Crazy, Hot Love

by K. L. Grayson

  A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Maybe I should bake cookies and take them to Trevor.

  “Where’s my grandpup?” Mom asks, looking around at our feet.

  “Oh, um, she’s still outside.” I turn around and whistle. “Come on, Milo. Do your business already.”

  Milo doesn’t pay me any attention. She simply walks in circles, sniffing the ground.

  “I don’t know what she’s looking for: the dog can’t see.”

  Mom laughs, and about that time Milo drops a load, kicks at the grass with her hind legs, and darts toward the porch—except she forgets she’s blind and runs face first into the base of the step.

  I can’t help it, I laugh. One of these days she’ll learn that she has to use her other senses to find her way around. I walk down the steps, scoop her up, and go back into the house, shutting the door behind me.

  I’ve only had Milo for a couple of weeks, but I’m learning so much about her and how she maneuvers through her world as a blind dog. And what I’m learning is she doesn’t do it well. Her biggest tool is her nose, which she’s using now.

  Milo juts her snout into the air, and I know she’s familiar and comfortable with her surroundings when she starts to squirm. I let her down, and she sniffs her way to Mom.

  “Yeah, you know who your grandma is, don’t you?” Mom lifts Milo up and walks into the kitchen. “Do you want a treat? I bought some just for you.”

  Milo barks and then barks again, showing her approval.

  “She’s already had two treats.”

  Mom shakes her head. “This dog is the closest thing I’ve got to a grandchild, and until you settle down and decide to pop out kids, don’t tell me I can’t spoil her.”

  “Fine.” I roll my eyes. “You just had to throw that in there, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not getting any younger, Claire Daniels, and neither are you.” She grabs a treat from the bowl in her cabinet.

  Mom went a little crazy when she found out I’d adopted Milo. Turns out she always wanted a dog; it was Dad who didn’t. I asked her why we never got one after his death, but she said it was hard enough managing me. She couldn’t imagine throwing a dog into the mix.

  “Don’t rush me, Mother. Mo is bad enough. The last thing I need is you on my case too.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She feeds Milo the treat and turns to me. “I’m not rushing you. It would just be nice to see my only child settle down.”

  “I am settled down. I have my own home, a great career, and a dog. It could be worse; I could be whoring myself around town, sleeping with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who looked my way.”

  “Okay, smartass,” she quips. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do, and I promise that if and when I find a good man, you’ll be the first to know.”

  I don’t bother telling her that I think I’ve already found him, because I don’t want to get her hopes up—or my hopes, for that matter. I still have to find a way to snag him. And by him, I mean Trevor.

  It’s been three weeks since our heated kiss, and I’ve thought about him every second of every day. I’ve thought about the touch of his skin against mine, his soft lips, and the way he held me as if I was the most precious thing in the world. I’ve never felt so alive and wanted, and it’s made me think long and hard about what I’d begun to realize about my rules even before my disaster of a date with Joseph. I’ve bubble-wrapped the passion right out of my relationships. Of course I need to be careful and responsible, but maybe relaxing my stringent standards a bit would be worth it if it meant getting to experience what I felt in that bathroom with Trevor again.

  That thought alone makes my heart race and my palms sweat, but it no longer gives me the urge to throw up. I’m left wondering if those sensations are of anticipation rather than dread.

  There’s only one way to find out.

  The only problem? I haven’t seen Trevor to tell him, and it hasn’t been for lack of trying. I’ve done all the things I normally do, including dinner at Dirty Dicks with Mo and Rhett, and I even had an impromptu girl’s night out with Mo, Tess, and Trevor’s sister, Adley, hoping I’d catch a glimpse of him at the bar. But he was nowhere to be seen either time.

  I could pick up the phone and call him, but what would I say? Hey, remember that kiss we shared? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Wanna do it again?

  “You better get going or you’re going to be late.”

  I look down at my watch. Crap. “I have three classes tonight, and the last one gets over at eight, so I should be back here to pick up Milo by eight fifteen.”

  Milo is spoiled rotten, and I learned the hard way that when I come home from work, she expects me to stay there and pamper her. And by the hard way I mean she destroyed my favorite heels and we went three days without speaking to each other. Needless to say, from now on, when I volunteer in the evenings, she comes to Mom and Phil’s, who don’t seem to mind one bit.

  “Okay, sweetie, go do your thing.”

  I kiss Mom on the cheek, then Milo, and I slip out the door.

  10

  Claire

  “Tara, keep your eyes on your own paper.”

  “Yes, Ms. Daniels.” She bites her bottom lip and drops her eyes to the worksheet in front of her.

  “Ms. Daniels, can I use the restroom?”

  “Me too.”

  I look at the identical little faces. Troy and Marcus have light blond hair, pale green eyes, and porcelain skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they were angels. But they’re not, which is why they spend two hours a week here with me. If any of the kids in my class are going to move their clip down for talking, it’s these two.

