A Low Blue Flame Read online

  He rooted through his coat and pulled out his phone, eyeing me carefully to make sure that I really didn’t mind. I sat stoically and waited patiently.

  “Philips only has one ‘L’,” I said, helpfully.

  He laughed a little and looked it up; when the page, or whatever rendered, he gave a low whistle.

  “Holy shit, you’re pretty goddamned famous,” he said. I laughed and it felt good.

  “Never quite had it put that way before, but I have to say, it’s kind of nice.”

  “What is?” he asked.

  “You, not making a big deal out of it.”

  He shrugged and put his phone away, saying, “I get it, I guess. Being famous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be sometimes.”

  “You know someone else famous?” I asked. His responses were curious to me.

  “Sort of, not really. One of our guys, Youngblood, is a homicide detective‒ Wait, how long have you been in Indigo City?”

  “A few months,” I confessed.

  “Ah, so before your time, for sure. You probably missed it, so I’ll explain. Youngblood’s woman, Chrissy, was a defense attorney. Ever hear of Skip Maguire?”

  “Vaguely, I would have to look him up.”

  “Baseball legend here. Really popular guy. Apparently he liked to pop his wife when he’d been drinking.”

  “Ah, that’s right. Didn’t his wife kill him in self-defense? I remember hearing something about it, even across the country.”

  “Oh yeah? Where you from?”

  “Oregon, originally.”

  “Okay, and yeah, she killed him, but she ended up charged with his murder. Chrissy was her lawyer and got her off and his fan base went ape-shit. Next thing Youngblood knows, he’s being called over to her apartment for a double homicide. Someone had kicked in Chrissy’s front door, shot her and her best friend.”

  “Oh, my god, that’s awful.” I was appalled but enthralled with his story.

  “Well, not as awful as everyone first thought, turned out Chrissy wasn’t dead, but her friend was. She ended up first in the hospital and then in protective custody. Media about hounded her to death, which wouldn’t have been so bad except Skip’s douchebag following wasn’t about to give it up. It was a real shit-show and took forever for them to get it sorted out.”

  “I’m glad she’s okay,” I said honestly. I watched how some of the real celebrities who played my characters on the silver screen were treated and was glad that type of scrutiny was almost never turned on the author. People could be animals and had no concept of privacy anymore. I hadn’t encountered even a tenth of what some of the actors and actresses attached to my work had, and I was grateful for it. Still, let me just say, I’d had some moments before.

  “Yeah, she’s okay now,” Backdraft was saying. “Quit being a defense attorney and went over to the side of the angels. She works for the DA’s office now, moved out of her place and in with Youngblood. They’re good, but yeah, I was there for a taste of that bullshit, Youngblood’s my best friend, and just from that taste I can’t imagine living it twenty-four/seven.”

  “It’s not so bad, really,” I said. “I mean, I’ve gotten pretty big and I have readers everywhere, but I still get to enjoy quite a bit of anonymity. I’m still not all the way used to being recognized when it happens, though. I’m pretty much an introvert, and so it’s always a little jarring and unexpected when it happens, you know?”

  “I could see that,” he said affably.

  “I don’t mind it,” I told him. “I love my readers to death. I mean, I wouldn’t be here without them. It just gets awkward sometimes. People can get incredibly bold! Like they think they know me and some of them do know all about me to the point it can get creepy. But, for the most part, my experiences have been good. I just have to be careful being in the public eye, you know? It’s like the world is just waiting for a scandal sometimes and when they don’t get it right away, they’re willing to make up just anything anymore to manufacture some drama.” I’d seen it with some of the poor actresses portraying my characters and thought regularly that if it ever happened to me, I wouldn’t be half so cool about it. They laughed it off; I would be a crying, anxiety-riddled mess.

  He nodded and said, “Okay, so tell me something, creepiest fan experience so far?”

  I twisted my lips. “You know, that’s really hard,” I said.

