Fiery Nights (6 page)

“I can understand that,” I said. “You’re not alone now. I’m
here.”

“Are you?” His dark eyes implored. “I’m not too much for
you?”

“I should be asking you that question,” I said with a
coquettish smile. “I’m not too much for you?”

“Too much?” he said, and then he pulled me close, planting a
kiss on my lips. “I can barely stay focused on this omelet as I just want to
get more of you.”

I put my plate on the end table, and then put his down on
his end. “I’m suddenly hungry for something else.”

Tristan flipped me onto my back and I squealed with
laughter. “What are you doing?”

“You know exactly what I’m doing.”

Then he kissed me right where I liked it on my neck. As his
kisses trailed down over my breasts and over my belly, I sighed in contentment.

“Want me to stop?” he asked.

“God, no.”

He teased me, kissing down one hip and along my thigh, from
one inner thigh to the other, while I writhed beneath him in anticipation. And
then finally, finally, I felt his tongue on me, masterfully taking control of
my entire body.

I almost forgot how good this feels. And with Tristan, it
felt better than I ever remembered.

He alternated bringing me right to the edge, and then
slowing down and backing off, until I was ready to scream out, “Now! Don’t
tease anymore!” But words failed me at this point. As if sensing my need, he
increased the pressure and became relentless, driving me to a point of no
return. The world exploded around me in the most intense, world-shattering
orgasm.

When I came back to Earth, I muttered, “That. Was.
Phenomenal.”

“I’m not done yet.”

He grabbed a condom from the end table and within seconds
had it on and was inside me. I caught the pace with his rhythm, wrapping my
legs around his waist. He lifted my ass off the bed and I met him with each
thrust. His cock rubbed me in just the right spot at this angle. My need for
him intensified and I took control of the pace from underneath him. Then I
squeezed my legs tighter around him as I reached a peak again.

“Oh God, Maya,” he said and he thrust harder. And then I
felt him pumping inside me.

We crumbled back onto the bed, out of breath and satiated.

I wasn’t sure how exactly to ask the question on my mind
without blurting it out bluntly and killing the afterglow. “Can I ask you
something personal?”

He rolled up onto one elbow. “What?”

“You’ve clearly been with other women before. You’re far too
skilled not to have practiced.”

“Thanks, babe. You’re pretty damned impressive yourself.”

“What I’m wondering—is how you managed to be with other
women considering your uh, condition, as you call it.”

When he chuckled, I exhaled in relief. So I didn’t offend
him.

“Very short-term relationships,” he said. “And keeping the
lights off.”

After we refilled our coffee cups and came back to bed,
Tristan asked, “Do you have any plans today?”

I shrugged. “I just planned on doing laundry, errands, the
typical things you take care of on your day off.”

“Maybe I can encourage you to spend the day with me. There’s
someone who wants to meet you.”

Surprised, I asked, “Who?”

“My mother.”

After my mouth dropped to the floor, I asked, “Your mother?
Don’t you think that’s taking things a little fast considering we just spent
our first night together?”

“The first of many, I hope.” He flashed a smile that would
make any woman agree to do anything he asked in an instant. “I told her about
your light.” He put his hands out to the sides. “And I don’t know what to say.
She asked to meet you.”

“O-kay then,” I said. “So this whole light thing—she gets
what you’re talking about? Because I sure don’t.”

“Will you please come?” he asked. “It would mean a lot to
me.”

How could I resist that imploring look in his dark eyes? I
think I might do anything to alleviate that pain.

Tristan drove me home.

“Want me to wait while you get ready? What do you need, say
twenty minutes?”

I tilted my head to indicate the unlikelihood of that
happening. Twenty minutes? “Please.”

“Thirty?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Forty-five? An hour? How long does it take for you to get
ready?”

“I’d say an hour. But give me an hour and a half, just in
case. I wasn’t planning on meeting any parents today. I need to dress
accordingly.”

“You don’t have to worry too much about my parents. They’re
not exactly—conventional.”

