Beyond Heat

by Ashley Logan

  Green-handed, might be a better description. When he spies the swipe of paint on the back of his hand, he rubs at it furiously, as if to erase the evidence and perhaps the very idea from my mind.

  “Is it a secret?” I ask, trying not to laugh as I inch forward again and rub the green from his face. He stiffens at my touch and I pretend not to notice as I wipe the last of the paint from the corner of his eye.

  “Not anymore,” he whispers, before clearing his throat and looking ready to run.

  “Well your secret is safe with me,” I say, looking at the green with even more interest. “Do you paint landscapes?”

  “Sometimes.” His voice is still soft and partially strangled, even though I’m no longer touching him. “I should go and clean my brushes before they go hard.” Wincing, he shakes his head and stands up. Running a hand over his short black hair, he eyes the door, before turning back to me with a look of indecision. Apparently torn, he seems to need to stay, though he’s clearly desperate to leave.

  Realizing I’m the reason, I sit up straighter.

  “You should go clean your brushes,” I say in a light tone, hoping to convey the shift in my mental state since he’d recognized my distress earlier. “I’m much better now. Thank you for staying with me, Bruno. For everything,” I add as I think of my delivery to bed each night.

  Nodding with tight lips, he practically runs out the door. I wait for his door to click shut and then lie back on my bed. The blankets are too close to me and I shove them further away before settling back again with a sigh.

  Rolling to my side, I stare at the night-light. The low-watt bulb casts a steady, dim glow that I find comforting because no matter how long I watch it, it never flickers like flame. Sighing at myself, I roll back to stare at the ceiling. I hate that I’m twenty-three years old and still need a night-light.

  Twiddling my thumbs, I think about tidying my room, but decide against it when I think what Bruno might say if he sees my room tidy in the morning. Frowning, I sigh at the ceiling again. Since when did I start caring what Bruno Jackson thinks?

  My inner voice laughs. Since you danced as his lover and he looked at you as if he wished it was true.

  And you liked it.

  Sitting up, I look at my open door and get up to shut it, as if to keep my thoughts more private. Settling back on my bed, I close my eyes to recall each tender gaze, every searing touch during our time on stage together and every kind word he’d uttered when I’d confronted him.

  He’s never shown such feelings before. In fact, I’d doubted he even had a full spectrum of human emotion prior to last night. Always argumentative or moody and dismissive, he usually follows any pleasantness with an immediate change of attitude and a rude comment. Tonight’s behavior has left me deeply unsettled - mainly because of the alarming heat between us when he’d held me in his arms and stared into my eyes, but more so because I loved every minute of it.

  Not once during rehearsals, had he displayed any such interest. Mind you, he’d almost gone out of his way to avoid my eyes when we’d been practicing. It was like dancing with someone who would rather have done anything else, including having their teeth pulled, or their toes pounded by a maniac with a sledgehammer. It had made every move extremely difficult and timing had been almost impossible to get right. He’d only faced me properly once I’d scolded him for being such a jerk and warned him that he had better not ruin Vi’s brilliant choreography and therefore the entire night of the GlamSlam fundraiser, or I would personally see to it that his nuts were kicked into his throat. He’d eyed me severely then, but he’d made the effort to improve his participation - even if he’d glared unhappily at me every time our eyes met. It was an empty threat, but effective. Probably because he’s seen how hard I can kick.

  Sighing again, I consider our earlier conversation and wonder how he could so easily convince me that his kind words are true. When he called me beautiful, I didn’t doubt for a second that he meant it.

  And he likes me. Very much.

  He’d said so with such bold conviction, I couldn’t doubt that either. Coupled with the electric heat of the evening, these things made sense when he spoke them.

  My fingers trace the outlines of the scars under my shirt. He speaks of my beauty, even though he’s seen what lies beneath my clothes. Countless times.

  What does it mean if I believe him? That I might actually be beautiful, or only that I want to believe it?

  And what does it mean if I like him thinking I am, and that I want him to keep thinking that way?

