Nuclear Heat (Firework Girls #4) (4 page)

Oh, god.

Sam.

Is this for real? Is this what I think it is?

I look down at her hand in mine. I want to kiss that too, press my lips against her palm until I make her mine.

I look back at Sam’s face and see her like I’ve never seen her before. My breath catches. My heartbeat is resonating in my body. Her presence washes over me and envelopes me.

Holy god.

This little voice inside my brain is thinking,
But, but, but... we’re friends. Just friends.

We may have been friends for a long, long time, but these feelings I’m having are brand fucking new.

At that moment Ashley comes in, giving me a quick smile before looking at Sam. “Oh, she looks so much better,” she says. She deposits her purse on the counter, flips her long braid behind her, and comes over to sit beside me. “Don’t you think?”

I’m barely breathing. Ashley’s looking at Sam, but I’m looking at Ashley. Maybe my brain is just playing tricks on me. I’m tired from practically no sleep and exhausted from being so freaked out about losing my best friend.

Friend.

So I try it on Ashley. I try to see her the way a man might see her, a man who hasn’t looked at her for years like a sister. But as I continue to stare at her, all I manage to do is draw her attention and make her give me a quizzical look. My heart draws a blank.

I try to imagine kissing her and can’t do it. It’s kind of freaking me out, actually.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

My voice sounds funny. I look back to Sam and it all hits me again.
Bam.

Oh, god.

Oh, god.

Oh, god.

Oh, god.

This can’t be good.

It took long enough, but I’m finally back to mostly feeling like my old self. It’s been a couple weeks since the surgery and those god-awful stitches have finally dissolved, leaving three lovely, one-inch scars in various places. By lovely I mean thick, pink, and fucking ugly.

Oh, well. What are you gonna do? Two are pretty hidden and the doctor said the other one would fade eventually, so there’s that at least, and it’s not like it’s the only scar I have. I’d be lying if I said I’d rather
not
have a scar screwing up my bikini belly, but at the same time, I don’t think it’s going to put a hitch in my groove.

Speaking of groove, I’m more than ready to go out and have some fun. Jack made me promise we’d finally tear out that stupid wall tomorrow, but in return he had to take me to our favorite bar on Eighth Street. Nothing like Rounders on a Friday night. His latest woman is out of town on business or something, so I knew he’d be free.

Things have been a little... I don’t know...
different
with Jack lately. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s so subtle and so infrequent, it took me a while to even realize it was there.

There’s no hint of that tonight, though. Talking and goofing around like we always do, we walk up to the entrance of the bar and flash our IDs. It seems kinda pointless, since the guy at the door knows us well enough by now. But Frank would get in trouble with his boss if he was caught letting us in without going through the motions.

“Hey Jack. Hey Sam.” He nods us in and we weave through the crowded bar toward our favorite spot. The place is hopping and the music is pounding and it feels so good to do something
fun
and
normal
after the pain-in-the-ass hassle of the last few weeks. Between trying to recover physically, it took me a while to get caught up at work too. My co-workers did what they could for me in my absence, but when we have clients specifically requesting me to design their logos and image branding, there’s just no spreading that workload around. Everyone’s been patient and understanding about adjusted deadlines, but man. I’m beat from the whole thing.

We sit at a little round table and wave at Nick, the bartender, to indicate we want the usual start: a brown ale for Jack and an amber for me.

“You sure you’re up for that?” Jack says.

“I’m fine,” I say, jamming a little in my seat to the music and looking longingly at the dance floor. “You’re gonna dance with me tonight, right?”

“I guess,” he says, with an exaggerated sigh. “If I have to.”

I smile.

“But only the slow songs.”

“Slow songs? What the hell?”

First of all, we have an unspoken understanding that slow songs are saved for any hotties we might be checking out in the bar. Not that he’s in a position to check out hotties, being all “exclusive” with that Emily girl. I mentally roll my eyes. I definitely don’t get that, but whatever. I haven’t even met her so she can’t be
that
big a deal. Anyway, while he might be missing out on the hotties all over the place, that doesn’t mean I have to.

