Rekindle

by Ashley Suzanne

  Basically what I was getting at is I’ve never lived alone. I didn’t have furniture, a car, a home or even a pet of my own. Everything I had was with Nick, and when I walked out on our marriage after he disappeared from it long before, I took nothing with me. I saved the money, bought a beat up old Ford and it’s been my sense of security ever since.

  I probably should take the day to go apartment hunting, and maybe I will, but after a very long hot shower where sexy ex-husband firemen won’t interrupt me and a nap. A really long nap.

  “You here for the Tempo?” a man the size of a giant asks from the doorway between the office and garage.

  “Yep. What’s the damage?” I brace myself for his answer. If it’s any more than five hundred dollars I’m screwed until payday.

  “Ninety-five dollars out the door. You just needed a new battery and some cables.” Now I feel like a dumbass and there’s no way I can tell my over-protective father it was just a battery. He’d kill me for taking it to a shop for that.

  “Christina, I coulda got you one for a lot cheaper and no labor,” he’d tell me between coughs and sips of his coffee.

  “Great, thanks,” I respond with a toothy smile.

  Sitting on the cool plastic chairs, I glance around for a coffee pot or pop machine, but I’m out of luck. I could probably ask, but hopefully, he’ll pull my car around in the next minute or two and I can pay and be out of his hair, headed straight for the Tim Horton’s across the street that’s been calling my name since I noticed it a few seconds ago.

  True to my thoughts, I’m out of there in less than five and through the drive-thru, sipping my large triple-triple. The ride back to the house is quick, and actually enjoyable, since it’s a little after rush hour. Kicking off my shoes, I bee line for the bathroom and for the second time in twenty-four hours, I avoid the long shower and opt for a quick one without washing my hair. I’ll do it later. Or maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. Who knows anymore.

  Flopping on the bed, my eyes close and I feel slumber pulling me toward it when the shrill ringing of my cell phone drags me away. I pinch my eyes shut tighter, praying the noise will stop and when it does, I smile, high-fiving myself for getting one over on whoever called. And before I can do my internal happy dance, the ringing starts again.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I huff, pulling the pillow over my head. After two rings, it stops and starts again.

  Without removing the pillow from my head, I grab the phone and pull it under the covers with me. Dragging the answer button across the screen, I place the receiver to my ear. “Hello,” I bark, annoyed that whoever this is didn’t get the hint I wasn’t interested in chatting this early, or late in my case.

  “Is that any way to answer your phone, Christina Michelle?”

  “Ma?” I ask, really wanting to tell the woman who lacks any kind of phone etiquette that when you call three times back to back, it’s perfectly acceptable to bark your greeting. Especially when all she wants to know is if I saw Nick. How Nick’s doing. Did we talk. And are we getting back together and giving her grandbabies. Next time, phone’s getting shut off the second I walk through the door with a voicemail greeting letting her, and anyone else who likes to talk when I want to sleep, know that I’m alive, didn’t fall through a roof and will return all calls when I’m awake.

  “How was it?” she starts. I was lucky to avoid the inquisition from Lacy this morning. I’ll be sure to get Dakota a present, because I’m pretty sure it’s because of her that Lacy didn’t’ start in on me.

  “It was good, Ma. I’m trying to get some sleep. Can I call you later?”

  “You never have time for your mother anymore,” she whines and I want to crawl through the phone and choke all the guilt inducing comments from her repertoire.

  “Ma, listen. I love you. I’ll come see you and Daddy this weekend, but I just got off a twelve-hour shift. I’m exhausted and need to sleep. Work’s been busy and I have to go back again tomorrow. I just need to rest.” I try to rationalize with her, but quickly realize I’ve opened myself up for more judgment.

  “You know, if you would just get a secretary job like your cousin Jasmine, you wouldn’t have to work all these hours in a dangerous job. And one where you’re around firemen all day.”