  Do I like Bruno Jackson? As more than a gym partner?

  Laughing at myself, I shake my head. Ridiculous. The guy is a complete jerk most of the time.

  For a minute there, I must have lost my mind.

  Bruno may think he likes me, but I’m far from those feelings myself. At best, I’d say he’s tolerable. He has a great body. Better than great. His muscles are so hard and defined it’s as if he has been carved from clay to depict the gods in flesh, but boy does he know it.

  On ladies’ night, he flaunts his body way more than any of the other guys and he has a swagger to his walk that lets you know exactly what he might be capable of in the sack. It’s no secret that he’s made good use of the audience either, with many return customers angling to get another night with him. Curious as I may be, I don’t need to follow in their footsteps to get laid. Shuddering, I try not to think about how many women he must have slept with. Definitely not a positive factor, if I’m looking at pros and cons.

  There must be something wrong with me if I’m even deliberating this, surely. How good was it to be in his arms? I close my eyes, thinking about it. Almost immediately, my heart begins to pound and my breathing changes. My breasts perk up at the thought too and my nipples harden as goosebumps rise across my skin.

  Oh Scarlett, you are in big trouble.

  Sighing, I try to think of pros, to convince myself of his potential. Bruno Jackson has moments of generosity and decency, but they’re fleeting and disappear just as frequently as he does to goodness knows where all the time. He’s probably spent too long in the military growing a shell too hard for regular people to penetrate.

  Again I find myself wondering about his scars. I know he’s been shot, and I know he’s been injured near his spine - not because he’s told any of us much about it, but because I’ve seen those scars and we’ve had brief discussions about rehab exercises at the gym. He’s told me he had to learn to walk again after his accident.

  What worries me more, are the scars I can’t see. The ones that turn him into a snarling beast if he’s been human for too long. I may have been the wolf who was skinned alive, but I am mostly healed, while Bruno still licks his wounds in the corner, snapping when anyone comes near. He needs more time; he said so himself.

  With that in mind, I take a deep breath and dismiss anything I thought I was feeling since dancing at GlamSlam. None of it came from a reliable source, so I can’t trust what it is that I may, or may not have enjoyed about Bruno’s company.

  With my mind boggled, it’s too annoying to work out the truth of it all, so I won’t bother.

  I think about getting out my notebook to plan the next chapter in the book I’m trying to write, but it holds no interest for me right now, and if I don’t even want to write it, why would anyone want to read it? Sighing, I stare at the ceiling and wait impatiently for morning to come.

  Dreading more nightmares, there’s no way I’ll be going back to sleep. Huffing, I roll over and glare at the wall. Fear induced insomnia would be much less irritating if I had something decent to dwell on, but I can’t seem to think of anything but Bruno Jackson and maybe climbing into his bed to seek further comfort from him. I won’t though.

  And knowing I’m disappointed about that, may be the most annoying thing of all.

  THE SUN ISN’T EVEN up when I hear movement in the hallway. Craning my head to look at my alarm clock, I see it’s barely past five. Who the hell is up at th
is time? Most of us are on a warped schedule from the club. We work late, we sleep late. I’ve never heard anyone up at this time before, though I do tend to sleep very soundly.

  Happy that someone else is awake and I’m not alone in that regard anymore, I pull on my robe and step out into the hall.

  Empty.

  Eying Violet’s open door, I confirm my suspicions that she didn’t come home from Serge’s place and it makes me smile. That girl deserves to get laid.

  Turning to Bruno’s door, I see it is still closed and a ‘do not disturb’ sign hangs from the knob. I chuckle to myself as I head towards the bathroom. Bruno, you’re already disturbed.

  Pausing outside the bathroom door, I hear sounds coming from within. Confused, I look down the hall toward Bruno’s room, trying to decide if he’s in there or not. This bathroom is the furthest from all the other bedrooms, and by design, only Vi, Bruno and I tend to use it. The shower turns on and again I wonder why anyone would be up so early after such a big night.

