by Ashley Logan
Beyond Heat
The Beyond Series
Ashley Logan
Published by Ashley Logan, 2018.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BEYOND HEAT
First edition. June 17, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Ashley Logan.
Written by Ashley Logan.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HEY AWESOME READER!
BEYOND TOUCHED | The Story of Alexa Carrington and Damon Shermansky
About the Author
For those with scars to heal X
CHAPTER ONE
BRUNO
I wouldn’t say dancing with the elderly is my calling in life, but I’ve had a lot of practice and I’m very good at it. I can whisk an old lady about the tiles with such ease and attention, she need never worry about the phrase ‘hip reconstruction’. After weeks of grueling rehearsals for our unorthodox dance crew's performance in tonight's GlamSlam charity fundraiser, I don’t really feel like more dancing, but I made a commitment to help and I’ll see it through. When it comes to securing a hefty donation from a wealthy benefactor at this post-performance cocktail party, I feel confident it will be my dancing that’s going to seal the deal, because aside from being good on my feet, I’m really not very charming at all.
Making several comments about my ‘beautiful gray eyes’, Ms. Rumford’s disturbingly soft hands run up and down my bare forearms, making me regret rolling up my shirtsleeves. From the look of concentration on her face as she watches her hands, I get the feeling she is trying to decide if the caramel tone of my skin is genetic, or just a really decent tan.
Leaning in close, I whisper, “I was born with it,” before spinning her away as far as I can whilst still supporting her.
Her eyes flash to mine and she gives me a wicked grin.
“I had a black lover once.”
Trying not to laugh, I pull her in close again as the music winds down.
“So did my father. Thank you for the wonderful dance, Ms. Rumford. I hope you’ll support the cause as generously as you’ve kept my company. Thank you for keeping me from harm on the dance-floor.”
Holding on to my hand longer than is appropriate, she leans in closer.
“You flatter me, young Bruno. If I were a less mature vintage, you might be in serious trouble.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second,” I reply with a wink. “But if you keep my hand any longer, I’m afraid we’ll both be in trouble right now,” I add, nodding towards her approaching husband.
Sighing a little, she reluctantly releases my hand as the next song starts and her husband reaches for her. Watching them with a smile as they waltz slowly away, I turn toward the bar and stop.
Leaning over the bar and pointing the barkeep to the lowest shelf of his refrigerator, is the most appealing sight. My pulse quickens as I appreciate Scarlett’s perfect ass. The pale yellow fabric of her dress clings beautifully to her well-defined rear before falling to the floor in a shimmering cascade. Smiling as the bartender retrieves her favorite low-budget beer from the fridge, she stands tall again and tucks a loose blond curl behind her ear.
Swallowing hard, I approach the bar slowly, frowning a little as my eyes trace the lines of her gown. The fabric is cut in an older style, suitable for sensible young women from the fifties, private school headmistresses, and nuns. It covers her too much, and knowing she’s intentionally chosen this design to hide her scars annoys me more than anything. Despite the overly-conservative dress, she is the most beautiful woman in the room and I hate knowing she never thinks so.
Taking up beside her, I gesture to the bartender that I’ll have what she’s having. Rolling his eyes in an unimpressed manner, he bends to retrieve another bottle and begins pouring it into a glass. I begin to object, but Scar stays me with a hand on my arm.
“I tried to tell him it already comes in a glass, but he insists we at least make an effort to appear classy. According to him, swigging cheap beer from the bottle at this bar, even when dressed very elegantly, is the height of offensive behavior.”
Raising my gaze from her hand on my arm, I meet her green eyes and stop breathing. Scarlett doesn’t usually look at me as she does right now. At best, I sometimes get a brief smile, or maybe a bigger one if she thinks I’m not looking, but right now she’s grinning at me as if she truly likes me. Blinking twice, I turn to the bartender as he offers me the beer in a tall, frosted glass. He seems almost grateful when I remove the cheap drink from his presence and thank him.
“So people are meant to think we’re drinking fancy beer?” I ask, taking a sip and trying not to look at Scarlett for fear of never breathing again. “Does fancy beer even exist?”
Scarlett giggles and turns to face the room. “Fancy-schmancy. It all ends up as piss anyway.”
Choking on my brew, I cough as I laugh. “I don’t care what the bartender says. You are all class.”
Laughing again, I shake my head and watch the wealthy guests of the charity cocktail party as they schmooze. I want to tell her that she has more class than any of these characters, but she’ll only shoot me down. I’d like to tell her how beautiful she is, but she’ll think I’m lying, or teasing her like the jerk she thinks I am. Gritting my teeth, I realize I don’t want to say nothing. I can’t say nothing; she’s perfect.
Sighing, I tone it down. Way down.
“You look nice tonight, Scar.”
She looks down at herself and doesn’t answer. Taking a long drink of her beer, she avoids my eyes as she lowers it again.
“Thanks. You too.”
