Contents
COVER
Copyright
Dedication
Playlist
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
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
Dear Readers
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2018 by Avery Kingston
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to my husband, my muse, the one who started it all. Without you, Scott and Tori would never have come to life.
Thanks for being a dirty pervert, just like me.
MULTIMEDIA
To listen to the songs that inspired this story, go to Avery’s playlist: Chasing Fire Playlist
Avery’s Pinterest board of images and aesthetics: Chasing Fire PinBoard
fire·storm
ˈfī(ə)rˌstô(ə)rm/
noun
an intense and destructive fire in which strong currents of air are drawn into the blaze, making it burn more fiercely.
PRESENT DAY
Seven months, three days.
That’s how long it had been since she’d gotten laid. Longest. Dry spell. Ever.
Of course, sex is what had gotten Tori into this mess to begin with.
“Just think of it like popping your cherry all over again.” Keith’s laugh cackled through the speaker of her phone. “Not many women get that opportunity, especially girls like you, Vic.”
“I’ve warned you time and time again about slut shaming.” She did her best to give him a huge eye roll over FaceTime, but a smirk tugged at her lips in spite of her irritation. “Just tell me… How do I look?”
“Hot. Just enough cleavage that you’re only mildly slutty.” The dress was grey, but Keith promised it wasn’t drab. “The color brings out the blue in your eyes.”
She huffed. “Let’s just hope he keeps his focus on my tits.”
Keith giggled.
“How’s my makeup?” For a girl who’d spent years painting breathtaking art on canvas, she’d always been terrible with eyeshadow—smoky eyes being her total nemesis.
“It’s fine, Vic.”
Fine. Ugh. What had she been expecting him to say? That it was a masterpiece?
“Now are you gonna go get laid or sit here on FaceTime with me all night? You’re seriously putting a damper on my plans for this evening. I’m scaring off all the men in this restroom by talking to you. Unlike you, I don’t have a scheduled fuck tonight. I have to go shake my tail feather for it.”
She breathed heavily through her nose. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Have fun, gorgeous. You deserve it.”
Three beeps later, the line went dead.
She walked over to the desk, grabbed her purse, and dropped the phone into it. She looped it over her shoulder, crossing her chest securely. Her fingertips searched the smooth wooden dresser for the room keycard. Zipper pocket left side, she reminded herself as she tucked in the card. Her hands trembled as they reached for her sunglasses. She paused, thinking of all the time she’d spent on her eyeshadow. The thought of going out in public without them, the world seeing her vacant gaze, made her skin crawl.
“You can do this,” she whispered and let them lay. She’d seen his biggest flaw; he could see hers. Fuck everyone else.
Her hands continued across the dresser, meeting the cold graphite poles. She grabbed them, pulled off the elastic loop and with a quick flick of her wrist, her cane came together with a snap. She clutched it to her chest, gripping the handle so tightly she was certain her knuckles turned white. Such irony that the one thing that secured her safety made her feel so vulnerable. With a heavy breath, she moved forward.
Tori walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her. She headed the short distance to the elevator. Her palm slid along the wall, searching for the buttons, then pressing the bottom one.
The metal doors creaked open. She listened for anyone exiting. Silence. She swiped her cane and stepped in. Her fingers trailed the floor selections. She recalled “LOBBY” had been on the bottom-right when she’d checked in. The raised braille dots confirmed it. She punched the button. The doors squeaked shut, and she counted the floors beeping by. The last thing she wanted to do was repeat the embarrassment of getting off on the wrong floor again. The elevator came to a halt and chimed as it opened. She felt the left side of the jamb for the raised dots. “LOBBY” it read. Good job.
Her cane scraped across the marble tile until her ears took in the faint swishing of the revolving door. She opted for the regular door next to it. Stepping outside, she pushed her dress down, making sure her ass wasn’t showing. Her heart pounded in her ears, and her cheeks grew hot. The lack of fabric made her feel on display. She used to relish in the attention from strangers, but now she wished she could blend.
The bar she was going to was close—less than a quarter a mile—not far by DC standards. DuPont Circle was one of their normal meeting spots, so she knew the area well. Familiarity was key in her life now. She walked ahead, her cane leading the way, scraping across the brick tile underfoot. Her ears took in the cacophony of everything around her: the blaring of horns, people bustling by her, and bits of conversations as she passed.
The sidewalk was uneven and full of ridges. Heels were a ridiculous idea. She slowed her pace, praying she didn’t trip. Her cane dipped off the curb and ran over the raised, textured walkway. She swiped to the left, and the clank of metal indicated she’d found the pole. She ran her hand down to the crosswalk button, flinching as a speeding bus whooshed past her.
