Hot Stuff

by Kim Karr

  Lost for words, I got to my feet and strode past him to look out the window. The threesome had gotten out of control. She and I were spending more and more time together, and Ethan less. It was fucked up and messy, but I knew he had never seen it that way. The guilt had stayed with me, though.

  I looked over my shoulder. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

  His response was immediate. There was no hesitation that time. “Fiona wants to know what it is like, and I want to give her that. I want to make her happy. Make us both happy.”

  Christ. Was he for real? Here I thought he had changed so much since college, but it didn’t look like he had. I shot him a glance. “No fucking way.”

  Ethan strode over and stood beside me, arms crossed. “Why not?”

  I turned toward him. “Because Fiona is your wife.”

  Those eyes of his narrowed. “And she was my girlfriend. That didn’t stop you back then.”

  Chaos swarmed me. I gulped for air. We hadn’t talked about her since everything ended. “Ethan, come on, man, you know this is different.”

  “Yeah, I do. This time it’s all on me. And this time there won’t be any going behind my back.”

  I stared at him. The son of bitch knew. He actually knew. That same old guilt hit me hard. And yet I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I shook my head, no.

  His gaze narrowed. “You owe me this, man,” he said quietly.

  I stopped shaking my head.

  “And besides,” he went on, “it’s not like you won’t be getting something out of it, your wrist must be getting tired.” That last part he said with a snicker.

  “Fuck you,” I spat back.

  That was the same as saying yes about Fiona.

  PRESENT DAY

  Jace Bennett

  FUCKING CHICAGO TRAFFIC.

  I really hated it.

  Finally, I moved past the jam, and when I did, I floored the gas.

  Joining Ethan and Fiona for those three months had satisfied a basic sexual need, but at the same time, the situation made me feel even emptier.

  I knew it was wrong.

  I would never have allowed another man to touch my wife. Shit, I really had changed. Don’t get me wrong, I got why Ethan had done it, still it had to be hard.

  And I hated that.

  Even though Fiona and I never fucked, we did everything else, and this time I made certain Ethan was always with us. We shared her, gave her everything she wanted, made her feel like a queen.

  Eventually I couldn’t do it anymore. Things had to end. And then the perfect out came along. I let Fiona think she was setting me up with a teacher from The Preston School, and the threesome ended.

  The truth was, I wanted it to end. The whole thing made me feel more alone than I actually was when I was alone. And as for the teacher, I took her out once and brought her back to her house, where I explained to her that I was not ready to move on. I never called her again.

  Fiona and I acted like everything was the way it had been before, and I think in her mind it was. For me though, I felt like the more I leaned on her, the more I shouldn’t.

  False vibes.

  Guilt.

  I still had no idea why.

  Then again my psyche had been fucked up since I was ten.

  I passed the exit for Washington Boulevard, the one I would have taken if I were going home, and continued north to confront the parent or maybe parents of the child who had made my daughter cry.

  The closer I got, the more I started to second-guess my decision. Maybe I should take it up with the school, or the teacher first? Maybe I should go through the email process like Fiona would tell me to do?

  Fuck that.

  What if Scarlett came home tomorrow crying again, then I’d want to punch myself in the face for not addressing the issue head on. She’d already lost so much in her life, I couldn’t bear for her to hurt over anything, especially when it was something I could control.

  That was when I turned up the music and turned off my thoughts.

  Ten minutes later I was pulling up in front of a rather large yellow two-story house with a front porch and stone pillars. It had a charm about it I couldn’t shake. It was also in desperate need of some yard maintenance. The grass was about four inches too high and the bushes completely overgrown. The driveway led to a standalone garage in the back, and it too had weeds growing from the cracks of the concrete.

  The SOLD sign told the story.

  I didn’t know or care what that story was.

  On the front porch were a number of kids’ toys. A bicycle, a Nerf football, and a pair of roller skates that looked well used. Jonah’s I assumed. The kid suddenly became real, and I considered driving right past the house.

  He was only a kid.

  Yeah, a kid who made my daughter cry.

  I didn’t leave.

  Instead, I parked my BMW on the street and opened the car door. With each step I took toward the newly painted porch stairs, I inhaled a deep breath. I could be reasonable and respectful. I wouldn’t accuse, I’d simply inform. The parent or parents could then address the issue with the child.

  That sounded like the most mature approach. I felt a little proud of myself that I had calmed down and wasn’t gunning for the jugular.

  The bottom line was, I’d want to know if my daughter had made someone cry on his or her first day of school.

  When I reached the front door, it was open, and the only barrier was the flimsy screen door that if I had to guess, wasn’t locked. I could hear the Clash playing from inside, and I had to force myself not to smile. Another punk rock enthusiast. Interesting. I didn’t come across them very often.

  Standing there, I glanced inside. There were boxes everywhere. Moving in or out, I hadn’t a clue. Didn’t really care.

  Ringing the doorbell, I waited patiently and didn’t pound on door the way I had envisioned myself doing.

  The sun was shining in the direction of the door, and it was hard to see, but I could make out the shape of a woman as she came into view through the mesh. She had a large book in her hands and her face was down as if in deep concentration.

