Rekindle the Flame (4 page)

Want to read my
Spider-Man
comics?
Gage was obsessed with
Spider-Man
. The transformation from wimp to superhero really appealed to him.

Beck had ignored him. Not there to make friends, he’d already been kicked out of two families because of his “emotional dissociation,” which apparently meant he wasn’t emotional enough. Like he was a robot. He’d show them robot. Because if he showed them anything else—the rage inside him, the fury spitting for a target—they would return him as defective, anyway. The Dempseys had five foster kids already, and he was the last one in. Even a fucked-up junior banger like him knew what that meant.

Last in, first out.

But Gage would not give up. His sunny disposition bugged the shit out of Beck until one day he threw the little runt’s latest peace offering, a Game Boy, against a wall. And then he called him names. Queer. Fag. Words that filled Beck with shame to this day. While waiting for Gage to rat him out to Sean, just in from his shift at the firehouse and pounding his steel-toed boots up the stairs, Beck refused to look at Gage. Refused to give him the satisfaction. But as his heart galloped in time with Sean’s heavy tread, two piercing realizations smacked him upside the head.

He was so frickin’ tired.

And he wanted to stay.

He wanted to stop fighting, but his mouth couldn’t shape the words in his heart, and now it was too late.

Sean curved his head around the door and, after ten mind-blurring seconds, pulled back with a mere nod. Gage hadn’t snitched. Though he didn’t fully understand why, Beck was overwhelmed with a gratitude that warmed his cold, neglected heart. His little brother, more annoying than all get out and one of the best people Beck knew, had smiled like he’d won a prize and dropped the latest issue of
Spider-Man
on Beck’s bed.

Gage and Beck had been on the same page ever since, and it opened the floodgates with the rest of them. When Logan took Beck to the gym to try his hands at boxing, Beck knew he was in the right place and with the right people at last.

But growing up Dempsey was a double-edged sword. If not for them, he might have been content with an ordinary girl instead of an upper-crust babe like Darcy. The problem with being a Dempsey is that they made you believe anything was possible.

“You need to talk to her,” Luke said, jolting Beck back to the present.

Beck shrugged his response, all those old insecurities coming back to bite his neck. Talking had never worked for him. And what could he say after all these years?
I was crazy about you, but I let you go for your own good.
Because that shit would fly. Women just loved being told what was good for them.

Luke took an order from the adorable blonde who’d been manhandled by Red Suit. Clearly interested in more than a rum and Coke, her face fell when his brother didn’t
respond to her overt flirting. With his divorce recently finalized, Luke had yet to reach the bang-his-way-out-of-his-misery step. It would come.

Beck remembered it well.

Gin and tonics in hand, he ambled over to the side of the bar, frowning when he found no sign of Darcy. Her coat still hung on the hook but her boot was gone. Darcy’s friend was groping the bicep of Jacob Scott, one of Beck’s coworkers on the truck, but paused to thumb over her shoulder. “Little leprechaunette’s room.”

“Think I’ll take that break now,” he said to Luke, who smirked at that.

Smug bastard.

“Sure, Becky. Take all the time you need.”

Not even Luke’s use of the girly nickname Beck had been plagued with as a kid could quell the anticipation thrumming through him. Sort of like the energy sparking his blood before a run or a fight. He didn’t want to punch anyone, but he wouldn’t say no to stoking a fire. First, though, he wanted to talk more. Find out what she’d been up to all these years.

And touch her. Definitely touch her.

He found her in the corridor heading to the restrooms, and covertly he watched as she tentatively tested out her ankle with brief stops to flex her foot. Satisfied she was back in business, she leaned her back against the wall, and he took a blessed moment to admire the curved wave of her body as she texted on her phone with quick, supple fingers. He used to love how fast those fingers moved, creating portraits in charcoal, quick sketches that
she would later develop into masterpieces. It was their only communication during that first year of nonversation. She, trying to capture his mood while he sat in her family’s den. He, biding his time, scheming to capture her heart.

“How’s the ankle?”

