Can't Stand the Heat

by Wynter Daniels

  Think fast. "I've got another job lined up, Earl. I was gonna pay you next week, I swear."

  Earl's stranglehold loosened, then released. He shoved Billy toward the huge blond dude in the doorway. Billy gave him a smile, hoping the guy wouldn't kill him.

  "Meet my new associate," Earl said. "Stan the Swede. He don't say much."

  Stan bared his teeth and growled, showing a shiny gold tooth right in front. Charming.

  Earl moved past him into the living room and kicked one of the boxes on the floor. "What do we have here? You goin' someplace, Billy boy?"

  Stan gave him a powerful shove, and he stumbled forward.

  Regaining his balance, Billy took a step toward his luggage. "I told you. I got a job. That's where I'm going." He watched Stan's nostrils flare, realized he'd pissed the guy off more. "I have every intention of paying you what I owe." He couldn't wait to say good riddance to Atlanta. Damn city was nothing but a crime-ridden shithole. No wonder Sherman had burned the place to the ground.

  Stan cracked his knuckles, and the gross noise made Billy flinch.

  "You owe me ten grand, Billy. How long is it gonna take you to put your grubby hands on that kind of cash?" He stepped closer until his face was inches from Billy's. There was that awful breath again. Actually, it smelled more like rotten shallots than onions.

  "I need a little time, that's all. A few weeks, maybe." He stood his ground, refused to shrink back from the asshole. "A month, tops."

  Earl let out a deep belly laugh and looked at Stan. "You believe this shit, Stanley? He's in a hole for ten thousand bucks, and he wants me to wait a month."

  "I'll try to get it sooner. I have a new job in—" He stopped himself, afraid he'd screwed up. Watching Earl's face transform with a big, mean smile, he was sure of it. Shit!

  "You got a new job where?" Earl asked. "Where you headed, Bill?"

  He swallowed, shuffled his feet. I'm so screwed.

  Stan wrapped a gigantic forearm around his neck and growled.

  Earl cupped his hand over his ear. "I couldn't hear you, Billy. Where did you say you was moving?"

  “None of your business,” he managed.

  The bastard sucker-punched him right in the gut. He bent over, gasping for air. Son-of-a-bitch. Something slammed into the back of his neck—Stan's arm, he'd bet. Stars floated before his eyes as he dropped to the ground.

  "I'll be comin' after you, Walker, wherever you go, you hear?"

  A swift kick to the groin had him hanging on to consciousness by a thread.

  "You can’t hide from Big Earl, Billy boy. I’ll find you. And if you don’t have the ten G, I’ll rearrange that pretty face of yours."

  He wanted to jump up, pound the guy's ugly mug into the floor, but he couldn't. Grunting an unintelligible threat, he felt another kick, this time to his back, and his world went dark.

  Chapter Two

  Billy peeled open his eyes and immediately flinched against the pain in his back. Shit, his whole body ached. The apartment was silent, thank God. Gingerly, he dragged himself up and blew out a relieved breath. At least Earl hadn't killed him.

  The prospect of a long drive in his condition started his head pounding. Not like he had a choice, though. His new job and a place to crash were four hours away.

  And Marissa. He'd see her tonight after an entire year of missing her. He wanted to believe she'd missed him as much as he had her, but why would she? All he'd brought into her life was chaos and grief. His stomach turned at thoughts of what he'd put her through. Hell, maybe he was addicted to gambling like she’d said. But he could stop anytime he wanted.

  Now would probably be a good time. He'd quit smoking years ago, right before his mother had succumbed to cancer. How much harder could this be?

  Twenty minutes later, after several painful trips of lugging his things to the car, he turned out of the apartment complex and headed east to Savannah. Once on the highway, he patted his pocket and realized his cell wasn’t there.

  What the hell?

  It was only a pre-paid one anyway. Taking a detour off the Interstate, he stopped at a shopping center and picked up another phone and a bottle of pain reliever.

  After swallowing two tablets, he got back on the road and phoned his cousin.

  "Hey, dude," Joel answered. "What's going on?"

  "I'm on my way there." He paused, caught his breath, winced against the pain.

