Page 49 of The Hot Shot

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 thesame. 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 turns out to be sweet cream and sour-tart cherries, swirled with glossy crimson ribbons of cherry sauce.

I eat it straight from the carton, slowly savoring the flavor 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, the almost manic sounds of Miles Davis blasts, 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 tense, 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 am frozen in shock.Electrical fireandyou’re fuckedflit 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 and clutch 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’venever felt heat like this. The strength of it sears my skin and burns my eyes.

If he’s in there, I can’t help him. The thought fills me with horror. Crouching low, I 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 the pain. It 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.

Eight

Finn

“I hate flying,” Dex grumbles at my side. “And I hate wearing a suit.”

Having come directly to the plane from leaving what will now be known as The Game of Suck, none of us had time to change out of our suits. Most of the guys have ripped off their ties. Dex has his jacket wadded up on the armrest between us and is currently digging his big elbow into it as if he can somehow grind the poor thing into dust.

“Flying sucks.” Make no mistake, we have it good in first class. The seats are big, and the food is all right, but it still wears on you. There’s a loneliness to it. Especially when you’re coming home to an empty house. I used to like that. I’d crave alone time after being with my team for all hours of the day. Now I think of walking into my dark place, reheating some chicken and rice to eat in front of the TV, and it just... sucks.