He’s right. I’m in full on pity-party of one mode. “I’m depressing myself,” I tell him.
“Which is why you need to let off some steam. I’m going out as soon we get back. You want to join me?”
I’m already shaking my head. “I’m going home, taking a bath, and getting some sleep.”
“Jesus, you really are an old man now.”
Maybe I am. But the prospect of going out and looking for a quick hookup is utterly unappealing. I’d rather call Chess and see if she’s up for dinner. And right there is what truly makes me a sad sack.
I don’t get to dwell on that any longer. Because we reach the locker room and the reality of my job snaps right back into place.
Grimly, I walk through the locker room doors and prepare to defend my performance and my men.
* * *
Chess
* * *
I’m mopey. Finn is at an away game, and James is in New York with Jamie again. It’s his second visit, and I gather things are getting serious between them.
I’ve received two texts from James. One selfie of him and Jamie in Central Park by the Bethesda Fountain, the other of them all smooshie-faced in Times Square on the night they went to see Hamilton, the musical—the lucky bastards. A wave of homesickness had hit me, seeing those pictures.
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.”