Finishing her beer, she sets her glass on the counter and studies her shoes a while before looking around the room slowly. “You think Vi and Serge got away alright?”
“Definitely. They haven’t come back and even that guy that was bothering them seems to have left. I bet they’re home, all loved up and sweaty by now.”
“Good.” Scarlett looks over her shoulder as the bartender makes to take her glass. “Fill it again please Maestro. All this dancing has got me thirsty.” He nods his understanding and sighs.
Catching my eye as she turns back around, she smiles a little. It bewitches me completely and I must know the reason for it.
“What was that?”
Looking as if she’s about to speak, she presses her lips together and shakes her head.
“Is that meant to make me less curious?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?” she asks innocently.
“What I mean is, normally you tolerate my existence. Occasionally you might refer to me as your friend. But you have smiled at me more this evening than you have in the last month at least, and now you’re refusing to discuss it. Should I be worried? Have you hit your head? Do we need to scan you for brain d
amage, or is there an actual reason why your face is lighting up in my presence?”
Scarlett’s eyebrows knit together and she puffs another curl from her face.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” I add quickly. “I like that you’re smiling at me. With me. Whatever it is, I like it. I just don’t know what I’ve done to make it happen.”
Tucking the curled strands back into her professionally styled up do, she sighs when they fall straight back out. I can almost imagine her internal monologue cursing whoever invented curling irons and just wishing she could run her fingers through her hair and tie it in a simple, straight ponytail.
“You don’t know why I might smile at you?”
“Huh?” I stop imagining running my hands through her hair and meet her eyes. “Should I?”
Frowning more deeply, she purses her lips and shrugs. “Maybe not.”
Now I can’t stop staring at her lips. Closing my eyes to keep from looking insane, I squeeze them shut tighter. “Please just say what you’re thinking, Scar.”
Sighing, she remains silent. Opening one eye, I find her drinking and I take a gulp of my own beer. Looking at me sideways, she seems half puzzled and half annoyed.
“You didn’t feel anything when we were dancing on stage tonight?” she asks, lowering her glass.
I drain mine dry as my head spins. Wondering if I have visibly paled, I put my glass on the bar, hoping Scar doesn’t see the tremor in my hand.
Did I feel anything?
Every second in her presence sends my blood thrumming through my veins and an intense ache through my body as it heats beyond all reason to some feverish level of desire. On stage tonight, I got to touch her, and hold her as I danced the role of her lover. The sensation was overwhelming.
My fingertips had blazed across her skin as I’d let her stray only so far before reeling her back in more closely than I should have. Close enough to hear the tiny gasp she didn’t mean to give me. Her eyes had meet mine with questions that her body already seemed to know the answers to.
It should have been an act; an artistic use of costumes and body language combining to fool an audience into imagining a fascinating connection coming to life on the stage, but the emotions I’d portrayed had been real. Romanced by the routine, Scarlett had slipped readily into the role of my counterpart and lost herself to the immense passion between us. It was as if all my stars had aligned when the fire we’d usually reserve for arguing, had kindled something else between us. Each touch had become a searing reminder that I was a man, and she was a beautiful woman.
Studying her now, I wonder how she could possibly think that I wouldn’t have felt it. But is she saying that she sensed my attraction, or that she was feeling something of her own? How do I clarify without encouraging her? Encouraging her would end in tears - mine probably.
Rubbing my palms down my trousers, I try to get every scrap of information from her beautiful face. Her eyes are searching mine, intent, sweet and... nervous? Biting my tongue, I watch as her eyebrows slowly lift in surprise.
“You did,” she whispers from the most glorious set of lips I have ever wanted to kiss. Her chin quivers a little and I imagine taking hold of it, tilting her lips to mine and making her blush beneath her light scattering of freckles.
At first, I don’t respond. Can’t respond. Trapped in her spell, I gratefully breathe the air she’s breathing, wanting her to close the gap between us, while wishing I could fulfill her every need.
Scarlett moves in as if to make my dreams a reality and I curse myself for letting things go this far. All the wishing in the world doesn’t make this possible. I should know. I’ve been wishing for years. I baulk, pulling away before her lips touch mine and I lose the strength to retreat.
“I can’t.”
Two words.
Two words that sum up my entire being.
Closing my eyes so she doesn’t see my pain, and so I don’t have to see hers as I reject her much desired advances, I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t feel a thing.”
Pushing off the bar, I leave immediately.
ROAMING THE AUTUMN streets of downtown Buffalo after midnight does little to distract me from thoughts of Scarlett. The truth is I’m only out walking to avoid her. It’s one of the many complications of living with the woman you secretly love.
Dragging my aching body for yet another block, I torture myself by reliving the evening and wondering how tomorrow will play out. I wonder what it was she felt when she danced with me, and if it was anything close to the intensity and heat that I feel when she’s close. Would she have brought it up if she hadn’t felt it? Will she drop it, or seek to dissect its meaning in the determined way she approaches everything else?
