Hidden Pieces

by Paula Stokes

  Betsy’s eyes flick open. She lifts up from the spot in front of the registration desk and pads across the carpeted floor to the sofa. She gives me a hopeful look, and I shake my head at her. “You can’t come up here,” I say. Ever the obedient dog, she puts her paws on my leg and makes an attempt to clamber up onto my lap. “No,” I tell her again. She wags her tail, knocking over the open bottle of vodka. It rolls off the table and onto the floor before I can grab it.

  “Shit.” I reach down and grab the bottle, standing it upright and capping it, but not before half of what’s left has leaked out onto the lobby’s threadbare carpet.

  “It’s no big deal. It’ll dry,” Holden says. “At least vodka is clear.”

  “Yeah, but your mom is going to wonder why half the bottle is missing.”

  “I’ll water it down a little. She only drinks a few times a year. She probably won’t notice.”

  “Bad dog,” I say to Betsy, who is now attempting to clamber up onto Holden’s lap.

  He strokes her soft fur. “You’re not a bad dog,” he says. “You’re a good dog.”

  She leans her neck on Holden’s thigh and looks up at him with her big brown eyes. He pulls her up from the floor so she’s sitting on his lap, her tail hanging over the edge of the sofa.

  “You two make a cute couple,” I say.

  “As do you and Luke.”

  I frown. “Very funny. You know we’re not together.”

  Holden snickers. “And yet he just proposed.”

  “It wasn’t, like, an official proposal or anything. He was just asking me what I thought.”

  “Which is totally what someone would do with a girl he’s not together with.” Holden lifts the flap of Betsy’s ear and pretends to whisper something to her.

  “You jealous?” I ask.

  “Would you like it if I was?” That low, throaty voice again.

  My insides go tight, and I have to squeeze out my one-word response. “Maybe.”

  Honestly, I’m not sure how I would feel. Holden is not my boyfriend, and I’m fine with that. We’re both here because we want to be here. No one is obligated. No one owes anyone anything. My life belongs to me and Holden’s belongs to him. Still, when I think about the future, Holden is always there.

  The corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly. “Come here.” He lifts Betsy from the sofa and helps her back onto the floor. She lumbers across the room and lies down in front of the registration counter. He pulls me into his lap, adjusting my body so my head is against his chest. “Your turn to keep me warm.”

  I laugh at the idea of my spindly body keeping anyone warm, but I rest my head against Holden’s chest, comforted by his heat, his calm breathing, by the steady thudding of his heart in my ear. For a while we just sit there, and it’s everything that I need.

  Then he reaches for one of my hands, twining our fingers together. We’re both pale, but he’s got a bit more color than I do, probably left over from his summer job doing landscaping. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my wrist gently. Another rush of heat courses through my body, causing me to shudder visibly.

  “What was that?” he asks, his blue eyes dancing with amusement.

  “Just what you do to me.”

  “I make you convulse? That seems bad.”

  “It’s a good kind of convulsing,” I say, unable to keep a smile from creeping onto my face.

  I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, or Holden, or the fact that I talked to him about both Luke and my dad, but I’ve finally achieved the closest feeling I ever get to peace anymore. I turn and adjust my body so I’m straddling Holden’s lap. I’m falling for you, I think, as we kiss. But I don’t say it, because those are words that change things, and I like the way things are.

  I guess there are some pieces I don’t even show Holden.

  I curl my hands around the back of his neck. Our noses bump gently as I lean in to kiss him again. He tastes my bottom lip with his tongue and then uses it to coax open my mouth. I slide my hands up under his shirt, amazed by how his slender frame can manage to be so warm when it’s so cold in here. I trace my fingertips down the curves of his ribs and then reach higher to gently rake my nails across his chest. His turn to convulse.

  “I want you,” I whisper.

  “You sure?” he asks.

