Into the Flames

by Multi-Author

  * * *

  “Damn girl, way to go viral,” Lucy said as she poured hot water over two tea bags that evening.

  “Oh Christ, please don’t remind me. I look so fucking awful in that thing. How come I couldn’t just have a quick little sniffle and move on with my makeup intact I don’t know.”

  “Sweetie, you are so brave.” She patted my hand and sat, pushing my cup in front of me. “I’m proud of you.”

  I slumped over the chamomile infused steam, feeling lost, empty, and poor. “God damn, no one will hire me now. What am I gonna do to pay this mortgage?” I waved my hand around, a new kind of panic clogging my throat. “I’m an idiot. I should have kept my mouth shut. Have you seen some of the comments on this—”

  She snapped the laptop closed, practically on my fingers. “You know better than to read anything the Internet trolls have to say.”

  I sighed, put the cup to my lips and set it down again, unable to swallow. “What the hell, Luce?” I asked, the infernal, endless supply of tears flowing again. “God.” I put my head on my hands. She stayed quiet. She also stayed with me the whole night and made breakfast the next morning, which I did eat—likely the first full meal I’d consumed in over a month.

  Chapter Eight

  I wandered around my condo the next day, a Tuesday, touching all the things I owned and wondering how much I could get for them on Craigslist or Ebay. Finally, I sat staring at the wall, sick at heart and pondering how quickly I could get out from under this mortgage. My phone was blowing up with requests for interviews, but Jackie and my lawyer had strongly recommended I let them wade through them all and find the ones that would provide the most sympathetic audience. The hate emails had begun pouring in via my company account. So, I deleted that from my laptop, figuring the vitriol could pile up on their server until it imploded.

  Later that afternoon, as I sipped some iced tea after a day spent doing nothing but worrying and biting my un-manicured nails to the quick, I got a call from Marianne.

  “Hey, you are not gonna believe what Jackie’s worked out.”

  “Oh,” I said, lethargic and wholly uninterested, my mind already on my bank balance and how long it might last.

  “Yeah, get this, Janey. In the next five days, you’re gonna meet Ellen, Jimmy, that guy on HBO with the funny fake news show, Katie and Matt—that one’s first—and…hang on, hang on…oh! Oh! Michelle, as in Obama…as in the First fucking Lady of the United Damn States of Fucking America. Shit,” she said taking a breath. “This is gonna be awesome.”

  “I can’t,” I said, leaning against the fridge. “I can’t tell that story over and over. Not…anymore.”

  She blew out a breath. “I know this is hard, Jane.” Her professional lady lawyer persona slipped back into place. “But listen, you have to tell your story. You said yourself the only way to beat this was in the court of public opinion. I mean, those guys are caught dead to rights, DNA and all. They’ll fight it with the whole ‘Jane’s a slut and she wanted it’ thing, so we have to do this. You have to keep being honest about yourself and what they did to you.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing the media circus I’d put in motion with full awareness of the consequences but unwilling to accept it at the moment. The one thing I wanted I hadn’t gotten yet—George hadn’t called or sent me a text or anything and I knew he had to have heard by now. I gasped, and stood up straighter. “Shit, what day is it?”

  “Tuesday the eleventh,” Marianne said. “Jane, I need to confirm these things. Would you just consider some of them? The First Lady’s chief of staff contacted Jackie directly. She wants to meet you.”

  I glanced at the clock. I had an hour to get ready. “I gotta go. I’ll…I’ll think about it. I have to be somewhere now. Thanks.” I stopped, wincing at how selfish I sounded. “Listen, Marianne, I’m not trying to be difficult or back out on my promise to fight this with you in public, but I just need…a few more hours to process the last few, if you know what I mean.”

  “Sure thing, hon. Just…know that the GMA thing is tomorrow, if you can swing it.”

  I sighed. “Put them off a day if you can. I’ll think about the rest of it. I’ll call you soon.” I ended the call and headed for the shower, humming my way through that, finding a nice dress and shoes and applying a bit of makeup. At one point, I pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge but stopped myself in the middle of opening it and put it back. Then I took it out, opened it and emptied it down the drain.

