January On Fire: A Firefighter Fake Marriage Romance

by Chase Jackson

  Well, it’d be someone else’s home soon. So in a way, it wasn’t really mine to begin with.

  If I was going to lose this condo, then I should at least make enough money so I can try and afford something else. Even though I had the day off from both jobs, I called both to see if they had anything available. Luckily the club had a spot. I got changed for work before I packed my bag. I had a new show-stopping number prepared. I needed a way to escape my emotions. I needed a way to become another person just for one night. I needed to get back to the independent woman I was. The one with dreams and aspirations and plans that had been set in motion.

  Not the blubbering, sleazy, pathetic woman I’d turned into now that I’d been seduced by some hot-shot rich bitch who was about to take away my home.

  But, I couldn’t get my emotions out of my head. I felt them weighing on my chest as I walked backstage, I had to wear waterproof makeup just so the tears that rimmed my eyes wouldn’t run, and I had to use concealer in order to cover up the bite marks he’d left on my neck.

  Even with as angry as I was, I missed him.

  And I honestly didn’t know what to do with that.

  16

  Foster

  I yelled after Ella and that’s when I knew she’d heard me. When I saw her standing in my living room dressed in her clothes, I had a feeling she’d heard at least some of my conversation. Depending on how long she’d paid attention, she probably heard numbers that made her spine shiver. Numbers that were at least twenty thousand dollars over what we’d originally agreed upon for the remodel. That was the deal I’d cut with the tenants: they wouldn’t pay for the entire space, just the money it would take to remodel to their specifications. With all the amenities they could tack on, the update itself could cost them upwards of sixty thousand dollars.

  I didn’t feel the need to charge them for anything else because of the rest of the building we could sell for profit.

  But, the moment she dashed from that elevator and didn’t stop at my voice told me she’d heard. She’d heard everything, and she was probably scared. Every part of me wanted to go after her. Every atom of my being reached out for this woman who had entranced me so much. I’d taken her in every way I had only imagined up until this point. I had the imprint of her body pressed into the glass of my home while her juices stained my hardwood. That room would smell like her for weeks, greeting me like an old friend every time I got back home from work.

  The issue was, I wanted the scent to be connected to her. I didn’t just want her memory, I wanted her body. I wanted her dreams and her passions. I wanted to hold her close to me and wake her up with my tongue between her legs. I wanted to go to every show she performed just so I could cheer her on from my shadowed perch.

  I wanted to comfort her in her time of worry and fear. I wanted to let her know that I wouldn’t allow her to lose her home. That I’d do everything within my power to make sure nothing was stripped from her that didn’t need to be. She was a beautiful woman. Full of life and passion and power beyond her years. Her ruby red lips might tug at my cock, but her voice and her eyes tugged at my gut.

  I had to get into the office. If I had any hope of helping her out the way I wanted to, I couldn’t go after her.

  And that dichotomy fucked with me all the way into my office.

  “Holy shit, Foster. You’re finally here,” Dave said.

  “If you call me by my first name one more time, you’re fired,” I said. “Now, why the hell can you not figure this out with the financial team?”

  “We won’t turn a profit off those condos if we sell them to them only for the work we’ll put into them. For some, we might even lose money.”

  “Alright. We still have 60 percent of the fucking building to sell for as much fucking profit as we want. What’s the big deal?” I asked.

  “The big deal is the investors aren’t going to invest if they’re only going to turn a profit for 60 percent of the building. They might as well only give you 60 percent of their original investment offer!”

  “That’s what they said to strong arm you, Delilah!”

  “Oh, we’ve gone into girl’s names now?” he asked.

  “You’re acting like one. You’ve been my project manager for six years, and you mean to tell me you can’t handle a boardroom full of fat, rich, whiny white men?”

  “You won’t turn a profit,” Dave said. “Do you not understand that?”

  “Not everything is about profit, Dragonlord!” I exclaimed. “Sometimes it’s just about doing what’s fucking right!”

  The entire accounting floor was stunned silent at my outburst. And, honestly? I was, too. My father was a money-driven man and passed down onto me that same mindset. If it didn’t make him money, then it wasn’t worth his time. The issue was, the building would still turn a profit on 60 percent of the building. It’s just that we could also do something wonderful for the community in the process.

  “New York City is dying,” I said. “It’s dying and it’s taking all the lower income households with it. The families who raise three kids in a one-bedroom apartment just so the father can chase after his dreams. The four roommates residing in a studio apartment just so they can work off their student loans before going to some university around here and digging themselves into more fucking debt. We come in with our wrecking balls and scream at them to move before we bulldoze their lives. We erect taller, nicer buildings that are more out of their price range than ever, then we expect them to just find another place to stay. Where the hell’s the fairness in that?”

  I drew in a deep breath before I looked around the room. Eyes were wide and some were filled with admiration, but mostly they were simply full of confusion. Someone in the corner was furiously pressing buttons, so I pointed over into that corner and told them to speak.

  “You. There. What’re you crunching?” I asked.

  “Numbers, sir.”

  “Obviously. What numbers?”