She lifted her tilty-green gaze, but there was no surprise at seeing him. “I’ll live.”

He stared, the need in him rising more quickly than expected as every cell in his body clamored for action and release. A fiery blush crept up her neck. When the sweep of heat tagged her cheekbones, she made a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat, and knowing he still had that effect on her had his dick at attention in an instant.

“Some things don’t change, I see,” she said as she slipped her phone into a purse slung over her shoulder. “You’ve not become a sparkling conversationalist in the intervening years, Beck.”

“We never needed to talk,
princesa
.”

Man, how she used to hate that endearment, though in days past, using it had sparked some of their most pleasurable moments together. He would goad her until her cheeks flushed and his cock swelled and relief could only come from sinking his fingers in her hair, her mouth, her slick-for-him sex.

Now, on a razor’s edge, the moment lived, then deflated when she gave him a nervy smile. She looked unsure, vulnerable, not at all like the girl he knew.

“What are you up to these days?” he asked.

Thoughts ran circles over her face as she geared up to . . .
huh.
Lie her sweet ass off.

“This and that. Mostly helping with Grams’s recovery and organizing the charity fund-raiser for the homeless she hosts each year. Big party in a couple of weeks.”

Maybe
this
was a boyfriend or
that
was a husband.

“How’s Preston Collins III?”

Her composure took another hit, but on the beat of three she picked herself right back up and smoothed her expression to a cool slate.

“I’ve no idea.”

“So your marriage didn’t work out?”

“I never got married. That was something my father wanted, not me.”

There was no time to enjoy the sweet balm of relief those words created in his chest. Something else was going on here, a restlessness about her that matched his own edgy mood. The tell in her eyes piqued his interest. Time to double down.

“So how mad at me are you right now?”

She sucked in a breath. “Mad? At you? Why would I be mad at you?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Because he had dropped her like a bad habit. “You seem uncomfortable at seeing me again. Pissy.”

“Beck,” she said in the tone of one about to explain something to a dimwit. “When I was eighteen years old, you broke my heart. Stomped on it. Pulverized it into a mess I thought would be irreparable. I cried for two months, cut my hair and dyed it a really awful blond, let
it grow out, made friends in college. I even had a boyfriend, a hot linebacker who was excellent in bed. But every day since, I’ve wished I was here with a guy who voluntarily runs into burning buildings. I wanted to be waiting at home with my heart stuck to the roof of my mouth, hoping he’d text me whenever a warehouse fire was splashed all over the local news. I longed to be getting into arguments about whether it was okay to use my family’s money to get us a better apartment because my man was so proud he insisted on supporting us on his city salary.”

“So, still mad.”

She angled her head, taking him in like he was a bug not worthy of her attention. And then she gave him a huge-ass smile.

Fuckin’ A! Hell, fuckin’ B, C, D,
and
E. He felt like he’d been pumped with a triple dose of tropical sunshine.

“Sorry, just needed to get it out,” she said. “You dumped me a month after we had sex for the first time and that kind of thing is enough to give a girl a complex. I had it in my head that I must have been god-awful in the sack.”

Mierda.
Surely she had not been living with that?

She stayed the tip-of-his-tongue protest with a hand, and that she still had the imperious thing going on put his groin on serious notice.

“But I realized fairly quickly that it was for the best. We were from different worlds, Beck. I don’t harbor any grudges.”

Listening to her mature and measured assessment
should have put him at ease. Should have. But his body did not feel loose. His mind did not accept this.

“It’s okay to be a little ticked off,” he said, strangely ticked off himself at her self-possession. “I treated you pretty shabbily.”

She arched a dark eyebrow, its delicate upward curve a message in itself. “After all this time, you’d rather I was angry. You’d rather I kept you in here”—she touched a clenched fist to the soft swell of her breast—“because it would mean I still care and you still have some power over me.”

Yes, a million times, yes. He hooked her pearls to bring her closer and then, very deliberately, placed one palm against the hallway’s wall inches from her heat-stained cheek.