  Curiosity is a part of me I find very difficult to suppress. My dad always said I’d make a good detective, but I never had an inkling to be a hero. I’d rather find out more about the good stuff in life than get tied up trying to understand the bad. That’s depressing.

  Padding softly back to my room, I grab my notebook and pen and head back down the hall, knowing that I am desperately jumping at any distraction to keep my mind off Bruno Jackson’s recent confessions. Making myself comfortable, I lean against the wall and wait to solve the mystery of the early morning shower user.

  As I doodle pictures of cats in the margin of my notepad, I start to smell flowers. Staring at the thin strip of light below the door, I look again at Bruno’s closed door. Surely not. Would he act like he did towards me and then go out and score some random piece of ass? Wouldn’t I have heard him?

  I hear a throat clear behind the bathroom door and a strong, sweet voice begins to sing. The song isn’t one I recognize, but the Estonian accent is. It’s Natalia. Singing!

  We’ve all known she could, but we’ve almost never heard her - probably because she’s doing it at five in the freakin’ morning!

  Bruno’s door swings open and he stands in his boxer shorts looking as if he’s been awake all night too. His eyes meet mine as he steps softly down the hall and crouches to speak to me.

  “Is that Nat?” he whispers, nodding at the door.

  “Pretty sure it is,” I whisper back. “Have you ever heard her sing?”

  Shaking his head, he stares at the bathroom door as he settles on the floor next to me. Closing his eyes, he leans his head back on the wall. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I can see why they took her,” I agree. “Gorgeous and talented.”

  Natalia’s song ends and she clears her throat again. When she begins to sing again, the song is something off the radio, and she does a much better job than the artist. Bruno and I smile at each other and say nothing, for fear she might hear us and stop.

  We’re treated to three more songs before the shower turns off, at which time, we look at each other and panic. Gathering my notebook and pen, I tail Bruno back towards our rooms as quickly and secretly as possible.

  He grins at me through the crack as he quietly closes his door and I whip into my room, closing mine as I hear the bathroom door open. Leaning against my door with a pounding in my chest, I find myself grinning too.

  When I’m sure she’s gone, I open my door a crack to make certain. Poking my head out, I catch Bruno doing the same thing. As he turns and meets my gaze, he beams like a kid who just escaped punishment.

  Trying to hide my own smile, I shake my head at him. “You didn’t sleep either, did you?”

  His grin fades and he shakes his head.

  “Do you think she does that every morning at five?” he asks, looking away down the hall.

  “You know how I sleep. I’m sure she could take an entire marching band in there with her and I’d have no idea. But I’ll be getting up tomorrow to check,” I reply, giving him a wink as he turns back to me.

  His smile returns, along with something else in his eyes that makes my cheeks begin to warm.

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” he says with a quiet laugh as he looks into my eyes. His bottom lip disappears into his mouth. Frowning, he opens his mouth as if about to say something. He doesn’t. Just shakes his head and adjusts his posture as if he’s above talking to me. Standing taller, he rubs his bare chest and throws me a dismissive glance, before stepping back inside his room and shutting the door.

  Blinking a while at the empty hall, I shake my head too. Jerk. Flipping the bird at the space he recently occupied, I scowl at his door with its stupid sign on the knob. Creeping toward it, I quietly detach it and use my pen to edit the phrasing. Setting it gently back over the knob, I return to my room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BRUNO

  Making my bed neatly, I do a final scan of my room and find it immaculate. All painting gear is safely stowed in the bottom of my footlocker and its combination padlock is back in place. Brushing a small wrinkle from my pillowcase, I sigh with satisfaction.

  Edging toward the door, I cautiously press my ear against it, listening for any sign from my troublesome neighbor. When the coast is clear, I tip toe out of my room and gently close my door to avoid the give-away ‘click’. Blue ink on my door tag catches my eye and I see that Scarlett Warner has made her own addition to it.

  Do not disturb - any further!

  My lips twitch into a smile and I look at her closed door. Lightly stepping over to it, I flip the old hotel door tag around and hang it on her knob, laughing to myself a little as I creep away down the hall.

