Through Fire (Portland, ME #3)

by Freya Barker

  With a quick hard press of his lips against mine, he’s gone.

  “Whew!” Viv smiles, flapping her hands in front of her face. “I think I’ll pull the chicken from the cooler. Gives me a chance to cool off,” she teases, shooting me a wink in passing.

  Tim

  Kissing Ruby is amazing. Having Ruby be the one to kiss me is mind-blowing. Makes me feel like the fucking king of the world.

  A part of me wants to pump my fist that a woman, who has every reason not to trust men in general, would voluntarily put her lips on mine. Hard to walk away from, but I wanted her to have a lingering taste of the power she has. My dick is not in agreement. Too bad. His day will come.

  “Are you coming in or what?” My mother is standing in the open door, her hands on her hips, in a don’t-mess-with-momma stance. Not one she adopts often, but I know I probably deserve it. I’ve been avoiding her for weeks.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, as I lean down to kiss her cheek. There’s no rib crunching hug that would normally follow. Those deceptively powerful arms stay down in a show of displeasure. Yeah. Momma’s pissed.

  “Two weeks, Timmie.” I cringe at her use of my childhood nickname. “Two weeks of leaving messages, not knowing if my boy was lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

  “Dramatic much, Jane?” my father snorts, while rolling his eyes. Probably not a great idea when Mom is worked up like this. Sure enough, her ire switches from me to Dad, who winks over her shoulder at me.

  “Dramatic? I’ll give you dramatic.” Mom’s volume goes up a few decibels, and I quickly close the front door behind me to spare the neighbors. “While you were sitting by that front window, lusting over that new bit of fluff that moved in across the street, I was pulling out my hair worrying about our son.”

  Oh Lord. I try to tune out the ensuing bickerfest between my folks. That bit of fluff is Mrs. Henderson, a seventy-year-old widow, who dresses like a gypsy and became an object of frequent discord between my parents since she moved in last year. New bit of fluff, all right. Dad had mentioned once that she reminded him of Mom when she was younger, which for obvious reasons did not go over too well. Mom is seventy-three.

  My parents were both from what was called a proper family and married in 1965, at the very cusp of the flower power movement. For two people with their kind of upbringing and rigid social structure, it was a liberating time. One they were completely swept up in. I remember growing up that free love was a concept they continued to enjoy pretty openly. It wasn’t until I was in high school, that their swinging days seemed to come to a grinding halt. An unexpected pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage at forty-three, when your husband had his boys blocked five years earlier, was enough of a reality check. From what I know, they’ve been monogamous since. Not something I particularly want to think about.

  Mark and I had a great childhood. Never lacked for anything. I have to admit, I sometimes wonder whether the fact we are both in our forties and unattached might be significant.

  “Come see what I’ve been doing.” Dad breaks through my thoughts and I’m surprised to find Mom no longer in the room. I can hear her though, banging pots and pans in the kitchen. Definitely still pissed.

  “It’s that leftover barn wood you gave me,” he says by way of explanation, as he ushers me out the back door into the cold.

  “God, Dad, it’s fucking freezing. Can’t we grab a coat first?”

  “Heater’s on in the shop, quit yer whinin’.”

  Sure enough, the open coils of the old electric heater Dad has hung in the rafters of his wood shop are red hot. Christ. One of these days the place is going to go up in flames. The beam it’s hanging from, and the surrounding wood of the ceiling, is already toasted dark. It wouldn’t take much. Making a mental note to disable that fire hazard and get him a new heater, I turn to look at his worktable. Stacks of neatly bevelled and smoothly oiled pieces of wood in different sizes are covering the table.

  “I may not be able to create masterpieces like you can,” my father waves his hand over the collection of pieces, “but I can still bring out the beauty of old wood in these cutting boards and coasters,” he concludes.

  I pick up a cutting board and take a closer look and feel. Smooth as butter, without a ridge or splinter in sight. “They look great, Dad. Really beautiful, but what are you planning to do with all of these?” I ask him, only just now noticing the workbench against the wall is stacked with at least the same amount of neatly rounded and polished wood.

