Fire in the Hole

  “Think of baseball! Or your grandma! Something!” Dove was able to unlock the door and swing it open a bit. She moved out of the way so the paramedics would be able to get in.

  She locked eyes with Duke as the sirens got closer and closer. She realized she would not be able to reach the intercom to buzz the EMTs in. Dove texted Flower and asked her to watch for the ambulance and hit the entry button from her intercom, but she didn’t reply.

  When the EMTs walked into Duke’s apartment, Dove realized two things. One, Flower probably considered texting talking and she had already used up her ten words for the day, and two, the paramedics found the scene before them hilarious.

  She blushed as they laughed and laughed. It took a few minutes for them to gather their wits about them, and Dove was grateful for the professionalism they exhibited assessing her and Duke’s vitals after they calmed down.

  Flower walked through the open door and looked at them with her head tilted to the side. Flower was holding TBiS, and the little cat had a perfect set of silicone front paws dangling from her little nubs. It was adorable. Flower saw their distress and set down the cat. Apparently, the material Flower had used to make a silicone replica after making plaster leg molds for the front legs was way, way too bouncy. The second TBiS tried to walk, the paws reacted like the little bouncy balls Dove used to get from the grocery store as a kid. TBiS went flying. Luckily, the instinct for cats to land on their feet must have still been present, even though half the legs weren’t even hers, and TBis managed to get her little feet under her. Unfortunately, every time she touched the floor, it sent her body rocketing off in a different, wild direction.

  Duke absolutely lost it and began laughing so hard he was almost choking at the sight of the little cat rocketing around his apartment. Dove was next, laughing and farting at the same time. The paramedics, who were already working at suppressing their laughter, were reduced to crying puddles as the bouncy cat was added to the scene.

  Flower did not seem to find it funny, and she chased after her cat until she was able to catch her. Then she disappeared upstairs. By the time she returned, everyone in the room had finally been able to reduce their laughing to giggling. Flower tossed the silicone front paws in the trash, obviously finding no use for them. While she was there Flower dug around, and Dove wished she was more shocked that Flower was dumpster diving at the scene of an accident. As they loaded Duke on the gurney, the bucket was so much heavier than it had been, which was already crazy heavy. Quick-drying should not have taken precedence over lightweight when picking out plaster. And she should have triple checked that she had purchased the correct tub of it, like Flower obviously had. Two EMTs each carried a boob bowl, and she was grateful she didn’t have to try to support the buckets on her own.

  It occurred to her as she was walked out of her new boyfriend’s apartment to the waiting ambulance that she’d grown. She was still mortified. She wanted to blush forever, but here, in this horribly embarrassing scenario, she didn’t want to die. She wanted this whole thing to be over, obviously, but she was pretty damn proud of the realization that she and Duke had needed help and asked for it.

  Flower came out to watch as Duke and Dove were being prepared to be loaded on the ambulance. The lady from the fifth floor stood there wagging a finger. “You again? With your dick again?”

  “Yes. I like my dick,” Duke responded, obviously in way more pain than Dove judging from the stress in his voice.

  “Yeah, I can tell. And that girl there is always involved.”

  Flower caught Dove’s eye and pointed to the back of the packaging she was holding—it was the bag from the plaster. Then she ran off and returned with the communal hose the tenants of the apartments used for car washing.

  Dove was confused and then just freezing as Flower aimed the water at her chest.

  This was how she would die. Flower would kill her, starting with her boobs, and in that instant, she had a moment of clarity and acceptance, too. Maybe Flower had let them buy the wrong plaster for a reason. For this very reason. But Flower came closer and made sure the stream of water was getting to her skin. The EMTs tried to get her to stop, but they had to hold up Dove’s bowls, as well. Suddenly, Dove felt the plaster starting to dissolve, first around her left breast, then her right.

  “Wait! It’s working!” Dove waved Flower closer, and her friend became a sharp shooter of tits.