Second, fast songs are my favorite and
no one
is as fun to dance with as Jack.

“You probably shouldn’t be bouncing around like that,” he says.

I roll my eyes. He’s doing the Mother Hen thing again. “You mean like this?” I start bouncing to the raucous music more enthusiastically.

He gives me a wry look.

I raise my arms and do my best head banging interpretation for a few seconds. I’m rewarded with his big Jack laugh, so I settle back in my seat, satisfied.

One of the waitresses brings us our drinks.

“See? I feel fine.” I say, grabbing mine.

“Okay, okay.”

“Anyway, explain to me why you’re okay with me knocking out a wall tomorrow but not dancing tonight.”

“Because I’ll be the only one swinging that sledgehammer, darlin’.”

Well, yeah. I can lift most things now, but I still get a bad twinge around the area of the incision if I lift really heavy things, so the sledgehammer’s probably out. It’s crazy how long it can take to recover from abdominal surgery. But even if I didn’t have that shit going on, I doubt I’d be the one with the sledgehammer anyway. “I’ll be hauling scrap out to the truck though.”

He shakes his head firmly. “Nope.”

Now it’s my turn to give him a wry look. “Really. What the fuck
am
I going to be doing tomorrow?”

“Just keep me stocked on cookies and I’ll be happy.”

“Shall I wear heels and pearls, too?” I ask innocently.

He grins and takes a few swallows of his beer.

A group of guys approach the bar and line up, chatting easily with each other. I know one of them. By “know” I mean I know exactly the sound he makes when he’s getting his happy ending. He spots me as well and gives me a sexy grin.

I straighten slightly and feel myself getting warm. It’s been way too long for lots of things, turns out. I have rules about how often and how frequently I’ll sleep with the same guy—no need for anyone to risk getting too attached—and the guy at the bar is well within my criteria. But, it’ll have to wait for some other time. I’m here with Jack and can’t just leave him. If he had a hottie he could go check out himself, that’d be fine. Or if we were here with the girls, that’d be fine too. But I’m obviously not going to leave him alone. Besides, it’s nice being here with him tonight. I’ve missed it.

I look at him and realize he’s been watching me. He’s giving me a weird look.

“What?” I ask.

There’s a pause that’s just a half second too long before he glances at the guy at the bar, then looks away toward the dance floor. “Nothing.”

See? Like this. What the hell
is
this?

He takes a hard swig of his beer, then pops the bottle on the table with a thud.

Okay, this is reaching a whole new level. He’s been kind of off the last few weeks, but now he actually seems pissed or something.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says again.

I give a snort. God, what an awful liar. “Oh, please, Jack. You can’t hide anything from me. Fess up, already.”

He looks straight at me then, a serious expression on his face. Something about it tugs at me.

The smile slides off my face as I really take him in. What the hell is this about?

“Sam,” he begins. There’s something in his tone. I don’t know what it is. “When you say you don’t ever want a relationship, are you being serious or are you just saying that?”

What?

As if he doesn’t know. I would say something smart ass, but he’s definitely not kidding. He needs a straight answer, for some reason. Hell, if I know why. I have a tingling sensation down my neck, but I ignore it. “Jack, girls marry guys like their father. We can’t help ourselves. And fuck if I’m going to do that.” I’ve said all this to him before.

“But, not all girls do,” he says.

I shrug. “Yeah, some girls escape that fate. But you don’t usually know if you’re one of them until it’s too late. Why take the chance?”

He frowns at the bottle in his hand. “What if you met someone who’s nothing like your father?”

I raise my eyebrows and he looks at me out of the corner of his eyes.

“Am I anything like your father?”

The tingling sensation down my neck travels to my shoulders and arms. “What’s it got to do with you?” I ask. I feel a little uneasy. Really, really weird, actually. I’m not sure why. What he’s getting at? Whatever it is, I’m cutting him off at the pass. “No,” I say, firmly. “I am serious and I’m not just saying it. I will
never
be my mother.”