  “Sell them,” he says in a firm voice. “I’ve always wanted to take your mother on a cruise, but we never really had the money to spare. I want to sell these and use to proceeds to save up, so I can give her everything she’s always wanted.”

  A lump lodges in my throat at my father’s determination and his obvious devotion to Mom, when a thought pops in my head. “I think that’s a great idea,” I manage, sounding a bit ragged. “I think when I tell you what I’ve been thinking of doing, you’ll see how perfect your timing is.”

  At first, when I tell Dad about losing my job, something I was grateful Mark hasn’t let on about yet, he’s predictably upset and angry on my behalf. But the moment I share my own hopes of making what was once just a hobby for the two of us into a business, his eyes light up in understanding. “Veldman & Son,” I mumble, but Dad shakes his head vehemently at that.

  “No. Vintage Veldman,” he suggests. I have to admit, I like that even better.

  “Perfect,” I approve. “A family business. And I’ve already hinted to Mark that if he’s interested, I would love for him to look after the business side. With his connections in the community, we’d already have a foot in a few doors.”

  When I spoke to Mark he hadn’t been too convinced, but wait till he finds out what Dad’s been up to. I already know of a possible taker for those coasters and some of the cutting boards.

  “Be my dream, Son: building something together with my boys. My dream.” I feel the corresponding burning in my eyes to the tears forming in his, but before either of us gets too soft, Dad clears his throat.

  “Better go see if your mother has gotten over her snit, or we’ll be eating our lunch from the garbage.”

  Chuckling at the truth of his words, I follow him out of the shop, taking one last look back at what must’ve taken the old man weeks to make.

  Mom only has a hint of snit remaining when we troop into the kitchen and is quick to dole out tasks of hand washing, table setting, and drink fetching. Within minutes, we’re sitting down to lunch the size of a proper Sunday night dinner. Like Dad, Mom reacts with fire to the news and circumstances of my dismissal, and just like Dad, she lights up at the thought of me chasing an old dream. She’s less convinced about my father being part of this new venture, listing age and a slew of possible health reasons why it might not be a great idea for him to get involved. Dad just smiles and nods, knowing full well he’s going to have his way on this, but doesn’t breathe a word about his motivations. I don’t say a thing either, it’s not mine to tell, and listen to their usual bickering routine.

  For the first time, I can hear the deep love they have for each other underneath the squabble. I realize I may well have allowed my views to be tainted by judgement.

  By the time I wave goodbye and get into my car, I feel lighter and more excited about my life than I think I’ve ever been. And with a view to the future—before I tackle phase two in my life improvement: Ruby—I will be making a stop at the Audi dealership tomorrow.

  Fuck!

  Ruby

  A steady stream of customers keeps me busy all day. Thursdays are popular, because it offers the all-you-can-eat special. Before Syd had her little boy, she was in charge of the day’s special, but for now, Viv’s taken over that task. It’s usually a single pot item; something that easily stretches and is quickly served. Today’s special is chicken pilaf, a sweet and spicy stew of onions, tomatoes, peppers, and chicken, with a sweet component: sliced peaches, served over a bed of rice. I ha
d a taste before the dinner rush and begged Viv for the recipe. She said it wasn’t hard to make, and I tucked her written instructions in my purse, excited to give it a try myself.

  I’m busy wiping down tables when Viv calls me over to the bar. “Can you keep an eye on the bar for me for a minute? Been so busy, I forgot to place an order, if I don’t do it now, it won’t make Saturday’s delivery.”

  “Sure.” I drop my rag in the sink and head over to Arnie, a sweet old man who comes in for a drink and some company just about every night.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he greets me with a twinkle in his watery eyes. “When are you gonna make me a happy man, huh?”

  I’m used to his playful flirting by now. At first he made me feel very uncomfortable, but even if he noticed, he never let up with his teasing pick up lines. Once I started noticing he was no different with Sydney or Viv, I was able to relax; even able to tease him back from time to time.

  “Don’t think I’d be able to keep up with you, Arnie, but how about another beer instead?”

