Burn Page 11

  Standing in the corner of my room because she doesn’t understand privacy, Jacey is texting on her phone. Probably to Evan. “Sure you did. I saw that girl, and if I had a dick, I would have fucked her, so I know what probably happened in here.”

  I think Jacey’s spent too much time with guy roommates. It’s ruining her personality.

  Taking the bagel I smashed in Jacey’s hair off my mattress, I toss it in the garbage can next to the bed and pull the sheets around my waist to get dressed. “Go away. I need to get dressed.”

  Because of the broken lamp on the floor, I trip over it and land on my back on the floor. No sheet around me.

  Jacey screams. Loudly. Too loud for someone who drank half a bottle of whiskey last night. “You didn’t think to grab onto something and hold the sheet there?”

  My hands fly to my junk. “It’s my room. Get out if you don’t like it.”

  When she leaves, my hands are still on my dick, so I move to the bathroom and take care of my problem behind a locked door, all the while thinking of Mila’s tight pussy and cursing myself for not getting her number.

  HAVE YOU SEEN the movie Christmas Vacation?

  What about Animal House?

  Well, take both those movies together, and you’ve got a holiday with the Ryan household.

  As soon as Jacey and I walk inside the house, she disappears to help my mom, and I’m arguing with my brothers and dad. I’m not sure how we swing it, but most of the time we all have Christmas off. It’s surprising because aside from Kellan, we’re all firefighters and work odd shifts.

  Evan and I work at Station 25, and both on A-shift but Gavin’s at Station 17, Taylor’s a probie at Station 10, and Dad’s the Battalion Chief with the 2nd Battalion. Grandpa, he’s the big cheese. Fire marshal.

  As I’m searching for a glass to put some whiskey in—the only way I’m getting through today without drop-kicking someone—I notice my dad trying to help mom out by making Stove Top. I guarantee you she didn’t ask him to make Stove Top stuffing for Christmas dinner, but he probably saw the box and decided he wanted some and knew she wouldn’t make it.

  I lean against the counter with my arms crossed over my chest after pouring my straight Midleton. You can’t dilute Midleton. Or I should say any man who knows a good whiskey wouldn’t dilute it. Taylor would, but he’s a pussy and only nineteen, so we don’t let him touch the Midleton.

  “You’re supposed to bring the water to a boil before you add the stuffing, Dad.”

  He glances at me out of the corner of his eyes, his graying hair evident under his blue Seattle Fire Department hat. “Yeah? Maybe I’ll put this spoon down and kick your ass.”

  Remember when I said the Ryan boys like to fight? We learned it from this guy.

  I snort and reach for my glass. “Maybe you’ll have a surprise waiting for you, old man.”

  “I taught you how to stay alive.” He smiles, watching his crunchy stove top not boil. “Have some respect.”

  “Oh, I have respect for you, Dad. But that’s not how you cook Stove Top stuffing.”

  He’s about to tell me off when Mom comes into the kitchen, an apron on and looking a little stressed out. She hugs me quickly and then frowns. “Why do you have scratches on your neck and your face all banged up, Caleb? Did Gemma do that to you? Or did you get in another fight?”

  I touch the side of my neck searching for scratches. I remember the bar fight but not the scratches. “I don’t have any scratches.”

  “Yes, you do, and I’ve raised five boys, Caleb Matthew Ryan. I know a woman’s scratch marks when I see it.”

  I smile and kiss my mother’s cheek and then back away, noticing Evan just walked in with his girlfriend. I grin mischievously at the two of them and distance myself a little more before saying, “Evan scratched me because he found out my dick’s bigger than his.”

  Mom glares at me like she wants to smack me with the spoon in her hand across my face. Wouldn’t be the first time either. “Why are you so nasty?”

  I shrug, sipping my whiskey. “Must be the way I was raised.”

  Dad smacks the back of my head. “Watch your mouth, boy.”

