Double Heat: Menage Firefighter Romance MFM

by Vanessa Kinney

  Max takes the ring out of the box and places it on my ring finger. I hold it out in front of me, letting the sun hit against it. It nearly blinds me.

  Everything in the last year has been more than perfect. Every moment that I spend with Max and Blake is better than anything I could have every hoped for. And now that we’re engaged in never has to end.

  “I love you both,” I breath out through the happy sobs that leave my throat.

  “And we love you.” They kiss the side of my cheek and hold my tighter than ever before. I know that with the both of them at my side, I’ll never be alone.

  THE END

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  King: MC Romance (2nd chance/Bad Boy)

  King

  (Bad Boy/ 2nd chance/MC Romance)

  By Vanessa Kinney

  Chapter 1

  The stars shine bright in the night sky, pulling me into their embrace. Tonight was a good night. Couldn’t have asked for anything better at this point. Not for someone new to the art scene like myself.

  “Let’s go celebrate.” Jean Le Clerc bumps into me, a martini glass still in his hand. He tilts it over his face, the last droplet sliding into his mouth. I have no idea how a man of his stature can drink so much and not be dead by the end of the night. Jean looks at the bottom of the glass as if hoping some vodka will somehow materialize there. “You have no idea how much money you’ve made me tonight, girl. Drinks will be on me. You down?” He almost falls over to the side and I catch him at the last second, making the both of us laugh uncontrollably.

  Around the corner, I see the soft gleam of my blue, rusty van. My one piece of home that I brought all the way to Portland with me. The one thing that still holds all my memories from childhood. I lean against it for a moment, letting Jean’s proposition sink in. “As enticing as that sounds, I’m exhausted. The sooner I get home and get out of these heels the better.” The aching from the bottom of my soles hasn’t stopped since I left. I curl my toes and say a little thanks that home is only ten minutes away.

  Somehow, I managed to secure a loft on my petty salary. Well, it won’t be so petty anymore. Not after tonight. I shouldn’t have any problem paying the bills now, and that means I get to keep my loft and office space.

  Jean places a open hand on the side of the van before thumping his head on it. He lets out a little groan and spins the martini glass between his fingers. I’ve never seen him this drunk before, and it almost makes me want to see what else the night holds for me.

  Jean Le Clerc runs one of the most talked about galleries in Portland, Oregon. He’s also the only friend that I have in Portland. Twice I’ve been featured by him and twice I’ve been a huge success. Selling all of my personal works and then some. I’ve gotten so many back orders after tonight that I have steady work for at least the next year. Jean takes a cut of all my work and after tonight’s orders he’s been celebrating a little too hard.

  The driver side door screeches as I pull it open. I hop into the dingy van and stick the key into the ignition, hold my breath, and turn the it. I’m praying tonight’s not the night that the streak breaks. There’s a little rumble under the hood, and the headlights flicker against the brick wall before it gets going. I let my forehead rest on the steering wheel in relief.

  “Camilla, you have to promise me that after tonight you’ll get a new car.” His eyes look the old van up and down. Taking in the rust thats gathered near the driver side door and underside. “I can’t have my top artist rolling to the gallery in this thing. You’re lucky I even let you park it on the same block as the gallery,” he says, holding back laughter and rolling the stem of the martini glass in his hand.

  “I will. I will. I promise.” Although, it’s an empty promise. This isn’t the first time that he’s asked me to get rid of it. But I just can’t bring myself to do it.

  There’s too many memories wrapped up in this van to just let it rot in the back of a salvage yard. Most good, some bad. That’s how most things work now a days.

  Besides, as long as it starts, I don’t see any reason to trade it in.

  Jean rolls his eyes and beats on the side of the van before walking off. I switch the gears and hit the gas. The engine roars to life, but it doesn’t budge from its spot.

  Fuck! Not again. I hit my palm against the steering wheel and let a slew of curse words bounce around the inside.

  When I’m done, I roll the window down and stick my head outside. I catch Jean just as he’s about to round the corner back to the gallery. “Jean! Can you give me a boost?”

  He stops in his tracks, his back facing me. His head drops down and he lets out an audible moan. One so loud that a couple of the stray dogs nearby join in.

  He turns on his heel, marches to the back, rolls up his pristine sleeves, and pushes. “I’m way too dressed up and short to be doing this every other weekend, Cami!” he shouts over the pop of the exhaust pipe. In the side mirror, I can see his little face strain as he gives it his all. There’s another pop from somewhere inside before the van starts to lumber along like a old man forced out of his comfy pea-colored lounge chair.

  I throw a hand out the window and wave to him. All I need to do is get the ten blocks without stopping. If I have to call Jean up for another push, I’ll never hear the end of it.

  The car shakes and spasms at every stop sign. Halfway home, I resort to only half stopping at the red lights. Too scared that if I completely stop I’ll be stuck on the spot. Also, going faster than thirty miles per hour is out of the question with this old rickety blue van.

