CHAPTER 7
Nina
For the first time in a long time, the words flow from my fingers.
And, yeah, I’m stealing from real life, but so what?
There’s still a fantasy twist. The vampire firefighter, Darius, has just saved the heroine, Clove, from taking a tumble out of a three-story tree (gotta’ give real life a bit of a boost to make Clove’s cowardice less so), and in the process managed to give my latest heroine the best orgasm of her life.
But now fiction is deviating from reality because Darius just appeared in Clove’s bedroom, swathed in moonlight, ready to fuck her into oblivion with his big dick.
His big, ropey, veiny, hard dick. Maybe like Sampson’s, maybe not. I’ve never seen his dick. Rumor is, he knows what to do with it, whatever it looks like.
My Darius has amnesia. He doesn’t recognize Clove from the high school they attended together. He doesn’t remember the scene of my—her—utter mortification, so all he feels is bone-deep attraction. There isn’t a single memory barring his sticking said big, ropey, veiny, hard dick into her.
Amnesia solves a world of impossibility. No muss, no fuss, no hassle. If only real life would comply as well as fiction.
The doorbell rings less than a second before I hear the door opening and small feet pounding up the stairs.
“Close the door, Nicholas,” I call.
Feet retreat, a door slams, and he doubles back up the stairs. I’m already saving my progress on a floppy key drive thingy, which I’m sure is its official name, when the boy bursts into my room. He runs straight for my desk.
“He’s out and we need to go bring him flowers or kiwi or something,” he pants.
“Maybe pineapple, but kiwi is better, that’s what Mrs. Radimeer says.
She’s our new health teacher. Mom has a second phone interview, and she says she can’t drive me, but I have to go now because I’ve got something to tell him that’s really, really, really important! ”
The words overlap, he speaks them so fast, all his thoughts jumbling together. It takes me a few seconds to try to piece them out. He wants me to drive him somewhere with kiwi? Ooh, Mari has a second interview? That’s wonderful news.
“Nina! Come on!” Nicholas grabs my arm and tries to pull me from the chair, a sense of urgency losing him his manners. “I need to talk to Mr. Dean.”
Ooh, Sampson?
I check my rising excitement and clamp down on it. Hard. I’m not enthused about visiting my enemy. I’m just getting caught up in Nicholas’s emotions, that’s all. I don’t feel any need to jump from my chair and run to Sampson’s side… with kiwi, apparently.
To Nicholas, every thought in his head takes on monumental importance, so there’s no pressing need to lift my ass out of my chair…
though I could use a break from the manuscript.
I’m moving along, sure, but I don’t have more than the beginning chapters in my head.
I’m a pantser by nature, which means I usually let the story lead me rather than mapping it out before I start writing.
Until I have a vague idea about the next scene, there’s no sense forcing words.
I mean, I can only describe Sampson’s imaginary dick for so many pages.
I mean—Darius’s dick.
“Did your mom say it was okay for me to take you to see him? And why aren’t you in school?”
“It’s four o’clock already. Why would I be in school? And yeah, she said it’s okay with her if it’s okay with you.”
“I guess it is.” I do a quick think as I try to control my pulse, which is leaping around in my veins for reasons probably having to do with Darius’s presence in Clove’s bedroom rather than an impending visit to Sampson.
Plus, I don’t know where Sampson lives, but they’d probably know at the MFD.
Or I could call Darla, Pete’s wife. “Do me a favor? Go feed Mr. Mittens while I search out Mr. Dean’s address. And check his water dish?”
Nicholas scampers off, happy to be taking charge of the cat, and when I make a call, Darla’s more than happy to tell me how to find Sampson.
She’s also anxious to set up a dinner for next week, which I take to mean that Pete’s matchmaking skills have already transferred to her through that mind-warp thing married couples have.
Once I agree, she hands over the information.
Great. Another meeting with the giant. Wish my heart wasn’t pounding as if I’m excited about it, though it’s probably dread I’m feeling.
Fine. There’s a little dread. A lot of anxiety. But Sampson has been nicer lately. The trend could continue. Plus, if he’s not amicable today, I don’t have to go to dinner at Pete and Darla’s. Ooh, and maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of his infamous Red Room?
No. No Red Room. Nicholas will be with me.
I’m not sure if it’s relief or disappointment swamping me.