I wanted to ask him what he meant, but it could wait.
“You’ll tell me more on the drive there, right?”

“I will. See you soon.”

As I climbed out of his black Mustang, he slapped me
playfully on the ass. “I’ll miss that.”

When I entered my apartment, everything changed. I
frantically threw aside one rejected outfit after another. What the heck was I
supposed to wear to meet the parents of a guy I hardly knew? A guy whom I just
spent the night with?

I started pacing and biting my nails.

Music. I needed music. What I needed now was some sort of
confident I-am-woman-hear-me-roar music. I looked through my record collection,
but didn’t know what I wanted. So I played my iPod, pressing Next as I shuffled
through songs to find something to fit the mood. When Gogol Bordello’s
Pale
Tute
came on, I settled for fun upbeat gypsy music to get me on the go at
least, rather than filled with uncertainty about the day ahead.

I wish these guys were in my extended family. What a fun,
happy band. Maybe I’d even join the band as some sort of extra. I could dance
around singing backup vocals, maybe bang a tambourine. That couldn’t be that
hard to play, right? You just hit it with your hands, maybe on your hips. All
you need is to match the rhythm of the band and not go off on some random beat
of your own. We would have fun singing and dancing like Gypsies! Then partying
’til the wee hours of the morning.

Focus, Maya. Why does your mind wander to the ridiculous
completely unrealistic fantasies in times of stress? You’re not running off to
join a Gypsy punk band. Stop looking for the escape just because you’re
nervous. You’re a firefighter and you like your job. And you’re meeting some
guy’s parents this afternoon. Some guy who you are way too into way too soon.
But it’s too late to worry about such things. So get dressed!

Why did I agree to meet them anyway? What kind of family
were they if seeing me in a light was something they wanted to explore in more
depth?

Did I really want to be dissected under a microscope?

I picked up my phone to call Tristan and tell him I changed
my mind.

No, I couldn’t do that to him. He said it meant a lot to
him. I couldn’t bear being the cause of any more sadness in those deep, dark
eyes.

Forget it, I’ll pick my outfit after. I hopped in the shower
and thought some more.

Meeting parents already? This is too much, too soon. What
was I getting myself into? A relationship? Did I even want one?

This was all going too fast. Progressing from a mega-crush
to a hot night to meeting the guy’s parents within twenty-four hours was just
too crazy.
I can’t do it.

After getting out of the shower, I found a flowing black
skirt that was both feminine and conservative—perfect for such an occasion. I
found a button-down white short-sleeve blouse that fit the bill and set off the
blackness of my hair.
I can’t do it.

I looked in the mirror and tried to trick myself. “I
can
do this.”

When I looked away, I knew I couldn’t. Checking the time, I
realized Tristan would be here soon. I may as well wait and tell him in person.

I brushed my hair and put on some light makeup.

Ten minutes later, Tristan rang the bell. I walked over to
the front door to let him in, bracing myself before I broke the news.

When I opened the door, he smiled so brightly that I forgot
what I was going to say.

“Ready, gorgeous?”

All my reservations slipped away. I knew I could do it now.
Just
take his hand and everything will be just fine.

“Yes.”

* * * * *

He opened the door for me like a true gentleman and we
settled in for the drive to Salem. He played his iPod.

“What is this song? I heard it in that
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
movie. When Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are all over each other when they
first meet.”

“
Mondo Bongo
.”

“
That’s
what it’s called? They don’t even say those
words.”

He shrugged. “Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros. You know—the
singer from The Clash?”

“Oh yeah. No wonder his voice sounds familiar.”

I was well-aware that we were both procrastinating the big
heavy talk. Where all the questions and mysteries from last night were supposed
to be explained. After a couple more songs and I asked more questions about
them, which I really didn’t have to know the answers to at that moment, I said,
“Okay, I’m ready to hear more.”

“Music?”

“No. You know what I mean. Last night you wanted to tell me
things about you. About how you’re different.”