  “I don’t know, can you?”

  Marcus smiles and tries again. “May we use the restroom?”

  Troy shifts around in his seat, crossing his legs. If I don’t give them an answer, I’ll be stuck cleaning up the mess.

  “Troy, you go first and then Marcus can go.”

  Troy jumps from his seat while Marcus’ eyes grow wide. “I can’t hold it,” he whines.

  I sigh. “Fine. Both of you go. Be quick, don’t play, and wash your hands when you’re done.”

  You’d think first graders wouldn’t need detailed instructions on using the bathroom, but you’d be surprised.

  The twins scurry off. I peek my head out the door and watch each of them walk into the bathroom before I pull the door shut and allow my gaze to travel across the classroom. Although it’s not really a classroom—not like the one I’m used to.

  During the day I teach first grade at Heaven Elementary School, and on Wednesday nights I volunteer here. Bright Start Learning Center is in an old home that’s been refurbished into a tutoring facility. The number of kids I tutor varies based on child need, but I have a consistent group of ten, all of whom are present tonight. They range from first grade to third and come from both the public and private school, and three of them, the twins included, are also in my regular first grade class.

  Laughter drifts through the thin walls, drawing the attention of Josephine and Tara. I clear my throat, and both girls look at me before shifting their eyes to their papers. The house is small, with six different rooms, each filled with anywhere from five to ten kids. On some nights, with kids being kids, it gets a little loud in here.

  Cecelia raises her hand, and I make my way across the room to kneel next to her desk.

  “Can you help me with this?” she asks.

  I spend the next several minutes showing her how to regroup numbers. When we’re done, I look for the twins, but they’re still not back.

  “Class, keep working. I’m going to check on Marcus and Troy.”

  I’m three steps from the door when the fire alarms start blaring.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  The kids cover their ears against the shrill sound. A few of them jump from their seats, but I hold up a hand.

  “Stay in your seats. I’m sure it’s a false alar
m.” Wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

  The junior high kids are the worst. At least once a month one of them gets the wild idea to pull the fire alarm in hopes of going home early. Unfortunately, it usually works. By the time everyone evacuates the building and the local fire department sweeps the house, it’s usually time to leave.

  Normally it doesn’t take long for the teacher of the offending kid to figure out what happened and shut the alarm off, but tonight that isn’t the case. I stride across the classroom and yank open the door to find out what’s going on, and that’s when I catch the faint smell of smoke.

  Kids are running through the building—a few of them crying, others covering their mouths with their hands—and that’s when I realize this isn’t a false alarm.

  One of the other teachers comes barreling down the hall yelling, “Fire! Fire! Everyone out!”

  Shit.

  I spin around. “Leave your bags. We need to get out of here,” I say as calmly as I can.

  But it’s too late, my kids are scrambling toward the door, knocking Tara over in the process.

  “Slow down,” I holler, rushing after them. I lift Tara into my arms and race after the kids. The smell of smoke is getting stronger, and a few of the kids are coughing. We make it to the closest exit, which happens to be the back door. Sirens bellow through the air, alerting us that help is on the way.

  Setting Tara on her feet, I usher her out the door, along with the other students.

  It’s chaotic to say the least, with kids running around screaming and a few of them pulling out their cell phones while the teachers struggle to keep everyone in one area.

  “Ethan, get over here!” I yell, moving my group away from the building. I snag his wrist before he can run off, and then I scan the group to make sure all of my kids are present.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

  Eight.

  Shit.

  I count again, this time looking at faces rather than counting heads.

  Christopher. Ethan. Josephine. Tara. Eleanor. Cecelia. Ava. Phillip. Drew.

  Eight.

  Shit. Troy and Marcus!

  “I need you guys to stay here, okay?” Their little heads nod while I reach for the arm of one of the high school students. “Stay with this group. There are eight. Don’t let them out of your sight. Got it?”

  Before she can answer, I’m running through the yard, scanning the crowd in hopes that the boys ran out when they heard the alarm. My eyes sweep left to right, and when I don’t immediately find them, panic sets in.

  My heart pounds violently in my chest as I look at the house. I don’t see flames, but smoke rolls from a few of the windows, and my adrenaline kicks in as I dash toward the door.

  I can’t leave the boys in there.

  Please be okay.

  Please be okay.

  I chant those three words as I run through the back door, the same way we came out, and down the hall past my classroom. When I round the corner, I’m hit with a wall of smoke so thick it pulls me to my knees.

  Jesus, how did it get this bad so fast?

  For a split second I’m rendered helpless, and then, as if he’s here with me, I hear my dad’s voice in my head.

  Cover your mouth.

  Drop to the floor.

  Get out.

