Explosive Forces

by D. D. Ayres

  Silence. Then, “I don’t know what to believe. And I want to do the right thing here. For the moment that seems to be not taking sides.”

  He folded his notepad. “I get it. I respect that. If you’re scared, I can—”

  “I’m not scared.” Carly popped a grape in her mouth and chewed. “I’ve been fifteen rounds with Death once before. And lost. I don’t like losing, okay?”

  He looked deep into her eyes and believed her. “Someone you cared deeply about? Right?”

  “Don’t push me. I bite.”

  He believed her. It would hurt like hell, too. But he suspected he wouldn’t mind. “Fine. Then tell me how I can win your trust.”

  To his utter surprise she seemed to consider his question. She wanted something from him.

  She reached over a cut a wedge of cheese and nibbled one end before speaking. “I’m worried about my shop being vandalized before I can get my things out of there. I’m still looking for pieces of jewelry. Some are quite valuable. The insurance adjuster suggested I hire security until I can collect them all.”

  He nodded. “Done.”

  “I wasn’t asking for help. I was going to ask for a trustworthy recommendation.”

  “I know. I know someone reliable, diligent, and trustworthy.”

  “He sounds expensive.” She reached for another grape but only stared at it like it was crystal ball. “Like I have much of a choice. Can he do it on short notice?”

  Noah nodded. “I guarantee he’s available.”

  She smiled at him. The effect of it went all the way to his groin. Harley, nose practically in Noah’s crotch, made a whiny noise. Just what he needed, a dick odometer.

  He picked up his fork, salivating at the food before him. “We’ll talk later.”

  She didn’t smile again, just cut another wedge of cheese.

  While Noah and his dog went out so that Harley could do his thing before they headed back downtown, Carly stacked their plates and went in search of her aunt.

  She found her peeling potatoes at the sink.

  “Thanks for lunch. And I’m sorry about your cake, Aunt Fredda. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”

  “No need.” Fredda looked over at her. “That dog didn’t eat my cake.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m not saying I’d put it past a dog to eat cake. But then wash the platter?” She pointed her potato peeler at her best cake plate resting in the dish rack. “You ever known Jarius to wash a dish he didn’t use?”

  Carly almost felt sorry her cousin. Caught out by his mom. And Aunt Fredda was not one to be crossed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hemmed in by scrub brush and barbed wire, the driver sped along Shelby Road, a rural lane south of town, at sundown. As the turnoff for Village Creek Motocross passed his window, he scowled. He’d planned on making an appearance at the 4th Dealer Series competition next weekend, followed by an evening celebrating at Bikini’s in Arlington. But now all his plans were shot to shit.

  He rubbed his gloved hands over the steering wheel. He needed this fix very badly, to work off some stress before he made another mistake. He needed to relax. Clear his head.

  Only one solution for that.

  After a few minutes a black-humped shape appeared in an empty field off on the right, backlit by the embers of the sunset. That’s what he was looking for.

  He checked his rearview mirror. No car on the road. Piece of luck there.

  He shut off his headlights and braked hard, fishtailing off the blacktop and onto a gravel road where the truck bounced over the metal cattle grate into the field.

  The bouncing continued, jarring his teeth, until the truck jolted to a halt as a tire slammed into a deep unseen rut.

  He gunned the engine twice, hoping the tire would grab traction and spin out of the hole. But the only things ejected from the rut were clods of dirt.

  Swearing viciously, he slammed the truck door shut and walked back to inspect the tire. At least it hadn’t blown.

  He swung his head left and right, the plastic shower cap he wore under his baseball cap crackling. A car was in the distance, but he doubted they would notice a truck in a field with its lights off. If they did, it was too dark to make out much. Even so, he didn’t like being out of his truck before nightfall. He might be spotted and later described. For that reason, he’d stopped to take off the truck’s license plate when he hit open country. It was a risk worth taking if he was stopped.

  Lost my tags, officer? Didn’t even know it. That’s the last thing I need about now.