“I’d rather you were mad because then I could make it better. Remember what I used to do to calm you down? Your dad would piss you off and then I would piss you off more and before you knew it, you were coming apart, screaming my name.”

A muscle ticked at the corner of her mouth, begging for his thumb to soothe it.

So he did.

“Kissing you, touching you, every hurried fumble in my car, every time we explored each other’s bodies—it was all amazing. And when after months, years of waiting, I finally drove deep inside you where I belonged, that was also amazing, Darcy. Sex had nothing to do with why we didn’t work out.”

There. He’d said it. As for the reasons for their split—
the real reasons—now was neither the time nor the place. Might never be, but she needed to know she was not to blame.

The soft thud of a closing door signaled that someone was exiting the restroom around the corner. A guy weaved by on his way back to the bar, and with each passing second, Beck’s heart thundered in his ears.

He turned back to Darcy in time to catch her blinking away an intrusive thought. “Thank you for setting the record straight and letting me know my sexual inexperience was not a contributing factor.”

Uh-oh.
Sarcastic, if his snark-o-meter was calibrated right. “You said you had a complex.”

“I said it was enough to give a girl a complex.” She rubbed a tuft of his coarse beard between her finger and thumb, like she was testing the quality of fabric in a high-end store. “But I figured out quickly that I’m rather awesome, both in and out of the bedroom. Lots of hot college guys helped with my sexual awakening.”

“Your what?”

“My sexual awakening. Those first few months of school, I jumped right in with all the zeal of a frat boy at a kegger. Discovered what I like.” She tugged on his beard and it felt surprisingly good, despite the fact he was half-past pissed at the words spilling from her pert, kissable mouth. “What I don’t like.”

A tight band of steel squeezed around his chest, and the pounding in his ears grew louder.
He
had been the one to nurture her sex-starved body, not some Dockers-wearing college boy. Beck’s nineteenth year had been one
of the most painful of his life. A year of stiff sheets and balled-up tissues, every cock-stroking fantasy filled with sweet, sexy Darcy begging him to touch her, take her.

Own her.

Denying his raging needs for months, he made sure to take care of hers until finally he surrendered to her tight, virginal body the night of the funeral, in the boxing ring at the gym where he had made Sean and Logan proud so many times. Not how he had planned it at all. It was too rough, too raw, too damn visceral. But he had needed her desperately, the only drug that could numb his soul-splitting pain.

He scrubbed a hand across the scruff on his jaw. “You like the beard,
princesa
.”

“It disgusts me,” she deadpanned, but there was no missing the wisp of a smile on her lips. Teenage Darcy was a fiery creature, spoiled and perpetually indignant, and the ability to laugh at herself was not part of her makeup. Somewhere along the way, she had developed a sense of humor, and damn if that wasn’t sexier than every one of her soft, womanly curves.

“What else about me disgusts you?”

“How long have you got?”

“Ten good inches.”

She snorted. “See? Dirty mouth.”

Covering her body with his, he nuzzled his raggedy jaw against her cheek and absorbed her shiver into his own. “You used to like my dirty mouth and all the magical things I could do with it.”

“Teenage hormones have a lot to answer for.”

“Adult ones, too.” Though it killed him a little, he put a few painful inches between them and trailed a finger along her jaw, noting with satisfaction that she trembled under his touch. “It was good to see you again. Have a nice holiday.”

Her expressive brow told him she liked what he’d done there. “When did you get funny, Beck Rivera?”

“Around about the time you got a sense of humor,
querida
.”

There it was, that fire-bright smile. He felt like he’d swallowed the sun.

“Your shtick needs work.”

“Then show me how it’s done.
B
é
same
.” Kiss me.

She laughed, right in his face. “
B
é
same el culo
.”

Kiss my ass?
Oh, it was
on
. Leaning in, he caged her with palms on the wall. The air around them shook with sex and need. Her lush body damn near vibrated with it.

“So demanding,
princesa
. How about I start with your mouth, then work down to your breasts, your belly, your thighs? Plenty of country to rediscover before I get to your sweet
culo
.”