  Everything started to change the closer she got to me. First there was the unmistakable smell of lavender, a scent that made my nostrils flare in excitement, and then I saw the familiar shape of her eyes, her lips, her nose, and even the slender curve of her shoulders.

  What happened next was like one of those slow motion movies.

  I stumbled back with a jolt and thought . . . no way.

  The woman with blonde hair that hung straight at least halfway down her back struggled to open the door, and only once she did, did she raise her gaze. “Can I help—?”

  Out of nowhere, pure adrenaline raced through my veins. A thrill. An excitement I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I opened my mouth to speak, but shut it.

  She didn’t finish her sentence either. Instead, she set the book down on the table beside the door. The haphazard way she released it caused it to fall and land on the floor with a clang. The spine read, “Web Design.”

  That wasn’t what drew my attention, though. Rather, I found myself staring at the unusual pale blue color of her eyes. The color of a hot summer’s day and cool spring night. A color I’d only ever seen once before. But no, it couldn’t be—could it?

  The silence drew out. I was dimly aware of her wiping one of her hands on her jeans, but nothing else. There was a reason I was there. A wrong to right. But unable to look away from her wide, startled eyes and her half-open mouth, I couldn’t seem to recall what exactly it was.

  I took off my sunglasses to get a closer look. From the angle she was standing at, I could see the curve of her ass, the shape of her tits, the plane of her stomach, and I knew, I knew for certain that this was her.

  This was Hannah.

  H. Crestfall was Hannah Michaels.

  The first girl I ever loved . . . and the one who broke me even more than I already had been before I met her.
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br />   “Hannah,” I said at the same time she said, “Jace.”

  I nodded.

  She nodded.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in a voice that trembled.

  Right.

  I was there for a reason, and it wasn’t to go down fucking memory lane, and it certainly wasn’t to relive the pain she caused me.

  Still trying to brush off the shock, I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Do you have a son named Jonah?” I asked, my voice slightly uneven.

  She nodded and pushed her silky blonde hair behind her ear. It was a nervous twitch I knew so well.

  “Does he attend The Preston School?” I asked to be one hundred percent certain.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, he does. Why are you asking?”

  There was no invite inside, and it was for the best. I’d regained my balance by now and went for the jugular. “He’s in my daughter’s class, and today he said something to her that made her cry.” This time I kept my voice even, calm.

  Her narrowed gaze raked over me in an accessing manner that told me she didn’t appreciate me being at her front door. “What is it you think he said to her?”

  I ignored the sarcasm that dripped from her voice, and remained calm. “He told her that her hair looked like she’d plugged herself into a light socket, or something along those lines. I thought you might want to know that he was bullying someone.”

  “Jonah has the sweetest disposition, and I doubt he would ever say anything like that.”

  “Are you calling my daughter a liar?” I asked.

  The physical trembling was hard to ignore, but I found it even harder not to notice the step she took closer to me. “Are you calling my son a bully?”

  That wasn’t my intention, but she was pushing my buttons. Without realizing it, I puffed my chest out. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”

  Her eyes, those blue eyes, blazed, and she put her hands on her hips. “Still the same old big shot, huh, Jace. Think the world revolves around you.”

  A white-hot fury rose up from somewhere deep within me from a place I had buried it long ago. Once it did, I couldn’t stop it, or my reaction to her words. “Screw you, Hannah,” I bit out, and turned to stomp down the stairs.

  “Jace,” she yelled.

  Every hurt I ever felt from that day so long ago came back to me, and I had to ignore her. Unable to fight my emotions, I tuned out whatever else she was trying to say to me. I didn’t want to hear it. I knew I had come here about our kids. I also knew this wasn’t about us. But as soon as she called me a big shot—that’s what it became.

  I tried to take a deep breath as I stormed toward my car with my words echoing in my head.

  Screw you.

  Two words I had wanted to say to her all those years ago and never did.

  Screw you.

  It wasn’t the right time, or the right context. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I really felt that animosity any longer.

  But I didn’t give a fuck.

  Screw you.

  She had it coming.

  Available Now

  A LOOK INTO NO PANTS REQUIRED

  Makayla

  JUST THE MERE SUGGESTION OF karaoke gets everyone’s heart pounding. Whether it’s out of excitement or pure, blind panic depends on the individual and that person’s frame of mind at the time.

  The truth is that most people sing karaoke for the same reasons they go bowling—it’s a fun activity and they can drink while doing it.

  With that being said, perhaps some of the people that are here can get up and confidently belt out their most favorite song in the world with no concern for the eardrums they are perforating or the notes they are destroying. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people.

  To be honest, I can’t believe I even agreed to do this.

  Then again, Bar On is not where I thought I’d find myself tonight. This Chinatown lounge may be packed full of eager-to-sing regulars, but my friends and I are not those people. We are here on a whim after a few too many drinks at a restaurant down the street.

  Shuffling through the crowd, I stop when someone taps me on the shoulder. Thinking it’s one of my friends, I turn around to see a tall, leggy brunette with the most vibrant green eyes staring at me. Her face is stunning. She looks like Megan Fox. For a second, I wonder if she is.