  His raspy laugh in response puts a smile on my face when I turn to get him a fresh draft.

  “Do me one of those as well, darlin’. And I’d make sure you’d keep up with me.” The slick voice belongs to a cheap suit-sporting, dark-haired man, slipping onto a stool at the bar. A guy like so many I’ve seen in my days and just as soon put out of my mind. I don’t say anything, just drop the draft in front of Arnie, who is not so casually observing the new customer, before grabbing another glass. Once full, I tap the side and scrape the top of the foam level with the edge of the glass.

  “Ahhh, why’d you have to do that?” the guy drawls, leaning over the bar. “I like having my hands and my mouth full.” His leer is unmistakable, as he eyes my body up and down, and I inadvertently take a step back.

  “Keep it civil, will ya?” Arnie pipes up, obviously having heard his lewd remarks.

  “What’s it to you, old man?” Cheap Suit turns his body in Arnie’s direction, leaning his elbow on the bar.

  I can feel the tension cranking up to uncomfortable levels, and even Matt, who’s been busy serving tables, walks up to the far side of the bar to keep an eye out.

  “That’s my friend you’re talking to,” Arnie bites off, and I put a restraining hand on his arm.

  “It’s okay, Arnie,” I warn him off in a soft voice for his ears only.

  “No, it’s not, girl. Just cause you work in a bar, doesn’t mean he gets to disrespect you.”

  “Ha!” The loud exclamation draws all eyes back to Cheap Suit. “Trust me,” he says with a sneer. “In her profession that’s the highest level of respect there is.” His eyes turn to me and this time I get the feeling I have actually seen him before. His next words confirm my fears. “Besides, we go way back, don’t we, darlin’? Sure didn’t expect to bump into you here; a far cry from Club Innosins, though. Gotta say you’ve let yourself go a little, but I don’t mind. I’ll have a go for old-times’ sake.” He barely gets the last words from his mouth before Arnie is off his stool and lunging at him, and Matt is already rounding the bar. I just stand frozen, as some of the other patrons jump in to hold Arnie back, and help Matt hustle the guy out the door. I barely hear the crude insults he slings at me over his shoulders. Barely...but I still hear them. And so does the rest of the pub.

  “Your cunt too good now, sweetheart? They know half of Boston had a piece of that?” And the last one, a real prize winner. “Prob’ly need a fucking excavation crew to dig out the last idiot who paid good money to get in there.”

  That’s when Viv’s face appears in my line of vision and I see her mouth forming my name. But I don’t hear a thing as my eyes trail over her shoulder to spot a scuffle just outside the front door. Before I get further than a few steps, Viv grabs hold of my arm and pulls me along, straight out the back and into the office. “Sit,” she orders, grabbing a glass and a bottle from the credenza against the wall and pouring a stiff drink of whatever. “Drink.”

  Accepting the glass with both hands, I’m shaking so hard the content sloshes over the rim. The strong scent of alcohol almost makes me gag. Instead of drinking, I try to hand the glass back. “I don’t drink.” My voice is hoarse, shock having dried up all the saliva in my mouth.

  “You’ll drink this,” she insists, her hands folding around mine on the glass.

  With her eyes trapping mine, and her hands urging the glass to my lips, I give in and take a swig of the amber liquid. The burn of it hitting the roof of my mouth is almost painful. I quickly swallow it down, focusing on the warm heat sliding down my throat.

  “Again,” Viv demands. Another sip and she takes the glass from my hands, setting it on the desk, before taking the other seat. “My guess is our friend out there knows you from before.” Viv’s words aren’t so much a question as they are a statement, and there’s little I can say in response.

  “I’m sorry,” is all I can come up with.

  “Don’t you be sorry,” she scolds me, pointing her finger at me. “You had no choice. You never did. But that asshole, like so many other assholes, does have a choice. Then and now. He chose to get in your face and treat you like a piece of dirt. You didn’t invite that. No use taking on shit that doesn’t even belong to you.” Suddenly she seems to register the tremors running through my body. “He scared you.”