Wandering aimlessly, I eventually find myself on the sidewalk, staring up at the dark windows of the apartment we share with several others who work in the strip club below. A more inspiring place than most would dare to imagine, this club changed my life and brought me to Scarlett. I never thought I’d enjoy working in such a place, but I love it. Most nights I work as a bouncer, but one night a week, I display for the public what I am actually quite proud of.
I’ve been state-side for nearly six years now, and since I was discharged, I have learned to walk again, made myself strong, re-lived things no-one would ever have wanted to live through the first time, and tried my best to get back to who I thought I was before I left.
I’ll never be him again. I know it.
It’s just that moving on is hard when you’re stuck between the life you had and the life you want.
I stare up at the purple neon light above the older, fading sign of The Horny Buffalo. Beyond it says.
Sighing, I close my eyes. “I’m trying.”
It’s not as though I hate my life. I’ve found new ways to express myself and new ways to feel joy. I have a home and friends; people to talk to. That’s more than a lot of people have. Glancing at my phone I see it’s nearly 2 a.m. - not late enough.
With another sigh, I walk down to Tina’s Takeout for a feed. Waiting for my order of gravy fries, I pull out my phone and email Damon.
woodificould@: You up?
He responds faster than I’d expected.
lookma_nohands@: Your mom came over, so I’m getting laid.
woodificould@: Sorry to bother you when your hands are full.
lookma_nohands@: You know I don’t have hands, bitch!
woodificould@: I do know. What are you actually doing?
lookma_nohands@: Well I was looking at porn. Now I’m sitting in the dark listening to my own voice so I can email your dumb butt. What’s up?
Smiling at the cashier as she hands me my fries, I move to the side counter to eat them.
woodificould@: Nothing. Don’t worry about it.
lookma_nohands@: Yeah. Sounds like a whole stinking bunch of nothing. You fucking kissed her didn’t you!
woodificould@: Almost. She started it.
lookma_nohands@: For real? That’s progress.
woodificould@: I can’t do progress. Remember?
lookma_nohands@: Could if you wanted to.
My finger stabs each letter of my reply, as if to convey the extent of my disagreement.
woodificould@: No. I can’t.
lookma_nohands@: Man, there’s more to love than that. Why don’t you just talk to her?
woodificould@: I know how that conversation ends and I’d rather go on thinking there’s at least a possibility of keeping her in my life.
There it is in front of me, in my own words. I still have hope. I ponder that as I eat my fries. I’m nearly done when Damon finally responds.
Lookma_nohands@: Sorry. Had to take a leak. Just go home and talk to her.
Squinting, I try not to visualize Damon taking a piss with his hook hand. Shaking my head, I stare blankly at the menu on the wall.
woodificould@: I can’t. And how do you know I’m not at home right now?
lookma_n
ohands@: LOL. Because you’re avoiding the issue like a dumb-ass, dumb-ass. Now fuck off - unless you’re planning to come over and jerk me off because my dick still works.
Laughing, I dump the last of my fries in the trash and step back out into the cold.
woodificould@: I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again. I will never feel so sorry for you that I’ll touch your dick, A-hole. Thanks for the chat.
lookma_nohands@: You’re welcome. And I know you’re calling me names because you’re jealous.
woodificould@: So what if I am? Go fuck yourself. Oh wait...
lookma_nohands@: That’s low, bro.
woodificould@: I know. Later :P
Checking the time, I pocket my phone and head for home. It’s close to 3 a.m. and I should be more than safe from a run-in with Scarlett. That girl has an in-built ‘lights’ out switch set for two in the morning; it’s uncanny.
Dragging my wrecked body up the stairs with heavy feet, I start un-tucking my shirt, thinking only of my bed. Undoing the top few buttons, I’m pulling it over my head when I hear someone clear their throat.
Shrugging back into my shirt, I spy Scarlett sitting in the shadows in the far corner of the living room. My heart is pounding in my chest and I have to remind myself that I’m no longer in a war-zone, and I don’t need to be on guard.
Her face is mostly in shadow, but I can see that the pale gold of her hair has returned to her usual ponytail, though it still holds some of the styled curls from earlier. Dressed in old sweats and a t-shirt, Scarlett leans forward in her chair, unsettling me more than a drilling from a medal-dressed Commander. The streetlights outside illuminate her unimpressed face through the window and I swallow hard.
“Scarlett,” I manage to choke out. “You’re awake.”
“You were hoping I wouldn’t be?” she asks, sounding wounded by the possibility.
“I -”
I don’t know how to answer that honestly without sounding like a complete douche. “You waited up for me?”
“Is that so surprising after I nearly kissed you, causing you to freak out and vanish?” she asks, standing up and walking over to me. “I had to see if you were alright,” she says, looking me up and down as if to make sure I arrived in one piece. “Are you?”