Hot Damn(13)

But once I get there and the discussion gets underway, there’s Jesse again, right inside my head, making me feel terrible about myself. No matter how hard I try to push the thoughts back, they keep poking at me.

Terry, one of the ladies leading the discussion, is talking about the efforts to add diversity to the Spider-Man franchise, both in the comics and the upcoming movie. It’s a topic I’d usually be fascinated with—how long will it be before we get a Miles Morales Spider-Man, after all?—but today I keep tuning in and out. I glance over toward the corner where Christopher is playing with a couple other younger kids and a teenage girl, who was picked tonight to watch the little ones. It’s another thing I like about this group—they make an effort to provide supervision for the kids.

Christopher’s got on a bright-red Spider-Man beanie, which I plopped on his head before I checked on tonight’s discussion theme. The color makes it easier to spot him in crowds. He seems quite taken with the girl who’s watching over him and the other kids. I’ve noticed he has a soft spot for girls but is always a little shy around men.

Is that my fault? Is Dad right about me? Am I not the best parent I could be because I’m not looking for a father figure for my son?

No, that’s stupid. Christopher has all the love he needs, and he sees Mel’s husband on a regular basis. Jeff’s a great father figure, if Christopher actually needs one.

But I can’t stop thinking about Jesse. I shouldn’t have lashed out at him like I did. He’s probably not a bad guy—he’s just been working in a macho atmosphere where he never has to figure out how to talk properly to ladies. And I can tell there’s something about the situation with his cat that he’s not telling me. I can’t imagine what it might be, but it’s making it harder for him to deal with adjusting to having a pet, that’s for sure.

My brain spins around and around all those things, but at the center of it is Jesse himself. So damn hot. Why does he have to be so damn hot? If he were a little chunky or a little bald, then maybe I’d have half a chance. He’s not, though. He’s beautiful. He’s Chris Pratt beautiful. Chris Hemsworth beautiful. Hell, he’s even Chris Evans beautiful. He’s any-Marvel-hero-you-could-think-of handsome, and strong, and maybe I should just give in and text him an apology so I don’t lose the job…

“So, Mads, what do you think?”

I jerk my attention back to the group and realize I have no idea what they were talking about. “Huh?”

“I told you,” says Terry. “She’s a billion miles away. You okay, Maddy?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat, flustered for the umpteenth time in the last few days. That’s another thing about Jesse damn King. He messes with my head even when he’s not in the room. “What was the question?”

“Who should Jean Grey hook up with for permanent?” Terry explains. “Logan or Scott?”

I give it some consideration. It’s not like I haven’t thought about this before.

“Well…if she wants to be happy in her life overall, I’d say she should hook up with Scott. I mean, sure, Mr. Cyclops-eyes can’t look at her without those crazy red glasses, but he’s a good dude.”

Terry’s eyes narrow. “Your ‘if’ makes me think you’ve got another option in mind.”

“If she wants to be happy in bed forever and ever, then definitely Logan.” Images of half-naked—and fully naked, God bless you, Hugh Jackman—Wolverine dance through my head. There’s more than a little resemblance to Fireman Jesse in my mental Wolverine images.

The group titters, a few of the women bursting into genuine laughter.

“Amen, sister,” says one of them, and raises a hand for me to high-five. I smack my palm into hers.

I’m just getting refocused on the conversation when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. Habit has me grabbing for it right away. I’m so used to Christopher being with Mel that every time my phone dings I automatically think there’s something up with him. Even knowing he’s not six feet away from me doesn’t keep that little surge of adrenaline away.

As a result, my heart’s pitter-pattering a little already when I push the button that wakes up the phone. Then it slams hard into the back of my breastbone when I see who did text.

It’s Jesse.

Hi, Maddy. Can I call you Maddy?

He must not be too worried about my answer, because another text comes through right on the heels of that one.

Sorry I called you a piece of ass.

Whatever, I text back.

It wasn’t very gentlemanly of me. Is MILF better? Honest question.

I sigh. No. And stop it.

