As the pressure builds, he lowers his body onto mine, turning us over until I’m sitting on top of him. I grind against him, feeling every inch of him within me. I trace my fingertips up the contours of his chest as he pulls me down, my breasts falling to his face. He takes my nipple into his mouth, twisting his tongue until my body bucks harder to the point where I know I’m seconds from losing all control. “I’m going to—”
His hands grip around my butt as he pushes me down harder, rocking my body at a pace that makes me scream. “Me too,” he grunts. His hips thrust up and down, working against me in the most fulfilling way. A wave crashes through me, a moment of imploding greatness, like sinking into the ocean on the hottest day of the summer.
Our bodies go limp against each other, his lips pressed against my neck, his arm draped over my back. “You’ve made me forget my name. Who I am. What I do,” he mutters, lazily into my ear.
“Some people need therapy after a tragedy. I just need you,” I say, nuzzling into his neck. He pulls the sheet up around us and weaves his fingers through my hair, letting his lips fall to my forehead.
Like any high, the blissful feeling can only last for so long before the memories and thoughts slowly creep back in.
I’ll take it while it’s here.
* * *
While hovering over the kitchen island, ravenously eating sandwiches he made for us, I remember I’m supposed to be at work in an hour. “Shit,” I sigh. “I almost forgot about my shift.” And the fact that I’m a suspect in the burning down of my own house. I wish I could completely forget about that part.
He looks over my shoulder to the time on the microwave. “Yeah, I was supposed to go into the firm a little while ago, too.” He shoves a chip into his mouth and smiles. “I think my time was better spent here.”
“They’re calling the fire arson, and I’m a suspect,” I spit out. I didn’t mean to drop this on him like this, but I can’t leave without telling him. It would never have come up naturally. How could it? “It’s why I was crying.” I look down and away from him, feeling ashamed for not telling him why earlier. “I didn’t start the fire.”
I nervously look back up to gauge his reaction, watching him swallow hard as he presses his napkin over his lips. “Did you go down to the station?”
“Yes. They questioned me.”
He places his napkin down and furrows his brows. “Why didn’t you call me? I would have gone with you.” The questioning look on his face is making me feel like I did everything wrong.
“I know. I wasn’t thinking. I barely figured out how to call an attorney.” I should have called him or at least Mom and Dad—someone with the capability of thinking clearly.
“What evidence do they have?” he asks, looking intrigued rather than worried.
“Something about the v-shape pattern of the fire and the fact that it originated on the back porch near a tin can filled with cigarette butts.”
Now he looks confused. And I know why. “You said you only lived with your brother, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did he smoke?”
“No.” I’ve always been told that smoking can kill you. No one ever told me my smoking could kill someone else.
“Do you?” I’m not sure if it’s judgment or unease playing on his face. Maybe just pure disappointment.
I look down, playing with the crumbs on my plate. “I smoke one cigarette a day before I go to bed. Life has been so stressful for the past year—it’s the only thing that takes the edge off. I’ve hidden it from everyone.”
“They think you set your house on fire with a cigarette? Intentionally?”
“I guess so. I was running through my list of events from the time I got home from work until the time I went to bed. I forgot to mention I had a cigarette in my initial statement. I guess it makes me look guilty.” I look up at him, forcing myself to come to terms with the apprehension in his eyes. “When I told them I smoked before I went to bed, it ended the questions. It was like the answer they had been looking for.”
“When did you go down to the station?” he asks.
“Just before I came here,” I tell him.
“You said you had an attorney with you?”
“Yes, one I found on Google an hour beforehand.” Which I’m starting to feel real stupid about. “I’m thinking he’s not the best of the best, but I wanted to get the questions over with, so I just went with the guy who was available at the moment.”
“You need a good attorney present with you every time you give answers or statements. You have to understand how important that is. I can help you find one.” Now I feel incredibly stupid. He’s holding his hand against the side of his face, shaking his head. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s disappointed in me or confused about the situation.
“It’s too late to undo it now,” I tell him, feeling like I’m on the defensive.
He pulls his hand down from his face. “It’s not too late.” He sighs heavily. “Forget about the attorney for a minute; what you’re saying doesn’t make sense. Did you put the butt out when you were done smoking?” Does he not care that I smoke—and shouldn’t he, for that matter? Better that he seems more concerned with the whole me being a suspect thing than with my vice.
“I did. I dropped it in a little can of sand like I always do.”
“Did they say it was caused by the cigarette?” he asks. He reaches around his fridge into a drawer and pulls out a pen and notepad.
“No; they just stopped asking me questions when I told them that part. I was assuming I guess.” He’s jotting down notes, his free hand wrapped tightly around the back of his neck.
“Have you had any scuffles with anyone in the past month? Anyone you could have pissed off?” I tend to be the opposite of confrontational. I want to cry if I have to tell someone they hurt my feelings. It took me over a week to tell Aspen she was fired. I’ve always sort of been the sunshine and cupcakes type of girl. Until recently, that is.
