Flash and Burn: Second Five (Flash and Burn #2)

  Flash and Burn: Second Five

  by E.J. Swenson

  Copyright © 2014 by E.J. Swenson

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  1. First Date

  It’s been two years since her husband died, but it feels like yesterday. The widow looks down at her finger, pulls off her wedding ring, and sets it on her nightstand alongside a stack of cash for odds and ends. The white stripe around her ring finger looks soft and vulnerable. She sighs and pats her frizzy hair. He’s waiting for her in the car, her first date since she met her husband fifteen years ago.

  At the party, her friends are alternately full of praise–it’s so nice to see you moving on–and envy–your date is so handsome. The envy makes her heart clench. Her friends’ husbands are paunchy and careworn from providing for and chasing after children, something it’s looking less and less likely she will ever have. She’s pouring herself an oversized glass of wine when Ashley, a soft, pastel blonde with a hard, sour filament running through her, grabs her arm.

  “OMG, your date is stunning. He’s so different from your husband.” Her voice lowers from a sweet soprano to an insinuating alto. “Where did you find him?”

  The widow flushes and stammers, groping for words. Her date is tall, dark, and well-built, a classic romantic hero straight out of central casting, while her husband was a short, blond sparkplug with an antic sense of humor. She doesn’t like what Ashley’s implying by different. Different is not better, she thinks, when her date appears as if conjured by dark magic.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, taking the widow firmly by the arm and locking his gaze onto Ashley. “I have to steal her away. We’re late for a show, and we’ve already stayed too long.”

  Arm-in-arm, they leave the party. The widow relaxes into grateful relief. She even whispers into the hero’s ear: “Good job, handsome.” The trip back to her small, tidy house is filled with companionable silence. He parks his car outside, and his dark eyes question her light ones. Do you need something more from me? She gives the barest of nods, and he’s on her, his lips parting hers and his tongue exploring forcefully while she clutches at his back.

  They make their way, touching and tasting, out of the car and through the front door. As they fumble down the hallway to her bedroom, she wonders about the state of her body, so long untouched. Yes, she exercises every day, but she wonders if her pale, muscular legs have been marked by blue veins or cellulite. Then he unzips her dress. She feels his erection pushing into her back, and all her doubts evaporate. She turns and sinks to her knees–thank god I chose the soft carpet–and takes his cock in her mouth, her tongue teasing its tender, bulbous end.

  She can feel him swell and pulse, when he pulls her hair gently and shakes his head. He pulls her to her feet, and they sink onto the bed, a single organism of desire. She’s wet and ready despite ghostly pangs of guilt–she hasn’t been with a man since her husband–and guides him into her. She comes with a grateful sigh and so does he. She finds herself drifting off to sleep, her head resting on his hard, lightly furred chest.

  When she awakens from a deep, blank sleep, the cash is gone from the table and so is her date. She slides her wedding ring back onto her finger and smiles.

  2. Every Sunday

  She opens the spare room and gazes at the chains built into the wall. There’s also a small cot, a toilet, a sink, a mini-fridge, and a small bookcase lined with dog-eared paperbacks. She’s holding a small pack containing two changes of clothes and travel-sized toiletries.

  “Honey, it’s getting late! Have you secured yourself?” His voice is nervous. Weak. Like a mosquito’s whine. She takes a step into the room. The chains will be cold against her wrists. She will struggle against them for hours as she fills with a terrible and euphoric energy. She will exhaust herself and then read until she falls into a sweaty, restless sleep. The next morning will be just another Monday.

  “Honey?” calls her husband, the whine taking on the cadence of exasperated anger. “What’s going on?”

  There’s an open window down the hall from the little room. A summer breeze breathes gently through the mesh screen. Fuck it, she thinks. Her husband shakes his fists as she drives away.

  ***

  The bar is crowded, but she stalks through the crowd like the graceful animal she is. It’s a Sunday night, but most of the desperate characters who drink at Loki’s Revenge–bikers, dealers, addicts, thieves–do not live according to workday rhythms. She removes her hair clip and shakes her head slightly, enjoying the sensation of thick, jasmine-scented hair cascading down her back. She can feel the eyes on her, hungry and questioning.

  She glides to the bar, other patrons tumbling from her path. The bartender, a thickly muscled man with a hooked nose and a black eye patch, grins broadly. “You just can’t stay away, can you?”

  She licks her lips and grins back. “I’m fucking thirsty, you one-eyed bastard.”

  He chuckles and lines up three shots of tequila. She downs them, one after the other. A predatory gleam shines in her yellow-green eyes that, on most days, are the dull color of moss. “When does your shift end?” she asks slyly.

  “Right this fucking second.”

  ***

  The camper is unkempt and smells like stale weed, but she doesn’t care. She opens the door and runs naked in the moonlight. He sprints after her, following her into the woods. She lets him catch her and spin her roughly into his arms. He smells musky, like a wild animal, and his lips bruise hers. His erection presses into her belly, and she leans into it. He groans and pushes her against an ancient oak. The bark scores her back, but she doesn’t care. In fact, she revels in it.

