Page 21 of Up In Flames

Great. Male bonding already, and the kid hasn’t even reached double digits in age.

The old button factory is a composition of brick from the late 1800s and modern, large windows edged in black. It’s a testament to industrial charm, with a pond in front and expensive touches to the manicured edges. I’m a little surprised Sampson decided to live in a place like this. He’s not the snooty type. Judgmental, sure. Holier-than-thou, absolutely. But I don’t remember him being uppity in a social sense, and this place screams uppity.

We walk into the lobby to find four elevators. On each one is a plaque bearing a name.

“This is his,” Nicholas says, pointing to the one that says, “Dean Residence.”

“Is there a phone or anything?” I look around, but don’t see any way to announce ourselves, nor is there a doorman, though there is a desk along the side wall.

Nicholas presses the button next to Sampson’s elevator. When it dings open, he wastes no time in climbing in, even though I lunge to hold him back. “Come on. There’s only one button to push. Probably lands in another hallway,” he says, holding what I presume is the “door open” button.

“What if it opens up right into his apartment?”

What if his Red Room is right there, and what if he’s with someone in it?

“It won’t. It’ll be fine. Come on,” Nicholas urges.

For a few more seconds, I hesitate. Frankly, I’m reconsidering visiting the man who witnessed the moment of my greatest shame and made me feel like an absolute dog turd about it, but then I glance down at the tote I’m carrying. The three pints aren’t going to make it all the way back to my house, not without melting.

Which would be a shame. Waste in general isn’t good. Waste of Dickerson’s special pineapple ice cream is a crime against good sense.

“Fine.” I step into the elevator. No sooner do I clear the doors than they snap shut behind me. We fly all the way to the top. Fourth floor, but the levels are tall, which maybe explains why Sampson has chosen to live here. He needs a tall ceiling.

When the doors open, it’s to a hallway, just as Nicholas predicted. Only this hallway has a beautiful white marble floor that leads to a single door across the way. Centered in the space is a large, round table, on which a tasteful vase of red dick flowers perches. I don’t know their real name, but they look like red hearts with yellow dicks sticking out of their center, so that’s what I call them.

Weird. And I’m suddenly more nervous because the arrangement of flowers almost certainly means there’s a woman living on this floor. Most men I know don’t arrange flowers for themselves, and Sampson can’t be rich enough to have a florist bring him flowers every week. He’s a fireman. They don’t make bank. So that means there’s probably a woman involved in his life—a wealthy woman, maybe through that solitary door.

I’m not one for showdowns. I like my life placid.

This was such a mistake.

I’m turning back towards the elevator just as Nicholas rings the bell. Too late. I take a deep breath. Nothing for it but to act neighborly. I can do that, right?

While seconds stretch into an eternity, I place my hand against Nicholas’s back. I don’t know which of us I’m reassuring. Probably me. Finally, I hear the sounds of chains unhooking. A second later, the door swings wide.

Sampson, naked except for a pair of blue, sweatsuit-material shorts, blinks down at me before his excoriating stare swoops to the child. And then back up to me—where his gaze rests like an incendiary device about to detonate.

And me? I’m trying not to stare at yards of muscled ridges, a twelve-pack for months, and the bulge tenting the fabric of his shorts. I swear, I start salivating. I write vampires with big dicks. I haven’t ever envisioned one as big as Sampson’s must be to make that kind of… mound.

I’m trying not to look, but even though his eyes are a good hundred feet above his dick, somehow, I’m taking in the whole picture all at once.

There I go, working toward my Global Record nomination again, this time for being able to watch both eyes and dick at the same time without the need to ping-pong between them.

Fine, and all the muscles in between.

“Is it okay we’re here, Mr. Dean?” Nicholas breaks the tense silence between us, obviously confused by our reluctant host’s lack of welcome.

Sampson tears his gaze from me. “Sure, Nicholas. Of course. You just surprised me, is all. Come on in. Let me just get dressed. I was stretching. The doctor said it would be good for my injuries.”

“Yoga? My mom does yoga. So does Nina.” Nicholas points at me before sliding past Sampson into the loft space.

I sidle in, too, and after Sampson closes the door behind us, I hold up the insulated bag. “We come bearing three pints of pineapple ice cream. No sharing necessary.”

“Excellent. Love pineapple ice cream. From Dickerson’s?”

“Only place in Mossburg to sell it.” I look across the enormous span of poured, glazed concrete, oriental rugs, and masculine furnishings that would be oversized in any other environment, but look cozy in his space, given that the ceilings must be twenty feet high. It’s all very industrial, yet warm, and very high-end. “Should I find the freezer?”

He points towards my left, where the open concept kitchen spans a wall filled with cabinets and open shelves. The industrial look continues, warmed by a butcher block counter and a crystal chandelier, of all things.