  “First one that comes to mind.”

  “The girl that showed up at my house when I first hit it big and didn’t know any better. I guess my address was on some people-finder site and I didn’t do as good a job as I should have protecting my given name. That one was definitely unnerving.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “Well, um, you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I made her a cup of coffee and we talked about it and the poor thing was in absolute tears but I was really lucky. That was as far as things got. My publisher had me moved into a secured building by the next week.”

  “Wow. I don’t know how I would have handled a fangirl just showing up at my house like that. You didn’t even think to call the cops?”

  I blushed with embarrassment.

  “I was probably exceptionally naïve at the time. You see, I didn’t go the direct traditional publishing route.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No,” I said, laughing a little. I had been sipping on the crisp wine from time to time and I took another now. It was really good.

  “Then how did you do it?”

  “I uh, I self-published first. With the advent of e-readers, it kind of opened some doors. I treated it like an expensive hobby in the beginning.”

  He frowned. “Okay now, explain that.”

  He seemed genuinely interested and he was incredibly easy to talk to. So much so, that I found myself enthusiastically explaining.

  “Well, when you’re on your own, you have to pay for things like your own editing and cover art and both of those things can get really expensive. Especially on a regular-joe salary.”

  “How expensive?” he asked.

  “Um, depending on manuscript size, most editors – at least for one of my books ‒ ran anywhere between seven hundred to a thousand dollars.”

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. I laughed.

  “Yeah, well, cover art for me started at about a hundred dollars a cover, but when I started buying exclusive imagery, that went up to seven-hundred-and-seventy-five dollars apiece.”

  “What! Why so expensive?” he asked.

  The waitress set our plates in front of us and I took a moment to exclaim over how everything looked so good and to ask for a glass of ice water. I was feeling a touch flushed from the glass of wine and maybe needed to back off just a little bit. I confess to being a total lightweight, so much so that usually I had two glasses max and I was buzzed enough to want to be done.

  Kristy went and got my water right away, and with an exchange of a few final words, it was just me and Backdraft again.

  “Where was I?” I asked.

  “Some seriously expensive-ass cover art.”

  I laughed, “Oh, right!”

  I explained about covers and their different components. About the difference between stock photos and exclusive photos through photographers, as well as the added cost of design. I tended to go with photo-manipulation for my covers, but I even went as far as to discuss the finer points of the varying types of other commissioned artwork authors sometimes used. The thing was, he was actually interested, absorbing everything I told him like a sponge. I couldn’t ever remember any other man doing that who wasn’t an author themselves.

  “Wow,” he said, finally, our plates empty or nearly so in front of us. I was absolutely stuffed to the gills, and all of it had been amazing.

  “Yeah, it’s a lot,” I agreed.

  He let out a breath, blowing out his cheeks, and shook his head, eyes wide in that incredulous, mind-blown look.

  “Don’t even get me started on marketing as an indie,”
I joked.

  “Shit, publishers do a lot of shit people take for granted, don’t they?”

  I nodded slowly and said, “Yes, but they also take a way-bigger chunk of the proceeds, too. Nothing is free, it’s just a matter of whether you want to pay up front or on the back end.”

  His head bobbed slowly as he processed all of the information I had dumped in his head. I ran a finger around the rim of my nearly-empty wineglass absently while I waited for him to say something.

  Finally I had to ask, “So what’s it like being a fireman?”

  “Probably eighty-five percent boring and the other fifteen percent shit-your-pants terrifying,” he said and winked.

  I laughed and he grinned broadly.

  “If it’s terrifying, then why do you do it?”

  “Ahhhh.” He leaned back and rubbed his fingertips lightly over his chest, looking both full and considering. “For me? Because I’m an adrenaline junkie and I always wanted to be a real-life superhero.”

  I felt my own face split into a stupid grin. That was both the most honest and, at the same time, adorable answer he could have given me.