  His hands rake against her heavy breasts and belly, and find the damp cleft between her legs. His touch is the opposite of gently and clearly unpracticed, but she rocks her hips, rubbing her clit against his callused palm and allowing two fingers to slide into her. With a gasp and a groan, she wraps one strong leg and then the other around his waist. Their selves fly away, melting into sensations that are hard and soft and hot and cold, all at the same time.

  Spent, they fall to the damp ground in a tangled heap.

  ***

  She awakens on a stained purple couch in a tiny trailer. Her back is tender and covered in abrasions. Her mouth tastes like cotton soaked in varnish. Worst of all, an itchy rash burns down her thighs. She finds her backpack and pads to the tiny, unclean shower, hoping to wash away even a little of the self loathing that seems to coat every inch of her skin.

  It’s five a.m. on Monday morning, and she’s herself again. Fuck.

  3. Lost and Found

  Her style has always been understated: straight, blunt-cut brown hair, minimal makeup, tailored pants and jackets in shades of charcoal and dusky pearl. She even covers her phone in a demure black case, lest its bright, gaudy screen attract the wrong sort of attention. As she leaves the tiny cafe where she always has Saturday brunch in the company of a Bloody Mary and a good book, she has the indefinable feeling she’s forgotten something.

  She reaches her hand into her black matte Coach bag and feels around. She has her keys, her Kindle, an
d…oh, shit. She left her phone at the cafe. She must have. She hurries back, crossing two streets against the light and earning angry glares from smug cyclists and heedless drivers alike. She finds her usual table and exhales with relief. Her phone is right where she left it, next to the sugar dispenser. She snatches it up and heads home, where she will do laundry and perhaps catch up on Netflix. Another sleepy Saturday, just the way she likes it.

  ***

  Her clothes are tumbling in the dryer and Tang, her orange tabby, is nestled by her feet. She’s reading something fast-paced and forgettable, a palate cleanser for the mind, when she hears a loud snippet of Beethoven’s Symphony 9. It’s coming from her bag. She is puzzled; her ringtone is a series of low soothing tones. She eases herself off the couch, trying not to disturb her cat, and retrieves her bag from the kitchen table.

  Several text messages are blinking for attention, all variations of “Are you the woman who stole my phone?” Damn it, she thinks, I must have some grabbed the wrong one. She hurriedly composes an apologetic reply.

  I’m so sorry, must have grabbed your phone from Rosa’s. It was a case of mistaken identity, nothing more sinister. Can I meet you somewhere to return it?

  A pause, then more violins. Young lady, you’ve caused me to miss some very important messages. Very naughty. How will you make it up to me?

  She shakes her head slightly. I guess I could buy you a cup of coffee. Or maybe something stronger?

  His reply is almost instantaneous. I was thinking of something more personal. Are your panties as dull as your clothing? Or are you hiding your light under a bushel?

  Horrified, frightened, and just the slightest bit aroused, she stares at the phone as if it has a perverse kind of life. Then she hears a knock at her door and recalls that all kinds of apps exist specifically to locate lost and stolen phones. She peers through her peephole, and there he is: tall, Nordic, late thirties, unspeakably handsome. It has been more than a year since she’s been with anyone, man or woman. Do I call the police or let him in?

  ***

  She rides him, wearing nothing but a lacy red bra with transparent insets, and the sensation is deliciously frictionless. Her juices flow, her clit swells into a small, hard pebble, and she admires his sculpted face and gym-toned abs. She is fucking a potentially dangerous stranger who now knows where she lives. She smiles broadly. It’s the kind of stupid, reckless thing she did in college, when she dyed her hair purple and told everyone her life was performance art.

  She’s glad she saved those handcuffs from her last boyfriend, the one who fancied himself an older, paunchier, and impecunious version of Christian Grey. They look great holding this new man, whose expression is equal parts delighted and bemused, securely to her headboard.

  4. Homework

  The college girl–now a senior, practically a grown woman–keeps the envelope in her copy of Wings of a Dove. It has been there for days. She doesn’t have the will to tear it open and face its contents. She wills herself to think of other things. Like her literature professor. He’s certainly distracting, she thinks, although it’s such a stupid cliché. Still, she can’t help admiring the intelligence and authority in his voice, the dark curls kissing his chin, the trim lines that promise a taut, well cared for body.

  He’s saying something profound about Henry James’ attitudes towards woman, she’s sure of it, but his words are deflected by the fizzy, lusty feelings that are pulling her mood towards a simple, animal happiness. She smiles and pulls out her compact, checking her lipstick. It’s the only makeup she wears, and she prefers a deep red, verging on burgundy.

  It takes her a moment to realize the students around her are gathering their things and moving towards the exits. The professor himself is waving casual goodbyes and making light chatter with his pupils as they file out. The girl sits as if frozen, making no move to load up her backpack. Her sexual bucket list is long and varied and largely intact. She’s never seduced anyone before. She watches the professor settle himself at the ancient wooden desk–the hall must be vacant for a while–and she lightly strokes the envelope peeking out from her homework assignment. It’s time, she decides.