  “Numbers for your project, sir. I think what you’re trying to do is wonderful, so I wanna see how much money you’ll lose and if the figures are accurate.”

  “When will you have those figures?” I asked.

  “Give me thirty more seconds.”

  I watched as a man with a child’s overgrown face quickly rattled his fingertips over the calculator’s keys. Numbers were flying up on screen while his eyes darted around a desk, and the entire time I could hear the blood rushing through my head. This was my chance to save Ella’s home. This was my chance to turn this company’s public presence around.

  This was my chance to take a stand for the city my father loved.

  The city I’d come to love when it embraced me and comforted me after his death.

  “According to these numbers, if you don’t sell the 40 percent of the condos at retail price and only sell them at the mid-range remodeling price of the originally agreed upon forty thousand dollars, you’ll lose four thousand on each condo, which will amount to one hundred thousand dollars of lost profit. But, with the numbers currently running through my head-”

  “Don’t do it in your head. Type it out and give it to me,” I said.

  “With the numbers I’m currently typing out,” he said as he began to type, “if you redo the rest of the condos and sell the ones with better views for ten thousand more than you were originally intending, you would recoup double that money, so you’d actually be one hundred thousand dollars in the clear if you sold everything for an even profit.”

  “But obviously, we aren’t gonna do that because we aren’t completely stupid,” I said.

  “The board’s never gonna go for it,” Dave said, shaking his head. “You know how they are.”

  “Then I’ll fucking pay the one hundred thousand out of my own pocket.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. That’ll be my investment into my own company. One hundred thousand dollars, I’ll take a bit more personal stock in the company for my investment, and that’ll make the board m
embers happy.”

  “Mr. Dobson-”

  “DeAngelo, what the fuck is the problem? Bradley over here-”

  “It’s actually Anthony, sir.”

  “Anthony over here gives me proof that we’ll actually be more than fine, you tell me it’s shit, so I offer to pay the fucking difference and you still tell me it’s shit. So, you’ve got one shot. Give me the best reason you’ve got for shitting on both of those ideas. If your reasoning isn’t good enough, you’re fired.”

  I stood there and watched him sweat while he flipped through his papers. His brow was beginning to shine and I watched him while he shuffled from foot to foot. I was done with him. I wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, but it didn’t smell good to me.

  Not anymore.

  “You’re fired, Dave,” I said. “Anthony, you want a job?”

  “I already have a job, sir.”

  “It comes with a raise. And benefits. And a 401(k). I’m sure you’ve got student loans. You got student loans?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. Tons of them.”

  “Paid off if you wanna be my project manager,” I said.

  “Take the damn job, Anthony,” someone said.

  “It’d be an honor to take the job, sir.”

  “Wait, you can’t just-”

  “Dave,” I said as I turned to him. “Someone will contact you over the next week to introduce to you your severance package. It will be fair and I’ll negotiate an entire year’s worth of salary. I’ll help you cash out your 401(k) and move any other policies you have. We’ll make this a smooth transition. But, something doesn’t smell right with you anymore. For some reason, I feel like you’re intentionally trying to strong arm me into doing something I don’t want to do, and as the owner of this company you need to understand that you don’t run the show. Go home. Someone will contact you before the weekend.”

  “But, Mr. Dob-”

  “Get the fuck out of my building, Dave,” I said.

  All I wanted to do was lay in bed with Ella all day. All I wanted to do was dive between her legs and never come up for air. I just wanted one day to myself-- to have everything I could have ever wanted.

  And I had it, right there in my arms. Leaning ass naked next to me in the middle of my living room floor.

  Then this fucking project had to go ruin it.

  “Anthony,” I said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m gonna go work on your promotion paperwork. In the meantime, on the top floor there’s a boardroom full of fat white men who are waiting for me to make an appearance. You’re good with these numbers. Take these options to them and see which one they like. Then, if they don’t like the options, tell them I’ll be paying the difference out of my pocket. Don’t give them an option, just tell them it’s happening. They don’t run this show anymore than Dave did,” I said.

  “On it.”

  “Call me and let me know how it goes. I’ve got somewhere else I have to be.”

  “But, I don’t have your number,” he said.

  “Toss me your phone.” I entered my office number and my cell number into his phone before I placed a call to H.R. I told them what happened and all the paperwork that needed to be processed, then I promised them a long weekend if they could get it all processed before the end of the week. By the time I turned back around, Anthony was gone and people had resumed their normal working activities.

  Good. Now I could focus on the next task at hand.

  Getting Ella back.

  17

  Ella

  I got off work and went straight for my neighbor. He was the only other person I knew in the building that had plans to buy back his home, and I had to tell him what was happening. Mr. Fienster had no family, no friends, and nowhere to turn to. He deserved a heads-up if something like this was going down. I couldn’t keep this from him knowing he needed more time than any of us to find arrangements.

  “Ella! How nice of you to come by. You look upset.”

  “Mr. Fienster, I’ve got some news for you,” I said.

  “Why don’t you come in and we’ll talk about it?” he asked.