  “It’s melting! Like astronaut ice cream!” Dove remembered the fun treat her family had fed her at her trip to the Space Center.

  With that, the bowls popped off one boob, then the other. She jumped out of the way to avoid them hitting her feet. She then covered her boobs.

  “Hit me! Oh God. Get this off my balls!” Duke was really straining.

  Flower aimed the hose full blast between Duke’s legs. It took a lot more water and angles, but eventually he, too, was free from the bucket. The paramedics offered both Dove and Duke blankets, which they gratefully used to cover themselves. They waved away the suggestion of more treatment at the hospital. It appeared that Duke wasn’t actually allergic to the plaster; he just had sensitive skin.

  They thanked Flower profusely, and she nodded her acknowledgment before going back upstairs.

  Crisis averted, Dove and Duke returned to his apartment and sat on his couch.

  “That was something for the record books. We should have read the directions all the way through.” Duke kept massaging between his legs. Dove felt like his lack of access to his man noodle was his biggest discomfort second to the Han Solo freezing of it.

  “Totally. But you know what? While you were in the bucket…” Dove began.

  “…and you were in your bowls…” Duke added.

  “Of course. I had a revelation. I think instead of XXX-terior designs, we should do a cup of meat. Like, that would be great, right? Just a cup of deli meat that fits right in your cup holder.” Dove tucked the towel under her armpits to hold up her towel, picked up a pen from the coffee table, and flipped a receipt over to sketch it out for Duke.

  “I like it. It has possibilities. We can do different flavors, like the Italian, etcetera. But can I ask why our dire situation stirred this genius invention in that pretty head?” He leaned closer to her.

  “Yeah, well, you had all your man meat in a big ol’ cup. And I thought it could be a thing.” Dove smiled and leaned closer to him.

  “I love you, Dove Glitch, and your crazy mind.” He kissed her.

  “Thanks, Duke. Thanks a lot.” Dove settled into his chest. “I feel the same way about you.”

  The End

  There are a lot of eyes in Debra Anastasia's house in Maryland. First, her own creepy peepers are there, staring at her computer screen. She's made two more sets of eyes with her body, and the kids they belong to are amazing. The poor husband is still looking at her after 17 years of marriage. At least he likes to laugh. Then the freaking dogs are looking at her—six eyeballs altogether, though the old dog is blind. And the cat watches her too, mostly while knocking stuff off the counter and doing that internal kitty laugh when Deb can't catch the items fast enough.

  In between taking care of everything those eyes involve, Debra creates pretend people in her head and paints them on the giant, beautiful canvas of your imagination. What an amazing job that is. The stories hit her hard while driving the minivan or shaving her legs, especially when there's no paper and pen around. Within all of the lies she writes hides her heart, so thank you for letting it play in your mind.

  Debra has written a smattering of books in a few genres. There are two paranormal romances in the Seraphim series and now four contemporary romances in the Poughkeepsie Brotherhood series. Fire Down Below is the first in the comedic Gynazule series, with the second, Fire in the Hole, coming in late 2015. The Revenger, a dark paranormal romance, is lurking in the wings, waiting for its upcoming debut, and the last, a novella called Late Night with Andres, is special because 100% of the proceeds go to breast cancer research. (So g
o get it right now, please!)

  You can find her at DebraAnastasia.com and on Twitter @Debra_Anastasia. But be prepared...

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  Crushed Seraphim

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  Shackled

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  The Revenger (coming 2015)

  Coming Fall 2015

  I’m super wasted. Like, messed up to the point that Lance, my teammate, has two sets of eyes.

  “I’mma go home.” In my head those are the words I’m speaking, but in reality I think it comes out more like a groan. I take an unstable step toward the line of waiting cabs outside the bar.

  Lance puts a hand on my shoulder, his grin sloppy. He’s almost as drunk as me. “Your car’s at my place, Butterson. Just come back with us.”

  “I can get it in the morning.” My words run together, but he seems to understand.