  Then he’d have casually mentioned he worked for CowTown Fire and Water Disaster, then revealed his volunteer fire department credentials as he went for his license. Funny how that always worked up a conversation. Didn’t matter if he or she was a trooper, deputy, or patrol. Law enforcement seemed to get a hard-on when talking with firefighters. Most times he got away with a friendly warning. What did they call it? Oh yeah. Professional courtesy. That’s what he was. A professional firefighter. Even if he worked for an all-volunteer fire department. Why didn’t the shit-for-brains candidate review board of the Fort Worth Fire Department get that?

  He went to the back of his truck, shifted free a section of planking, and shoved it under the stuck tire. It didn’t matter that he got mud on his clothing. The disposable biohazard coveralls he wore from work didn’t shed, leaving no fibers for forensics. It and his booties would go into a Dumpster in Mansfield.

  Once back in the cab, he reversed his engine and stepped on the gas. This time the truck moved, tire gripping wood to move up and out. Problem solved.

  He was good at thinking on his feet. Problem solving. This last time, he’d scored well enough on his third attempt to make the cut from thirty-two hundred applicants to seventy real contenders.

  He exited the vehicle and tossed the board back onto the truck bed. Never leave even casual evidence. Details. The devil and difference between success and failure was in taking care of the details.

  That’s why he’d liberated this truck from a dealer of junk cars over in Kemp. Everyone suspected that not all the vehicles were legally obtained. If a truck disappeared from where he kept his merchandise in his front yard, who was he going to call? Ghostbusters?

  He snickered at his own joke. First time he’d cracked a smile all day. He put the truck into drive and continued toward his destination.

  His failure three weeks ago to make the final cut from seventy to the final thirty selected to become firefighters came at a high price. It caused him to make a mistake. A big one. The result was lodged in his brain, humming like a hornets’ nest night and day.

  FIRE KILLS HOMELESS MAN: ARSON SUSPECTED.

  Every day since, the headline played through his every thought like the crawl at the bottom of a newscast.

  He jerked the wheel to avoid a water spigot in the field.

  He wasn’t a killer. He scouted his sites regularly, never knowing when he’d need one. No evidence of squatters, or even the occasional homeless seeking shelter that night. He’d walked the perimeter himself.

  Should have checked the second floor.

  He would have if he hadn’t been sobbing so hard he couldn’t hardly function. He was always careful.

  No, he wasn’t a killer. He’d been made a killer.

  By Noah Glover.

  He’d nearly gotten his revenge too.

  But then his most detailed and cunning plan was wrecked. By a woman.

  He pulled up in front of the abandoned mobile home. Gloves on, he grabbed a can from the rear and moved toward the trailer, anticipation a boiling rage in his gut.

  Finally, he drew out the lighter, the only thing his father ever gave him.

  Bright flames of light soon licked at the structure.

  He stood well back and watched as dozens of glowing cinders flashed through the rising column of smoke like fireflies on a summer night. The anxious gnawing in his stomach soon turned to butterflies.

  F
inally, cleansing release.

  And a new plan began to emerge.

  Of course. Why hadn’t he thought it before?

  Better than death. Prison. Glover would be alive to suffer, a long time.

  He grinned, wishing he could stay longer. But that would be careless.

  He didn’t turn on a light until he reached the road again. He could see cars coming. The fire must be seen for miles now.

  He pulled onto the highway, watching to see if anyone noticed. But the first vehicle slowed and then turned into the field that he’d just left. Maybe he hadn’t been seen. His gaze flickered back and forth from rearview mirror to unlit road. When the second vehicle paused at the same turn in, he knew he’d gotten away.

  He drove into Mansfield and left the truck with a friend who let him park it on his property. He checked the truck carefully, grabbing up the floor mats his feet had rested on. Then he carefully folded up the plastic drop cloth he’d sat on while he drove. Finally, he walked over to his fire truck, emblazoned with the Edgecliff Village Fire Rescue decal and dumped his evidence inside, along with the gloves and shower cap.

  His mind was clear.