  “But, Ma, where’s the fun in that? All those boys with good jobs and pensions in one spot. I don’t even have to try to date anymore.”

  “Because that worked out so well for you last time? Just think about it, Chrissy. A good day job where you could be at home in the evenings to keep your old mother in the loop.”

  “Can you please not call me Chrissy? You know I hate that.”

  “When you have a daughter of your own, give birth to her after nineteen hours of labor, you can choose what to call her. Until then, I’m going to call you whatever I want.”

  “Goodnight, Ma. I’ll call you later.” I don’t wait for a response before hanging up on the call. If I keep up this banter, she’ll keep going, just like that damn battery bunny … you can never win against him. And I’ll never beat my mother in a battle of words.

  Turning down the volume on my phone, I toss it back on the nightstand and close my eyes. It’s only a matter of minutes before I fall asleep and welcome the peace without prying ex-husbands, nosy best friends, Frozen pajamas and nagging mothers. It’s a perfect world.

  *****

  True to my word, I meet the guys at the pub down the street from the house after their shift. I’m not on until late morning, so I can risk a few with them. As much as I try to hide my disappointment, I keep watching the door, my ears perking, so to speak, every time someone new walks through. It’s not Nick this time, just like it hasn’t been him the last dozen or so times.

  Engaging in casual banter with the firefighters, I’m surprised at how mature they seem to be in comparison to the guys at 75. Not once have they commented on my cup size, how my ass barely fits in my uniform or my petite stature and all the wicked things they could do with a “fun size” like me. It’s welcoming and disheartening at the same time. Did Nick say something to them? Warn them off? Not that I’m interested in dating a fireman again, or even screwing around with one, and more times than not the disgusting comments my last house would make were, in a weird way, nice. It was like they noticed I was a woman when we weren’t working, and a solid paramedic when we were.

  These guys couldn’t care less.

  “Here ya go, Mitchell,” Mack says, setting a shot glass down in front of me. This will make the third one I’ll turn away as I’m being cautious to not have a hangover for my next shift or the daunting morning I’m already in for.

  “No thanks,” I respond, pushing the glass toward him. “I’m on shift tomorrow and I got a thing pretty early. I might be new, but the chief will have my ass if I walk in there smelling like a distillery.”

  Laughing, he shoves the glass back in my direction. “Chief’s the one who bought this round. You wouldn’t want to disrespect his generosity, would you?” With a mischievous grin, he watches me slam back the shot and set it upside down on the table with a ‘there ya go, you’re welcome’ face.

  I end up tossing back one more shot, singing a very spectacular rendition of Bel Biv Devo’s Poison and fighting off the rumors that spilled over the next twenty minutes about Mack and Jones with the rest of their crew having done me before. All in all, 22’s starting to feel just as relaxed and comfortable as 75 was for the last few years.

  Nick’s the only problem, and since he’s not here tonight, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t even matter. My next shift with him, maybe we can chat about what the hell we’re going to do about him being cold one second then eye fucking me while I’m naked. It’s a fine line we’re walking, but once upon a time, we were in love and you can fall out of love, but it’s pretty hard to stop caring about someone who meant so much to you.

  I have a feeling we can find a middle ground—something comfortable for both of us. If not … well, we can cross that b
ridge when we come to it.

  “Don’t forget, everyone. Pancake breakfast tomorrow morning followed by prayer at the cemetery for a fallen brother. I expect everyone there as I’m making a speech and as long as I have you fools, I’ll get a few applause,” the chief, Maxwell Masterson, booms from the front of the bar.

  Nodding my head, I pack it in for the night and head home, hopefully to find a full night’s rest. I’m going to need it for tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NICK

  The minute the next shift arrives, I’m out the door, in my truck and heading home. Most of the other guys will stop off at a bar, have a round or two before getting back to their wives and families, and any other time, I’d be right there with them. However, tonight is one of those nights—and recently they’re few and far between—that I need to drink alone. Nobody needs to witness the state I’m going to be in for the next twenty-four hours.