  I called a cab and ducked into it, grateful my home address hadn’t yet been unearthed by the press. As I looked out onto streets damp from a late evening shower, I couldn’t resist a smile at the thought of the look on George’s face when he saw me and I told him what I’d done.

  The FireBrew Brewing Company was teeming with people by the time I got there. The large patio was covered by a red tent with the emblem of the New York Fire Department and the firebrew.com site where people could find out about the beers and donate to George’s daughter’s foundation. Two huge trucks from the Detroit fire department had their ladders raised and red lights flashing. Television trucks bristling with satellites formed a ring beyond the fire trucks. Giant searchlights rolled, lighting up the sky even more, adding to the circus-like atmosphere.

  I sat in the cab, frozen with something I finally identified as nervousness. Loud music came from the vicinity of the outdoor tent. A huge red carpet rolled up from the sidewalk to the front door, converted from the original to be twice as wide with the words ‘First In. Last Out. In Loving Memory Of Those Lost 9/11/2001’ carved into granite over the doorway.

  I paid and made my way up to the line of people waiting to get in, flashed my official invite on my phone to the bouncer and ducked inside. The transformation of the space took my breath away. What had been an empty shell with nothing but dirt, rat shit, and a fire pole a mere three months prior now boasted gleaming restored wood floors, a huge bar with two dozen taps, tables, booths, and scurrying waiters. It would open as a full brewpub with the usual fare in a week but tonight was about the fancy canapés to go with the handcrafted beer.

  I took a bottle of water from a passing tray and stood, wondering if I should just leave. There were lots of Detroit firemen and cops in the crowd, to go with the suits and fancy dresses. I even spotted a few FDNY shirts, as it got more and more busy. I moved to the side, watching and wishing to see just one face, hear just one voice.

  Finally, a clot of people holding phones and notebooks parted, and I saw him by the now gleaming fireman’s pole. He was laughing, sipping from a mug of beer, looking around and trying to answer all the questions being tossed at him I assumed. I sipped my water, content to watch him work. His oversized frame was covered in dark jeans and a soft heather-gray T-shirt, with the FireBrew logo that hugged every impressive contour of his torso.

  I let my gaze flicker around the room, noting all the females staring where I was, every eye hungrily fixed on the vision of George Lattimer—former stereotypical sexy firefighter still in edible form, now sad, lonely widower. Aggravated and cursing myself for not stepping up and acting like a grown woman when it came to this man, I moved out of a back hallway. I heard my name—“Jane! Jane Terrance! Over here! Janey! Is that you?!”

  I flinched and moved backward until my butt hit the wall. Blinking fast in the sudden array of flashes and faces and people yammering my name, I stumbled, furious that I’d done this to myself. A hand cupped my elbow. A warm body braced me, saving me from an embarrassing fall to the floor. I leaned into him. “Harriet,” he said. “So glad you could make it.”

  He plowed through the group, dragging me in his wake past the bodies angling in for photos and questions. We ducked behind the bar and through a door that lead to the brewery itself. Some of the staff were conducting tours in the background but he opened a half glass door that had the word ‘Trey’ on it, pushed me inside, and shut it behind us. I stood confused, chest heaving, staring at him. His
dark eyes were stormy for a few seconds as he took a breath, looked up at the ceiling and back at me.

  “Leave it to you,” he said, pulling me into his arms. I sighed with relief and wrapped mine around his waist, sucking in huge breaths of him. I felt lips on my hair. “Chaos just follows you around like you’re its Pied Piper.”

  We stood for several minutes, wrapped around each other. Once I thought I could talk without bursting into yet more tears, I looked up at him. His jaw was covered in stubble. New lines framed his eyes and full lips. I touched his cheek. “I’m sorry,” I said. “This has got to be the most god-awful day for you. I don’t get why you’d throw this obnoxious party on it.”

  He sighed and let go of me, stuffing his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and leaning against the door. “It keeps it front and center in people’s minds. Helps the foundation. Actually it keeps me from thinking about it—about that actual day. Too busy with bullshit details.” He waved a hand in the air. “Success, I think.”