  Heath Ryan’s a no-nonsense type of man, but if there’s one kid that gets away with more than the others, it’s me. I’m his favorite. I don’t know why but I think it’s because out of the five Ryan boys, I’m not technically a Ryan. I’m a Thomas, but you wouldn’t know it looking at us today. I even look like my brothers though we’re not blood.

  Some might go as far to ask if I feel left out because technically I’m not a Ryan. No, I don’t think that at all. They never made me feel that way growing up.

  Heath and Lindy adopted me when I was two. My parents died in a house fire along with my older brother, Wyatt. It’s hard to say if I even remember them. I like to think I do and when I look at their picture, it sparks something inside me, I just don’t know what it is. Maybe’s it’s only a distant memory I had them around.

  Though I was in the house when it happened, I don’t remember the fire. I dream about it, but I don’t know what’s real and what part my brain is making up.

  I don’t know why I’m the only one who survived either. Sometimes I wish I wouldn’t have. I think in some ways being the only survivor is a weight on my shoulders I don’t want it, but it’s there. Maybe they’re even the reason I’m a firefighter now, or maybe it’s Heath.

  Heath, my adopted father, was one of the firefighters who was at the fire that night and was our neighbor. Our parents were friends, and Evan and I were inseparable since birth so naturally, they took me in because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  For a long time, Evan was my best friend, and I didn’t know any different once I got older. They all treated me like family. Like I said, I never felt like the odd kid out or anything like that.

  As we became a little older, around fourteen, Evan and I grew apart. About the time Jacey moved across the street from us, and I took an interest in her. I guess maybe if I had to pinpoint when Evan and I were no longer inseparable it was then. The day Jacey became my girlfriend and not his.

  Or maybe it was Heath favoring me, always siding with me in the arguments because they wanted to make me feel welcomed.

  EVAN STEPS INSIDE the kitchen and reaches for the whiskey beside me. We have the same taste as always. Too bad we can’t get along anymore. In reality, we have identical personalities, and I think that’s what makes us clash these days.

  “Why’d you bring her to Christmas?” I ask, giving a dismissive nod to Daphne who’s handing Mom a bouquet of red flowers.

  Evan doesn’t look at me. Instead, he’s staring at Jacey who’s in the family room fighting over the remote with Gavin and Taylor. “Back off, Caleb. Jacey isn’t a kid anymore. She knows what she’s doing.”

  I laugh. That’s funny. “But do you know what you’re doing? I don’t think you have a fuckin’ clue what you’re doing to her.”

  His jaw clenches, hard lines forming on his face. His brown eyes drift to mine, blinking heavily. He knows what it’s doing to her and just like anything you’re addicted to, whether it be drugs, alcohol, or the woman you should let go, it takes a toll on you, regardless of the consequences. “Why don’t you mind your own business for one day? Let’s try that.”

  I shrug, but I won’t. A few more glasses of whiskey and I know for a fact I won’t.

  It starts during dinner when Gavin’s talking about a job they went on last night, and I’m sitting next to Jacey, who hasn’t touched her meal at all and looking like she wants to burst into tears when Daphne’s kissing him.

  I clear my throat, and Jacey’s eyes snap to mine. They’re begging me to shut up, but that’s not going to happen. She knows it. “Do you think she knows you fucked her boyfriend last night?” I whisper, giving a small nod to Evan and Daphne.”

  “Caleb, what the fuck is your problem today?” she hisses. “Knock it off.”

  Honestly, I don’t know what my problem is. Maybe i
t’s that for the last three months Jacey has been crying on my shoulder about how badly it hurts that Evan never gives her the relationship she wants. Or maybe it’s that he fucked my girlfriend yet he can’t give her anything more than make her feel dirty about herself.

  Or maybe it’s that since I was seventeen I haven’t been able to make a relationship last since.

  I don’t know.

  Staring at my untouched food, my thoughts drift back to Mila, but I quickly dismiss them. Mostly because I know where they’ll lead. Me wanting her and getting a hard on at the dinner table in front of my mom.

  EVERY YEAR AFTER Christmas dinner we have a tradition of playing a game of flag football with my dad and cousins.