  "What's wrong?" His voice was deep with concern.

  "I got an old fashioned ass-whipping a little while ago. Hoping they didn't crack some ribs."

  "They? How many were there?"

  "Two, but they were huge. I held them off as long as I could, but it's been nearly twenty years since my last Tae Kwon Do lesson."

  Joel sighed loudly. "Loan shark this time?"

  "Bookie." He bit back the humiliation.

  "Oh, Billy. I thought we were through with those folks. They don't play around. When will you ever learn?"

  "I am now. They have no idea where I’m headed."

  "Dammit, Billy. It’s time to grow up." Joel's voice held a note of contempt that cut Billy to the bone. "How much this time?"

  He passed a slow-moving SUV. "Ten grand."

  "Jesus. Who are these guys?"

  A flicker of hope calmed him. Maybe Joel would bail him out, again. "The main one is Big Earl, Earl Blackwood. Runs a pool hall on Fulton, a few blocks from the restaurant."

  "You'd better watch your ass." He blew out a loud breath.

  "I know, I know." When was Joel going to offer to pay the debt? "They'll leave me alone as long as they get their money." He waited for Joel to tell him he'd take care of it, but his cousin remained silent. "You there?"

  "I'm here. I hope you have a plan to pay these assholes their money. I told you last time; I'm through bailing you out."

  His gut tightened, reminding him where Big Earl had punched him. "Can you help me out, bro? I swear I'll pay you back. I'll work for free and—"

  "Not this time, Billy." Joel's voice was cold and flat. "You know I'm a man of my word, and I said I'd never do it again."

  Shit! What was he going to do? "Look, I'll do whatever you want. You think I should go to some gambling support group, fine. I'll do it. But I've got to get these guys off my back." He paused, tamped down his pride. "I’ll do anything, Joel. On my mother’s grave, I swear."

  "I'm not biting, not again. You’re going to have to handle this yourself, understand?"

  "I get it. I get it." He'd have to find a way to pay off Earl on his own. Maybe Marissa…nah. He couldn't bring himself to ask, not after all he'd put her through. He swallowed back the guilt like he always did.

  “Oh, something I should tell you.”

  His gut tightened. “Yeah?”

  “You and Marissa are officially in competition for the head chef position.”

  “What?” No, that had always been his job. How could Joel do that to him? “Since when—”

  “Marissa refused to work with you on a permanent basis. I have no other choice. May the best person win.”

  Shit. That was the last thing he wanted to hear.

  Rolling into Savannah several hours later, he took in the Southern charm of the antebellum buildings and the restored waterfront along Bay Street. The magnolia and graceful live oak trees, the grassy squares first laid out by General Oglethorpe nearly three hundred years ago. Why had he left this place he loved so dearly?

  Oh, yeah. He'd screwed things up with Marissa, pushed her so far she'd thrown him out, told him she couldn't even work with him anymore, let alone stay married to him.

  As darkness fell, ghosts of his past climbed into his car and joined him for the ride around the squares. All the memories flooded back, all the great times with Marissa. And the bad ones, when it had all come crashing down. He'd screwed up his marriage, hurt the one person who'd believed in him. There was also the matter of a rather large debt to a local loan shark, one Joel had eventually settled for him, long after he'd re
located Billy to the Atlanta restaurant.

  Running on autopilot, he turned into Marissa's driveway, formerly their driveway, on the outskirts of the historic district, and shut off the motor. The old front porch looked the same, except for a fresh coat of haint-blue paint, believed to ward off evil spirits and bugs alike. Twin wooden rocking chairs still sat side by side, where they'd dreamed about growing old together, and planned their future. How had they veered so far off that course?

  Her car wasn't there, but if he knew his wife—ex-wife—she still had a key hidden under the bougainvillea pot next to the porch. Sure enough, she was a creature of habit.

  "Billy?"

  Like a kid caught with his hand in the candy jar, he froze, palmed the key.