I spend a good ten minutes in the bathroom, putting on mascara, brushing out my hair, and making sure my legs are shaved, but not because anyone is going to see my legs under my jeans. It’s the principle of the thing. Right?
With Nicholas fidgeting and urging me onward, I stop to scoop out the pints of pineapple ice cream we never ate yesterday from the freezer and put them in a thermal bag, then grab my keys.
I don’t drive often. There’s not a lot of need in a small, walkable town, but Sampson apparently lives in the converted loft spaces of what used to be the button factory.
That’s on the other side of the mountaintop.
The drive there is peaceful, marred only by Nicholas jumping up and down with his butt on my passenger seat. “Does this go faster? Jeez, how do you drive this thing?”
This thing is an old Jeep that barely has its doors on anymore.
The color has faded to a peachy shade of nothingness after its forty years of life.
There’s no air-conditioning, but the wheels turn and the engine chugs, and that’s really all I need.
And I still have another ten car payments until it’s all mine.
“We’re almost there. What do you have to tell him, anyway?” I turn onto a smaller street, careful since the balance on the old Jeep isn’t the best when cornering at high speeds.
“It’s a secret.”
“Well, do I get to find out once you tell him?”
“If he says it’s okay.”
Great. Male bonding already, and the kid hasn’t even reached double digits in age.
The old button factory is a composition of brick from the late 1800s and modern, large windows edged in black.
It’s a testament to industrial charm, with a pond in front and expensive touches to the manicured edges.
I’m a little surprised Sampson decided to live in a place like this.
He’s not the snooty type. Judgmental, sure.
Holier-than-thou, absolutely. But I don’t remember him being uppity in a social sense, and this place screams uppity.
We walk into the lobby to find four elevators. On each one is a plaque bearing a name.
“This is his,” Nicholas says, pointing to the one that says, “Dean Residence.”
“Is there a phone or anything?” I look around, but don’t see any way to announce ourselves, nor is there a doorman, though there is a desk along the side wall.
Nicholas presses the button next to Sampson’s elevator. When it dings open, he wastes no time in climbing in, even though I lunge to hold him back. “Come on. There’s only one button to push. Probably lands in another hallway,” he says, holding what I presume is the “door open” button.
“What if it opens up right into his apartment?”
What if his Red Room is right there, and what if he’s with someone in it?
“It won’t. It’ll be fine. Come on,” Nicholas urges.
For a few more seconds, I hesitate. Frankly, I’m reconsidering visiting the man who witnessed the moment of my greatest shame and made me feel like an absolute dog turd about it, but then I glance down at the tote I’m carrying.
The three pints aren’t going to make it all the way back to my house, not without melting.
Which would be a shame. Waste in general isn’t good. Waste of Dickerson’s special pineapple ice cream is a crime against good sense.
“Fine.” I step into the elevator. No sooner do I clear the doors than they snap shut behind me. We fly all the way to the top. Fourth floor, but the levels are tall, which maybe explains why Sampson has chosen to live here. He needs a tall ceiling.
When the doors open, it’s to a hallway, just as Nicholas predicted.
Only this hallway has a beautiful white marble floor that leads to a single door across the way.
Centered in the space is a large, round table, on which a tasteful vase of red dick flowers perches.
I don’t know their real name, but they look like red hearts with yellow dicks sticking out of their center, so that’s what I call them.
Weird. And I’m suddenly more nervous because the arrangement of flowers almost certainly means there’s a woman living on this floor.
Most men I know don’t arrange flowers for themselves, and Sampson can’t be rich enough to have a florist bring him flowers every week.
He’s a fireman. They don’t make bank. So that means there’s probably a woman involved in his life—a wealthy woman, maybe through that solitary door.
I’m not one for showdowns. I like my life placid.
This was such a mistake.
I’m turning back towards the elevator just as Nicholas rings the bell. Too late. I take a deep breath. Nothing for it but to act neighborly. I can do that, right?
While seconds stretch into an eternity, I place my hand against Nicholas’s back. I don’t know which of us I’m reassuring. Probably me. Finally, I hear the sounds of chains unhooking. A second later, the door swings wide.
Sampson, naked except for a pair of blue, sweatsuit-material shorts, blinks down at me before his excoriating stare swoops to the child. And then back up to me—where his gaze rests like an incendiary device about to detonate.