Beyond Heat

by Ashley Logan

  Looking at her sideways, I cringe as she touches up her lipstick in the mirror. “Ew.” I reach for the door handle and hesitate. Leaning over, I kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks for everything, Mom. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Sweetpea. Think on it some?”

  Nodding, I step out into the crisp air, taking the jumbo-sized care package of homemade cookies with me. Boarding the train, I barely wait two minutes before I open the huge cookie tin and shove a caramel crunchie in my mouth. Screwing the lid back on, I stare at the ginger cat on the tin. It looks a lot like Gordon, only not so chunky. Maybe more like Gordon when he was younger.

  I wonder if his cat biscuits taste as good as Mom’s caramel crunchies, because I’d be chunky then too. Thank goodness I left home when I did - not because I have a thing against packing on pounds, I just know I’d get ‘I’m feeling sorry for you’ cookies on a regular basis and that’s what bugs me. There is no way I was ever going to get on with my life if I had to live with that.

  I make a face at the young, Gordon look-a-like as I imagine Mom saying dancing naked isn’t the ideal healing pathway to take. I don’t see why not. I love dancing and I need to feel better about myself when I’m naked. Stripping seems like the perfect solution. Already I think my confidence has improved, I just don’t know how much longer I’ll need to do it before I can practice it off-stage. Somewhere along the way, the intimacy factor nails me.

  On stage, performing for strangers, I don’t worry about what they might be thinking. There are no strings attached. Being with a non-stranger in a bedroom is a different scenario.

  That’s why I don’t have sex in bedrooms.

  I prefer casual hook-ups where I can keep most of my clothes on. Lifting my skirt in an alley is the best sex I ever have, mostly because I hate the look in a man’s eyes when he sees me naked for the first time. Once the shock wears off, the pity takes hold and who the hell wants to be banged because the guy feels sorry for you? He’s already made the effort to get you into bed, and if he backs out, he’s an asshole; so he steps up to the task with the view of getting it over and done with. Either that, or every guy I’ve nailed in Buffalo has a problem with endurance.

  “If I knew you had a thing for gingers, I would never have said anything last night.”

  Ripped from my thoughts by Bruno, I stare at him uncomprehendingly. He points at the cat on the giant cookie tin. “That your boyfriend?”

  Shaking his head, he looks around the train carriage. “Sorry. I don’t want things to be weird between us. Can I sit down?”

  I shift to the side to give him room, hugging the cookies for comfort. “You saying stupid shit is normal. You apologizing for it is what makes it weird,” I say without looking at him. He sighs, but I ignore him.

  “So you’ve been to see your folks?”

  “What gave it away?”

  “Apart from your defensive attitude? I’d have to say the mammoth tin of baking in your lap.”

  I glare at him and hold the tin tighter. “I’m not being defensive.”

  Bruno raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Okay.” He watches me a moment, his eyes dropping to the cookie tin. “Maybe that explains it.”

  Wishing he would stop talking to me, I check how far it is until our stop. Too far to ignore him for that long. “What are you talking about?”

  He nods at my cargo. “Your Mom must have made caramel crunchies.”

  Staring at him, I wonder how he could possibly know that. Mom often sends me home with enough baking to feed the small army I live with, but what’s inside her crazy, old-lady baking tins is almost always a mystery. Sometimes it’s cakes or loaves, other times it’ll be slices or muffins, and on the occasions she makes cookies, it’s usually a variety of flavors.

  He shrugs, as if I’ve confirmed his accuracy with my awe. “No way would you be hugging any other cookies that tight. So your folks are well?”

  “They’re fine.” Frowning at him, I release my grip on the tin a little. Sighing, I unscrew the lid and offer him one.

  “Thanks. I love these things.” He shoves the whole cookie in his mouth and smiles at me with bulging cheeks. I look away, not wanting to smile at his stupid face because he’ll think I like him. I screw the lid back on and try not to think about how close he is to me and how that feels.