  I stepped into his home and took a look around. Some of his furniture was wrapped with this saran-like plastic. His apartment was void of many things someone would use to decorate: there weren’t many pictures, no gifts from family that decorated any useless tables. His apartment smelled of disinfectant and pills. I felt his hand come up between my shoulder blades, edging me towards his kitchen chair.

  “Mr. Fienster, I can make us something to drink.”

  “You’re my guest, Ella,” he said. “Sit down and let me make you something.”

  “Mr. F, I’m here all the time. I’m hardly a guest.”

  “When you’re as distraught as you are, you will be treated with the respect a guest should have. Now, what seems to be troubling you? Those eyes are too pretty to be as dark and stormy as they are.”

  “You remember those original numbers for all the updating they were going to do to this place?” I asked.

  “Ah, yes. The renovations. Did you know that Mr. Dobson was kind enough to offer handicap assistance as one of my renovations? That man really is astounding, I tell you. The media doesn’t paint him in the right light.”

  “They actually might,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The new numbers are going to be higher. Probably double what we were originally quoted,” I said.

  “Double, huh? What makes you think that?”

  “A conversation I overheard Mr. Dobson having with someone.”

  “And where were you with Mr. Dobson?” Mr. Fienster sat down a hot cup of tea he’d made along with some sweet cream. I stared at the steam wafting up from the glass and I felt tears rimming the bags underneath my eyes. I missed him. Even with everything that was going on and the heartless way he’d dismissed me the last time I saw him, I missed him.

  My heart ached for him, and it wasn’t until Mr. Fienster sat down beside me with his tea that I was ripped from my trance.

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning and fill me in, hm?”

  “The first time I met Foster, it was actually at the new club I was singing at.”

  “Foster?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Dobson,” I said.

  “Ah, so his name is Foster. Alright. Continue. You met him at the club and I presume you were taken with him?”

  “A bit. He simply held himself with a great deal of confidence.”

  “And he’s not too easy on the eyes, either.”

  “Mr. F!”

  “What?! I was young once. Gay men existed well before this generation started their revolutions and such. So, what happened?” he asked.

  “Well, he just assumed I’d simply hop into bed with him, so I left to perform. I didn’t run into him again until he was knocking on my door wanting to talk about the renovations to the apartments,” I said.

  “Ah, what a twist. Did he ask you out?”

  “He did, and I accepted. We’ve gone out on a couple of occasions. Indulged in some… things with one another,” I said, blushing.

  “You can keep those private details to yourself. I’ve never been one to allow kissing and telling in my presence.”

  “I assume this phone call took place at some point in time while you were with him?”

  “Yeah. I went to his office to meet him and we spent some time together. He took me to his home and I got to lay up against his body all night. Mr. Fienster, it felt so good to be beside him. I’ve always taken pride in being able to protect myself and not need anyone, but I didn’t even realize how much I wanted someone like him until I had him right next to me,” I said.

  “Sounds like he treats you well, which is exactly what you deserve. When did this phone call take place? Can you remember what was said?”

  “It was just after we’d had dinner and indulged in more… things,” I said, giggling.

  “Ah, to experience that giggle ag
ain. Love looks good on you, Ella.”

  “Love? Yikes, no. Not even close. Infatuation, maybe. But not love,” I said.

  “Anyway,” Mr. Fienster smirked, “what happened on the phone?”

  “He got up to take a phone call and I heard him talking with someone. A David or Deigo-- I don’t know, he said a lot of names. But, I heard him throwing around prices. Sixty thousand and offering us the option of having lesser quality products installed in order to chip away at the price.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “His demeanor on the phone? Was he businesslike? Upset? Happy? What did he sound like?”

  “I don’t know, really. He… sort of sounded annoyed. Frustrated. Maybe stressed? It’s a big project he’s taking on,” I said.

  “So, it could be he doesn’t approve of the figures he was being given.”

  “Does that matter?”

  “It does when I ask you why you’re so upset,” he said.

  “I’m upset because of these prices! Mr. Fienster, I wanted to come warn you. I won’t be able to afford those prices, and neither will you. We’ll need all the time we can get in order to make other arrangements.”

  “Besides the fact that I have faith in Mr. Dobson, I want to address why you’re so upset.”

  “The prices, Mr. F. The prices,” I said.

  “See, I don’t believe you. I think you’re upset because you were living in this fantastical bubble with this handsome man who simply happened upon your doorstep, and now reality is beginning to set in. I think you’re worried because you do care for him. Maybe not love him, but you do care. You’ve opened yourself up to him and now you’re concerned about something. What is it, child?”

  Mr. Fienster reached out for my hand, and the moment he curled his aged fingers around mine I broke down. I began to cry into my cup of tea, cooling it with my tears while he squeezed my hand in reassurance. He was right. I felt like I was being ripped between worlds. I felt like my life was a tease. One night, I was in bed with this phenomenal man without a care in the world and the next I was climbing the steps of a rundown apartment complex with a broken elevator and stepping through the doors of a home I probably wouldn’t be able to afford in the coming months.