  Whipping into the driveway, I believe I throw the truck in park before jumping out, but I can’t be certain. Scratch that, when it doesn’t roll down the driveway or through the garage door, I think it’s safe to say we’re good.

  “Hey, pal.” Scratching behind Hemingway’s ear, I make my way to the kitchen, opening the back door to let him relieve himself, and check the fridge. My neighbor, Mrs. Crandall, is the widow of a fireman and helps me much more than I deserve. Using her spare key, she comes in while I’m on shift, lets Hemingway out, refreshes his food and water and even makes sure I have a six pack waiting for me when I return.

  Snatching one of those beers from the shelf, I shut the fridge and open the back door to call Hemingway back inside. Sauntering, like he has not a care in the world, he makes his way inside, generously rubbing against my leg as he passes me.

  As I walk down the hall, I glance at pictures on the wall that have been there since Tina hung them up. I redirect my vision and guzzle more than half the can as I enter the bathroom. Starting a shower, I strip out of my clothes. No matter how many times I wash them, they still smell like smoke. I slam the rest of the beer before jumping under the water.

  I try to push Tina out of my mind, and for so long I’d been doing well, but now with her right under my nose, I don’t even know how to handle it. She walked out on me, I shouldn’t feel anything for her anymore, but the second my eyes locked with hers, I was done for and I knew it. I’m pretty sure she knew it, too.

  Running a washcloth down my chest, I stop right at my pubic bone. I can’t think of her right now. I need to think of anything else.

  Hockey. Baseball. Mrs. Crandall. Hemingway licking his balls in the other room. Tina licking my balls.

  Fuck.

  As soon as the thought enters my mind, I desperately try to push it out, but my other head is all too keen on the idea, hardening before I even touch myself. I try, I mean, I really try to not encourage these types of thoughts, but it seems the harder I try, the quicker they enter.

  The way Tina would lick the seam of my balls and peer up at me through her lashes, smiling at my approval. The way her plump lips would glide up and down my shaft. The way her tongue would snake out and lick the tiny droplet of moisture from the tip. The way she’d wipe the tears from her eyes after she’d taken me as far as she could.

  Fuck.

  Before I know it, my hand wraps around my cock and slowly begins pumping. Closing my eyes, I can all but see Tina on her knees in front of me—wet and soapy, hair matted to the side of her face as she seeks her own pleasure by giving me mine.

  “God, Christina,” I whisper, leaning my head against the cool tile, waiting for more memories to surface.

  Tina slowly standing up, letting my cock run the length of her torso, squeezing her tits around my dick until she’s upright. Slightly dipping my head and running my tongue between her lips until she opens for me, her moan echoing through the room. Spinning her around to where her back faces me and gently bending her at the waist, grabbing onto her lush hips and positioning myself.

  “Fuck, Tina,” I mutter, imagining my hand is the slick, tight wall I’m pushing into, relishing the feel of her around me, squeezing the life out of my cock.

  Behind my closed lids, I can almost see myself wrapping my hand through her drenched hair and pulling hard, but not too hard, to arch her back even further. My stroke quickens as I thrust in and out of my imaginary Christina, my other hand massaging my balls as she would have done in this exact scene.

  An intense growl leaves my throat as I begin to come, and I tighten my grip even more, mimicking the way Tina’s warm pussy would grab on to me as she found her own release. Opening my eyes, the cold realization hits me hard. In my head, I knew it was nothing more than a fantasy, but to see myself alone in a shower, still slowly pumping my own dick, anger slams down on me quickly. Fuck her for still making me feel this way.

  Rinsing my body, I step out of the shower, wrap a towel around my waist and head directly to the fridge for another beer. Maybe a shot while I’m in there. Reaching inside, I grab the remaining five beers and from the cabinet above the stove a fresh bottle of Jack that’s suddenly calling my name.

