oven. My kitchen table is set for two and tea light candles in the center set the perfect mood. I cue up a music mix on my phone and plug it into the dock, amplifying Sinatra throughout the small space. Perfect. Now all I have to do is change.
Knock, knock, knock.
Shit. She’s a few minutes early. I peel off my county fire tee, toss it in my closet, pull on a polo shirt, and jog to the door.
With a smile in place that I can’t hold back, I swing open the door. What the fuck? I almost slam it back shut.
“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you . . .” Amber blocks my doorway. She wears a trench coat like it isn’t fucking hot as hell out today. She’s officially off her rocker.
“Amber, what are you—”
“Happy birthday to Brennan…” She sings at an octave so high I wish for earplugs. Amber draws out the final line, unfastens her jacket, and opens it wide. Oh, fuck. Nothing but a garter belt, lace panties, and a bra that barely contains the girls. Now I remember why we dated. My jaw drops in appreciation.
“Brennan?”
My mouth snaps shut and my gaze darts to catch the brief frown of disappointment on Jenny’s face before her brow narrows. She stomps the last few steps to my doorway, a pink cardboard pastry box in her hands.
Amber has no shame; her coat flaps open and she tries to step inside my apartment. I block the doorway with my body but she counters by snaking a hand around my waist.
“Here.” Jenny shoves the box into my gut with so much force I’m sure whatever’s inside is ruined. “Looks like you have plans.” Her brown eyes, usually so filled with kindness, are ablaze. “Happy birthday, Brennan,” she spits out, and marches the short distance to her place. The slam of her door is a punch to my gut.
“Oh, you cooked for me? How sweet?” Amber croons.
Her voice snaps something inside and I jerk away, grab her shoulders and say calm and clearly, “We are never getting back together.”
“Oh, I love Taylor—”
“No! Not the song. We’re done, Amber.” I point toward the table. “This isn’t for you.” “Now, please leave.”
“Fine! I was always too good for you anyway. FYI, I was fucking Curtis when we were together!” she shouts.
I don’t care, though. “Leave,” I de
mand, and she finally takes the hint.
With the bakery box in hand, I shut my apartment and jog over to Jenny’s. I knock on the door.
“Go away!” she shouts.
“I’m not going away. I need to talk to you.”
“Go talk to your girlfriend,” she yells through the door.
My blood boils just thinking about Amber and how she’s fucked up tonight. “I don’t having a fucking girlfriend!” I yell with a little too much force.
The door swings open. Jenny’s nose is tinged with pink, and wetness streaks her cheeks. Fuck no. Seeing her like this crushes all my anger and fills me with fear.
“Are you crying?” I say, and reach out to brush her tears away with my knuckles.
“No.”
“You look like you were crying. Is everything okay?” I brush the other cheek and she inhales sharply.
“I’m crying, but not because I’m sad.” She bristles and crosses her arms under her chest. “I’m pissed off. I wanted to make your birthday special and I guess it just caught me off guard when I saw you back with Amber.”
“Hey, I’m sorry about her. I didn’t invite her over.”
“Brennan,” Jenny says pointedly. “I saw the candles and everything inside. You don’t have to lie about it.”
I’m at a crossroads. I can chicken out and she’ll never know, or . . .
“Look, I’m gonna lay it all out. I like you, Jenny. A lot. And I was sort of hoping that when you said you’d be by, that tonight could be more of a first date.” I meet her gaze, the brown hues calm and steady, and watch for her reaction.
“Oh,” her mouth falls open and the silence stretches between us.
“But if you don’t want to that’s fine, too. I actually made dinner. Italian, since you always mention how much you like it—”
“You made dinner for me?” Her lips pull into the most dazzling smile. That look alone makes me want to be a better man, the best of men, if only I get a shot at something with her. But then I remember—