  Coughing, I lift the bottom of my shirt over my mouth and lower myself to the ground. The sound of the boys screaming powers me forward. I expect to hear my dad’s voice yelling at me to turn around, to save myself, but I’m met with the distant sound of a fire roaring and another ear-piercing shriek.

  With my belly on the floor, I crawl to the bathroom, kick the door open with my feet, and then I see them. Troy and Marcus are huddled in the corner beneath one of the sinks. The brothers are holding onto each other for dear life, and when they see me, Troy bursts into tears.

  A billow of smoke follows me in, and I quickly kick the door shut, grateful that smoke hasn’t saturated the small room. I take a deep breath as I scurry across the floor and fall to my knees in front of the boys.

  Troy reaches for me first, locking his arms around my neck. “Are we gonna die?” he cries.

  “No, sweetie, we’re not gonna die, but I do need to get the two of you out of here. I need you both to be really brave for me, okay?”

  Marcus nods.

  Troy’s grip tightens.

  I pry his arms off of me. Tugging my sweater over my head, I hand it to Marcus and then peel my shirt off and hand it to Troy, grateful that I still have on a camisole. It’s usually nice in Texas in early spring, but the evenings can get cool—and so can this old building—which is why I dress in layers.

  “Hold these over your mouths. Stay as close to the floor as you can get. We’re going to get out of here.”

  Eyes wide, Troy frantically shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m scared.”

  “I know you are, but we’re going to be okay. I promise I will get you out of here.”

  My father was the best damn firefighter in the county. When I was young, he taught me all the basic knowledge someone would need to survive a fire—although running back into a smoldering building would’ve been a huge no-no. Each one of those warnings and instructions—not to mention my perpetual desire to make him proud—rages through my head as I look at the door handle. It doesn’t look hot, but that doesn’t mean shit, and the door only swings one way: in. I borrow the sweater I gave Marcus, wrap it around my hand and open the door.

  A lick of fire darts in front of me, and I reel back, pulling the boys with me as the door slams shut.

  “What do we do?” Marcus asks, scooting close to his brother. His wide eyes watch me as he covers his mouth and begins to cough.

  Smoke starts to seep under the door, and all I know is we’ve run out of time. I need to get these kids out of here, but it isn’t safe. The fire has clearly spread, and I can’t risk our lives by going out there. Our only hope now is that the fire department does a sweep and gets to us before the flames do.

  “Boys, I want you to sit together in that back corner,” I say, pointing toward the opposite side of the room.

  I shove my sweater under the faucet, drenching it in water until it’s heavy and saturated. Rolling it up, I stuff it in the small crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. That won’t do much, but it might buy us a few minutes of cleaner air, and right now those few minutes might mean the difference between life and death.

  11

  Trevor

  “Shit,” I hiss under my breath when we roll up on scene. “This doesn’t look good.”

  We got the call for a first-alarm fire less than ten minutes ago. We’ve been called to this address several times—three times this year already—and it’s always a false alarm. Usually some punk who thought it would be funny to pull the alarm. But not tonight. Tonight there are flames shooting out the windows, and I’m instantly on high alert when I see a number of kids huddled around crying. My crew piles out of the three trucks while Chief doles out orders.

  I’m wrapping blankets around a group of kids while other members of my crew prepare to fight the fire when I hear the chief ask someone if everyone made it out. Pushing to my feet, I turn toward him. He’s talking with a young woman who can’t be but a couple of years older than me.

  “I…I think so,” she stammers, looking around. “Some of the classes came out the back door, so maybe check back there to be sure.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Chief gives me the nod, and I weave my way through the young bodies toward the back of the house. Kids are milling around, crying. Maybe fifty or sixty of them, if I had to guess. They’re all lucky they got out when they did, because this fire is raging, and the scene in front of me could’ve been much, much worse.

  I find the first adult, a middle-aged man. There’s a phone pressed to his ear, but he hands it off to one of his students when I approach.

  “Are all of your kids acco
unted for?”

  “Yeah,” he sighs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “All of my kids made it out.”

  “Great.” I clap a hand to his shoulder before I turn to check the next group of kids.

  “Wait!”

  I turn to the right. A young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, is standing next to a group of kids. She shakes her head frantically, tears streaming down her face.

  “Their teacher,” she cries, motioning toward the group of kids huddled around her. “She went back in.”

  I close the distance between us. Everyone is running on high emotions, so I speak in a clear, steady voice. “Who is the teacher?”

  “Claire Daniels,” a little blonde girl says, looking up at me.

  Shit!

  My heart races in my chest as I squat down in front of the little girl. I put myself at her eye level and do my best to stay calm, though everything inside of me is screaming to run into that damn building and save Claire.

  “Do you know why she went back in?” Claire is a smart girl—level headed—and there’s no way she’d run into a burning building unless she felt she had a damn good reason, not after what happened to her father.

  Her tiny head bobs. “Because she only counted eight of us, and there should’ve been ten.”