  "Billy Walker!" Tina, the next-door neighbor, tramped through Marissa's flower garden and marched up the two steps to the porch. Her high-heeled sandals clunked noisily against the wood. "Well, I never thought I'd see your handsome face again." She set her hands on her more-than-generous hips and gave her long blond hair a shake. Still bathing in perfume. "That divorce final yet? I told Marissa she was a fool to turn you loose." The tip of her tongue licked her upper lip as she washed her gaze over him.

  Tempting, but he refused to consider her unspoken offer. Even though he and Marissa were divorced, he'd never do her that way. Besides, married women had never been his style—except one, and she'd been married to him.

  He folded his arms over his chest, took a step back. "Couldn't stay away from Savannah."

  "Or Marissa?" She quirked an eyebrow a few shades darker than her hair.

  He leaned against the railing, said nothing. None of her business what he was doing here.

  After a shrug, she gave up and stomped off. "See you around," she called over her shoulder.

  Relieved, he popped a peppermint into his mouth, sucked in a steadying breath. Unlocking the door, he stepped inside and set his suitcases down in the tiny parlor. The place was neat and clean as always and smelled like Marissa, and the sandalwood potpourri she loved.

  Cinnamon, her ancient cat, hobbled into the room, gave him a cursory sniff, rubbed along his leg, then plopped down on the Persian rug. "Still hanging on, buddy," he said to the animal. "Good for you." Glancing through the back window, he frowned at the sight of a broken oak branch hanging precariously close to the glass. A strong breeze would send it crashing into the living room.

  Shrugging off his shirt, he marched out the French doors to the patio and yanked open the shed where he…she kept the yard tools. He found a long-handled saw and went to work on the limb. No sense in leaving a job like this for Marissa. He had it taken care of in under ten minutes. After he put away the saw, he went back inside and peeked out front. Still no sign of her. The house was silent as a wish, lonely as a secret.

  Longing for the old days, Billy crept down the hall, past the guest room and bathroom to the master. He eased open the squeaky door, swallowed hard against the regret when he saw the antique four-poster bed, the wide-plank wood floor, and beamed ceiling. How many times had they made love in front of the brick fireplace? He pictured Marissa lying on the rug, naked, her olive skin flushed with love's afterglow, dark curls fanning around her shoulders. And her eyes, oh those big, bright eyes the color of molasses, ringed with thick, black lashes. He loved her best with not a stitch of makeup—or clothes.

  Had she slept with anyone else since he’d left? The notion cut straight through his heart. But he had no right to expect that she’d been celibate since they’d split up. Marissa was an incredibly hot woman. Surely, guys were beating down her door.

  But what he’d give to have her back in his arms…in his bed.

  The creak of the front door opening, then slamming shut, knocked him out of his lusty haze. He eased out of the bedroom and stepped into the bathroom, quietly shut the door, then splashed his face with water.

  "Billy?" she shouted. "Where the hell are you?"

  Her angry tone sent a pang of regret to his gut. "I'm in the john. Give me a sec."

  A moment later, she was in the hallway. "How did you get in here?"

  He leaned against the door, shut his eyes, and indulged himself in a vision of her, not angry, but loving and sweet, kissing his eyelids, running her fingers through his hair. "The key under the flower pot."

  She huffed, and he smiled at the familiar sound.

  "You never change, baby." Thank God.

  "Well, there's where you're wrong." Her voice held a new confidence and even…contempt? "I have changed. I'm not the same wimpy pushover I used to be."

  A wimpy pushover? Not how he would have ever described her. Hot, sexy, full of raw sexuality and Italian gusto. He couldn't stand to wait another second to see her. Yanking open the door, he found her standing there in her chef coat with the top buttons open. Her dark curls were longer than when he'd last seen her, and she'd lost a few pounds, not quite as curvy as she used to be. Had he caused that? A baseball-sized lump caught in his throat.

  It took everything he had not to scoop her into his arms and kiss every part of her. He recalled her supple breasts, the sweet taste of her skin, the way she tightened her muscles when he was inside her.

  Christ, he was getting hard just standing near her. Did she have any idea how much he missed their hot sex, how being apart from her ripped his rotten heart out?

  ***

  All the air sucked out of Marissa's lungs when Billy came into the hallway from the bathroom, shirtless and glistening with sweat. She was afraid to be too close to smell his familiar scent, to feel his heat.