  Out on the street I take a big gulp of cool air and try to convince myself I’m not tired. Ducking into Bernstein’s for a cream cheese bagel, I wander along to the metro station to catch the train uptown.

  Jumping off at Delavan, I walk back down to Damon’s place on Florida Street. Knocking on the door of his basement suite, I check the time and cringe.

  Eventually the door opens and Damon stands in his drawers looking none too pleased.

  “If you know I was still awake at three, what the fuck are you doing here before lunch?” he asks, standing aside to let me in. “How fucked up are you?”

  “Very. Put your running gear on. We’re going out.”

  Damon’s shoulders sag and he rolls his head back, lolling his tongue. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Nope.”

  Muttering under his breath, he disappears into his bedroom. Still muttering, he finally returns wearing his shorts and Velcro sneakers. “I bet it’s fucking cold out there too,” he says as I remove my coat. “Are we talking?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. I can’t be fucked running and listening to you whine like a little bitch. Through the park?”

  “Yup.”

  Watching me a moment, he narrows his eyes. “Definitely not talkative this morning,” he says in a low tone. “Not gonna jump in front of a bus on the way there are you?”

  Smiling, I shake my head. “Na. You know I hate mess. I’m not that bad. C’mon.” I walk out the door before he can argue.

  Jogging a block, we stop to stretch.

  “Heard from Jenkins at all?” Damon asks as he uses someone’s fence for support as he stretches his quads.

  “Not since class last week,” I reply, thinking about our other friend who attends the same art class. “He was a bit quiet. Why? Have you talked to him?”

  Damon shrugs and itches his bearded chin with one of his stumps. “He sort of dropped me a line the other night. I thought he might want to talk, but he made an excuse to hang up pretty quick.”

  “What kind of excuse?”

  “Something about his Mom. I swear, that guy needs to move out of home.”

  “You think he’s going down?” I asks, re-evaluating everything I can remember about the last time I saw Bradley Jenkins. “Should we kidnap him after class to
day?”

  Damon twists both ways and jumps on the spot. “I think it’s entirely necessary. You call his mom and tell her.”

  “Why me? She likes you better.”

  “Because you have fingers, ass-face.” Thrusting a stump at me, he grins. “This gesture used to work so much better when I had some.”

  Laughing, I bat his arm out of the way. “Fine. I’ll call her. I just wanted you to have equal opportunity.”

  “I fucking hate that phrase.”

  “I know. Let’s go.”

  We run in silence a while, taking our time, because neither of us is really in the mood for it, we just both need to get out sometimes. We’ll feel better for having done it.

  “It’s pretty through here, but it’s depressing as fuck to look at gravestones all the time,” Damon complains. “Maybe I should move downtown, sooner.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Maybe I can get a job at your strip club and invite the crowd home on ladies’ night. Some sweet young thing is bound to wet my cock for me.”

  “With romantic proposals like that, I can’t see why not,” I say, laughing a little. “But if you want to dance, you’re more than welcome to come along.”

  Damon sighs. “I can’t dance for shit and I can barely dress myself, let alone do a striptease. I was joking, dick.”

  “I wasn’t,” I say, slowing to a stop. “The whole point of working at Beyond is to get over the hurdles you’ve built for yourself. If you want to feel sexy, just go feel sexy. Who gives a fuck if it takes you twice as long? Chicks dig it when you draw out the suspense.”

  “Uh-huh. And they love it when an ugly, no-hands bastard like me is the one doing it. Get real, Jackson.”

  “Everyone thinks they’re ugly sometimes. Doesn’t stop me.”

  Damon kicks me in the butt as I keep walking. “Easy for you to say, Adonis. What the hell have I got to offer the crowd?”

  “Anything you’ve got,” I reply punching him in the arm. “If you’re fishing for a compliment, I’m not going to tell you you’re pretty, so forget it. The offer is there if you want. Maybe you should come by and meet some of the others, like I’ve been telling you to do for months. You might be surprised.”