  The walk to his desk feels long and forbidding. It weakens her resolve. I bet he’s worried about a lawsuit. Or pining after his ex-wife, the glamorous Egyptologist who once appeared on the cover of Cosmo. Still, her feet keep moving forward, one after the other, and she hopes her nerves give her an enticingly wobbly gait. When she reaches his desk and he regards her with a wary, guarded expression–she’s always been a competent but indifferent student–she can’t quite decipher.

  She has no idea what to say, so she does the only thing that comes to mind. She circles his desk; he watches her intently. She pretends to fall and allows gravity to pull her into his arms. As she fumbles, ostensibly to right herself, her lips find his. After a moment of hesitation, he surrenders to her kiss and returns it two-fold, his tongue probing her mouth as if he were searching it for meaning. His beard is scratchy on her cheeks and neck–a strange, absorbing sensation she’s never experienced before–and she barely notices as he backs into a padded chair and pulls her onto him.

  His hands travel under her long white T-shirt and roughly shift her bra, exposing her young, firm breasts. He holds them gently in his hands for a moment, taking in their size and weight. “Peaches,” he murmurs before tweaking her nipples with one hand and unfastening his pants with the other. He pushes up her skirt and frowns with disappointment. “Take off your leggings,” he commands.

  She shimmies out of her leggings and glances towards the door to the hall, which is still ajar. She marvels at the extreme risk they are taking, especially him. She straddles him, planting her feet firmly on the floor, and slides onto his erection, which pokes through the opening in his jeans. She reaches under her T-short and rubs her clit as she rises and falls, sending electric pulses of desire through her core. They quickly find a rhythm that brings them to a wrenching, silent climax.

  ***

  It’s late afternoon, and the bar is practically deserted. She rests her drink on the torn envelope and takes a generous swallow. She re-reads the paper one more time. Positive for BRCA1. Consider counseling for prophylactic mastectomy and oophorectomy. The bartender is tall with long, dirty blond curls and a roguish glint in his eye. She stuffs the letter in her bag and smiles.

  5. Trash Night

  He watches her guiltily from his kitchen window. The small, slender woman who lived across the street struggles up her driveway, lugging an enormous trash can almost as tall as she is. Her skin is an unhealthy pale and her cheeks bloom with roses. Her dark hair is piled into a messy bun. The Twilight suits her. When her trash is finally arranged at the curb just so, she pauses to gaze at the last glimmers of sunlight as they wink out and turn the neighborhood entirely gray.

  ***

  He walks his dog in the small hours of the morning. His hound-shepherd mix is querulous around other animals. After midnight or so, he only has to worry about the raccoons and the skunks, not the easily angered humans with their -oodles–the carefully groomed hypoallergenic poodle mixes that have become so fashionable. He notices that the lights are still on across the street. The pale glowing windows seem questioning, almost sentient.

  He dog strains to expel a hard, bone-colored stool–I’ve got to get him to the vet, he thinks. He glances at his neighbor’s trash can. Suddenly and inexplicably, he’s seized by a strange desire. He turns off his flashlight and removes the reflective hunting hat from his head, leaving it on the ground. He walks across the street carefully and gingerly, as if he’s trying not to wake up a sleeping child, and warily approaches his neighbor’s trash can.

  This is sick, he thinks, I don’t even know her name. Nonetheless, he opens the can and looks inside. The thin light of the streetlamp illuminates a neatly sealed black bag. It doesn’t have the characteristically sweet, corrupted small he associates with garbage. Furtively, he looks around and makes a small tear in the bag
. He isn’t sure what he sees, but it looks medical. Everything is plastic or glass, a bag or a vial or a tube, and labeled with hazard tape.

  God, I am such an asshole. He calls his dog and scurries into his house.

  ***

  It’s trash night again. His neighbor is obviously sick or even dying–her pale, bony frame and the medical waste in her trash seem to be conclusive evidence–and he is resolved to do the decent thing. He will drag her trash to the curb and offer to do it every Tuesday. As he approaches her door, it strikes him how different her house is from the others on the street. It’s covered in ancient ivy and has the look of a crumbling monastic retreat. She must know someone on the town zoning committee.

  She opens the door before he even knocks and he regards her with awe and wonder. She is beautiful. Mahogany hair frames her flushed face, and her eyes are wide and warm. There’s a small splotch of what appears to be red sauce at the corner of her lips. I must have interrupted her dinner. He’s about make his offer–which now feels so insignificant, he should be offering her a fortune or a crown–when he follows her inside, a man with no will but infinite desire.

  ***

  He doesn’t understand what is happening, but it fills him with an overwhelming warmth and sense of well-being. He is naked and, technically speaking, chained to an enormous, gothic-looking bed. She is lush and fleshier than he expected. Her breasts are the size and shape of ripe pears; her nipples are burgundy colored quarters, and her mound is marked with a neat dark triangle.

  Her ruby red lips travel between his mouth, he neck, and his throbbing erection. There’s something hungry in her expression, but he understands it. If his limbs were freed, if he could move and touch at will, he would bite and nuzzle her dove-white breasts and subject her to his throbbing, driving need. When she impales herself on his impossibly swollen cock, some kind of red liquid is dripping from her mouth down her chin and neck.