  Taking my beverages to the living room, I sit on the couch and turn on SportsCenter so I can catch up on the games I missed on shift. Cracking the top of a beer, I raise my can to the Wings who finished the series against Colorado on top. As the Budweiser settles in my stomach, it’s clear it’s not doing what I need it to do. Straight from the bottle, I take an extra large swig of whiskey, letting it burn its way down my throat, happy for the relief I almost instantly get on an empty stomach, unless you count the beer.

  After an hour of this same rinse and repeat action—four empty beer cans and a half full bottle—I think I’ll be able to fall asleep tonight. Stumbling up the stairs and up the narrow staircase, I nearly trip to my death, but recover enough to flop onto the sheets. Crawling my way up the mattress until my head hits the pillow, I stare at the ceiling for a bit. Not because I want to, but more so because every time I close my eyes, the room starts spinning.

  In my drunken state, the white plaster ceiling reminds me of the intricate lace patterns on Tina’s wedding dress, then I get this bright idea to watch the video of our wedding, just to be sure I’m not imagining things. Digging through the chest at the end of the bed, I find the DVD, pop it in and start watching, clutching the bottle of Jack that magically found its way to bed with me. That, or I forgot I carried it upstairs. I’m betting on the latter, but as I take a long pull, how it got here doesn’t matter.

  And that’s how I finally pass out—watching Tina and I share our vows, her promising to stick it out in good times and in bad. Somewhere after that and before she says “I do” I chuck the remote in the direction of the TV, fall back on the bed and pass out.

  *****

  “Conrad? Conrad!” a yelling voice drags me from my booze-induced coma.

  “What?” I grunt, pulling a pillow over my head to block out the sunlight. Wait? Sunlight? It was nearly dusk when I got home. Fuck, I must have knocked myself out good.

  “You wanna explain what the fuck happened to you? Chief’s gonna chew your ass when he sees you!” Jones’s footsteps pound their way across the room and something lands on the bed next to me. Fuck me, the pancake breakfast. It’s not a required event, per se, but I had promised to show up after being cornered by the chief on my way out last night.

  “I’m sorry, man. I must have been really tired,” I apologize, pushing off the pillow, sitting up and praying my eyes become used to the sunlight pouring through the small window above the bed. Glancing to my side, I see the remote missing the back, lying next to me.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. What’s this about?” Jones asks glaring between me and the TV.

  Apparently, when I got angry and threw the remote, I didn’t break anything, but I did manage to pause the video at the moment where my lips touched Tina’s for the first time since becoming my wife.

  “It’s nothing. Just a little wallowing.” I stare at the scr
een, hoping Tina’s face is concealed enough that he can’t recognize her. Not that I care if they know who my ex-wife is, but she specifically doesn’t want anyone in the house to know. She deserves a lot of my anger but none of their speculation.

  “I can tell. Wanna talk?” He sits in the chair across the room and looks at me like he’s expecting me to open up to him like he’s Dr. Phil or something.

  “Nope.” Pulling a shirt over my head, I reach down to the floor and slip on a pair of sweatpants before getting out of bed. Scratching my head, I walk down the stairs, not willing to entertain his line of questioning any longer.

  “You need to talk to someone,” he says, following me down the stairs where a pot of freshly brewed coffee wafts in my direction, luring me into the kitchen.

  “What are you, my mother? How about I deal with my shit the way I want, and you deal with yours. We’re done talking about this.” I’m already ready for him to leave. I’m not on shift until tomorrow night and I’d really like to spend some time alone. Is that so much to ask? It was nice for him to start the coffee for me, though. I’ll buy him lunch tomorrow or something. Maybe.

  The moment my feet hit the cool tile of the kitchen, the one brunette who’s not stepped into this house since the minute she left stares back at me, holding a mug in her hand.

  “Here. Drink up,” she says, her eyes pleading to keep her little secret. I grin, wanting to direct Jones to the frames lining the hallway that showcase our relationship from start to bitter end.