  She steps closer and right away I can see this woman is a bit younger, though—my age, I’d say. “Do you mind if I get by?” she asks with one of those affluent tones I know all too well from my days in private school.

  Definitely not Megan Fox.

  Without waiting for me to answer, she pushes past, and in her rush, steps on my open-toed pump.

  Ouch!

  I glare as her red Louboutin soles make their way to the front of the lounge.

  “Come on,” my coworker tosses over her shoulder, not at all bothered by the woman who brushed past her, too. “Sandra found us a table.”

  India leads the way, and I follow, making sure not to step on any toes in the crowd. Finally, she stops at the only available table large enough for our group, which just so happens to be right in front of the stage.

  Fantastic.

  The white leather banquette is awash in the neon light emanating from the human-sized letters that spell the establishment’s name across the back wall. The light is nearly blinding. I look at Sandra. “Are you sure you want to sit this close?”

  She hands me a menu of songs. “Yes, this is going to be great.”

  “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is coming to an end and once I’ve slid all the way across the bench, I look up to see a group of very pleased guys jumping off the stage in unison. The Def Leppard wannabes are staring at us.

  This must have been their spot.

  All clean-cut, all fuck-hot, all about my age. Immediately, I can tell by their walk that they are definitely Upper East Siders. Prep school, riot club types turned Wall Street wolves would be my guess. You know—the kind of guy your mother warns you about.

  The type I should have stayed away from.

  The guy closest to me is wearing a red tie and has his black jacket slung over his shoulder. The others are dressed in dark suits too. Hmmm . . . either dressed up for an occasion or still dressed up after the occasion. Not a wedding, since it’s a Thursday night. An office party maybe? Or perhaps this group of drunken men is here for a going-away party like mine. Who knows? Anyway, the guy with the red tie gives the eight of us girls a quick glance and a smile but doesn’t stop.

  He’s cute. Really cute.

  At least he doesn’t seem to mind that we took their table. Then again, he’s too focused on the guy without a jacket farthest away from me. “Cam,” he calls out. “Don’t bother with her.” His warning is too late, though, because this Cam, whose white, rumpled shirt and dark hair are all I can see, is already allowing himself to be dragged away from his group by that Megan Fox look-alike who practically ran me over minutes ago.

  Fascinated by her assertiveness, I watch the two of them. I have to crane my neck to catch sight of them, and soon, too soon, they disappear into the crowd. Squinting my eyes, wishing I’d changed my dirty contact lenses, I search for them.

  In a matter of seconds, though, it’s not my poor eyesight but Sandra who prevents me from locating them. She stands in front of me with a huge-ass smile on her face. “What song did you decide on?”

  Giving a cursory glance at my choices, the perfect one is the first I see. “‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’” I blurt out and point excitedly at the same time. This song I know, and know it all too well.

  Sandra is my neighbor and is more than aware of all my woes. That sad smile she gives me borders on pity.

  Not wanting to be that girl anymore, the one who got her heart broken, I grab Sandra’s arm before she heads toward the karaoke booth. “You know what, forget that song. Why don’t you pick one that represents the change coming in my life?”

  At that her eyes light up.

  Minutes la
ter I’m being dragged up onstage by my friends and coworkers, and according to the screen, I’m about to sing a group rendition of “New York, New York.”

  Okay, I can do this.

  I know this song. Not as well as “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” but at least I know it. Besides, how hard can it be? I’ve sung it a million times—although admittedly mostly when I’ve been drunk.

  Then again, I have had a lot to drink tonight.

  The pressure is on. The eight of us gather around the microphone. The audience lights dim and a spotlight shines on us. I kind of feel like a star. No, I feel like Frank Sinatra himself without those penetrating blue eyes. But when the karaoke jockey asks, “Are you ready?” suddenly, I’m petrified. There is no way on God’s green earth I am going to be able to hit the high notes.

  The music starts. It’s too late to back out. First, it’s just the piano, but then the trumpet and clarinet join in. It’s odd, but the familiarity of the sound eases my nerves. When the lyrics flash in front of me, all my worries are gone and I don’t care anymore.

  I let all of my hang-ups go and sing.

  This, what I’m doing right now, is a glimpse into the old me. Somewhere between college and the real world, I lost that fun-loving girl, and I hope I can find her again.

  Don’t worry. I have a plan to do just that. Not only am I leaving the city I have loved for so long, but I’m also going to be moving far, far away, with no idea if I will ever be coming back.

  It’s how I hope to find myself.

  My friends squeeze my shoulders, and we continue to sing the lyrics. Unexpectedly, they alter the words, and instead of talking about making it in New York, they tell the story of making it anywhere—in my case, California.

  More than moved by this kind gesture, I gulp down the sorrow and move with them in a way that doesn’t match the tempo at all. It doesn’t matter, though, because they’re right: “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.”

  God, I hope that’s true.

  There’s a pause in the chorus and the piano melody quiets us all down. We’re now standing in a straight line onstage and swaying back and forth.