The signal beeped, starting a countdown. Walk, walk, it began. She waited and listened, moving forward only when she was certain the surge of traffic was going the opposite direction. If she’d learned one thing, it was to trust her ears more than the signal. Tori’s heart pounded. No matter how many times she’d done this, it was still nerve-wracking.
Her cane hit the curb and she stepped up. She let out the shaky breath she’d been holding in. Music spilled out from the doorway to the bar on her right. She followed the sound up the stairs.
"Good evening, miss. May I assist you?" boomed a deep male voice as she approached. The man didn’t startle her. She knew a bouncer or two would be at the door, and of course, the cane drew attention.
“Yes, I’ll be meeting someone here shortly. If you could show me to the bar, I’d appreciate it.” She flashed her most confident fake grin.
“Of course.” He so
unded like James Earl Jones. “Luke, I am your father,” echoed in her head.
He didn’t ask for a cover. In her old life, the waiving of the cover would have been because she was a scantily dressed, hot girl. Now she was uncertain if it was that reason or her blindness. Hell, maybe it was both.
He placed her hand under his thick bicep and led her into the bar. She folded her cane, felt for the seat, and sat, placing her belongings on the counter. She thanked the bouncer as he left.
“What can I get you, ma’am?” the bartender asked.
“Red wine, a blend, preferably,” Tori replied.
“Coming right up.”
She touched the dots on her watch. Eight fifty. Ten minutes till he’d arrive, and God knew he’d be on schedule. She’d allowed herself extra time in case she got disoriented. He’d be shocked she arrived before him. Her heart pounded in anticipation of being with Scott again, and she regretted not ordering something stronger to ease the pressure building in her temples.
“Here you go, miss.” The bartender set the glass in front of her.
She slid her fingertips along the marble counter.
“A little to your right,” the bartender said kindly.
“Thank you.” Her fingers finally met the stem. Her shaky hand lifted the glass to her glossy lips. Stop being so nervous. This is Scott.
TEN YEARS EARLIER
Scott stared at the book, the words blurring on the page. His buddies had left the academy over thirty minutes ago, and he was kicking himself for not going with them. One rare weekend they get an overnight pass, and he’d said no, further instilling his reputation as the most disciplined midshipman. Making SEAL would be tough, and odds were most wouldn’t make the cut. He had no plans on being on the wrong side of the axe when it came down. He was working his ass off, and it was costing him every bit of free time, which wasn’t much to begin with.
What’s wrong with me?
He was about to go cross-eyed, and nothing was sinking in. Fuck it. A few drinks wouldn’t hurt. He rubbed his tired eyes, slammed the book shut, and called a cab.
Their normal place to drink was a dive bar in Georgetown, picked for its proximity to the university, which meant drunk, hot college chicks. It was a shit hole, but they were military guys and didn’t need much. It had a twenty-five-cent jukebox full of great nineties music. There, they could shoot darts, watch football, and play pool while getting wasted for next to nothing.
“Well,” Jones hollered as Scott waltzed in the door, “look who graced us with his presence!” he teased. “The Golden Boy has come out to play.” Scott took a seat as Jones slapped him on the back.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Forty-five-minute cab ride to this dump, only to get harassed by you clowns. Now shut up and let’s drink.” Scott waived his hand, flagging the waitress down.
“Tell me what you have on tap.”
She rattled off a list of beers and he settled for a Shiner.
“Beer? Oh, come on, Harris. You can do better than that. Live a little,” Jones said.
“And shots of whiskey for all,” he added, giving Jones a glare for not letting him finish his own damn order. He could drink those guys under the table. It took a lot for his six-foot-three frame to get buzzed. These fools were about to see who could hold their liquor better.
“Hell yeah,” Jones said.
The men loved to get him wasted to break his composure. It also didn’t hurt that he was a fun drunk.
“You got it, honey.” The server gave him a wink and came back several minutes later with their drinks and doled them out.
“Boys, to a night we’ll never forget.” Scott raised his glass. “Or, even better—one we do.” He grinned, then downed the shot, chasing it with a swig of beer.
They sat there for some time, eating greasy food, watching football, laughing, and shooting the shit with each other. He was glad he came. He needed this.
“Who’s up for pool?” Scott stood from the table, chugging the last of his drink.
“I’m down.” Jones stood.
A few of the other guys followed them to the pool table. The rest stayed behind to watch the game and hit on the waitress with the big knockers.
Jones grabbed the cues as Scott racked the balls.
“Hey!” a girl’s raspy voice shouted at him. “Haven’t you ever heard of ladies first? I paid for that game, ya know!” A small hand swatted at his. He glanced down at the gypsy-looking hand touching his with dark red fingernails and several silver rings. His gaze followed the arm up to a girl staring at him with a feisty grin plastered across her face.