  I can feel the heat between us again, where his body is touching mine. Just as unsettling as it was yesterday, this new development has me trying to understand it. He smells of cologne and paint and beer and there’s paint on his jeans in the shape of a partial footprint. I’m sure there’s a story behind that, but if I ask him to share, I’ll be sending him the wrong message. I do not like Bruno Jackson as anything more than an acquaintance.

  Acquaintances can still query politely, can’t they?

  “Where have you been?” I ask, attempting a polite conversational tone.

  “Why are you asking when you don’t care?” he says, moodily.

  “Just because I don’t care, doesn’t mean I’m not curious.”

  His jaw tightens and his eyes avoid me. “Fair enough.”

  I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “So you’re not going to say where you’ve been this fine Sunday?”

  “Out.”

  “Oh good. I thought you were going to be vague about it.”

  His eyes return to me momentarily before moving off again. Crossing his arms, he looks down the train as if eager to run out the doors when they open.

  “I guess I have no choice but to fill in the blanks, then. After praying for your miserable ass for several hours at church, you went to a new bar, where the waitresses wear nothing but paint. You got lippy, so one of them kicked you out, which is when you decided you should get on the train and head for home, because Kat’s cooking tonight and it will taste like someone loves you.”

  For a while he stares at me, his eyes full of something I can’t read. I start to think that maybe I’ve over-stepped the mark. He smiles slowly, but it’s unnaturally forced. “Kat’s cooking tonight?”

  “That’s what the roster says.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Was I close?”

  “I did spend some time in a church and in a bar,” he says quietly, moving so as to see the paint on his jeans. He sighs. “But I wasn’t praying and no-one kicked me out of anything, though quite clearly someone did kick me.”

  “You didn’t notice?”

  He shrugs. “I was with friends. We rough-house sometimes.”

  “With paint?”

  “Sometimes.”

  I laugh a little at how ridiculous this conversation is. “Sounds fun. Here’s our stop.”

  Bruno stands up and waits for me to get out of the seat before following me to the doors. They open to Fountain Plaza and I turn to Bruno as I feel him hesitate.

  “You coming?”

  Shifting his weight onto his back foot, he shakes his head. “Hoping to make the library before it shuts at five. See ya later.”

  Confused, I turn as I step off the train. “The library? Really?” I ask as the doors close. His face impassive, Bruno raises a hand in farewell as the train moves away.

  Getting out my phone, I Google the library’s hours. Sure enough, it closes at five on Sundays. Why would he lie about that anyway? I ask myself as I start walking home, wondering all the while what kind of books Bruno Jackson checks out of the library. I assume they don’t loan pornography. Laughing as I think about the state those magazines would be in, I walk along Chippewa St with my biscuit tin, heading for home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BRUNO

  Scarlett avoids me for the rest of the evening, which is fine by me, I guess. It feels normal, at least.

  We all had a few drinks at dinner to celebrate Violet’s romantic success and then she and Scar disappeared. Lying on my bed with my door open, I can hear them giggling in Vi’s room and can only guess that they’re catching up on what’s happened over the weekend.

  Shutting my door, I walk back to the bed,
looking at the door tag Scarlett returned to my doorknob. She’s crossed out ‘the room’ and scribbled above it. It now reads ‘Please make up your mind’.

  Her way of saying I’m being weird; showing interest and pulling back at the same time. I can’t think of anything clever to reply with, so I just put it on my bedside table. Taking out my phone, I text Serge.

  Me: There is a shit-load of giggling coming from Vi’s room right now.

  Serge: Giggling is good, I think. Laughter, not so much. You up for a game tomorrow? I can book a court at the Rec for just after 5?

  Me: Works for me. Whatever you did, she’s glowing.

  Serge: I’ll never tell. Also, judging from the show last night, you and Scarlett have quite the connection.

  Me: Was some fine acting, for sure.

  Serge: Didn’t look like you were acting.

  Me: I wasn’t. Don’t ask.

  Serge: Ah. I see. Well, good luck. See you on the court - and bring your A game!

  Me: I don’t have another. Say your prayers.