  Remember when I said the Ryan boys like to fight?

  How do you think a game of flag football with all five of them is going to go?

  We fight and drink. That’s all. Pleasant motherfuckers, aren’t we?

  Evan and I are at it, he’s popped me in the chin, and I smile because I think it’s funny, despite the blood dripping from my chin. “Is it weird having your girlfriend and your booty call talking?” I tease, knowing how to piss him off. If you haven’t noticed, I’m an instigator. I like to push peoples limits until they crack under pressure and show their true personalities. “You look stressed out.”

  His shoulder connects with my stomach, and we’re back on the ground rolling around in the frozen grass. “You don’t know when to keep your fucking mouth shut, do you?”

  “Nope.” I laugh hitting him again only to knock Taylor over in the process.

  He tells Mom like the fucking baby he is.

  “Boys!” Mom yells from the house. “Stop it. You’re going to hurt Taylor.”

  Taylor smiles, tossing the football in his hands like he’s won. “I think we all know who Mom’s favorite is. You’re lookin’ at him, bitches.”

  Evan snorts, shoving me off him. “That may be true, but we all know who Dad’s favorite is.”

  There’s truth to his words. Heath has always tried to make me feel welcome and part of the family, and in many ways, it’s destroyed the only surviving parts of my relationship with Evan over the years. But I also don’t like Evan commenting on it. Mostly because I owe my life to Heath. No one can ever talk shit about him.

  Maybe it’s the whiskey, probably the whiskey, but I pummel Evan to the ground again.

  Fire Flow

  The amount of water being pumped onto a fire, or required to extinguish a hypothetical fire. A critical calculation in light of the axiom that an ordinary fire will not be extinguished unless there is sufficient water to remove the heat of the fire.

  I can’t stop thinking about him.

  You know when you go shopping and you find the perfect pair of jeans but you put them back because they’re too expensive? Or maybe it’s the perfect shoes.

  You tell yourself, nope, I’m not going to do it, and you leave.

  But the next day you can’t stop thinking about the jeans. You think about them all day long, and suddenly nothing you have or ever wore is as good as those jeans you saw in the store.

  That’s how I feel about Caleb Wednesday morning when I’m supposed to be working. It’s so bad I want to drive by his apartment, maybe search every apartment for him because even though I checked the cross streets when I was leaving, I didn’t make a note of the apartment number so I suppose I’d have to knock on a number of doors to find him.

  On my way to the hotel, I stop by Starbucks for coffee. I really wish there were more drive-through ones in Seattle, but sadly, there’s not. And parking in Seattle is a goddamn nightmare most of the time. I got in a fight over a parking spot once. I think most people in this city have.

  There’s a line out the door, also standard for the Northwest. We love our coffee, and we’re snobs about it. I once traveled to Florida for a meeting and tasted their coffee. I gave it back to the barista and asked if it was a joke. Sadly, it wasn’t.

  As I’m standing in the steadily moving line, my phone rings and a message comes through. It’s Heather wanting to know why there’s a double booking on The Courtyard for New Year’s Eve. It’s not double booked. She’s constantly getting The Courtyard and The Terrace confused, which is why she’s the front desk manager and doesn’t have my job.

  I don’t like to communicate with any managers through texting. I find it unprofessional and something my father taught me early on. Never communicate through e-mails and text messaging goes along with it. If you need to have a conversation with someone, pick up the phone.

  This only applies to my job. Outside of work, if someone calls me, I get upset. I will only text.

  Trying to not be that asshole on the phone in line, I send her calls to voice mail and glance up at the menu above the registers. I don’t know why I look. I get the same thing every morning.

  Venti iced Americano with cream and one pump of chocolate.

  As I’m preparing to order, I notice a girl with familiar black-framed glasses making drinks to my left.

  I’m trying not to stare, but I remember her from somewhere. I just can’t place where. This happens to me all the time, given working in the hotel industry where I see thousands of people a week.

  She smiles at me when I place my order and when I get my cup, I know exactly where I know her from because written in sharpie on the side of the cup is “Caleb says hi!”

