Nicky's Fire

by Nancy Fornataro

  "I'd never do that," Nick replied slowly.

  Max stepped out of the shadows, and firelight flickered on his face. Nick looked him up and down. Had they? And had this man been with Chloe?

  A puzzled frown pierced Nick's features. What kind of man had he been before? What kind of man was this other Nick? Why was he so different now than before?

  Then a thought hit him. Maybe this was why Chloe cried in the bathroom yesterday. Maybe she wanted to go back to their lifestyle of swapping. And maybe, she really did want Max.

  Nick said harshly, "She said the other night she didn't want you, Max. Told me you were coming on to her."

  Max chuckled. "Man, you really don't remember the game, do you? Chloe loves to play hard to get." his voice lowered, and he moved in closer to Nick, "she loves to struggle, and fight. She told me it's the only way she can get off, man." Then, he casually shrugged, and looked at Nick blandly. "Some women are like that, they like it rough." And, he grinned.

  For some reason, Nick wanted to punch the smirking face in front of him, break the nose, blacken the eyes. But this was Max. The man probably was telling him the truth. After all, Nick had remembered this man, after his accident, where Chloe had been like a stranger to him. Perhaps she really was the type of woman Max said she was. Maybe he should just resign himself to it.

  Max, still grinning, moved past Nick, and strolled over to where the speakers stood.

  A few minutes later, as Nick stood brooding, Tiny lumbered up. "What's happenin' Action?"

  Staring at Chloe, who now sat by herself gazing into the fire, Nick replied, "Tiny, before, did I ever talk about Chloe?"

  "Sure, man. All the time."

  "Did I ever mention the trip to Mexico? What we did down there?"

  The man looked thoughtful. "Well, not really. But one time, you had this shit-kickin' grin on your face. You ain't no talker, Nick. I dunno what you guys did down there."

  Nick nodded, and strolled over to where Chloe sat. "Come with me," he said roughly.

  But she wouldn't look up at him. "No," she said softly.

  Grabbing her arm, he pulled her up. "I said, come with me."

  Struggling now, trying to pry his hand off, she said, "No! Leave me alone, Nick!"

  He dragged her down a trail, far from the noise of the bikers, and far from the spitting campfire. Sounds of the night folded around them; the soft rustle of bushes, dirt crunching under their feet, a far—away coyote howling.

  Stopping by a large tree, he thrust her against it, so her back was towards him. Holding her hands on the rough bark, he moved close to her. "Tell me about Mexico, Chloe," he whispered.

  He felt her stiffen, and she stopped struggling. "What about Mexico?"

  Thrusting himself against her now, enjoying the feel of her curving backside, he replied softly, "What did we do down there, Chloe? Mmmm? Did you like it?"

  She nodded, then gasped, as he kissed her neck. "Yes, I liked it, Nick."

  "We'll do it again, Chloe," he whispered against her ear. She nodded weakly, but he knew he never could. He couldn't share her again, with anyone, regardless of what the other Nick had done.

  Loosening his grip, he pulled his pants down with one hand, and thrust his hardness between her legs. As his hand caressed her breast, he said, "Feel me, Chloe."

  Her free hand came down and gently felt the tip of his shaft.

  "That's yours," he whispered heatedly, "that's all yours, Chloe. Do you want it?"

  She nodded.

  "How do you want it, Chloe?" he asked sharply, "Like in Mexico?"

  She moaned, "Yes," and he let her other hand loose. She fumbled with her pants, finally sliding them down to her knees.

  Grabbing her wrists again, he raised them, and slapped them against the tree. Pushing against her, he paused at her entrance. "Is this how you want it?" he asked softly.

  Her head fell back against his shoulder, and she murmured something he couldn't hear.

  Plunging into her, he thrust hard, harder, and she cried out. He surged, and then felt her smooth warmth tighten around him. Unable to control himself, he ground into her, savagely, taking what was his.

  "No more," he said, now thinking of Max with Chloe, "you're mine."

  He thrust one last time, spilling his seed into her, releasing his aching desire.

  Breathing hard, he released her hands, and pulled himself from her. She remained against the tree, her body shaking, her breaths ragged.