  All of his problems began and ended with Glover. No Glover. No problems.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  She couldn’t breathe. Blistering heat pressed in on her from all sides. Smoke invaded her nostrils, forcing its way into her throat, blocking her scream.

  She couldn’t move. Merciless darkness held her down.

  Her chest heaved. Spasms of fear quaked through her.

  In the distance a dog howled, long and mournful.

  She was dying. She didn’t want to die. Not yet.

  Carly sat up in bed, cold sweat trickling down her back. Even with eyes open, she couldn’t shake the sense of terror. Darkness blanketed what should have been familiar. Where was she?

  Possibilities skittered through her thoughts as she strained for clues.

  Was this Brooklyn? The track of an elevated train ran at eye level outside the tiny efficiency apartment that she’d shared with two other hopeful models. But no, no sounds of that urban lifestyle filtered back to her.

  Was she in the Parisian Left Bank studio she’d later shared with several rotating flight attendants? They’d seldom slept there, only dropped off bags and changed clothes between parties and flights.

  She held her breath, waiting to hear the ancient wrought-iron elevator that clanked up and down the building like an elderly relative.

  Nothing.

  Piombino, Italy? No, the suffocating sense that still held her in its grip was the opposite of the fresh, sea salt–tinged air of the Italian port city where she and Arnaud—

  Where was Arnaud?

  She felt in the darkness beside her. The bed was empty. Then she remembered.

  Dead. Arnaud was dead.

  Shivering, she reached to turn on the bedside lamp that revealed the small bedroom of her latest home, a loft apartment on Vickery in Fort Worth, Texas. She lived alone. She was alone. As she had been for the past four years.

  “Get up, Carly. Get up and move!” The command, spoken out loud, gave her motivation.

  She picked up her robe, opened the door, and stepped out onto the third-floor balcony that ran the length of her apartment. Downtown Fort Worth shimmered in the near distance like a movie set backlit by a haze reflected from the canopy of clouds. Wind whipped past her body with a chill factor unexpected. March in Texas was like that. Eighty-five during the day. Thirty-five by dusk. Tornado weather.

  But tonight there was only the cold breeze that felt good against her skin after her dream of unbearable heat. Yet the restless feeling supplanting it wasn’t better. It stung like the winter-tinged air.

  Restlessness was dangerous. It was the call of the nomadic life she’d left.

  She’d come home, after a decade away, to put down roots. To make a stand, on her own terms. But the fire the night before had destroyed more than merchandise. It had put an abrupt end to her hopes that the transition would be simple, and easy.

  Once more she was a tangled mess of loose ends. With nothing to show for her efforts. So then, who was she?

  Carly Harrington-Reese was no longer a simple eastside girl. Nor was she a world traveler, with too many high-profile acquaintances but few real friends. She’d jettisoned both former selves for Arnaud. And lost everything. Now here she was again, with nothing to show for putting everything she had into a project.

  “Not now,” she whispered to herself. Tonight the dead should stay buried.

  Once pushed aside, the anxiety of her dream descended again.

  Carly pulled her robe closer, eyes darting right and left. Why did she feel spied upon? As if it was possible for someone to search her out on her third-floor private balcony. No reason to fear anything.

  Yet, at the moment, she felt very unsafe. Unsheltered. She could have died the night before. She hadn’t let herself really think about that until now. It was too scary. But that explained the dream. Her unconscious dealing with what she refused to. It didn’t explain why she was suddenly thinking of Noah Glover and Harley.

  She knew next to nothing about Noah Glover. She did know he commanded the loyalty of a dog willing to risk his life to save his handler. Harley had brought his owner to her attention. If not for the big bear of a shepherd, they might both have died in the fire. A fire deliberately set.

  Carly shivered and wrapped her arms tight about her waist. Who in her life would be willing to risk death to save her? Cousin Jarius? Yes. But he was a police officer. Protecting the public was part of his job description. Not that she needed saving, exactly. She needed comfort. The nudge of her body down low confirmed what she hadn’t been thinking, waking her libido.