He’s frowning. Really frowning.

“God, Jack, what the hell’s been bothering you? Is this about that Emily chick?” Maybe she’s been around too long for his pleasure. Maybe he’s finally realizing that trying to force a long-term relationship isn’t such a good idea after all.

“No. I mean, yes.” He shakes his head in frustration. “Maybe. Kind of.”

I laugh. “Well
that
clears things up.”

He sighs.

God, he’s so tense. Maybe if I help him relax, he’ll spit out whatever’s on his mind. I scoot my seat behind him and get on my knees so I can reach his shoulders better. I start to massage him, close to the base of his neck. Instead of relaxing, he tenses up immediately.

A new song comes on, ‘Low’ by Flo Rida, one of our favorites to dance to.

He gets up suddenly and turns toward me with an easy grin, extending his hand toward me. Just like that, the old Jack is back. I’m starting to get whiplash from this shit.

“Come on,” he says, jerking his head toward the dance floor. “Let’s dance.”

I am so, so, so fucked. And not in a good way.

I cannot get these feelings for Sam to go away. It’s frustrating as hell. I can’t even talk to her about it, because the last thing I want to do is fuck up our friendship by making her feel weird.

Instead, I have to take her dancing and pretend I’m not completely turned on by the way she shakes that delicious body of hers.

Was I fucking
blind
before?

It’s taking an epic amount of willpower not to have an erection every second I’m around her.

She doesn’t even have to be dancing. The other day I stopped by her place when she was crashed out on the couch, on her stomach, arms and legs flailed out all over the place like they usually are when she sleeps. All I wanted to do was mount that adorable little ass and ride her until she cried out in ecstasy.

I’m starting to feel a little possessed.

The longer this goes on, the more I want to give into it. But Sam has made it clear, she really doesn’t want a relationship. Not at all. Not ever.

God, it’s torture.

Not that it matters because even if she
were
open to the idea of relationships in general, there’s no sign she’d reciprocate feelings for
me,
even if I did come clean. I’m her friend. Only that. And she’s supposed to be able to trust me. I’m not supposed to be fantasizing about her every time I bang my girlfriend.

Which is a whole other problem. It’s kind of fucked up. I know this. But the thing is, Emily’s a sweet girl. She’s been open about the fact that she’s developing feelings for me. I enjoy her company well enough. If it weren’t for the fact that I’m, you know, burning a fucking torch for my best friend, my relationship with Emily would be fine.

You know, fine.

Sam’s a closed door. Why mess things up with Emily just so I can have even
more
time to stare longingly at a closed door?

No, if anything, Emily’s my ticket to sanity. I just need to give myself time to get closer to her so I don’t have to be in love with Sam anymore.

It’s a sensible plan.

Sam and I simply need to go back to just being friends, like we’ve been for years.

Scratch that.
I’m
the one who needs to go back to just being friends. Sam’s still there. Probably will always be there. The fact that that makes me want to tear down her wall with my bare hands is not her fault.

I need to get it together. I can
not
risk losing this friendship. I need her.

Although...

There are those moments when I wonder if maybe she wouldn’t mind more with me. I mean, I think I could make her happy. It’s not so crazy, is it?

I was fishing last night at Rounders. I couldn’t help it. Sometimes my fantasies about being with her get the better of me. But I wish I hadn’t asked about relationships. Her answer was fucking depressing.

Yet, here I am again, sledgehammer in hand, half a wall in bits all over the floor, and all I can think about is Sam over there in her short shorts and tank top. Doesn’t she
know
how good she looks? Is she
trying
to torment me?

I take aim, pull the sledgehammer back, and crash it into the wall with every bit of strength and every drop of sexual frustration I have.

It barely helps.

I can’t stop wishing for her.

I’m starting to consider drastic measures.

That night we’re celebrating the successful removal of a wall with Chinese takeout and a movie. We’re watching
The Illusionist
, one of Sam’s favorites. I like it too, but I mostly agreed to it this night because I remembered it has a great love scene that I’m hoping I can use to my advantage.