  Instead of answering, I slide off Holden and kneel in the narrow space between the coffee table and the sofa. I undo the button of his jeans and tug them down over his hips. Moonlight reflects off his pale legs. He shivers in the thin fabric of his boxers. Leaning forward, I massage his thighs while I press my lips to his flat stomach.

  “Embry,” Holden whispers.

  “Shh.” My hand slips beneath the fabric of his boxers.

  He groans softly. His eyelids fall shut as he relaxes back into the cushions. His shoulders drop. I can feel the tension leaving his body as my mouth trails lower. He supports my head with one hand, stroking my hair with the other. I like the effect I have on him. I like that I can help him escape the same way he does for me.

  “Come here,” Holden says after a couple of minutes. He lifts me back to the sofa. I unbutton my jeans and slide them and my underwear down over my hips.

  Holden pulls a condom out of one of his coat pockets. I watch him put it on and then position myself on top of him, letting out a deep breath I didn’t even know I was holding. I cradle his face in both of my hands and close the gap between our mouths again.

  He wraps one hand around my lower back for support while the other gets lost in my hair.

  “You feel so good,” I tell him.

  He laughs under his breath. “I know.”

  I slap him playfully on the arm. “You’re such an ass.”

  “I know,” he says again, pulling my smile toward his.

  Our grins meet and our lips relax. I focus on the feel of him, the way our bodies connect, the way every single touch lights up dark parts inside me.

  The first few times Holden and I were together, it was sweaty and fumbling and we both rushed through it. Now we’re getting more comfortable with each other and learning to slow things down.

  I lean back just far enough to watch the series of expressions flit across his face—concentration, followed by pleasure, followed by restraint, followed by more concentration. His long eyelashes are feathered closed, his mouth open just wide enough to expel little gasps of air. I trace one of his high cheekbones with my fingertips.

  His eyes flick open. “What?”

  I shake my head, a smile playing at my lips. “I just like watching you.”

  “Oh yeah?” He locks his gaze onto mine. It’s a struggle not to look away from his blue, blue eyes.

  His hands caress my back. Part of me wants to speed things up and part of me wants this moment to never end. Eventually speed wins. As all the heat and tension inside me start to coalesce, my knee slips on the sofa cushion and my foot hits the edge of the coffee table. Vaguely I see a flicker of light in my peripheral vision.

  “Shit,” Holden says.

  Betsy barks, but I’m in no position to be distracted. Whatever is bothering her can wait a few more seconds.

  “Hold on,” Holden says. “Embry, stop.”

  “What? Why?” I blink rapidly. Is that smoke I smell? I lift my body off his and turn around. Apparently when I kicked the table, I knocked a candle onto the floor. The carpet of the Sea Cliff Inn is burning.

  Three

  I GET DRESSED IN LIKE three seconds. Grabbing Betsy, I drag her toward the back door. Holden starts opening drawers and cabinets behind the registration counter, probably looking for a fire extinguisher. I put the dog outside. “Stay,” I tell her. She’s smart enough to stay away from the edge of the cliff.

  I turn back to where Holden is now in the lobby again, trying to beat out the flames with his black wool coat. The fire has spread across the floor, possibly due to the spilled vodka, and he’s just making things worse. I cough from the smoke that’s starting to fill the room
.

  “I can’t find an extinguisher,” he says. “Can you look?”

  I check the dining area and the kitchen and do a quick skim of the little office behind it, but I don’t see anything. The flames have moved from the carpet to the base of the coffee table. Holden has his shirt up covering his nose and mouth.

  I grab a sofa cushion and beat at the fire, sending bits of ash swirling through the air. The bottom of the cushion starts to smolder. “Fuck.” I drop it back onto the frame.

  Holden grabs my arm. “We need to get out of here and call 911.”

  “We can’t.” I take a step back from the heat. “If this place burns down, they’re going to blame us. We’ll get arrested, or sued for a crapload of money, or—” A glowing ember arcs through the smoky air and lands dangerously close to my foot. I take another step back. The flames start to overtake the coffee table.

  “No one needs to know we were in here,” he says. “Let’s just call it in like we were going for a walk and saw the place burning.”

