New Orleans is home for me now. But there are days I miss the fast moving rhythm of New York. Sometimes, I’ll hear a car horn and close my eyes and think of cabs and cars and trucks all vying for road space. I’ll remember the shouts and bangs and rattles as the city pulses around me.

But then I’ll sit on my balcony and breathe in the warm air, fragrant with the basil that’s growing high, despite the fact that it’s fall, and I feel restored.

Doesn’t stop me from being lonely.

I have other friends I could call. Girlfriends I haven’t seen in a while.

But that’s not who I really want to see.

Finn has called and texted fairly regularly. But it’s not the same. When he’s in the city, we can find times to meet up, even if it’s for a quick bite to eat. When he’s gone…

I feel it.

Today, he sent me a package of gelato. Packed on ice and delivered by courier, there were a dozen flavors to choose from. It’s the best gift I’ve ever received.

A little flip of joy goes through me as I survey my stock of gelato. There’s a flavor called Amarena, which, upon discovery, turns out to be sweet cream and sour-tart cherries, swirled with glossy crimson ribbons of cherry sauce.

I eat it with a spoon, straight from the carton, slowly savoring it on my tongue. I love gelato, but this stuff? It tastes like sex. I lick the cold metal curve of the spoon and think of cherry cream rivers running down tight abs.

“Jesus,” I mutter, flushed and jittery. “I need to get laid.”

From out in the hall, comes the almost manic sounds of Miles Davis, played on full volume. My neighbor, Fred, is a jazz lover. And apparently nearly deaf. I glare toward the direction of the door, and help myself to another spoonful of cold, creamy sin.

A shriek and a whiff of ozone barely register. But then the sudden loss of Miles Davis and the blare of fire alarms have me turning.

Fred yells, the sound an echo in his loft.

I get up, ready to investigate, when a series of loud pops goes off near my kitchen. In a blink, sparks fly from several outlets. And then it’s like I’m inside a live firework. Sparks explode outward, fire flares in hot lines as it races along plaster and up the ceiling.

For one horrible second, I stand frozen in shock. Electrical fire and you’re fucked, flit through my head, and then I jump up. My heart rises in my throat, as I grab the laptop sitting by my side on the counter, clutching my spoon in the other hand.

Alarms screech. I race for the door and run into a wall of black smoke. Fred’s loft door is open, the space engulfed.

“Fred!” I choke on smoke, the flames pushing me back. I’ve never felt heat like this. The strength of it sears my skin and burn my eyes.

If he’s in there, I can’t help him. The thought fills me with horror.

I crouch low and stumble down the stairs, my spoon clattering to the floor. Overhead, the sprinklers start up. Water falls with stinging force, and the concrete stairs turn slick. I grip the metal banister and fumble along.

Another man joins me on the first floor, and we travel together, going as fast as we can. We’re nearly at the bottom, when Fred comes racing up the stairs, face covered in soot, his ratty brown bathrobe flopping around his thin legs.

“My records,” he cries, wild eyed and crazed.

I hold out my free hand, trying to stop him, but he slams into me and we both go down hard. My computer flies in the air, my hand reaching down to catch my fall.

The impact of hitting the ground is so fast and furious, I can’t get past it. Pain spikes up my wrist and ass in the same instant, white light exploding behind my lids. My breath escapes in a gasp. I can’t move my arm. Fred’s bony knee is in my gut. I might die here, smothered by smoke and Fred’s cheap chenille bathrobe.

Fuck you, Fred.

Then black smoke and blazing heat rolls over me, and all thoughts of Fred flee, leaving only one truth: I really might die.

Chapter Eight

Finn

 

* * *

 

“I hate flying,” Dex grumbles at my side. “And I hate wearing a suit.”

Having come directly to the plane from leaving what will now be known as The Game of Suck, none of us had time to change out of our suits. Most of the guys have ripped off their ties. Dex has his jacket wadded up on the armrest between us and is currently digging his big elbow into it as if he can somehow grind the poor thing into dust.

“Flying sucks.” Make no mistake, we have it good in first class. The seats are big, the food is all right. But it still wears on you. There’s a loneliness to it. Especially when you’re coming home to an empty house. I used to like that. I’d crave alone time after being with my team for all hours of the day. Now, I think of walking into my dark place, reheating some chicken and rice to eat in front of the TV, and it just…sucks.

“But every time I want to bitch about the suits,” I say to Dex, “I think about what women wear and shut the fuck up.”

Dex grins, which makes him look downright mercenary with that thick beard of his. “Yeah. The heels are for shit. I don’t know how they do it. Although, I think I might straight up cry if they stopped wearing those pretty bras and panties.”

There’s a slight flush on his cheeks that makes me think he’s got certain sets in mind.

“You thinking about your girl, Dexter?” I grin, giving him a nudge.

Dex leans his head back and closes his eyes as if in pain. “I try not to. Makes it worse, you know?”

I almost tell him that I do know, the response so immediate that I actually gurgle. Because what the fuck? I don’t have a girl.

Then who the fuck have you been thinking about all week? Why is it that your empty apartment now feels like a tomb instead of a refuge?

Facts must be stated.

I miss Chess. I miss her like I’m being denied air.

Running a hand over my face, I stifle a groan. Doesn’t do any good. My mind is still filled with Chess. God, I actually sent her a care package of gelato. And got giddy as a preteen wondering if she’d like it and which flavors she’d try first.

“So your girl,” I say to Dex. “She’s Ivy Mackenzie’s sister?” Ivy Mac, as our world knows her, is an up and coming sports agent and the wife of Gray Grayson, a brilliant tight end, who unfortunately does not play for us.

“She is.” Dex’s expression can only be described as moony. I wonder if I’ll soon be wearing that same face. Maybe I’ve worn it already. Shit.