“No. None.”
He writes that down, too. “What about Blake? Did he have any issues with anyone?” I want to say no, but would I really know? I mean, I work ten hour days, and most nights, I go home and go to bed. Blake and I hadn’t seen much of each other in the few weeks before the fire, regardless of the fact that we lived together. He wasn’t the type to have “issues” with people, though.
“I’d be surprised if he did, but I couldn’t say for sure.” He draws a question mark next to his name. A question mark, meaning Blake could be at fault for this?
“He didn’t do anything wrong, Hayes,” I say.
“Hey,” he places his hand over mine. “I’m not saying anyone did. I’m just trying to get all of the information down. It’s a habit. I just want to help.” He presses on. “What did you make for dinner that night?” I don’t want to answer all of these questions again. I just went through this.
I think the look on my face must reflect my thoughts. He sets his pen down and closes his notepad. “I’m sorry. We can talk about this later. I don’t want to stress you out before work.” My focus is locked on the white plate, the crumbs, the piece of lettuce, and the hazy reflection of my eyes in the glass. How did I get here? I feel like I was just catapulted into someone else’s life. “You’re going to be okay. They’ll figure out you had nothing to do with this.”
I look up at him, worried, “What if they don’t? Then what?”
“That’s not going to happen.” Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but he sounds a little less sure this time. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was internally questioning me now too.
I’m not an arsonist. Or a murderer. I didn’t do anything wrong.
I didn’t.
I glance at my watch again, cursing silently. My shift starts in thirty minutes. “I have to get to work.”
“You might want to change into something more appropriate.” He swivels his neck to look down and around the table, his focus faltering to my shirt. His shirt. �
�Put some pants on at least.”
I throw my last chip at him.
He grabs my wrist mid-throw. “Look at me.” I do, melting a little, like I do every time I look at him. “I believe that you did nothing wrong. I will help you get through this. I promise.” He releases my hand and grabs our plates. “Maybe this is why we met. Life has a funny way of bringing people together. Like fate.”
Fate. Is that such a thing any more?
I pad across the cold hardwood floor to the bedroom, where I slip out of his shirt and into my own clothes, clutching my shoes under my arm. He pokes his head into the room. “Let me drive you to work.”
“Why? I have my car. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I’m not worried. And it’s because I want to pick you up from work.”
From his lack of smile, I gather it isn’t because he just wants to see me. “Is it because—?”
“You’ve had an encounter with an arsonist? Yes.”
I follow him out to his car, debating if this is necessary. Am I in danger? I wonder. Have I been in danger this whole time? I climb into his truck, still trying to steady my thoughts. “Do you think someone is after me?” I ask. Not like he’d know. But I’m hoping he’ll say something along the lines of “no, but we’re taking precautions.”
He peers over at me and shrugs. “No clue, Blondie-locks.”
“Hayes,” I say, flatly.
He cups his hand around my chin. “Don’t worry. I’m not worried. Just taking precautions,” he says. It isn’t as comforting as I imagined it would be.
“I’m scared.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
* * *
“Felicity, I need a word with you.” Grant’s waiting at the door for me, and for a second I think I might be late. Then I see that he’s pointing across the restaurant. “Get rid of her please.” What the hell?
I stalk toward the back table where Aspen is seated, her nose up in the air, her arms folded across her chest. “What are you doing here?” I ask, gritting my teeth. It was hard enough telling her she was fired; now she’s come back to make me kick her out, too.
“I’m having dinner with Tanner.” She makes it sound like it’s a regular occurrence. “As friends only,” she stresses with light laughter.
“Why here?” In the restaurant you were fired from. I look over my shoulder trying to gauge Grant’s mood. He’s thumbing through some papers at the host desk. I stare just long enough to catch his eye. He nods—an indication that they need to leave.
“Where’s Tanner?”
“Right here,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders from behind. “I was in the restroom.”
“You guys have to go,” I say again. But Tanner ignores me and slides into the booth across from Aspen. “I’m serious.”
“Liss, I came here, using Aspen as an ally so you’d talk to me.”
Shit. I never got back to him.
“I’m sorry I accused you two of sleeping together, okay? I’ll call you when I get out of work. I just need her to leave.”
“Fine,” she squeaks. “I’m leaving.” She bounces out of the booth and struts over to Grant. She grabs his tie, pulls him toward her and whispers something into his ear. He struggles away from her, pulling his tie from her grip, then takes her by the arm and leads her outside. A dramatic exit is par for the course with Aspen.
“Liss,” Tanner pulls my attention back. “I didn’t sleep with her. I wouldn’t.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I point to the kitchen. “I’m late for my shift.”
“Wait, one more thing,” he says, grabbing my elbow. “Aspen told me about the fire—that they’re considering it arson, and questioning you.” My stomach churns with anger. “No one is going to think it was your fault.” His words should make me relax, but instead, I feel sicker. He releases my arm. “You wouldn’t return my texts. This was the only way to talk to you. Call me so we can talk about all of this. I’m worried about you. You’re still my friend, Liss. I care about you and I want you to be careful, especially with an arsonist out there.”