She’s hot. Really. Fucking. Hot.
Scott suspected she was too young to be in the bar but pretty enough the bartenders looked the other way. Her long blond waves cascaded far past her bare shoulder.
“Well?” Her plump, pink lips curved around in a wide, mischievous smile.
“Sorry. We got here first,” Scott gave a lopsided smirk. “You ladies will have to wait your turn.” Normally, Scott was a gentleman and would have let the women have the table, but with her challenging stare, he wanted to see how this played out. His eyes bounced from her to her friends. The group reminded him of the beatnik weirdo’s back home in Austin. A few were cute, but they paled in comparison. He set his sights back on her.
“Or, I could play you for the table.” She planted her hands on her hips, raising a challenging brow. Her big, icy blue doe eyes taunted him—the man towering over this tiny, little thing by nearly a foot.
Scott’s laugh bellowed through the bar. “You could try, sweetheart.” He was an excellent pool player; nobody could beat him.
Her smile grew even wider, which he hadn’t thought was possible. “Sweetheart?” she said with a southern twang, poking at his accent. As much as he’d tried to get rid of that drawl, it still crept up on occasion. Scott sensed she liked it from the buttery grin plastered on her face.
“Come on, you and me. Winner takes the table for the entire night.” She hopped onto the green felt, giving him no other option. “Unless you don’t think you have the skills…” she dared him with a shrug of the arms.
“Ok.” He chalked his cue. “Winner takes all.” He turned to his buddies. “Get me a shot. I play better the more I drink.”
“Make it two, boys,” she called over her shoulder, flashing two fingers. She glanced back to Scott and carelessly tossed her hair as her legs swung back and forth off the side of the table. “I also play better drunk.”
She was so damn adorable he could hardly stand it. “Ok then. Let’s see what you’re made of. You go ahead and break.” He nodded toward the table, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
She hopped down and grabbed her cue. He leaned against the wall and watched her.
“Better saddle up, Cowboy,” she said.
Oh, how I’d love to. I bet she’s one hell of a ride.
She leaned over the table far enough that her tits spilled out of her tank top. He knew she did that to distract him, and it worked. He admired her cleavage as she made a nice tripod with her left hand and broke. She got a striped ball in on her first move.
She looked at him with a raised eyebrow as if to say “Told you so.”
“Anyone can get one in on the break,” Scott cocked his head to the side, “but not bad.”
“Not bad? I’ll show you not bad,” she grumbled. She sank three more striped balls, one right after the other, finally missing her fourth shot.
“Your lucky streak came to an end.” He pushed her out of the way with his hip. “Move over now, and I’ll show you how it’s done.” He sank two in right off the bat and missed his third, and he cursed himself internally for looking like a schmuck.
“So, I got four and you got two…” Her eyes flicked upward, and she tapped her finger on her lips, as if she was counting. “If I calculate correctly, I’m currently leading.” She waltzed over to him and bumped him with her hip. “Move over now and I’ll show you how it’s done,” she mocked i
n a low voice.
They played for some time, continually teasing each other. Scott quickly realized this girl knew what she was doing and he may have met his match. At that point, he couldn’t have cared less if she beat him. This was about far more than a pool game. The booze and his primal instincts were taking over. He wanted to take that teeny, little thing, throw her over his shoulder, and ravage her body.
“Well, Cowboy, it’s your shot.” She nodded to the table, breaking him from his trance.
He leaned over the table. The balls were lined up perfectly. He just needed to sink that eight ball. He drew back the stick and tried to focus, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught her bending over the jukebox, her thong poking out of her jeans. Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” poured out of the speakers. That sultry, opening guitar lick practically screamed sex. She was playing dirty—and it worked. He missed the damn shot.
She had one last ball. She lined up, hit low, and set a nice spin on the cue, following through her ball to the corner pocket. She was set up perfectly for the final shot. It took no effort for her to sink the eight ball into the pocket for the win.
“I’ll take that.” She yanked the cue stick from his hand. “Sorry boys,” she shouted over her shoulder to his friends, “you’ll have to play pool another night.” She turned to her friend. “This is for you.” She tossed the other stick to her friend with the pink hair and nose ring. She spun back around and re-racked the balls.
Scott came over and invaded her space. “So that’s all I get?”
“You lost. A bet is a bet.” She strutted away, taking a swig of her beer, but he could see her glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
“How about the name and number of the first person ever to beat me at a game of pool?” He moved closer to her, his body nearly touching hers. He scratched his temple as he waited for her response.
She tilted her head, crossed her arms, and those steel blue eyes looked him up and down.
Chasing Fire: (Fire and Fury Book One) Page 1