  Say what?

  Excitement shoots through me as I do a double take at her only to have her wink at me and push her glasses up her nose. I smile, unsure what else to do and the prickly sensation in my armpits return.

  Christ, why couldn’t she have written his phone number on the cup? Or better yet, I should have ran back in there and asked about it. Asked if he talked about me yesterday.

  He probably didn’t. I think I’d be disappointed if he did because what kind of guy goes around talking about a girl he slept with the night before?

  None I want to hang out with.

  BY THE TIME I arrive at work, I know I’m in deep because I’m ready to Google Caleb, especially after seeing his roommate. Or then there’s the thought of pulling all the fire alarms and fainting with the hopes he responds to the call to give me mouth to mouth. Firefighters do that, right?

  But then I walk through the lobby of Wellington Suites and realize there’s no time for it because there’re rooms that have been double booked, a VIP arriving tomorrow, a convention for hundreds of guests that need tending too and department heads with needs.

  I spend the majority of my day with managers and making sure guests get checked in okay, and their wants are meant. Running a hotel is a lot like preparing for a dinner party but doing that every single day. You want your place clean and enough food and refreshments for your guests. You also have to consider everyone has different tastes and no two guests are the same.

  When your guests arrive, you want to make them comfortable and ensure they’re having a good time. At the same time, you have to make sure dinner is ready on time, and everything is exactly the way they want it. With as many restaurants as we have here in the hotel, that’s a huge task in itself.

  And then once the party is over and your guests are leaving, you have to clean up the mess. Even the ones who had too much to drink, acted like an asshole and puked all over your white carpet. For a start, never ever have white carpet, but you get my point. It’s a lot of work hosting a party.

  Now imagine doing that every single day and your house has 100 plus rooms and all your guests are spending the night, and they want breakfast in the morning.

  That’s exactly how running a hotel can be.

  On top of that, we have hotel employees with their own needs because they’re just as important as the guests. If we didn’t have employees, we wouldn’t have the guests. If you have unhappy staff, the guests know this, and in turn, it makes their experience awful, and you get bad reviews on Yelp or Google.

  My job is to make sure everyone is communicating, and an
y problems or opinions are addressed at the morning meetings. Sound stressful?

  You have no idea. Unless you run a hotel. If that’s the case, we should be friends.

  AFTER MY MORNING department heads meeting, Izzy finds me in my office on my laptop replying to e-mails.

  Izzy’s one of our massage therapists in the spa, and I love her and her tiny heart to pieces. I don’t mean tiny heart as in she’s a bitch, I mean she’s actually just a tiny person. She’s one of those people where you’re sure everyone in their family is miniature. I met her mother once though, and she’s normal height, so I’m not sure what went on with little Izzy Bizzy.

  At barely five foot one, you wouldn’t believe she’s dating a six-foot-five hockey player in Vancouver, but she is. Crazy, right? Scarlet and I give her shit about it all the time.

  Izzy’s dating Zane Hackett—or Gigantor as we call him, but never ever to her face—who plays for the Vancouver Canucks. They met at this hotel actually, and he couldn’t forget her hands. It’s the oddest combination if you ask me. I can’t imagine how awkward their sex life is.

  When they’re in the missionary position, is her face at his nipples? The logistics of it baffles me. I bet she doesn’t have to bend over to give him head. She can probably do it standing up which I’m kind of jealous of.

  “Hey, Izzy Bizzy,” I say, typing an e-mail to the department heads about Shade’s arrival tomorrow and warning them that under no circumstances is he allowed a key to the pool after hours. Been there. Done that. We had to drain the fucking thing after he left because somehow, he and his delinquent brothers glued jewels to the tiles in the shape of a big lifelike vagina. Crazy talented if you ask me but imagine standing on the diving board in the deep end, and your view is a jeweled vagina and it’s like your diving into it.

  While I can see the appeal for men, I personally think vaginas are ugly so it had to be removed . . . and before my dad found out about it because guess who gave Shade the key to the pool at two in the morning?