Tristan tapped the steering wheel a few times before
answering. “It’s not just me. My family—we’re all different.”

I adjusted in my seat. “Different how?”

“We,” he began, but then he stopped. “We’re not like
everybody else.”

I wanted to ask what he meant again, but then changed my
mind and decided to let him tell me in his own way. I know—progress for a
motormouth like me.

“We’ve been here for hundreds of years. My family was one of
the original settlers in Salem.”

“Oh,” I said. What was so weird about that?

“Some of the women, my ancestors, were accused of
witchcraft.”

Now I was paying attention. “What happened to them?”

“They were burned,” Tristan said and he gritted his teeth.
“Or drowned.” On the last word, he clenched his teeth.

“That’s terrible.” I reached up to put an arm on one of his
broad shoulders. “What a tragic family history. So many innocent people died.”

He looked me in the eyes and said, “Innocent of what? They
were witches.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“They were innocent of wrongdoing, or any of the fabricated
charges against them. But yes, they were witches. I come from a family of
witches. It doesn’t mean we’re evil. Just misunderstood. They didn’t deserve to
die.”

I removed my hand. “Whoa. What are you saying? You’re a
witch? Or a wizard or something? Wait, you mean like those high school kids who
parade around wearing pentagrams saying they’re Wiccan? Or those people who go
on talk shows to say they’re vampires because they feel the need to drink blood?”

“Never mind all that nonsense,” he said, waving his hand,
keeping his eyes fixed on the road. “I’m telling you that we’re not like
regular people. We can do things. We have ancient magic, a spirituality,
running through us.”

I cocked my head. “What kind of things can you do?”

He clenched the steering wheel before he replied. “Me? I
can’t do anything of importance. I’ve been cursed.”

After recovering from his statement, I said, “Surely that’s
not true? Why would you be cursed?”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’ve experienced what I
have—it’s haunted me for so long. I just wish to be rid of it.”

“Do you think there’s a way?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out for years.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked, “Are
you the only ones who are, you know, like you?”

“What do you mean, Maya? Are there other witches?”

I nodded. Witches seemed an odd word to use, especially for
the hot guy next to me.

“Yes, there are others. Not as many as there once were, but
we’re still around. In fact—”

He stopped and didn’t continue so I prodded. “In fact what?”

“Never mind.”

Now when people say things like
never mind
, it just
makes me all the more curious. Don’t start a sentence unless you’re going to
finish it, I say.

“No, please continue,” I said politely, even though I was
itching to know the truth and wanted to just shout
Tell me now!
“You
were going to tell me something.”

He hesitated before he spoke again. “I was just going to say
how I thought you might be like us. Maybe your family or something. Because I
can definitely sense something different about you. Why else would I see you in
a light?”

“Sorry, Tristan. I’m not a witch.”

We drove past the touristy witch attractions and on along
the Atlantic, and then took a left onto a quiet residential street. We drove
for a few more minutes until we reached a Tudor house with a historical marker
on it. Even though it was a modest New England size, not ostentatiously large,
it still emanated class and old-world charm.

He held my hand as he led me up the stone walkway and into
the foyer. I looked around to see large oil paintings on the walls and small
statues on pedestals.
Statues?
Nobody I knew had statues in their
houses, especially the firefighters.

“Tristan, dear,” a woman with a striking gray-white bob
said, wrapping him in a warm embrace. She turned to me. “You must be Maya,” and
she surprised me by hugging me as well.

“Yes. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Stone.”

“Please, call me Isabella,” she said, and then pulled back
to look at me as if trying to understand something.

How much had Tristan told her about me?

Isabella said, “Come, let’s sit in the courtyard. It’s not
often we can take advantage of that in November, but the weather has been mild
this year.” She led us through a dining room with more paintings and a very old
and expensive-looking table. She opened French doors into a lush garden filled
with gorgeous red foliage on dwarf Japanese maples and brilliant red bushes.