  “Yeah. I think so too.” We stood awkwardly, looking at each other. “I did it,” I said after a while. “All of it—the cops, the arrest, oh and the therapist you’ve been paying. Thanks for that by the way.”

  He smiled and it went straight through me, making my scalp tingle and my feet propel me forward and back into his arms. “I’m maybe more famous that you now,” I said before pressing my lips to his. When he didn’t respond in his usual toe-curling fashion, I frowned and pulled away from him. “What’s wrong? I’m here to make up and see if we can put our two fucked-up selves together into one, maybe?” My voice broke at the expression on his face.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion as if he were reading, badly, from a cue card. “I have to move on. Find the next location.”

  “B-b-b-but…” I walked back until my legs hit a chair, and I dropped into it. “I thought…you said…”

  He sighed and crouched down in front of me, calming my shaking knee with his warm hand. I gripped it and put it to my face, desperate now, confused and sick in my soul at this possible missed opportunity.

  “I never stay anywhere very long, Harriet. Surely you’ve discovered that about me.” He dropped his hand back to my knee.

  I shook my head. A few strands of my hasty up-do escaped and covered my face, hiding it from his gaze, thank God. I rallied and shoved his hand off my lap and stood. “No, I guess I missed that you were a wandering Robin Hood. I figured you for the settling down and fixing everything type.”

  He sat back on his heels, watching as I began pacing the office. “This is the third FireBrew location I’ve opened since my last stint at the funny farm. I had savvy investment advice and came out of there with more money than any mortal man deserved. So, I set up Rachel’s foundation and decided to brew beer—something I’ve loved doing since I was a teenager. I moved to New Orleans, which seemed as screwed up a place as I was and found a great location for a brewery. Once that was open and I had to face myself in the mirror again, I left, more or less in the dead of the night. I didn’t know where I was going or why. I just had to go.”

  He eased himself into a butt-sprung couch, his long legs sprawled in front of him. I stood as far from him as I could get, furious yet somehow sympathetic. “I hate you,” I said barely above a whisper. “You bring out the worst in me, every fucking time.”

  “Oh, well, you won’t have to worry about that much longer,” he spoke to the tall ceiling.

  “Good,” I said, ears ringing as I yanked open the office door. “Make yourself useful and show me a way to sneak out of here. I have a plane to catch. America awaits my sad sack gang rape story. Did you know the First Lady wants to hear it too? Jesus, by the time I’m done with my junket, everyone’ll know I prefer not to be fisted…” I sucked in a breath, picturing the next few weeks with dread.

  He was at my side so fast it surprised me, shutting the door, gathering me up—all the way up—and carrying me to the couch where he sat, kissing me until I saw stars and felt his arousal distinctly. “Damn it woman, why did you have to be the one to show me this place? You’re…Oh shit,” He groaned when I shifted so I was straddling him, unzipping him, sliding my body down to take him inside me with a breathy moan between us.

  “Harriet,” he said, hands on my hips and face pressed to my chest. “Harriet,” he repeated in a whisper as I moved up and down his length, pressing hard. Gaining friction, I sensed him fill me so completely the combination took my breath away and brought on a knee jerk, loud and oh-so-perfect orgasm. I held onto the back of the couch, riding it out, watching his face as he gazed up at me while I kept moving, tightening and releasing my muscles.

  “Come inside me, George,” I said, loud and clear. “Just once. Before you go, please?” He closed his eyes and did just that, leaving us both panting and sweaty and pressed together on the smelly old couch. I closed my eyes, loving the sensation of him inside me but already sensing him sliding out of my life.

  I got to my feet, grabbed a tissue from a box and swiped between my legs, fury replacing the extreme satisfaction this man’s body had just brought me. He sat, long arms spread out on the back of the couch, breathing heavy with his massive dick exposed and glistening. Someone knocked. He zipped up and stood without a word. I waited for him to kiss me or take my hand or something. Instead, he opened the door, revealing the pretty blonde lady from the bar that night I’d let Trent finger me under the table, bringing this whole shit-avalanche down on top of my life.

