Page 22 of Up In Flames

There has to be a woman involved. What man would ever pick out crystal?

“Through there, although the ice cream sounds pretty good. Maybe just grab some spoons and napkins? I’ll be right back.” And he takes off towards the right.

I can’t move. I can’t look away. There are backs, and then there’s his back. The muscles bunch from nape to ass in a slithering symphony that’s impossible to ignore. By all that’s holy, he’s impressive. He was stunning in high school, but he’s entered a new stratosphere near the end of his second decade.

Oof, why does he keep it so hot in here?

“Stop staring at his ass. It’s rude,” Nicholas hisses, before reaching out and dragging me towards the kitchen area.

“I’m not staring at his ass,” I snap. But since that’s exactly what I was doing, I move along with him.

Spoons are easy to find. They’re twisted wrought-iron handles with silver bowls like the rest of the matched set.

See? Woman. I study the place, looking for other touches. There are more of the same flowers as in the hallway, just three of them standing on the counter in a crude pottery vase that’s edged in copper. But what there isn’t is lingerie strewn all over the neat space. Guess that’s in the bedroom. Or his Red Room.

When he returns, Sampson is dressed in a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt. Unfortunately, he looks nearly as hot as he did semi-naked. We all sit on the comfortable leather couch that forms a U-shape, Sampson in the middle. With a roll of his eyes at the way I gape at our host, Nicholas passes out the ice cream containers, spoons, and napkins.

I barely manage to take mine because my hands shake so hard.

“You seem better,” I say, noticing that our host moves pretty easily for a guy who was nearly dead yesterday.

“I heal quickly. I’m lucky that way. Makes falling into fire less terrible.” He shoots me a wink before turning to Nicholas.

The two begin talking about firemen stuff before Nicholas lowers his voice to explain why we’ve come. The boy’s whisper could be heard in the back row of stadium bleachers, but I know he thinks he’s excluding me while he explains to Sampson that the hospital probably gave him super-powers while he was out of it. According to Nicholas, the latest issue of Lantern Men contains just this plot point.

To my credit, I barely cringe as Nicholas starts to egg Sampson into running off the roof to prove that he can fly. I just stare into my pint of melting sweetness like the answers to all the questions of the universe are contained within it.

To his credit, Sampson doesn’t scream. He also doesn’t take Nicholas up on the idea. Instead, he pretends to scan the room for spies before he leans in closer to the boy and whispers, “Already tried it, but unfortunately, no powers of flight.”

“But you weren’t hurt?”

Sampson shakes his head. “I had a friend set up a jump net. I’m not an idiot.”

Questionable. But I realize I’m staring at him when the quirk of his lip hits me in my core like a small detonation.

“I also tried invisibility, super-strength, shape-shifting, telekinesis, and telepathy,” Sampson continues, cutting off Nicholas’s suggestions before he can make them. “Nada. I’m afraid the hospital failed in its diabolical schemes, though I have a mandatory week off to continue to test my abilities. That will be our little secret, though, okay? I wouldn’t want the guys in the unit to think I’m trying to be better than them.”

As they discuss all of Sampson’s creative tests and how he might better discern any supernatural attributes imbued in him by evil doctors, I continue to try to remember three things: first, it’s impolite to stare; second, I hate the guy; and third, I’m not allowed to go snooping in his bedroom. Or his Red Room.

Or anywhere in his apartment, trying to find more evidence of who his significant woman might be.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me… or I do, and I just don’t want to admit it.

Fine. It’s lust, pure and simple. Lust for the worst example of manhood in the entire universe. Lust for the enemy. Lust that began as a silly infatuation the summer before eleventh grade, when I first saw the rising senior at the town pool where he worked as a lifeguard, and became crazy giggly and obsessed. He once killed that interest in him dead with his contempt, but here it is, risen to life again like a bad case of food poisoning.

“Nina?”

“Huh?” I come to, only to realize lust-on-legs is asking me a question.

“I said, are you going to eat yours, or just melt it between your palms?”

Sure enough, I’m folding the container in endless circles. “Er, I um, like the edges melted.” Good. That’s true. I can do this. “Gooey. Melty. Luscious.”

And heaven help me, I lick my lips and breathe out like some sort of stalker.

Fuck. My. Life.

Sampson doesn’t answer right away, just goes back to scooping up pale yellow cream between his full lips while asking Nicholas questions about school, what he wants to be when he grows up, and how Mr. Petterson’s farm produce stand is doing.