  As he zipped his pants, her hands came down slowly to her sides. Shakily, she bent down and fastened her own jeans around her waist again. Still not looking at him, with her back to him, she said softly, "I still love you, Nick."

  Then, he saw her body shake with sobs, and her hands came up to her face.

  Turning her towards him, he was puzzled, as he looked down at her. What did this woman want? And, whatever it was, could he ever give it to her? She hadn't enjoyed this, not rough. And his mistrust of Max grew.

  Folding her in an embrace, he looked up at the star-speckled sky. Sounds of a guitar filtered through the night.

  "I still love you too, Chloe," he whispered, as she continued sobbing in his arms.

  Chapter Eighteen

  People poured into the camp spot by the truckload, as Derick began tuning up his loaner guitar. He realized the thing was ancient, but it still had a good sound. And he thought it would be nice to play outdoors. He tested the microphone, and it squealed in protest.

  The evening was mild, balmy, and he spotted a half-moon, creeping up over the mountain-top, as he plucked at the strings. And he glanced up to see Ellen observing him from a distance. She sat on the tailgate of a truck, and an obviously enamored biker sat next to her, recklessly flirting, while she rolled her eyes and laughed.

  Derick frowned, and a spasm of jealousy seized him. How, he wondered, could he ask Ellen not to be jealous? He felt it himself whenever he saw her with another man.

  He'd sensed it creeping up on him all day. The men at this campout outnumbered the women three to one, and he'd seen more than a few men check her out. Yes, she was fine.

  "You're fine," he purred into the microphone, "and you're mine, Ellen."

  She grinned, but also appeared embarrassed, as people turned to look at her. And he thought the flush that often crept up her face was endearing. She was so damn cute. Compact and cute.

  "Come closer, sweetheart," he said, rolling his tongue around his lips, "I need inspiration before I can sing."

  "Hey!" one of the bikers yelled, "So do I! Yeah, I can sing too. I got a good voice."

  A loud chorus of boos chimed out.

  "Well," Derick drawled, "you people don't get any music until my baby comes up front here."

  "I'll get her!" another drunken, burly biker yelled. To the cheers of the growing crowd, the man picked up Ellen, threw her over his shoulder, and proceeded unsteadily towards Derick.

  "Hey," Derick said, as he smiled at her yells of protest, "don't drop her, now. That's precious cargo, dude."

  "Yeah!" another person yelled.

  The man deposited Ellen on her feet, in front of Derick, and she glared at the biker angrily. "Butthead!" she spat.

  "Nah!" someone yelled, "He's an asshole, you got the wrong end!"

  "Sweetheart," Derick crooned into the microphone, "this song's for you."

  And, grinning at her flushed face, he began.

  Ellen looked at Derick and smiled, as she heard the slow, Zeppelin song begin.

  "You know you shook me," he sang, "you shook me all night looong..."

  Memories of their night in the pool came back to her in a rush. Did he have trouble sleeping that night too? And as the blues song continued, his arduous looks couldn't be denied. He sang to her, and only her. Glancing around, Ellen saw other women staring at her enviously.

  Yes, this man was hot. And not just his singing, either, she realized, as the sensual song continued.

  Derick was bare-chested still, in jeans and bare feet, bu
t his look was erotic, almost primitive, with his long, flowing hair, and his muscles gleaming in the firelight.

  Guitar sounds bounced and echoed off the canyon walls, as he wailed, "I got a bird that whistles, I got a bird that sings..."

  He made the song live, and he was vibrant, an energetic masterpiece of a man, as he strummed, and bent backwards, singing to the sky. His body was powerful, compelling, and she thought her secretary was right. She did want to get up there and hump him, and she wasn't sure if he was sexier singing, or in the pool. Either way, he sorely tempted her.

  As the song neared the end, his half-closed, languid eyes raked over her, creating a spreading warmth through her body, as he sang, "You shook me aaaall...niiiight," he paused, and someone in the audience hooted, "looooong." And with a few casual notes plucked on the guitar, he was done.

  The bikers went wild, clapping, hooting and stomping, spraying beer everywhere.

  And, more people arrived. She was suddenly jostled back by the crowd, and Ellen looked around nervously, wondering if there would be trouble. A biker was already shoving one of the clean-cut newcomers, and she knew some of the men were roaring drunk.