If I have the balls to pull it off.

My heart’s pounding a mile a minute. I can’t believe Sam can’t hear it, leaning on my chest the way she is.

We’re in the standard movie-watching position. This is how it works, and it’s the same with all the Firework Girls. I pick any spot on the couch I want, the middle or the corner, depending on my mood. I stretch my legs on the coffee table and my arms on the back of the couch and settle in.
Ahhh.
Comfort.

Then those girls can lay all over me however they want. Usually they just lean against my chest. I don’t put my arms around them, because then that’s kind of like snuggling. I don’t know. It’s just a line we don’t cross.

None of this has ever been spoken about or written down in some “Jack’s Harem Rule Book.”

But I think we all understand it well enough.

So, yeah. Sam’s in her teeny shorts and her tank and her goddamned amazing breasts are pressed right against my side. Her head’s on my chest and she smells all delicious. My arms are right where they’re supposed to be, on the back of the couch, and my dick should get a fucking gold medal for the endurance it’s taking not to be as stiff as a board right now.

About a minute before the love scene I know is coming, I pull my hands up as if to rest them behind my head. Another acceptable position. But while my left hand goes behind my head, I casually rest my right hand on her shoulder, my forearm settling against her bare upper arm.

Yes, I realize this is kind of like the junior high yawn-and-stretch move, but she’s not glaring at me or protesting yet, so fuck off.

The love scene begins at last and this is my chance. Because as much as Sam likes to be a hard-ass, I’ve seen her get all mushy over love scenes just like the rest of the girls, even if she tries to hide it.

And it’s a hell of a scene, too. Tasteful and understated, with just the right amount of eroticism.

My hand’s still on Sam’s shoulder. She’s perfectly still. So am I. Except my index finger slowly reaches out and touches the soft skin on the back of her neck. Eyes locked on the screen, I’m barely breathing. I gently trace my fingertip up, up, so slowly, until I reach the silky base of her hair.

She lifts her head off my chest, just slightly. I allow another fingertip to touch her neck, then another, until I’m slowly caressing her in a way I’ll call “absentminded” later if I have to. But there’s nothing absentminded about this. Every touch of her skin sends jolts of electricity through my arms and straight to my heart.

She slowly turns her head toward me. I leave my hand in place so I’m almost—but not quite—cradling the back of her head in my hand and almost—but not quite—holding her in my arm. God, I’m terrified, but I keep my eyes on her face, watching for her reaction.

She looks at me. Somber. Wondering. I don’t move. I could so easily kiss those amazing lips of hers. God knows I want to. But this is as far over the line as I can go and still save face if she doesn’t want it, if she really does only see me as a friend.

Our eyes lock together. Time seems to stop. Yet again, her presence washes over me and damn near consumes me. My heart is pounding and my cock is fighting a losing battle now. My god, how I want this woman.

She blinks twice, her brow twitching down slightly in confusion. A half-smile appears, like she’s expecting a joke or a punchline. Then our eyes lock hard and her expression grows serious. Time stops again and I almost do it. I almost throw all caution out the window and press my lips against hers. I need to taste her. I need her. But I don’t move.

And neither does she.

Until she does... away from me.

She gives a strange, short laugh and slaps my stomach lightly before angling away so she’s curled up against the arm of the couch.

I feel as if the wind’s been knocked out of me and I almost shiver with the chill that’s dropped through my heart.

“You big dork,” she says grinning.

I force a smile, too. I think, under normal circumstances, I would probably tickle her side or a foot or something.

I don’t do that.

Under normal circumstances, she’d eventually uncurl and stretch out and rest her feet in my lap.

She doesn’t do that either.

What we do is watch the rest of the movie without touching at all. When it’s over, we exchange a couple of lame jokes and congratulate ourselves on showing that wall who was boss. Then we say goodbye and I leave her house with my answer.

She doesn’t want me.