  He sighed and I felt it too, our evening was definitely winding down to an end. I was surprised to feel regret about that. I almost didn’t want it to end at all. I was enjoying Backdraft’s company immensely.

  “I got a shift over the next four days,” he said.

  “Four days?” I asked.

  He nodded, “Four days on, three days off. That’s how we do it right now.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What time are you off?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “Naw, it’s not like that. It’s literally four days on staying at the station, then three days off at home.”

  I felt my mouth drop open, “That sounds awful! I can’t imagine.”

  He laughed a little and said, “Well, if it helps, I can’t imagine living the high-life walking from my bedroom in my boxers to the office across the hall and working whenever I want. That’s gotta be real nice.”

  “It is,” I confessed, but now I was trying really, really hard to banish the image of this beautiful man in just his boxer shorts out of my brain. That was precisely how I let myself get into trouble with Mark in the first place, thinking with my libido rather than my brain.

  “Let me give you a ride home?” he asked and I smiled and shook my head.

  “I’ve already texted for a car,” I said and set my phone down on the table.

  “Fair enough,” he said and flagged Kristy, our waitress, down.

  “Oh, I’ve got it,” I said reaching for my purse.

  “No way,” he said. “I asked you here, remember?”

  I felt my mouth drop open and was about to protest but he handed Kristy his card. I waited until she walked away and said, “But I thought I was supposed to be thanking you for the night we met?”

  He shook his head and smiled, “I just wanted you to talk to me. You said thank you several times that night. It was pretty sweet, actually, given what you were going through.”

  “Fine, then at least let me get the tip.”

  He nodded and said, “That’s fair enough, you know, on account of this isn’t a date and all.”

  I bowed my head, smiling and blushing at our awkward exchange out front of the restaurant, and glad the ice had been broken enough that we could both laugh about it now.

  I didn’t even bother asking how much the bill was. I waited until she returned and he’d signed the slip, and then handed Kristy some folded bills that I knew was way more than the total bill had even amounted to. I remembered what it was like to struggle, and again, I had more money than I knew what to do with and I didn’t often spend it. I was happy to pay my blessings forward.

  My phone buzzed against the table and I looked.

  “My car is here already, that was fast.” I didn’t bother keeping the disappointment out of my voice. His smile broadened and he got up, taking down my coat and holding it open for me so that I could shrug into it. I reached across the booth and grabbed my purse and snatched my phone off the table.

  He grabbed his receipt and scribbled his number on the back and handed it to me saying, “Here’s my number. I’d really like to hang out more. I really enjoyed our talk. It was good to learn some new things.”

  “I’d like that too,” I said, settling my purse across my chest. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Really looking forward to hearing from you,” he said.

  I smiled and said, “Goodnight, Backdraft. Thank you for a lovely meal.”

  “You’re welcome, Lil, it was nice talking to you; I mean that.”

  I left, reluctantly, and got into the back of the waiting towncar, trying to catch a glimpse of him through the front window. I immediately programmed his number into my phone so I wouldn’t lose it and shot him a text message.

  Me: It’s Lilli, I wanted you to have my number, too. Thanks again.

  He texted back a moment later.

  Backdraft: Thanks Lil, shoot me another text to let me know you got home okay. Okay?

  That was really sweet.

  Me: I will.

  I settled back for the rest of the car ride home and smiled like an idiot at the passing scenery thinking all the while: I made a new friend. Yay!

  5

  Backdraft…

  “What up, Hose Boys?”

  “Oh, you think your real damn funny, don’t you, Oz?” Ripley demanded.

  I cracked up but was busy wrapping my wrist. Oz dropped his gym bag and said, “Oh, I know I am, I’m fuckin’ hilarious, just ask anybody.”

  “How’s life at the ol’ gray bar motel?” the Captain called out from over by one of the trucks, checking off his inspection report.

  “Same shit, different day.”