  Then she heard a slow laugh come through the microphone. "Yeah," Derick drawled, "you shook me, Ellen." And he laughed softly again, as he idly plunked a few notes.

  Watching her intensely, he ran his tongue around his lips and laughed softly again.

  Someone hooted, then another person yelled, and the sound echoed in the distance.

  "Now," he said, as the microphone squealed, "I'm going to sing 'Cara,' because she likes it. Ellen likes it, and I like Ellen."

  After a few introductory chords, he wailed, "Cara... you are my only love..." As he continued singing, she felt her emotions stir at the haunted quality of the love song, and the intensity of his voice. Had he really known a woman named Cara? Or was he acting now?

  As the song ended, a few minutes later, she heard a woman scream loudly behind her. Whirling around, she searched through the throng of people milling about, but she couldn't see anything.

  Anxiously glancing back at Derick, then to the crowd again, she heard him say, "None of that now or I'll stop playing. The first hint of rough stuff, and I'm done. Ellen's getting nervous. You guys behave."

  Hearing hoots and laughter, she turned again to watch him play, as she tried to ignore her growing apprehension.

  But now, Derick started thumping out hard rock songs, one after the other. She watched him jump and move, as if he really was in concert. Sweat poured down his face, down his bare chest, and his hair flew around him wildly.

  Ellen was stunned at his performance. He was magically, powerfully alive, one with the music. It was hard, sexual, seductive music, brutal, wild...almost feral. Derick's music. Derick's life.

  A bright light hit him, as he played a song, and Ellen realized news crews had arrived, and were filming the event. And Derick seemed unaware of anything but his music, as he continued playing. Unaware of the restless crowd, unaware of the bright lights, he remained immersed in the music he produced from his soul.

  But then, shots were fired, and people started running, shouting, and she panicked and started towards Derick, her heart thumping wildly in her chest. But something struck her hard on the head and she reeled with the impact of it, as she heard glass shattering. Reaching up to her forehead, she felt a sticky wetness, and she realized it was blood. She was bleeding. More gunshots sounded in the distance.

  Derick's guitar twanged, as he dropped it, and ran to her.

  "Ellen!" he yelled, over the din of people screaming and fighting. When he reached her, he grabbed her around the shoulders, and guided her to the back of one of the large speakers. Lifting a towel off the top of it, he pressed it against her forehead.

  "We need to get you to a hospital," he said breathlessly, as a grim look spread across his face. "This is crazy. I never thought anything like this would happen."

  "The truck." she replied, trying to wipe the blood out of one eye, trying to stay on her feet, trying to remember where she'd seen Limpy last. But she swayed, and Derick caught her, picking her up easily in his arms.

  "Christ!" he muttered, as motorcycles began tearing through the dirt, and the sounds of a riot erupting sliced through the night air. More bottles smashed, then exploded in the campfire. Women screamed, and as the other speaker fell over, Derick pulled back further into the darkness.

  But then, a nice-looking, blond teenage boy ran up to them. "You need a ride or something?" he said, looking at Derick with admiration. "I just got here. Missed the whole thing. My truck's at the end over there. Anything I can do..." his voice trailed off as he saw Ellen bleeding profusely.

  "Yeah, thanks, man," Derick replied gratefully, "I'd appreciate it. We don't have a car here."

  Carrying her quickly around the throng of people, seemingly unnoticed, he placed her tenderly in the cab of the man's truck. But then, before he climbed in, she saw him hesitate, and look back towards the riot.

  "I wonder where Nick is?" he said, frowning, as he sat beside her, still holding the cloth in place on her head.

  "And Chloe," she breathed, "oh my God, Derick! We have to go back."

  "Listen," he said, as he applied pressure to her cut, "they're on their own. Nick can handle himself. You saw him today." Then, to the teen, he said, "Is there a hospital near here?"'

  "Yeah, no problem, be there in twenty minutes," the teen replied, as he started the truck and sped down the dirt road.

  Ellen was bleeding badly. It seemed as if most of her blood now covered the front of her shirt, Derick, and the man's truck seat. She grew queasy at the sight of it.