  Why did he have his shirt off, anyway? Better not to ask. The sooner he covered up, the better. She'd forgotten how tall he was, how broad-shouldered, muscular, and incredibly hot. How in the world would she resist him?

  Be firm, be angry.

  "You can't just let yourself into my house anymore." Her nipples hardened, rubbed painfully against her lace bra. She crossed her arms over her chest, stood as tall as she could, although she barely reached his chin. "You'll have to find another place to stay." Averting her gaze, she cleared her throat, hoped for her most authoritative voice. "I can't put you up. Not even for a night."

  "This whole thing happened so fast. I had no time to find a place to rent. I'll be out of your hair soon, I promise." He rubbed his side and flinched.

  She narrowed her gaze at his flat stomach and chiseled abs and noticed a few bruises. “What happened?”

  He shook his head. “No biggie. Maybe a couple of broken ribs.”

  "Broken ribs?" Her resolve to keep her distance forgotten, she examined him closer, found another on his neck. "How?"

  He shrugged, flinched when she hooked his arm to lead him to the kitchen. "You know me, just clumsy, I guess."

  She wondered if he was telling the truth.

  In the kitchen, she gestured to a chair at the bistro table. "I ought to take you to an emergency room, or at least a walk-in clinic."

  "Nah. I'll be okay." He gave her the wink that had always been her undoing. "Just a little bruised." Thankfully, he pulled on his shirt and sat at the table.

  "I’ve got some ibuprofen, but you shouldn’t take it on an empty stomach. You must be starved after the drive from Atlanta." She opened the fridge, grabbed the spinach pie she'd made the night before, and set it on the counter.

  He rubbed his side. "I could eat, especially if you plan to feed me some of that."

  Another wink and a crooked grin had her heart beating a mile a minute.

  A shiver of awareness rolled over her skin. Liquid desire rushed through her. With shaking hands, she cut a wedge of the pie onto a plate and set it in the microwave. After returning the rest to the refrigerator, she stole a glance at him. His foot tapped on the wood floor as he teased back the edge of the curtain and peered through the window, like he didn't want to be seen.

  Her stomach roiled like it always did when she suspected he was up to no good. "Expecting someone?"

  He startled, but quickly regained
his composure.

  Something definitely wasn't right.

  His gaze darted everywhere, avoided meeting hers. "Nope."

  What was he up to now? “What’s wrong, Billy? Have you been gambling again?”

  “Course not.”

  But the shift of his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw told her otherwise. For all she knew, his bruises weren't even real. They could be makeup. A trick to make her feel sorry for him and take him in. Or maybe they were real, put there by an overzealous lover. She remembered all too well some of the sex games he enjoyed. The notion of Billy making love with someone else sliced through her like a tomato knife to the jugular.

  When the microwave dinged, she marched to it and removed the plate, tempted to throw a little rat poison on top. Bastard! She never fell for anyone's games. Never, until Billy. What kind of sick hold did he have over her?

  Crossing the tiny room, she practically threw the food at him. "I want you out of here first thing in the morning."

  He started shaking his head, preparing another lie, she could feel it in her bones. "You’ve been betting, I can tell."

  He opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind, confirming her suspicion. "I'm sorry, babe. Old habits die hard."

  "Enjoy your supper." With that, she stormed from the kitchen, marched to her bedroom, and slammed the door.

  Minutes later, she heard the creak of the antique bed in the guestroom. Why didn't she have the strength to throw him out on the street right this very second? He was nothing but a lying, sneaking faker. And her one weakness. Why couldn’t her vice be chocolate? She'd rather be fat than addicted to him.

  She angrily stripped off her clothes, wadded them into a ball and jammed them into the hamper. Instead of one of her usual oversized nightshirts, she searched her closet for a nightgown. Silly that she even cared, but for some dumb reason, she refused to chance him seeing her go to or from the bathroom wearing anything as unfeminine as a big T-shirt. No need for him to know she still wore his castoffs, took comfort in his scent, which clung to them regardless of how many times she laundered them.