Playing with Fire

Sword of Buzzsteria—and Comedia). This mighty

team braves the wilds of Procrast Nation, constantly

fighting against the evil Blank Page, Fickle Muse

and Lord Lexicon, who taunts us with wrong word

choices. To all of you: Novelique salutes you.

And to my own super heroines: Jill Monroe, Kresley

Cole, P. C. Cast, Shonna Hurt and Michelle Quine.

CHAPTER ONE

ISN’T IT AMAZING HOW ONE seemingly innocent decision can change your entire life? For me, that decision came in the form of a grande mocha latte.

Allow me to explain.

The day began normally enough. Translation: I rolled out of bed thirty minutes late, rushed through a shower and hurriedly dressed in the standard black slacks and white button-up top every Utopia Café employee is required to wear. Unlike the other employees, I left the top three buttons of my shirt undone, revealing hints of the white lace (push-up) bra I wore underneath. Don’t judge. Some people are mammarily challenged and need a little boost. Anyway, if I showed a little cleavage my pervert boss wouldn’t care that I was late. Again.

He might even thank me for coming in at all.

Was it wrong of me to rely on the girls to get me out of trouble? Probably. Did I give a shit? Hell, no. In fact, I unabashedly adjusted them for ample display. I was single, twenty-four and determined to keep this job. Anyone who objected could blow me.

See, my dad suffers from massive heart problems and I’m the “responsible party” in charge of his bills, not to mention the one who finances his stay at Village on the Park, a nearby assisted living center. I would have loved for him to live with me (not that there’s enough space in my one-bedroom efficiency), but it’s best that he stays there. They have twenty-four-hour monitoring and make sure he takes his medications, which he “forgets” to do when left to his own devices.

Besides, he claims he’s never been happier. The women there are “silver foxes, “ he says, and eager for masculine attention. Dare I mention those silver foxes cost more than high-priced hookers because my dad is always popping the Viagra he buys from his friends?

I’ll do anything to ensure my dad’s happiness, though, the way he unselfishly ensured my happiness throughout my entire childhood. So I desperately need to keep my current job and get the one I’m interviewing for after my shift.

Can’t be late, can’t be late, can’t be late, I mentally chanted as I searched for my coffee-stained tennis shoes. I’ve spilled more cappuccinos on them than I’ve served to high-class snobs. Needless to say, I’ve served a lot of high-class snobs.

“Aha! Found you, you dirty little bastards.” When had I put them in the refrigerator? I tugged them on, shivering as my toes grew numb from the cold.

Meanwhile, the clock ticked away more precious minutes.

I hastily applied blush, mascara and gloss. You’d think the need for money would inspire me to wake up bright and early every morning no matter the circumstances, but you’d be wrong. I was too tired to do bright and early today, even for a stack of greens. Last night I’d bartended a bachelorette party until 3:00 a.m. Me, a girl who knows nothing about alcohol. Sex on the Beach—sure, with the right man. Fuzzy Navel—uh, shower, anyone? Tom Collins—who the hell?

Of course, I’d pretended to be the expert I’d claimed to be in the interview, mixing anything and everything I could get my hands on. My drinks hadn’t been the tastiest, but they’d certainly created the desired results. By the end of the evening, all of the women drunkenly swore they loved me and my “wicked nasty” concoctions.

The clock chimed the hour: 6:00 a.m.

“Damn it.” I rubbed my tired, burning eyes—then froze when I realized the mascara hadn’t dried. Freaking great. I probably looked like a boxer who’d lost the big match. As I scrubbed my face with a wet washrag, I watered my dry, brittle plants, multitasking to save time. What would it take to make the little green monsters thrive?

Finally ready to leave, I dug my keys out of the fishbowl. How many drinks had I sucked down last night? I didn’t remember dropping my keys in the water. At least the bowl was presently devoid of fish. Martin, my betta, had kicked it a few days ago. Natural causes, I assure you.