  Serge: Easy fella. Don’t forget who won last time.

  Me: I was going easy on you because of your age.

  Serge: First mistake. Also, you’re 28. You’ll be my age in no time.

  Me: Yeah yeah. See ya tomorrow. And thanks for helping Vi.

  Serge: It’s been my immense pleasure.

  Me: Dude. Over-share.

  Tossing my phone on the bedside, I scoot up on my bed and lean against the wall. Flipping through the book of famous paintings I borrowed from the library, I find it difficult to focus as the girls continue to giggle just across the hall. Fanning out my other selections, I pass over a couple, choosing the book of advanced yoga poses.

  Probably too tired to hold most of the suggested poses for very long, I gravitate toward the relaxation section of the book. Getting into a comfortable position, I begin my meditation. It’s something I’ve been practicing for a few years now, since one of my clinicians suggested it to relieve my anxiety. I’m not anxious in the same ways anymore, though I still prefer to feel in control of every possible situation.

  These days, my main concerns stem from an inability to get it up. Worrying about it makes it worse, but I can’t seem to stop.

  In the years since my accident I’ve tried almost every option available to me, with countless women, only to fail miserably every time. My best years are going to waste, and though I am now very competent in pleasuring a woman without the help of my dick, I’m terrified I’ll never have sex again. Natural sex, none of that messed up shit I’ve tried over the last six years.

  The pills worked. Too well. After having my dick drained with a giant needle at the hospital, I will never be brave enough to try them again. I’ve tried a pump, but the thing left my dick raw and aching, and it’s not exactly the mood you’re trying to set when a girl is waiting for it. I don’t even want to think about the inflatable pockets that my doctor said can be surgically inserted into my cock and filled when I want to get it on.

  Shuddering, I try to push my thoughts aside. Dwelling on my limited capabilities, or what they actually mean for me long term is not what I want to be thinking about right now. The girls giggle again and I wonder what they’re actually talking about.

  Maybe it’s me.

  “Enough,” I say out loud as I ready myself to begin. Clearing my mind, I focus on my breathing and try to ignore the bursts of girl-y noise that penetrate my bubble. Sighing, I try a different angle.

  Closing my eyes, I focus on an image in my mind instead, making an attempt to fulfill Descartes’ philosophy of ‘I think, therefore I am’. With each breath, I become more engrossed in a sordid fantasy. Wearing nothing but her little booty shorts, Scarlett performs a particularly seductive routine on stage in the dark, empty club. Almost empty.

  I’m there. And she knows it.

  Her legs are bent up behind her as she spins slowly around the pole. Every muscle is taut with the difficult movement, but she revels in it and as she meets my eyes, she smiles as if it were as easy as buttering bread. Unable to keep myself from doing so, I catapult myself over the barrier and up onto the stage.

  Stopping her before she spins away, I bring her face back to mine and kiss her deeply. Lifting her from the pole, I take her down to lie on the stage where I can worship every inch of her. Marveling at her breasts, I dispatch her thong, throwing it into the empty seats below. Licking her into a writhing frenzy, I listen to her moan as her hands reach out for something to grab on to. Her hands try to twist in my hair, but it’s too short. Grabbing my ears, she pulls me back to her lips and kisses the taste of herself from my mouth. Her hands run over my shoulders and down my back. One of them slips into my pants. Grabbing my ready dick, she frees it from my jeans and guides it to her slick entrance, opening wide to me. Driving in, I watch her face twist with agonizing pleasure, because she’s been wanting this as much as I have. Her grip on my dick is hot and intense and I don’t remember sex ever feeling this good. Pounding into her, I never stop looking in her eyes, so she knows how much I want her. Someone knocks on the door, but I ignore it, sinking into her deeper as her lips curl into a sexy smile and she cries out for more.

  “Bruno?”

  I jump, because I know her tone is wrong for this fantasy. Pulled back to reality, I look up to find Scarlett and Vi in my doorway staring at me.

  “Sorry to startle you,” she says, looking at me funny. “You didn’t answer when we knocked.”