  I suddenly remember I left Betsy outside off her leash. I nod grimly and head for the back door.

  Holden braves the flames long enough to grab the bottle of vodka and tuck it into his backpack. The two of us escape out into the night, the brisk air a welcome relief from the heat.

  Betsy is pacing back and forth, barking and whining.

  I put her back on her leash. “Shh, girl,” I say. “Everything is fine.”

  I dial 911 as we hurry around to the front of the hotel. “There’s a fire,” I say. “At the Sea Cliff Inn.” I tell them my name and where I’m located.

  The dispatcher advises me to move back from the building but not to leave the scene. “Fire and police rescue are en route,” he adds.

  “Okay.” I hang up the phone and turn to Holden. “Cavalry is on its way. You should go. We both don’t need to be here.”

  “No way. I’m not going to leave you to deal with this.”

  “Holden. They just need me to stay so I can give a statement. I’ll tell the cops I was walking Betsy and saw the smoke. Like you said, they don’t need to know either one of us was inside.”

  I glance down at the ground. With a twinge of guilt I remember my words to Luke: I think that might be fraud. What Holden and I are doing is different, though. We’re not trying to scam money from the federal government via a sham marriage. We’re just trying to protect our families from having to pay out money we don’t have because I knocked over a candle. Hopefully the fire department will get here quickly and the damage won’t be too bad. Either way, insurance companies are always in the news for ripping people off and being generally evil, aren’t they? And they all make millions in profits. What’s a little extra to one of them? It’s basically a victimless crime.

  But I still feel like shit about it. Mostly because I know how disappointed my mom would be if she found out.

  I turn my attention back to Holden. “If your mom finds you here, she might put two and two together and realize you made yourself a key. That could be bad for both of us.”

  “Good point,” Holden says reluctantly. “Okay, I’ll go . . . if you’re sure.” He reaches out and gives my hand a quick squeeze, his eyes locking onto mine with unasked questions.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say firmly.

  Holden turns and jogs away from the Sea Cliff, bits of charred ash fluttering to the ground from his burned winter coat as he heads down the hill. He disappears between two currently unoccupied hillside mansions, making use of a set of stairs that leads down to Three Rocks Beach. From there he’ll have to cut over to the main road that goes through the center of town and cross the highway to get back to our neighborhood.

  Betsy barks once and tugs hard on the leash, pulling me toward the burning building.

  “No, girl.” I pull back. “We have to stay here.”

  The flames are lighting up the night now. Smoke pours from the roof, gray against the black of the sky. Tongues of fire dance behind the glass of the lobby’s big bay windows. For a moment, I’m mesmerized by the twisting and swirling of the bright orange flames. It seems wrong that destruction can be so beautiful. I pull out my phone, switch to the camera function, and snap a couple of pictures.

  Betsy barks again, and again. “What is it?” I ask. And then I catch a glimpse of the second picture on my phone, and I realize what she’s been barking at. I look from my phone to the hotel. There’s a shadow in one of the third-floor windows. Someone else is inside.

  Four

  “SHIT,” I SAY. “SHIT, SHIT, SHIT.” It’s probably a homeless person, or a hiker making his way down the Oregon Coast Trail. Three Rocks gets hundreds of people passing through each year, many of whom choose to camp out on the beach for free accommodations. The lure of an abandoned hotel in the bitter cold might have been impossible to resist.

  The shadow disappears, and for a second I wonder if I dreamed it. I zoom in on my phone screen—nope, there is definitely a human form at the window.

  I glance down the hill. Still no sign of the fire department. I look back at the Sea Cliff. The fire has spread, but it isn’t completely out of control.

  Without warning, smoke pours from the window, completely obscuring my view. Whoever is inside probably opened it to try to escape.

  “Hey!” I wave my arms over my head. “Don’t jump from there. You might break your neck. Go down the stairs and out the back. It’s unlocked.”