  “Just get in the limo, man.” Lance looks to Randy, another teammate and one of my closest childhood friends, for backup.

  “The trainer’ll be at Lance’s at ten-thirty, remember?” Randy says. “You can roll out of bed and right into the pool.”

  “Then I don’t have to call you fifty times to get your ass up,” Lance adds.

  “Come back with us, Buck!”

  One of Lance’s puck bunnies uses the nickname I’ve answered to since I was a kid. My real name is Miller. I wasn’t named after beer. Plus Buck Butterson has a nicer ring than Miller Butterson—too many “ers” in it.

  The three girls he’s convinced to come back to his place are fixing each other’s hair and messing with each other’s makeup while I debate making bad choices.

  Lance smiles—his grin all horny bastard—and pats me on the back. “‘Come on, man, you’re gonna be away for a couple weeks. Last chance to party it up.”

  I mumble something even I can’t understand and lean on the limo so I don’t have to hold my own weight. The shooters were a bad idea. There were a lot. I might have paid for them.

  I wait while the girls get in the limo, because as drunk as I am, I still have a few manners left. The last one bends over, and her super-short mini rides up, giving me a full shot of naked beaver before she sits down. I’m definitely not getting in beside her.

  Lance elbows me in the arm. “Get in, Buck.”

  “You first. They’re your bunnies.”

  Going back to Lance’s is a bad idea, but I’ve already said I would, and he has a point about my car being at his place.

  He shrugs and holds on to the door frame, sticking his head inside. “Whose lap am I sitting on?” He throws himself into the limo.

  The girls squeal, and feminine laughter follows.

  I put a hand on Randy’s chest to stop him before he gets in, too. “Don’t let me do anything stupid, ’kay, man?”

  “Don’t worry, Miller. I’ll take on two if I have to.” He winks, but he’s serious.

  Randy and I have been friends since we were kids. He’s one of the few people who uses my real name, aside from my dad when he’s pissed. Randy lived down the street from me growing up. We’ve played hockey together since we both learned how to skate. When we were drafted to the NHL our first semester of college, we ended up on different teams. Five years later, we’re back on the same team again, Randy having been traded to Chicago less than six weeks ago after I joined the team midseason. It took him all of two weeks to move back. It’s good to have him here. We’ve stayed tight over the years; if anyone is going to help keep me from fucking shit up, it’s him.

  Randy gets into the limo and sits between two of the girls. This leaves the bench seat wide open for me. I slide in and stretch out, taking up the entire thing.

  Lance already has his arm around Flash Beaver, and her friend in the middle seems like she’s not sure what to do. When that one makes a move to sit with me, Lance hugs her to his side and whispers something in her ear. Her eyes widen, and she bites her lip, but she stays where she is.

  Going home in a cab by myself would have been the smarter move. Then I wouldn’t be facing unnecessary temptation. Sometimes it’s hard as fuck to make the right choices, like removing myself from a situation in which bunnies will inevitably offer up pussy that I’ll have to turn down.

  It’s not that I can’t go without pussy. I’ve just been choosing the alternative for the past five years. And quitting cold turkey has been way more difficult than I ever expected. Lance and Flash Beaver are in the back corner of the limo. I’m pretty sure he’s got his hand up her skirt already, judging by the giggle followed by a moan. I close my eyes and lean against the armrest. I’m tired. And hungry. I need pizza.

  I root around in my pocket for my phone. I have messages: a couple of texts and a voicemail from my sister, Violet, and a few more from my girlfriend, Sunny. Well, she’s kinda my girlfriend. I want her to be my girlfriend. Sunny’s the reason Randy—or maybe Lance—is taking one for the team, and I’m sitting over here by myself.

  I’ve been doing everything I can to move things in that direction for the last couple months, but Sunny’s hard to pin down. Way worse than me, but not in a slutty way. Sunny’s the opposite of slutty. She’s not as easily charmed by me as most women. I actually have to work to get her to date me.