“I hope you’re rotting in the sewers,” I said, looking down. No way he’d made it into heaven. The little snot had hated me, had always fanned his gills and hit the glass whenever I walked into a room. He’d been a present from my last boyfriend, aka the Prince of Darkness. Was it wrong of me to wish the ex had died with the fish?

No time to ponder the ethics of that dream now. I needed to go. Dressed? Check. Shoes? Check. Keys? Check. Résumé? Check. I’d stuffed it in my work pants last night in preparation for an interview today. Ugh. Yet another menial job. If only I could crawl back into bed, snuggle under the covers and continue my X-rated dream about Vin Diesel and an easy-squeeze tube of chocolate syrup. Double yum! Something about that bald head drove me wild.

Stop daydreaming, woman. I trudged to the front door just as the phone rang. Sighing, I raced into my bedroom. Probably my boss, Ron, but I wanted to double-check just in case. A quick peek at caller ID revealed it was actually my dad. Late as I was, I didn’t even think about letting the machine pick up. I grabbed the receiver and held it to my ear. “Hey, Daddy.”

“Hey, doll. What’cha doing?”

“I’m headed off to work. Everything okay?”

“Fine, everything’s fine.” His deep, rumbling voice never failed to comfort me. “You work too hard.”

“Ah, but you know it’s what I live for, “ I said, and my voice held only truth. I’d never, never let this selfless man know I didn’t like my job(s). He’d go off and get one of his own, the old teddy bear. Anything to take care of me. No wonder I loved him so damn much. “I’m not happy unless I’m working.”

“Just like your mother, God rest her soul. Never did understand that mind-set, myself, “ he said. I pictured him shaking his head in wonderment. “I won’t keep you. I just got to looking through old photo albums of you as a baby. I know you visited the other day, but I still wanted to hear your voice.”

See? He’s a sweetie. “Now you’re trying to make me cry. But I’m glad you called. I missed you and your voice, too.”

He chuckled. “Aren’t we just a pair of mushy—”

“David!” I heard a woman call.

“Oh, hell,” he said to me. To the woman, he grumbled, “Not now, Mary. I’m on the phone with my best gal.”

“Did you or did you not kiss Janet in the gardens last night?” Mary demanded in the background.

“Double hell, “ my dad whispered. Then, “Oh, crap. I think she’s wheeling her chair into my room.” He paused. “I guess I should have resisted Janet’s invitation for a stroll.”

“I guess you should have, “ I said with a laugh.

“I have to go now. Love you, doll, “ he said.

“David!” Mary called, closer now.

“Love you, too, Daddy.”

We disconnected, and I stared at the phone for a minute, a smile hovering on my lips. Shaking my head, I rushed out of my tiny apartment with only one wistful backward glance.

“Let’s get this day over with, “ I muttered.

Outside, the dim spring morning proved wonderfully fragrant with the scent of magnolia, but oppressively hot, the air sticky with humidity. Ah, crap. I’d forgotten to bring a little towel to pat away any sweat. In a few minutes, my clothes were going to be plastered to my body. Oh, well. Nothing I could do about that now.

Not wanting to arrive at work hungry (hungry = bitchy and bitchy = fired), I stopped for a caramel glazed doughnut on my way to the bus station—and missed my bus. MARTA, Atlanta’s premiere miss-it-and-you’re-screwed transportation system, being what it was, the delay set me back another twenty minutes.

By the time I raced into Utopia, lines were long and winding. Customers were pissed about the wait and quite vocal about it. I yawned. I mean, please. Cry me a river, Richie Richersons. Jeez. Anyone who could afford a daily six-dollar cup of joe didn’t need to be complaining about anything.

Ron, my boss, spotted me and gave me a you-are-so-dead scowl.

I squared my shoulders, thereby tightening the material of my shirt, and offered him a chocolate sundae smile, smothered in whipped cream and cherries. Hmm, whipped cream. That would fit nicely in my Vin Diesel fantasy.

Ron’s gaze connected with the girls. He paled, looked away and crooked his finger in my general direction. Without glancing to see if I noticed, he pivoted on his heel, a silent command for me to follow him. Great. Freaking great. This didn’t bode well.