  There’s no response. I can’t tell if the person inside even heard me. Exhaling deeply, I swear under my breath again. There’s no way I’m letting someone die because I started a literal fire while I was having sex. Tying the end of Betsy’s leash around the mailbox pole, I turn and run toward the back door of the hotel.

  I wrap my scarf around my nose and mouth and then duck back into the building. Inside, the smoke is thick and I have to feel my way to the stairs. “Hang on!” I shout. “I’m coming!”

  Staying low, I crawl my way to the third floor and into the front bedroom, but the smoke is stinging my eyes now and I can’t see anything. Through the open window, I think I hear the beginnings of sirens, but it’s going to be slow going for the fire department up the icy, winding curves of Puffin Drive.

  I should turn back, but I can’t. I’ve done some dumb things lately, but none of them have resulted in someone’s death, and I’d like to keep it that way. Dear God. Get me and whoever else is in here out of this alive, and I promise I’ll be a better person, I think. I haven’t been to church since Easter and I’m not sure if God even hears the prayers of Holiday Christians like me, but at this point I’ll try anything.

  “Is anyone here? Call out!” I yell. Everything I know about fires I learned from watching my mom’s favorite TV show, 911 Fire Rescue, the one where the characters look more like models than firefighters but every episode features at least three dramatic rescues.

  “Over here.” The voice is weak. It’s coming from the far corner of the room.

  I shimmy on my belly, flailing out with one arm until I make contact with what I think is a leg. Squinting, I make out the form of a boy about my age, or perhaps a little older. He’s thin, with brown hair and pale skin. His boots and the cuffs of his camouflage pants are crusted with mud. He’s got the neckline of a black fleece hoodie pulled up over his nose and mouth.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Sam.” He’s clutching his stomach with one hand.

  “Come on, Sam,” I say. “The fire is still downstairs. We can get out of here, but we’ve got to go quickly before the smoke gets us. Can you crawl?”

  “Yeah.” He coughs violently before choking out a muffled “I think so.”

  We inch our way back to the doorway of the room, but crawling down stairs is trickier than crawling up them. “Sit on your butt and go down them one at a time,” I say. “Stay low. We’re almost there.”

  Sam grunts but doesn’t say anything else. Halfway down the stairs, he stops and mutters something under his breath. His
hands frantically pat the ground around him. “I can’t find Beau,” he says.

  “Who’s Beau?” I ask, cursing under my breath. What if there’s someone else in here? What if the whole damned place is full of squatters?

  Then you’ll be a killer.

  Sam doesn’t answer. I try again. “Is someone else living here? Is Beau your friend?”

  “He was here a minute ago,” Sam says. “He can’t have gone far.”

  My heart pounds double-time at the thought of someone else passed out in the building, but I have to get Sam out before the fire spreads and traps us both inside. “Keep going,” I say.

  “Beau’s been with me since Elvis died,” Sam mutters.

  I don’t know jack about Elvis, but I know he’s been dead longer than this kid has been alive. Maybe Sam is drunk, or delirious from the smoke inhalation.

  “Keep moving. You’re doing great,” I say. By the time we make it back to the first floor, Sam is keeling over to one side, his eyelids drooping low like he’s about to pass out.

  “Stay with me,” I choke out. “I’m not strong enough to drag you.”

  He doesn’t respond, but lets me push him toward the open back door. The front part of the lobby is now engulfed in flames, thick black smoke rising from tongues of red fire. “Fucking vodka,” I mumble.

  Flashing lights dance across the bay windows. I half drag Sam the last few feet through the back door and out into the cold night just as three firefighters—a man and two women—in full gear round the corner of the building.

  They rush up to us. The male firefighter takes one look at Sam and shouts, “I need a stretcher back here right away!” He turns to me. “Are you okay?”

  I cough. “I think so.”

  Sam has collapsed to the ground, his eyes closed, his face smudged with black soot. The firefighter drops to a squat. He reaches two fingers toward Sam’s neck as the two women head inside the back door. “Are you the one who called it in?”