“I will.”
“Go,” he says nodding in the direction of the kitchen, “I’ll catch you later.” He slides out of the booth and makes his way toward the door, ignoring Grant’s blazing glare.
I feel like I’m suffocating here. Life is strangling the hell out of me, and I’m fighting so hard for air that doesn’t seem to exist.
“I’m guessing I don’t need to tell you he’s not welcome back in here either, right?” Grant asks, walking into the kitchen behind me.
I turn around, stopping short in my tracks. “The fire investigation is showing up as arson, and I’m a suspect. My friends were coming to check on me. They think I’m a loose cannon. I have no fucking idea why they might think that, but they do.” I pull my hair together in the back, tying it up in a tight knot. “I’m barely holding it together right now, Grant. Barely. I’ll understand if you don’t want me working for you any more in light of my new baggage.”
He drops his hands into his pockets and leans back against the tiled wall. I believe he’s tongue-tied. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the other cooks and kitchen staff biting their lips, acting like they didn’t just hear every word I said.
“I’m sorry,” he says under his breath.
“You made me fire my friend a week after my brother died.” The words feel sour coming out. Saying it aloud makes it sound even shittier than I thought it was. I manage this kitchen, and I’d never put someone through that. I’d at least give them some time. Maybe that makes me a bad manager, but I have a heart. I can’t be faulted for that.
Grant turns around and punches the wall. He runs his fingers through his hair as he turns back around. He’s looking at me with this unsettling expression. “Come here.”
He places his hand on my back and leads me into one of the food closets. He flips the light on and closes the door. Panic surges through me. Everyone saw me walk in here…right? Why is he closing us in?
“Open the door!” I shout. “I don’t want to be in here with you.”
“Felicity,” he says, “Aspen was in the freezer with—” I shake my head, not because I know what he’s going to say, but for the fact that I don’t think I want to know. And I don’t want to be in a confined space with him while he tells me.
“I can’t do this. I need more time. I’m not ready to be back here.” I reach around him, push the door open, and run from the kitchen, through the parking lot, and away from the restaurant. I run until my legs hurt. Until I’m in the middle of the goddamn city on some random side street filled with a bunch of trashy bars.
I walk into the closest one and take a seat at the bar. I order Vodka on the rocks, pull out my phone, and open the text app.
Me: Meet me at Tilly’s. It’s in the city, down some side street.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE WALKS IN, looking a bit surprised. His eyes roaming the place before he spots me. As he drops down onto the empty stool beside me, I slide a beer-filled glass over to him. “Here.”
“Okay, nutso, what are you doing in a biker bar instead of working?” I take the opportunity to look around, realizing I’m the only woman in this place, which explains the looks I’ve been ignoring for the past thirty minutes.
“I think I’m losing my mind, Tanner.”
He folds his hands together over the bar and lowers his head. “Yeah, I feel the same.”
“Why would they think I did it?” Unease bubbles in my chest, and the alcohol isn’t doing a thing to take the edge off. “I don’t get it.”
“What do they think you did to cause it?” he asks. “I mean if they’re questioning you, what do they think you did to start the fire?” He takes a swig of his beer and twists to look at me, waiting for an answer. He’s probably wondering what I could have done. How long before he blames me? Seems to be the only thing to do now that I’m the prime suspect.
“When I told them I had a
cigarette before bed, they ended their questions. I don’t know for sure, but I think that’s what they think caused it.”
Sensitivity goes out the window when disappointment fills his eyes. “Smoking,” is all he says. He may as well have just stamped guilty on my forehead. “Do you think you did something reckless without realizing it? Obviously, it wouldn’t have been purposeful, but Blake told me you were burning the candle—sorry—you were working a lot of hours.”
The thought has entered my mind a few times. When I try to recall the exact moment I tossed the butt into the little sand filled tin on the back porch, it’s like my mind goes blank. I can’t remember throwing it in there. It’s like when I can’t remember if I unplugged the iron or not; I can replay the action of ironing over and over, but I never remember if I actually unplugged it. “I don’t know…but it certainly wouldn’t have been intentional. Doesn’t arson mean ‘on purpose’?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Did they say why they’re considering it arson?”
I feel like I still know nothing even after sitting in front of that detective for an entire hour. “No, they said they suspect arson and they’re in the process of a more thorough investigation. I should know more soon.”
He looks almost relieved when I say this, and I wish I felt the same. “I think you should relax a bit until they find a reasonable cause. Do you want me to give my dad a call? I know he’s been trying to help out on the case to push things along.” I almost forgot he works for the Providence Police Department.
“No.” I don’t want it to look like I’m trying to push for information. It’ll probably just make me look guiltier. This is ridiculous. “Thanks, though.”
Red Nights Page 12