  "Your truck," she said weakly, "I'm ruining your upholstery. I'm sorry."

  "Who gives a shit?" the teen replied, grinning, "It's worth it to give Derick Sands a ride to town."

  "You're going to be all right, sweetheart," Derick said, with a worried voice, as he continued the pressure on her head.

  "Must have really hit me," she said groggily.

  "I don't know, I didn't see it. If I'd have seen it coming, maybe I could have warned you."

  "Happened so fast," she whispered.

  "Don't talk," he said, as he kissed her hair. "It's over now. You're safe."

  When they reached the hospital, Derick lifted her easily, and carried her in. "We need help!" he shouted.

  Nurses scurried over, and showed him where to put Ellen, in an exam room.

  "You better prepare this place," Derick said to the nurse, "there's a riot at Red Rock."

  She rolled her eyes, and replied, "God, okay, I'll get the doctor. Keep the pressure on that cut."

  Ellen felt Derick's firm hand on the towel, pressing, and she closed her eyes. "I feel weak, sort of shaky," she said softly.

  "You've lost a lot of blood," he said quietly, "I've never seen so much. You know, you must be a healthy woman to have all this bright, red stuff in you."

  She smiled weakly. But she knew, for some reason, right now, she had to tell him.

  "Derick," she said softly, as she opened her eyes, "I have to...I'm with the D.E.A., and so are Nick and Chloe. The bikers are smuggling a designer drug in from Mexico. That's why I had to bring you here. We were desperate. Nick's in a lot of danger, Derick. You don't know."

  Smiling, he replied calmly, "I know, Ellen. I just didn't want to press the issue. I think I've known since day one of this thing."

  "But how."

  He sighed. "Nick was always anti-drugs. He had a cousin who was killed in a car wreck by a guy doped up on pills and alcohol. That's how I knew. But I still think he can handle himself. I know Brick. He's a fighter, and when his memory does come back, he'll nail those assholes."

  She smiled weakly then a woman doctor entered.

  "Well," the small, red-head said, "this looks nasty. What have we got?" She lifted the towel, and Ellen winced.

  "Head injury from a bottle," Derick said blandly.

  The doctor observed him
suspiciously. "Who's bottle?"

  "Not mine, doc," he said, chuckling, "I'm no drinker."

  "Okay, let me get my suture kit."

  "Your Frankenstein kit, you mean?" Derick asked, with a straight face.

  Shaking her head, she said, "I'll be back in a few. Oh," she looked down at Ellen, "don't worry honey, I can't imagine you ever looking like Frankenstein. It's a large cut, but with my expert stitching, it shouldn't even show. If it does, you can have plastic surgery later on. No problem." And she left.

  Ellen smiled wanly, "Great." Then she looked up at Derick, who held her hand now. "You need some soap and water," she said softly.

  He raised his eyebrows, then looked down at his blood—spattered chest. "Yeah, I guess so." Then his warm, brown eyes found hers, and he added softly, "Maybe you can help me scrub down."

  She smiled. "I think the expression is scrub up. Which of your areas need attention?"

  "All of them," he breathed, as his look became more intense. Then he smiled. "I can't wait 'til you service me, Ellen. I want the full treatment, too. No excuses."

  While a nurse came in and cleaned Ellen's gash, he strolled over to the sink, and washed off his chest and face.

  When the doctor returned, Derick said, "I'll have to rent a car, so we can get back to Calabasas. Is there a pay phone around here? I lost my cell somewhere."

  Ellen winced, as the doctor began a series of numbing shots in her forehead.

  "Listen," the doctor said, as she worked, "I've got a male orderly out there who's quite a fan of yours, Mr. Sands. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to drive you home. He gets off in half an hour."

  Derick grinned down at Ellen, and her eyes were filling with tears now, from the shots. "And you think you've got connections," he said, as he squeezed her hand.

  Looking into his eyes, trying to ignore the pulling sensation as the doctor tugged the sutures; she saw a new depth in his gaze she'd never seen before. And she didn't know whether it was the situation they were in, or just the fact that she'd opened up to him about the D.E.A.. In any case, she thought he must be the only man in the world who could make a woman almost forget her face was being sewn up.