  “Fat lot of good that’ll do you, Carly.” There was no one to call.

  Suddenly she remembered how Noah had looked in the nude, his jaw set in defiance while his body arrogantly ignored all proprieties. No defensive gesture on his part to cover anything. He didn’t need it. Everything on display was worth staring at.

  He was hard, everywhere. Muscles strapped his shoulders, rippled down his arms and impressive thighs. Yeah, about those thighs. Firemen spent a lot of time climbing and carrying heavy equipment as they did so. Noah must still work out with them to stay ready, if needed.

  A suddenly warmth spread across her skin. She’d seen tons of perfectly toned bodies before. Slept with a few. But gazing at Noah had been a distinct departure. This was a real man, built for real life, not the runway or a perfectly staged photo opportunity. They weren’t movie muscles. His body was built for work.

  It was a novelty to look at a man who hadn’t been manscaped within an inch of his life. Noah was all raw male with just enough red-blond hair covering his chest to make examining him interesting. For instance, whorls of hair encircled each of his flat male nipples, erect in the chill of the room. That light furring tapered down his chest to flank his navel before arrowing down to the payoff.

  And it was worth it.

  Even half aroused in a nest of red-gold curls, there was no mistaking the potential of his johnson, yet to be fulfilled.

  Carly slapped a hand against her cheek, shocked that she’d remembered so much of him in such detail. “You don’t even like blonds.”

  Not exactly true. She had just never been drawn to light-haired men. But she wasn’t thinking about “men.” She was remembering in pulse-accelerating detail one man. And to think she thought she hadn’t paid that much attention.

  She suspected most women only had to look at Noah Glover to want to crawl into bed with him. Despite his ordeal, he’d looked like an ancient gladiator standing in that hospital room—solid, hard, willing, and able to have whatever he chose.

  Stirrings of sexual warmth surged through her, bypassing attraction, longing, and desire. The punch it packed was one hundred percent lust spreading into her breasts and clenching low down in her pelvis.

  She was lusting after Noah Glover. That th
ought astonished and embarrassed her.

  Carly shook her head, harder this time. “Waste of time, building fairy tales about a man I’ll probably never see again.” He was most likely even now tucked up against his girlfriend somewhere, sated and safe.

  It had been a long time since she’d thought about being sated and safe.

  “Not a good time for this, Carly.” Lusting over an unobtainable alpha male was giving in to passion without reality. She needed a dose of reality, badly. Frank, irreverent girlfriend talk. That’s what she needed.

  She turned back from the balcony and went to pick up her cell phone. 1:27 a.m. Too early to call Gillian in New York. Though, knowing her, she might still be out on a Saturday night. Sunday morning in Paris. Allete would not soon forgive her for interrupting her beauty rest. So, no one to call. She pocketed the phone.

  She took a step and froze as something gave a shrill squeak.

  She looked to see what she’d stepped on. It was a fuzzy duck with a squeaker in its bill. She’d bought the doggy chew toy along with dog food for Harley.

  She picked it up and held it against her chest. She hadn’t realized until Harley spent what was left of last night with her, how much she missed having a pet of her own.

  “Now see? You need a dog.” Once said aloud, she felt better.

  Maybe she’d name it Cooper II. No, that wouldn’t be fair to a new pet who’d come with her or his own personality. But a dog suddenly sounded like a very good idea.

  Dogs were always there, ready to cuddle and happy to see you, with none of the entanglements that had ruined the relationships in her life. A dog would watch TV with you, share your popcorn, and not comment on how inane chick flicks were. And hadn’t she already watched Bridesmaids twelve times?

  Yep, dog not guy. Much safer. If not nearly as satisfying in one major area.

  Not that there had been that many guys. Arnaud had come along when she was barely nineteen, and taken charge of the scared ingénue’s career. As one of the hottest fashion photographers in the business, he knew the culture inside and out. He’d made her a star while she’d fallen for him so hard, the foundation of her life shook, and then cracked.