Whatever the lady wants. Look, I really want to work things out with Thor. Can you come again on Thursday for another cat therapy session? I promise I’ll do the work.

I take a minute to think about it. Does he really mean it? Am I going to be able to put up with him long enough to actually accomplish anything? Because this cat’s going to take a lot of time and patience.

Correction—this cat’s owner is going to take a lot of work.

At least if I see him again, I can apologize in person. That’s a better way to handle it, anyway. So, after I chew on my lip for a few seconds, I text him back.

Sure. 5:00 ok?

Yes. See you then.





Chapter 5





Jesse




The scratches down the front of my shoulder look even worse than I expected. I bet the back looks like shit, too.

Fucking cat.

Cat therapist or no cat therapist, I honestly don’t know how I’m going to deal with Thor in the long term. In the couple of days since Maddy was over, I’ve tried playing with him with that dumb feathery thing, letting him roam the house a little more when I’m at home—I even tried scratching his back while I was feeding him. None of it seems to have gotten through his thick, stupid cat skull. He still shows no indication he wants to make nice with me.

And when I got home from work today, he decided to use me as a ladder to get up onto the mantel. Those goddamn claws hurt digging in when a cat decides to climb you. So I yelled at him—like you do—and he dug in—like cats do—and when I grabbed him to pull him off, I think I jerked about a pound and a half of skin off my own body.

Not a good sensation.

On a normal day, that kind of an encounter with the cat would be bad enough. But I’ve already been through enough shit today, and I’m tired of it.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about Curry, but I’m going to have to come up with something, and it’s going to have to be soon. He has no respect for the fact I was chosen to be the interim fire chief. As far as he’s concerned, that was his job, no questions, and somehow I stole it from him when I was appointed. Today, when Chief Pilsner came by to see how things were going, Curry deliberately made it look like it was my fault not everybody was ready.

I’m tired of being disrespected at the firehouse. Most of all, I’m tired of having horrible injuries inflicted upon my person by a goddamn twenty-pound pile of cat.

The doorbell rings, and I grin at my own reflection. At least there’s something to look forward to. Madison. Little hot-ass cat psychologist. Behaviorist. Amateur behaviorist. What-the-fuck ever. Curious to see how she’ll react to my shirtless self, I head for the front door.

I yank the door open and the first thing I see is Maddy herself, standing on my porch with her weird little violin-shaped cat bag.

“Hi,” she says, but then stops, and her mouth opens and closes a couple times. She’s not looking at my face, but at my bare chest.

I smile. I know my body’s in good shape, and there’s no point being shy about it. Which is one of the reasons why I don’t understand why Maddy is so shy about hers. Most women I know who look that good like to flaunt it. She covers all those luscious curves in loose T-shirts with comic-book characters on them. I don’t get it.

“Um…” Madison says. “Um…” Finally she drags her gaze back to my face. “I’m… I’m sorry about last time. I was out of line. What I said was rude and unprofessional.”

I’m not going to argue with her, but I’m not going to let her stew too long about it, either. “Apology accepted.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. Water under the bridge.”

I move aside to let her come into the house. Her eyes lock again to my chest, and she swallows as she walks past.

“You want me to put my shirt back on?” I offer, chuckling. “Is my chest distracting you too much?”

Her mouth tightens in irritation, as I expected it to. “I’m fine.”

“Nakkid.”

The single word seems to come from somewhere near the floor, and it’s followed by a series of giggles. I glance down, taken aback.

There’s a kid next to Madison. I didn’t see him at first because he was hiding behind the big bag, but he’s got hold of her hand. He’s got curly blond hair that pokes out from under his Spider-Man hat. “Man nakkid,” he repeats.

“I’m not naked,” I tell him, affronted. “I’ve still got my pants on.”

He giggles again.

“I’m really sorry,” Maddy says. “Normally my sister watches Christopher, but she’s down with some kind of awful bug, and I didn’t have time to line up another sitter. I figured it was better to go ahead and keep the appointment than to call and reschedule at the last minute. If there’s a problem…”