  It doesn’t help that her brother, Alex Waters, is one of my teammates. He’s also dating my sister, and he’s captain of the team. Waters hates me. It’s complicated. The first night I met Sunny, I considered—for half a second—sleeping with her just to get back at him. I’m a player, but not an asshole, though. Besides Sunny wasn’t interested in getting naked with me. She actually wanted to talk. And I liked her. So I got her number instead. That was more than eight weeks ago. She still won’t sleep with me. Yet. I’m hoping to change that soon.

  I try to read my text messages, but my vision is blurry, and the words all jumble together—even worse than usual. And I can’t use the text-to-speech app in here like I normally would because the music’s too loud and everyone will hear my business. Plus sometimes my sister’s messages are assholey. She has no filter. At all.

  “I’m hungry. Anyone else hungry?” I yell over the music.

  Lance is too busy sucking face, but Randy raises his hand. The girls on either side of him shrug. The one in the middle looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

  I pull up Siri and ask her to call my favorite pizza joint. It takes a few tries to get her to do what I want, partly because I’m slurring my words and partly because the music interferes. Finally someone turns it down so I’m able to put an order in.

  “Is the address five-two-one or two-five-one?” I ask Randy when they get to that part of the ordering process.

  “Five-two-one.”

  “You’re sure it’s not two-five-one?”

  Lance takes a break from sucking the chick’s face off to get on my case. “You’ve been at my house a million times, and you still can’t get the address right?”

  I flip him the bird. “I’m dyslexic and drunk, but thanks for being an asshole about it.” I probably shouldn’t have said that. It’s not something I talk about openly, especially in front of bunnies. It’s frustrating to be twenty-three and shitty at reading. I give the pizza guy the right address. Then I end the call and slip my phone back into my pocket.

  Ten minutes later, we pull into Lance’s driveway. I’m the first out of the car, and I practically fall up the steps to his door. I use the door jamb for support while I wait for everyone else. I should know the code to get into the house, but I always forget it.

  Lance and Flash Beaver are last to get out of the limo. True to her n
ame, she gives us all a beaver shot—my second of the limo trip—as she slides across the bench. When her feet hit the ground, Lance steps in front of her, blocking her from view. I can see her panties hanging out of his back pocket. They’re red. He leans down to adjust her skirt, which is nice. When he’s in a mood, he’ll let girls makes fools out of themselves and laugh about it later. He can be a dick sometimes.

  Her friends are giggling and whispering, being bitchy and judgy. Well, the one who was all cozy with Randy is; the other one looks uncomfortable. Of the three girls Randy and Lance picked up tonight, she seems the most reserved. Maybe she’s not all that excited about sharing a dick.

  “You’re the best, man. Have I told you that lately?” I ask Randy, while I rest my head on the closed door and attempt to hit the doorbell. My aim is off, and I keep missing it.

  “That what the girls tell me.”

  I scoff and aim for the doorbell again, hitting it this time. The tone is actually a line from a movie. I can’t quite remember which one, but it’s funny, so I keep punching it until Lance and Flash Beaver finally make it to the door.

  Lance keys in the code. “I don’t think that’s a good place to stand, Butterson.”

  “I’m good.” My eyes are closed. I’m feeling like bed might be a good place to be. Screw the pizza.

  His meaning doesn’t register until the door gives way. I put my hands up to grab for the jambs, but I’m not quick enough. I fall face first into his front foyer. The hardwood floor doesn’t make it a soft landing.

  I grunt on impact, and one of the girls rushes over to help me while Lance laughs his ass off. I tell her I’m fine and lay there for a few seconds before I roll over onto my back. Flash Beaver gets me again. I can see right up her skirt from the floor. It’s like a loose meat sandwich up in there. I’ve seen more beaver in the last thirty minutes than I have since I started trying to date Sunny.

  Randy puts a hand out to help me up.