Page 8 of Up In Flames

“Nick, why don’t you go down to the cellar and see if Nina has any more of that orange soda hidden in that small fridge behind the canoe?” Mari plops down beside me and gives me a pointed stare. “You don’t mind, do you?”

What can I say? “Go ahead, sweetie.”

Once he’s scampered off, followed by the black cat with white paws, ergo his name, Mr. Mittens, she wastes no time. “What in the name of everlasting sanity was that?”

“And by that you mean…?”

“What were you doing with your ass hanging out, being groped up the coochie by Sampson Dean? Do you know how jealous the girls at yoga are going to be when I tell them you got fingered by the hottest guy in Mossburg?”

I sit up straighter. “Look, Mari, you can’t say anything, you hear? And he didn’t grope me.” Fingered? Absolutely. Took me to new levels of orgasm as fast as a runaway train? Yup. And okay, a little groping, but that was between enemies, where it should remain, buried under an avalanche of regrets.

But I’ve always had a physical thing for him. No sense trying to hide that now. It’s just him as a person that I hate.

“Sure looked like he was concentrating hard on getting you off. You know that determined, steely-eyed look men get when they’re seeing to a woman’s pleasure? Well, he sure had it. Focused for a mile, so much so, he stopped walking. I nearly ran into the back of him. Oof.” She leans back and starts fanning her face. “Just imagine what that boy’s packing.”

I can’t. If I send my thoughts back in that direction, I’ll be reaching for the phone, calling him up, and asking if he can finish what he started, this time upstairs in my pink bedroom. Or his Red Room.

A shiver runs over my body. I try to ignore it. “You know we don’t get on,” I say, making my voice as prim as possible.

“What, that old thing from high school?” She waves her hand through the air. “Look, that’s nothing. That’s the past. This is the present, and in the present, Sampson Dean is a mighty fine hunk of total hotness. Perfect body, one of those craggy Scottish faces like that actor with the pecs and blue war paint, and jeez, the size of him. I mean, even if he’s got a small dick in relation to the rest of him, it’s still got to be well over normal size, don’t you think? Just in comparison?”

Fuck. And there I go, picturing the enormous bulge against my hip again. And wondering. Is his dick long and shapely, with a perfect mushroom-cloud head? Or is he one of those tapered monsters, the kind that’s thick and ropey? Somehow, I’m guessing he’s the latter, and that’s just going to spell trouble for me.

“Look, Mar, I’m not interested, okay? Yeah, I mean, he accidentally came close to the money shot.” Touched the money shot directly. Caressed the money shot with perfect pressure and managed to pull an orgasm out of me that I still can’t believe was possible. But whatever. “I was embarrassed, that’s all. I ripped my jeans while diving after Mr. Mittens, and he scooped me up as I was falling off the branch. End of story.”

“You know that Pete and Darla are going to be setting you up tomorrow night? That fish dinner is going to be extra fishy. They’re going to be throwing out hooks to try to net you both together.”

“Yeah, though I think your metaphors are a little off.”

She waves her hand. “Whatever. You’re the writer, not me.”

For all the good it does. I’m still on the hook, pun notwithstanding, for dinner with the guy I hate more than I hate liver.

I sigh and look around my living room, as if, somehow, I’m going to find a way out of the invitation. But nothing in the white walls, pink and cream rug, white furnishings, and collection of bric-a-brac gives me an answer.

Shit. Sampson Dean entered my pink lair. He’s going to be judging me on my stylistic choices and wondering why a dark vampire romance author chooses to decorate like she believes in unicorns and moonbeams. If he’s thinking about taking me to his Red Room, the avalanche of pink is going to make him reconsider.

Though, fuck him. I’m single. I can decorate how I want. Mr. Mittens doesn’t care.

But Sampson Dean might. He had to duck under the door frame, didn’t he? My ceiling is, what? Nine feet? He was wearing those big, heavy fireman boots that have small heels, but even so, he came pretty close to bumping his head when he straightened. Plus, he looked ridiculous among the flowery objets d’arts and feminine colors. He took up all the air and space in the room. I can’t even imagine how he’ll fit in my queen-sized bed.

He’ll… as in he will. When did I start picturing the jerk in my house? In my bedroom?

What the hell is wrong with me?

“You know, he broke up with Susan over a year ago,” Mari says, thankfully distracting me from thoughts of Sampson on my bed. “Plus, I mean, we’ve all heard the stories of the triplets and whatnot, but I don’t think there’s been anyone serious in his life since Susan.”

“Who’s Susan?” My attention is definitely diverted.

“Susan Crabtree? She lives over in Sunderland, in the valley?”

Sunderland is Mossburg’s arch-rival. While the Town of Mossburg perches on a flat part of a mountain top, a little village out of some fairytale book, replete with narrow Victorian homes and a downtown filled with cheer, Sunderland hosts factories, big businesses, and megamalls. They think we’re quaint and stupid. We know they don’t have two brain cells to rub together, because who’d choose to live in a valley that floods when the snow melts every winter and would prefer traffic to idyllic charms?

I sniff. “Must not be very bright.”

“No, she was. Is. She’s a professor at UNCSU. Teaches ancient history.”

“Really? I love ancient history. Did I tell you about the chapbook of poems I’m working on that idolizes ruins? Not that a chapbook will pay the bills, nobody buys poetry anymore, but you know how I’ve been wanting to write something serious, something meaningful.” Plus, diving into deeper topics helps me gain some distance from vampires and dark sex. With a stalled love life, I’ve been getting too wrapped up in a fictional world with fictional men.