  Oz dropped onto one of the weight benches and flipped open the top on his shaker bottle, taking a slug of his pre-workout. He swallowed and made a face, pulling back his head and letting out a belch.

  “Dude, that’s disgusting,” Ripley complained.

  “Pussy,” Oz said flatly, and I laughed again. His brand of humor took some getting used to, with the dry sarcasm, but he could be funny as hell.

  “Speaking of,” Oz said by way of lead-in, “Who was the girl you was with at the 10-13 Saturday night?”

  “How’d you know about that?” I asked.

  “Psht, Kristy asked if I knew who she was.”

  “Oh yeah, why?” I asked, taking a drink of my own pre-workout.

  “She gave her like a four-hundred-dollar tip,” Oz said flatly, and I choked, pre-workout coming out of my nose.

  “Jesus Christ, man! Y’okay?” Ripley pounded on my back while I coughed, eyes streaming. Oz threw me a towel to mop up my front and wipe down the garage’s cement floor.

  “You’re mopping that up. Soap and bucket,” the Captain called, without even turning around to look.

  “You fucking kidding me?” I demanded, ignoring him.

  Oz looked amused. “Do I look like I’m fuckin’ joking?”

  “Four hundred bucks. You’re sure?”

  “Did I fuckin’ stutter, man? I told you, that’s what Kristy told me. Now she’s trying to figure out who your girlfriend is.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I corrected immediately. “She’s just this girl I know, you remember the one.”

  “If I did, now, I wouldn’t be asking you, would I?”

  “She was the one I gave a ride home to from the 10-13, that one night.”

  Oz was looking at me like I was nuts and I shook my head, muttering, “Just never mind.”

  “Whatever, man, you keep your secrets for now. Headphones on, motherfuckers, let’s grind this out. I got other shit to do today.”

  He sounded irritated as fuck but that was just Oz. He honestly didn’t care. It took a few years of knowing the guy to know the difference, though. We worked our backs and tri’s, and by the time we were done, the subject had gotten the h
ell off of Lil, which was a good thing. I kind of felt like if I told anybody who she was, it would be like I was diming her out. It was like the woman had a secret identity or some shit. I just didn’t feel right giving it away.

  I thought about her some more in the shower, which probably wasn’t the wisest idea at the house where any of the other guys could walk in. She was a tiny thing, but curvy in all the right places. A real woman with an hourglass shape. Her eyes were deep and soulful and reminded me of the Chesapeake on a stormy day. An almost slate gray-blue with this darker ring of leaden sky at the outer edge of her irises that turned the whole of her eyes stunning. Honey-wheat-blonde hair fell to the middle of her back and I knew that from the first time I’d met her. The night we’d had our dinner, though, she’d kept it neatly pinned up with a clip. Not fancy, but still elegant.

  She was beautiful, and didn’t it suck that I’d automatically friend-zoned myself just a little bit? Well, a lot a bit, but it made sense. I mean, I wasn’t more than three months out of a relationship with Torrid, and Lil’s escape was even closer from the douchebag that’d dropped her like yesterday’s garbage.

  One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. I thought to myself and it was true.

  She’d texted that she was safely home and I texted back a short good deal and goodnight, letting things go. I was playing it cool, but it’d been a couple of days of fighting myself not to text her. I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I was. I wanted to spend more time in her company. She seemed smart and driven for all that she was shy and had a tough time trusting, and who could blame her for that?

  “Yo, Calder!” one of the guys called out and I yelled back, “Yeah, what?”

  “You coming to the store, man?”

  Shit, it was my night to cook. I stuck my head under the spray and shook my face back and forth in it to rinse off.

  “Yeah!” I shouted back after a second, and whoever it was, I think it was Barnaby, yelled back, “Well, then, hurry your ass up!”

  “Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on,” I grumbled.

  “I heard that!”

  I smirked and shut off the water, mind still on Lil and as far away as it could get from what the hell I was supposed to cook tonight.