We sat down at a black wrought-iron table set. No sooner
than I had pulled my chair in than a middle-aged woman approached carrying a
tray with a teapot and fancy china teacups and some cookies.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” Isabella said.

Charlotte smiled. “Anything else, Mrs. Stone?”

“No thank you. This is lovely.”

Charlotte disappeared. I was more of a coffee drinker
myself, but this fancy setting reminded me of one of those posh restaurants
serving high tea or a scene from
Alice in Wonderland
.

What the heck is high tea anyway?

Getting back to the here and now, I added two spoonfuls of
sugar and tons of cream to my tea. Just as we had all poured and prepared the
tea to our liking, a man approached. He bore such a resemblance to Tristan that
I did a double-take.

My surprise was clearly registered on my face as Isabella
said, “Tristan takes after his father as you can see.”

My mouth had dropped, I realized, but I quickly recovered
and replaced my surprised look with a pleasant smile.

He’s Tristan’s father, for crissake, get a hold of
yourself. Make a good first impression.

He had the same tall frame with broad shoulders, but his
appeared to have softened with age. His face was so similar to Tristan’s that I
thought I was viewing Tristan in twenty-five years with gray around the
temples.

Me likey the distinguished Stone look.

Whereas Tristan wore his hair longer, his father kept his
close-cropped, almost a military cut.

“Maya, this is my father, Eric Stone. Dad, this is Maya.” He
turned to me. “Wait, Maya, I don’t know your last name.”

Our eyes locked for a moment. I tried to suppress the blush
creeping in my cheeks considering all the ways we explored each other, yet
failed to share something as simple and elementary as the initial formalities.
As if reading my thoughts, Tristan gave me a knowing smile.

“Winters,” I said.

Tristan’s father said, “Nice to meet you,” and excused
himself before he left.

My question about how much Tristan had told his mother was
quickly answered.

“Mom, I was telling you about Maya. When I look at her, I
see light. All the darkness disappears. I took her to the graveyard to see what
would happen, to see what she’d feel.”

He caught my eye and I’m pretty sure we were both thinking
the same thing about how hot things almost got in there.

“When she walked in, all the spirits disappeared from my
vision and I could only see her light. But she didn’t feel anything different.
What do you think that means?”

“I don’t know, Tristan. Gifts are different for everyone.
Maybe she has an affinity with some type of good spirits. Or maybe her gift is
a connection with you. The light to your darkness.”

She turned to me. “Tell me, dear. Have you ever felt you
were different from others?”

“Well yes, but no, not really.”

“How about your family? Anyone have any special abilities?”

“No. But that’s natural.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I was adopted. So there isn’t a biological connection
between my relatives and me.”

She looked at me sympathetically, which people often did
when they found out. I hated that. As if I should be pitied. I know it wasn’t
intentional, but still. I love my adoptive parents. And they gave me so much
love and support that my biological parents probably weren’t able to give for
one reason or another.

“I see,” she said. “Do you know your biological parents?”

“No. I don’t know anything about them,” I said, lifting my
chin up.

She opened her mouth as if she was going to ask a follow-up
question, but then changed her mind.

We talked about my life for several minutes longer and this
conversation was turning out to be more like one between two women meeting for
the first time rather than one trying to figure out if the other had any
special gifts. Tristan sat quietly, his eyes focused on me. Isabella then
asked, “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a firefighter,” I said.

“Interesting career choice. What drew you to that?”

“I’ve always been fascinated by fire,” I said. The three of
us exchanged glances.

His mother put her mug down. Tristan leaned forward.

“Since when?”

“Since always,” I said.

“Please. Will you tell us more?” Isabella said.

I had to think about that one. This was something about me that
nobody knew outside of my family. Our little secret. Not even my best friend
Nike. It’s not something you can just share with just anyone without them
wanting to commit you. They would think I’m nuts. But then again, Tristan
thought I’d think the same thing about him and run away. I had to give them the
benefit of the doubt.