  “You got this,” I say, rubbing the top of the dashboard. I can’t lose this van. I refuse to. Even if it means throwing away all the money I’ve made from last night.

  At this rate, it won’t last the coming winter, but I can’t bring myself to just discard it. My eyes shift to the rear view mirror, giving me a good look at the back of the interior.

  The old, vomit green carpet stares back. Splotches of dried up soda are on the ground and bits of popcorn are stuffed between the cushions. Some of my best memories were made in the back of this van.

  I can still clearly remember when my parents bought it for me the summer before junior year of high school. I could hear it coming down our block before I saw it. At the time, I knew that my parents had saved a lot of money to get it for me. It was their way of telling me that they were proud. And I was happy with it.

  This van’s gotten me through half of high school and all of college. Even helped me move across the country from Long Island to Portland. The back of this van was my little sanctuary. A place I could go when school or my parents were stressing me out.

  There’s a crinkle on my face and a smile breaks through. An image of Arthur Stone breaks to the forefront of my mind. I hadn’t thought of him for at least an hour. To say that he’s far from my mind would be a lie. Nothing will ever get Arthur “King” Stone out of my mind.

  It’s been four years since I left him and he still invades every part of my day. Even if I want him to or not.

  We started dating around the time that I got this van. Maybe that’s why we spent the majority of our relationship in the back seats. Our little place where we could meet and work out all of our problems. He would tell me about his foster parents and how shitty they treated him, while I talked about the pressure my parents were putting on me. In the back of this van was where our love grew. A match made in heaven, according to our families.

  When our lives felt the worst, we would always joke about packing everything up and riding the van west, as far it would take us. I could sell my paintings from the back of the van while he used it for his underground races. King was always the one with a vivi
d imagination. More cause he just wanted to get away from his foster home.

  We never did anything like that, but that didn’t mean we couldn't dream. Countless hours would be spent talking about our journey across America. How people would talk about us.

  The artist, the racer, and their rusty blue van.

  Unfortunately, life doesn’t work out the way you dream it will.

  People grow up and realize that somethings aren’t meant to be. King must have grown up faster than me when he decided that cheating with any girl that would open her legs was a better future for him than spending it with me.

  In the end, I was the only one to take that trip across the country. The only passenger was a broken heart.

  I reach a hand to my chest and feel a tug at my heart. I come up to another stop sign and let myself close my eyes for a moment. I can feel the emotions starting to take over.

  Hurtful memories flood to the forefront. He’s the reason that I left Long Island and came to Portland.

  To get away from all his bullshit and start anew.

  There was no reason to be with him anymore. He was more concerned with getting laid, racing, and doing drugs than being there for me. He made that painfully clear my senior year of college.

  It’s been hard, but I’ve made it out here by myself. Career wise, I’m at the cusp of my new life. Yet, there’s still an empty spot in my heart. The empty spot that doesn’t let me forget about King.

  It’s been four years since I left Long Island. And in that time, I still haven’t found anyone right for me. No man has ever come close to what he was, even if he broke me into a million pieces.

  I shake my head and round the corner. Through teary eyes, I see a new sign up ahead. “Crown Mechanic.” Underneath it, the “open” sign blinks with an arrow pointing to the door underneath. Haven’t seen this place before. Must have just opened up in the last week. I’ve been too busy with the gallery opening recently to pay much attention to my surroundings.

  I ease on the brake, but the van jolts to a stop in front of the shop. Something new to add to the list of things wrong with it.

  Outside, the air is crisp enough that I raise my coat. There’s no way that I can go to sleep now. Not without recounting the last couple years in excruciating detail.

  There is no part of me that is ready to get rid of this van. My next option would be to fix it up. Every estimate that I’ve gotten is way to out of my price range. A tune up and a fresh coat of paint is all it really needed anyway, at least in my mind. Just enough work done on it that it’ll get Jean off my back until at least summer.

  Inside, it’s warm and stuffy. The sounds of loud machinery come from the far corner of the room, followed by a loud hiss. There’s a desk at the front entrance, but no one manning it. A silver little bell hangs to the side with a sign that reads “Ring me for service.” My palm hits the top of the bell, but there’s no ring.

  This isn’t a good sign.

  What kind of shop doesn’t even have a working bell at their front desk?

  “Hello? Is anyone here?” I make my way through the middle of the garage. Cars are lined up on either side of the walls, each in a different state of disrepair.

  Every step that I take is calculated. I need to be careful, or otherwise I’ll be up all night washing the oil stains off my heels. I might hate my heels right now, but that doesn’t mean I want to ruin them.

  Every little hop is a little game inside my head. I make it to the end of the garage with no problem. The loud hissing is coming from in there.

  “Hello?” I shout, growing tired of this shitty service. This place isn’t off to a good start if they can’t even keep someone at the front door.

  The roar dies down, along with the hissing. A wind moves up my back, sending a shiver along with it.

  I have a bad feeling about this. Something in my gut is telling me to run. That I shouldn’t be here this late.

