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The Oriane is an old hotel, existing in this town since people started moving to this side of the train tracks. But tonight, its multi-stories of strong concrete walls are being reduced to nothing but burned-up rubble.
And, as Lieutenant Nixon Rosa dashes off-scene and into the blazing inferno, I’m selfish enough to be thankful for Axel’s broken leg.
The universe is furious tonight. She’s striking down on our town and destroying whatever she touches, and though I carry this mask of ‘Axel’s going to be fine’ every time he’s in his feelings about his job, I’m realistic and smart enough to know when something is off.
Like when a fire is too angry, and the ‘dragon’—as they so affectionately call the blaze—is hungrily consuming everything it passes.
Tonight, the Oriane feels like one of those bad kind of infernos.
“Car lights in the driveway.” Vivian dashes to the front window in a frenzy, then spins, like it’s her life, herpoon, on the line. “Hannah! There’s a truck in our driveway!”
“Axel’s?” I know I’m the one who invited the man over; no one but me is at fault for the stomach-churning nerves that sizzle in my blood right now… but that doesn’t stop them from rolling. Taunting. Tormenting. “Is it Axel’s truck?”
“Yes!” She drops the curtains back in place and twirls on her feet to sprint toward the coffee table in the middle of the room. Snatching up the TV remote, she flips the power off and tosses the controller to the couch cushions, then she grabs her cell phone and quick-steps to the entryway table to grab her car keys. “You’re gonna break chandeliers with Axel freakin’ Feeney tonight. And I’m…”
“Foursome,” I nervously snigger. “You, Alfred… Colin…”
“Colin, Diesel, and Trey.” She checks herself in the hallway mirror, pushes her hair back and slides a sheen of gloss onto her lips. Then, desperately, her eyes swing back to me. “Good luck and godspeed, Hannah Banana. Whatever happens tonight…”
“Shut up.” Nerves transform from a soft, sickening flutter of nausea to the angry wings of a demon dragon from Hell itself. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“He’s calling you out!” she squeaks. “You got too cocky, thought you could step up to the big dog, and now he’s here to prove you a cute little liar.”
“I said I would suck his cock.” My face burns hot with humiliation. “Oh my god. What if I’m not good at it?”
“Just open your mouth,” she instructs. “Like…” She makes an O shape with her lips. “Then suck. You’ll figure out what he likes from the sounds he makes and how hard he pulls your hair. If he’s hurting you, then he’s probably enjoying the BJ.”
“Terrible, albeit effective, advice.” I bustle across the room and herd her toward the door. “Go have fun with Colin. Tell him I miss his cute face and I’ll come down to see him tomorrow.”
“I hope you don’t.” She flings the door open to reveal Axel hobbling to a stop on our front step. Crutches under his arms, and a sheen of sweat on his brow from the exertion.
He dangles a small plastic bag from one hand, and his car keys in the other.
Tossing her own nerves aside and glancing back to me with a saucy grin made of trouble, Viv’s eyes dance with torment. “Have fun, kids. Wear a condom.”
“Go away!” I shove her through the door and feel only a mild pang of guilt when she stumbles toward the railing and risks falling to her death. Then, cool as a cucumber, I lean against the doorframe, arch my back, and try out my sex kitten eyes. “Axel.” I look him up and down and hope my expression hints toward sexy, not mildly constipated. “You decided to come over.”
“Yeah.” He takes a step forward, balancing for a beat with his crutches, and presses a gentle kiss to my cheek.
Behind him, Vivian squeaks and dashes down the stairs.
“You invited me over, and the crew are out on a big call tonight. So…” Straightening himself and perching his crutches back under his arms, he looks past me, as though to askgonna let me in?
“Oh, sorry!” I take his plastic bag, then his keys, before ducking out of the way and leaving him to hobble in on his own.
While he does that, destroying our move-in deposit as his crutches smack the doorframe and peel a line of paint away, I peek inside the bag to find a tub of ice cream, already soft from the warmth in the air.
“Kinda sad to see the Oriane is burning down.”
Good one, Hannah. Ease his worry about me and fire… by making sexy small talk about fire.
“Um… How’s your leg?” I ask instead.
“Pretty much all better.” He hobbles into my living room and tosses one crutch aside, like the damned thing annoys him. But slower now, shakier, he turns on one foot and watches me close the door.
Nerves swim in my belly as I flip the locks. But then I twist back to study his long torso, framed by a shirt that rides up on one side because of his remaining crutch, and scan his legs, wrapped in long basketball shorts, since jeans are out for as long as he’s in a cast. He wears a single black sneaker on his good foot, and a leather bracelet on his left wrist.
Some might think he’s fond of the accessory. Maybe he’s one ofthoseguys. Which would be totally fine, as far as I’m concerned. But the fact the bracelet changes once a week, on average, says that his styling choices have less to do with his own wants, and everything to do with the whims of a six-year-old girl who demands compliance.
