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Blaze
“Goddamn, it’s hot,” Blaze murmured.
His fingers trailed up the armrest of the passenger seat and started cranking the window handle. A faint breeze slipped through the crack, and Blaze breathed it in.
“They’re predicting heat waves,” Asher replied from the driver’s seat.
“Predicting? We’re in one right now, I’m telling ya!” he replied a little sharply.
“I’ll turn up the air. Ignore the rickety sounds; it’s just an old model,” said Asher.
He fiddled with the controls and sat back against the seat again. His body was partly turned toward Blaze, but he didn’t say another word to him.
Blaze kept feeling as though the other man’s eyes were boring into his face, but he knew better than that. Asher wasn’t staring at him; he was staring up the steps to Giselle’s front door. Both of them were taking turns blatantly ogling the door and pretending to not care about it. Neither of them wanted to be an asshole about the minutes ticking by. Neither of them wanted to stumble into a conversation they weren’t prepared to have.
But Blaze could feel the tension building already, before Giselle even made her appearance. Asher, who was pretty much always the definition of serenity from what Blaze had seen, was showing cracks in his zen armor. He was impatiently tapping his fingers on the gearshift with one hand while the other hand was gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles pressed white. Blaze felt like there was a simmering volcano in his chest ready to erupt at any moment. His heart rate was steady, but every thump felt deep and heavy. Deliberate. Like even his central nervous system was counting down the seconds until she showed up.
He watched the palm trees sway. He tried to slow down his breathing. Count back and forth to ten. Rein in all that pent-up anger and frustration so that he could behave himself once Giselle got in the car. He knew they would already be facing some legendary LA traffic jams on their way across town to the recording studio. But every minute that ticked by here on this slow residential street represented another fifteen in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Giselle was making them exponentially later, the way he saw it.
He could hear Bruce Jimenez in his head, scolding them for wasting precious booked time at the recording space. Hot House had their own designated studio building, but the rooms still cost per hour, and they were not about to run up the bill unnecessarily. They were already on thin ice with Bruce after the tabloids published earlier that week. Asher and Blaze had taken a step back, as Giselle demanded. They watched from afar as she endured interview after interview to defend herself, deflect from the truth, and refocus everyone on the upcoming album. All week, Blaze had been counting down until today, Friday, to see her again. Today was their opportunity to set things on track again. If only they could show up on time.
Yet, they couldn’t leave without their precious cargo: Giselle. So here they were, parked outside her house, slowly losing their collective cool as they waited for her to come down.
“She knows we’re here, right?” hissed Blaze.
Asher nodded. “She’s seen the text.”
“Okay, she’s had fair warning. Honk the horn,” Blaze urged him.
Asher looked at him with mild horror. “No. This is a nice neighborhood.”
“One car horn is not going to tank the housing market,” he replied. “Just one honk.”
“No—look, she’s coming out,” the blond man said.
Blaze straightened up and instinctively smoothed his hair back. The door opened to let out a very grumpy-looking Giselle. She was dressed in a different style than her usual soft-goth look. Today, she had on simple black jogger sweatpants, an oversized gray hoodie, and casual black high-top sneakers. She glowered at them from behind gigantic sunglasses as she came down the front steps.
“Looks like someone’s in a good mood,” Blaze grumbled.
“Don’t provoke her,” Asher whispered.
“Me? Provoke her?” he hissed back.
As she walked up to the passenger door, Blaze hungrily devoured her appearance up close. It had been close to torture waiting all week to refill his empty cup. He needed to drink her in. Re-memorize the beautiful curves of her body and the softness of her face. Today, he was surprised to see her looking more angelic and natural than he had ever seen her. In contrast to her foxy makeup on Sunday night, today she looked to have absolutely no makeup on whatsoever. Not a stitch. Her bare skin almost glowed from within, and the faintest of rosy blush colored her cheeks. Her plush, full lips looked so kissable, their petal pink color so enticing to Blaze’s eyes. And then he flickered his gaze up to meet hers.
His heart stumbled over a beat. Giselle’s brown eyes were so stunning, so easy to get lost inside. He loved the way the morning sunlight reflected amber in her eyes. She raised her hand to ruffle her fingers back through her hair. Blaze noticed that it was damp, like she had washed it very recently. Everything about her look made him wonder about her more. What she looked like first thing in the morning, still dazed with last night’s dreams. What she looked like in the shower with the beads of hot water clinging to her nubile form.
What it felt like to wake up next to the most beautiful, maddening girl in the world.
She slid into the backseat with a heavy sigh.
“Well, look at that, it’s the girl of the hour,” said Blaze. “Or should I say, ‘girl of the hour and a half’ since that’s how late we’re going to be after waiting all this time for you.”
“And you say I’m dramatic. You’ve been waiting maybe five minutes,” she quipped back.
“Your hair’s damp. Maybe if you didn’t take so long in the shower, you would’ve been down here quicker,” he said.
“Whatever! You’re the one who sent me the wrong pickup time,” she said.