  Taking a deep breath, I try to sort my raging thoughts into words. “What if he tells them where I am?” is the first thing that comes out. “I have to leave,” I push out of the chair, just as the door swings open.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tim

  “Leave where?”

  I hear her last words as I walk into the office and don’t stop until I’m butted right up against her. She has to tilt her head back to see me. There’s a throbbing in my cheekbone, and I lick at a little stream of blood dripping down from what I assume is a split bottom lip.

  “You’re hurt...” she manages to get out, before I grab her by the shoulders and give her a shake.

  “Leave where, Ruby? Run? And then? Where are you going to go? You can’t keep dragging your life behind you, like a block of concrete that holds you tethered, no matter how far you run.” I’m angry. Fuck that, I’m hurt.

  “I don’t want to,” she cries out. “But it keeps finding me!” Tears are shimmering in her eyes, but not one falls. She struggles to hold them back.

  “I heard what that asshole yelled at you, Ruby. I heard every fucking vile word from his mouth, but I want you to understand something: he doesn’t know shit. Not him, or any other motherfucker who pops out of the woodwork and thinks they’ve had a taste of you. They don’t know you. They don’t know that unless you invite them in, they can’t get a damn thing from you. Don’t even give them the time of day, Ruby,” I drop my voice to a low whisper. “Because they don’t deserve the warmth of your body, the taste of your lips, or the worry on your mind.” I close my mouth over hers and barely notice the sting from my busted lip.

  Standing in the safety of Gunnar’s office, with Ruby’s body wrapped around me and her kiss on my lips, I’m hoping she has heard me. That she understands running away won’t solve anything. She deserves so much more than that.

  “I’ll try,” she murmurs, when I finally release her.

  “I know you will,” I enforce.

  At some point Viv must’ve left the room, because when I look around I find we’re alone. “What happened to your face?” she asks, her fingers carefully feathering over my cheek.

  “Was just walking in when Matt was trying to march the guy out. I gave him a hand. Guy didn’t like it much and took a swing. I didn’t like that much, not to mention the crap he’d just spouted moments before, so I made sure he was aware of my displeasure.” I flex my fist in front of my face and only now notice the bloody scrapes on my knuckles.

  “Let me clean that up for you,” she offers, but I shake my head.

  “First, I’m going to get you home,” I insist, putting my arm around her sho
ulder and guiding her to the door.

  “I’ve got a first-aid kit at home.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I mutter, pressing a kiss on her hair.

  -

  We’d gone straight out the back, only speaking to Viv on our way. She gave Ruby a quick hug and kiss, and made me promise to look after her, which had me roll my eyes. Ruby asked Viv to make sure to tell Arnie and Matt thank you for her.

  The walk to Ruby’s apartment is silent, but comfortable, with my arm still around her shoulders. Once there, she makes me sit on one of the kitchen stools and fetches the kit from the bathroom cupboard. Both of us are silent as she clean my cuts, but when she tries to stick on a Band-Aid, I have to stop her. “No need for that,” I assures her. “It’ll probably heal faster if you leave them uncovered.”

  She tucks the Band-Aids back in the kit, when I slip my arms around her waist and pull her between my legs. “Thank you,” I tell her, leaning my forehead against hers. “Are you okay?”

  I watch the deep brown of her eyes turn a shade darker. “I’m okay. But I should thank you. I don’t think anyone has ever thrown a punch over me before.” She tries to make light of the situation, but the emotion behind it feels very real. She leans in with her body and fits her lips to mine. A move I greatly appreciate, and I show her by tightening my arms, pulling her body in even closer

  Ruby

  . My lips open under the probing of his tongue. Although he resolutely takes over the kiss, the power of unleashing such a response in him, just by the press of my lips, is intoxicating. My hands slide up and around his neck, where my fingers tangle in his shaggy locks. His hands aren’t still either, one sliding up under my hair and the other exploring my behind.

  A deep, rumbling groan rolls against my mouth when I press my body closer, driven by this need to have his imprint on me. The feel of his hard dick, pressing in the soft of my belly, causes an unusual tingle between my legs. Abruptly, Tim pulls his mouth away.