  “There you are,” she said, her New York accent grating even with those few words. “Come on. People are asking about you.”

  She glanced around him but he blocked the way, thankfully, since there really was no way to mask the distinct odor of a quickie in this small, enclosed space. Then, to my shock, he put a hand on the woman’s miniscule ass, squeezed it and kissed her in a way that was unmistakably intimate.

  “Oh, baby,” she said, shaking loose of him. “Later. K? Sorry to interrupt the interview,” she called around his massive form, directed at me I assumed. Thankful she couldn’t see me and identify me as the poor work-rape-victim chick. I moved back into the shadowy gloom.

  “Hang on a second,” he said to her. “I have to finish this up.” He shut the door in her surprised face and turned to me.

  “We’re moving to Kentucky and opening another FireBrew.”

  “We…” I said, shaking with rage. “You and…her.”

  “Yes. She’s a friend from way back, the widow of one of my best friends also killed on 9/11. It’s a good fit. We understand each other.” His voice had taken on that odd, bad-teleprompter reading cadence again.

  “Ah, I see,” I said, stepping into his space. “Nice. So she lets you pretend to fuck her while you’re still fucking Evie? That must work well for you both.” I moved past him, unable to stand it another minute.

  He grabbed my arm.

  “Don’t turn this into something it’s not, Trey. We had unfinished business. I finished it. Have a swell life.”

  “Wait, I want to…”

  “Oh, I see clearly what you want,” I said, turning but not facing him, not trusting what I’d do if I looked into his eyes at that moment. “And it’s not me. That’s really all I need to know. Catch me on TV sometime, won’t you? I’ll be the one crying about being attacked and talking about how my boss tried to make me keep it a secret ad nauseam. Hell I’m already sick of the story, aren’t you?”

  He lunged for me. I sidestepped him.

  “Don’t worry. I haven’t besmirched your name. I just tell people that my little gang bang party got broken up when someone heard me screaming and called 911.”

  “I love—”

  “You love your own misery, George. And I can relate to that. Good luck in life. Thanks for the interesting set of weeks.”

  I ran out, seeking a back door somewhere, finding it and hurtling myself out into the newly pouring rain.

  Cha
pter Nine

  I ran from the cab to my front door, soaking wet and aching from head to toe, wondering how in the hell I might have done this whole thing differently with him and discarding every option. We were just ships in the proverbial night. He was setting sail, arm in arm, with some hot, petite, blonde widow, never to pass alongside me again.

  Nice work, Jane. Way to toss away a great possibility—but for what? Friendship, mostly.

  Or even for marriage.

  Hell yeah, for marriage.

  With a grunt of disgust, I stripped out of my dress, tossing the panties I’d slid aside eager for his cock inside me not thirty minutes before, straight into the trash. After wrapping up in my robe, I threw open the cabinet containing my wine collection and grabbed an expensive bottle of red, figuring this for as good a time as any for a celebration. Here is to me, I thought, pouring half the bottle into a giant glass, the queen of shitty timing. I held the glass up to the empty room.

  The place reeked of cleaning supplies. That would never do. I found a few of my favorite odor-eating candles and lit them, carrying them to the living room and then going back for the wine before flopping onto the couch and staring at the blank TV screen. After the first glass, I picked up the bottle and drank straight from the neck of it, relishing every drop of its outrageous, forty-five dollar goodness.

  “I think I should have another,” I said to the room and trotted into the kitchen to find my next most expensive bottle. I stared down at the phone I’d tossed on the kitchen table. It was positively exploding with messages—from Lucy, Jackie, Marianne, even the adorable Max. I deleted them all and sent one to George, breaking my own never-drink-and-text rule in spectacular fashion.

  I love you George. But we would never work. Our two wrong personalities would never be right together. I wish you well in life and hope that someday you can make love to a woman and not picture your dead wife. Let her go, George. You’ll be so much happier that way. Now go on and be someone else’s hero. I’m fine.