  Running a hand over my head, I check my crotch, glad for once that it doesn’t betray my recent thoughts. “Why is it that you’re knocking on my door?” I ask, still trying to ground myself in the present.

  “We’re making hot chocolate to have with Mom’s cookies before bed. Do you want one?”

  Well. This has got to be Violet’s idea, because Scarlett wouldn’t usually include me in such things. It would mean spending time with me, which she doesn’t enjoy unless we’re at a gym.

  “We can bring it down here if you like,” she suggests when I don’t respond fast enough. “You’re obviously busy doing... something. Why are you on the floor like that?”

  I clear my throat to choke the lust down. “I was meditating.”

  Her eyebrows quirk downward. “For real? Like, in your happy place?”

  “Something like that,” I say, frowning at her tone. Vi nudges her in the side before walking away toward the kitchen. Scar watches me for a few long seconds.

  “You sure looked happy,” she says in a strange, more serious voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with that particular smile on your face. What were you thinking about?”

  Getting up off the floor, I turn my back to her as I stretch. “The aim is to not think about anything,” I say, tidying my library books into a pile to conceal some of my selections. “Hot chocolate sounds good. Maybe I’ll join you guys in the living room.” I walk to the door, but she blocks me in.

  “It’s impossible to think of nothing,” she says, scanning my face for clues. Keeping a blank expression, I give her nothing to work with, which is bound to piss her off.

  “Not for the truly enlightened,” I argue.

  “Are you trying to tell me you’re truly enlightened?” she asks, trying not to laugh.

  “Not at all. I’m just saying, that’s the end game.”

  “I had no idea you were so deep,” she says in a mocking tone as she leans against my door frame.

  “I was deep alright,” I mutter as I slip past her. Balls deep.

  Hot on my heels, she trails me to the kitchen. She’s so close, she must be playing at something. Before we get to the end of the hall, I spin around and she crashes into me. Grabbing her before she falls over, I hold her so close that her breasts are touching my chest and it throws me for a second. “What are you doing?”

  Flustered, she reaches up to brush hair out of her eyes, but doesn’t resist my touch. Her breath hitches and she looks from my chest to my face.

  “Nothing,�
� she says, with barely any breath at all. For a moment, just a moment, she looks at me like she did last night when we danced. Recovering herself, she pushes away from me, crossing her arms over her chest. “I just really like cookies.”

  Biting down on my smile, I move to one side so she can pass. Scarlett eyes the gap I’ve left her and meets my gaze again. Normally I’d expect her to charge straight through me, but today she hesitates. Interesting.

  “Well if you’re in that much of a hurry, don’t let me stand in your way, sweet tooth.”

  “Even when you’re not in the way, you are,” she says, poking me in the chest as she slides past, unable to keep from brushing against me. Very interesting. Before yesterday, Scarlett would literally have kicked me out of her way if I was even remotely in it, but today...

  What am I doing? Flirting? Flirting with danger. What happens when I can’t back up what I’m starting?

  “You coming in here, or what Bruno?” Vi calls from around the corner. Stepping out of the safety of the hall I glance around the empty living room before standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Where is everyone?”

  Vi shrugs and grabs the milk off the counter. “It’s Sunday night. Maybe everyone’s out making the most of a night off.” Stirring a little cold milk into all three steaming cups, she nudges one towards me as Scar fills a plate with cookies. Thanking her, I lift my hot chocolate and blow on it as I watch Scar screwing the lid back on her cookie tin and smiling at the ginger cat on it.

  “You’re normally out on a Sunday too big guy,” Vi says casually as she passes Scarlett her drink. “How come you’re home?”

  Knocked a little off guard, I shrug. I wouldn’t have thought people bothered to notice my comings and goings. “Too tired. I was thinking of having an early night,” I reply, trying not to look at Scarlett now that she’s not distracted. I take a sip and reach for the biggest caramel crunchie, only to bump Scarlett’s hand as she reaches for the same cookie. We both pull our hands away in a rush. Our eyes meet and I swallow roughly.