  I hop back over the cluster of oil spills. A new-found determination courses through me. Red lights and alarms whistles inside my head, but I can’t quite understand why. All I know is,the faster I get out, the better off I’ll be.

  “Can I help you?” A voice thunders behind me, stopping me mid hop. One foot in the air, and the other aching for relief. There’s something familiar about the voice, but I don't want to turn around. “Are you not going to turn around?”

  His shoes sound off as he walks toward me. I try to rationalize the voice that I’m hearing. Husky, deep, almost baritone. There’s no way that I could ever forget a voice like that. Not after I spent all of high school and almost all of college listening to him tell me how much he loved me.

  My head is dizzy and my calves are throbbing. I close my eyes and take in a breath. Somehow, I find the willpower to turn around.

  The light behind him shines bright and for a moment, all I can see is his silhouette. When I adjust to the light, I let out an audible gasp and almost fall down to the ground.

  What the hell is he doing here? There’s no reason for him to be here. He should be thousands of miles away in Long Island.

  I left home to get away from him. He’s the last person that I want to see right now.

  “Are you just going to stand there with your mouth wide open all night?” He inches toward me, hands ready to close my mouth. I take a step back and bring my own up to guard myself. To get away from the man that destroyed me all those years ago. “Camilla?” There’s a hurt look on his face when I pull away, but he doesn’t move forward. “I didn’t think we would be meeting like this to be honest.”

  Thump. Thump.

  I can feel my heart beating in the middle of my throat. Each breath that I take is shallow and not enough to keep my body going. Each passing second, I can feel the periphery of my vision growing blurrier and blurrier.

  The longer I stay here, the worse off I’ll be. And that’s not just because I’ll faint in front of him. I need to put some distance between us.

  Any place is better than here. I’d rather be in Hell right now than be standing in front of Arthur “King” Stone.

  The man who broke my heart and then trampled all over it. The one guy who I still haven’t been able to get over after all this time. Even after all the things he’s done to me.

  To add insult to the injury, he’s standing in front of me looking better than he ever did before.

  Chapter 2

  He wipes his hands against a small piece of cloth, trying to get the grease off. There are smudges of oil on his face, but that doesn’t take anything away from his features. His jawline is pronounced and a short trimmed beard covers it. The quick flash of his blue eyes almost throws me off my guard as he starts his walk toward me. His bulging shoulders and arms sway, the white smudged t-shirt struggling to keep his muscles contained. There’s so much that I want to say to him, but I struggle to keep myself together.

  “Wha-What the hell are you doing here?” I say, my lower lip quivering as my brain tries to comprehend what it’s seeing.

  This can’t be happening right now. Yet, there he is. In the flesh, walking toward me with that signature gloating smile of his. The left side of his lip gets caught as if an imaginary hook is keeping it up.

  Seeing that smile is what starts to make my skin burn. The past comes rushing back with full force, making the hairs on my arm stand. The last person that I wanted to see is standing in front of me, looking better than ever.

  King stops halfway toward me, his shoes resting in one of the oil slicks I had avoided before. He crosses his arms, holding that signature smile, and studies me for a second. That smile of his is what won me over a long time ago, when he was just a troublemaker. Correction, still a trouble maker as far as I know.

  “Is that how you greet an old friend?” He starts toward me, eyes moving up and down my body, taking me in. “It’s so good to see you.” He brings his hands out, almost touching my cheek, before I bat them away.

  I take a step back, but don’t stop. My eyes fixate
on him, body shaking as he stands tall over me. There’s no reason that he should be here.

  Last time I saw Arthur was at my graduation. He busted through the front entrance, the one the graduates were using to climb the steps. Drunk and full of half apologies, he grabbed the microphone from the Dean and started screaming my name.

  It was a small college, everyone knew who he was. All the graduates and parents looked in my direction, but all I could do was shake my head and ignore his drunken words. The last time I saw him, he was being dragged back behind the stage by three security guards.

  The next day, I packed up everything and decided that it was time to move on, to the dismay of my family and colleagues. Even when everyone was telling me that I was taking this too hard and being too drastic, I still left. When I needed them to back me up, they dropped the floor under me. Siding with King rather than their family.

  At the time as far as I was concerned, there was nothing in Long Island for me anymore. Only bad memories and a broken heart.

  In the morning, I let my finger run along the West Coast of my globe, until it randomly stopped on Portland.

  I figured it was a good enough distance to put between King and I. Being on the opposite side of the country and having several mountain ranges between the both of us seemed like a good idea. All in the hopes of starting anew with someone who might treat me like I was actually worth something.

  Apparently, it wasn’t far enough. ‘Cause here he is standing in front of me. Acting like four years hasn’t passed and as if nothing has happened between the two of us.

  Even through all that I can’t help, but take him in. He held himself together over the years.

  He always did.

  It’s something he picked up growing up in foster care. He always told me that he needed to be fit and strong to take care of himself, ‘cause no one else would. And in the end, that’s what he did.