Fire Flow

The amount of water being pumped onto a fire, or required to extinguish a hypothetical fire. A critical calculation in light of the axiom that an ordinary fire will not be extinguished unless there is sufficient water to remove the heat of the fire.

 

I can’t stop thinking about him.

You know when you go shopping and you find the perfect pair of jeans but you put them back because they’re too expensive? Or maybe it’s the perfect shoes.

You tell yourself, nope, I’m not going to do it, and you leave.

But the next day you can’t stop thinking about the jeans. You think about them all day long, and suddenly nothing you have or ever wore is as good as those jeans you saw in the store.

That’s how I feel about Caleb Wednesday morning when I’m supposed to be working. It’s so bad I want to drive by his apartment, maybe search every apartment for him because even though I checked the cross streets when I was leaving, I didn’t make a note of the apartment number so I suppose I’d have to knock on a number of doors to find him.

On my way to the hotel, I stop by Starbucks for coffee. I really wish there were more drive-through ones in Seattle, but sadly, there’s not. And parking in Seattle is a goddamn nightmare most of the time. I got in a fight over a parking spot once. I think most people in this city have.

There’s a line out the door, also standard for the Northwest. We love our coffee, and we’re snobs about it. I once traveled to Florida for a meeting and tasted their coffee. I gave it back to the barista and asked if it was a joke. Sadly, it wasn’t.

As I’m standing in the steadily moving line, my phone rings and a message comes through. It’s Heather wanting to know why there’s a double booking on The Courtyard for New Year’s Eve. It’s not double booked. She’s constantly getting The Courtyard and The Terrace confused, which is why she’s the front desk manager and doesn’t have my job.

I don’t like to communicate with any managers through texting. I find it unprofessional and something my father taught me early on. Never communicate through e-mails and text messaging goes along with it. If you need to have a conversation with someone, pick up the phone.

This only applies to my job. Outside of work, if someone calls me, I get upset. I will only text.

Trying to not be that asshole on the phone in line, I send her calls to voice mail and glance up at the menu above the registers. I don’t know why I look. I get the same thing every morning.

Venti iced Americano with cream and one pump of chocolate.

As I’m preparing to order, I notice a girl with familiar black-framed glasses making drinks to my left.

I’m trying not to stare, but I remember her from somewhere. I just can’t place where. This happens to me all the time, given working in the hotel industry where I see thousands of people a week.

She smiles at me when I place my order and when I get my cup, I know exactly where I know her from because written in sharpie on the side of the cup is “Caleb says hi!”

Say what?

Excitement shoots through me as I do a double take at her only to have her wink at me and push her glasses up her nose. I smile, unsure what else to do and the prickly sensation in my armpits return.

Christ, why couldn’t she have written his phone number on the cup? Or better yet, I should have ran back in there and asked about it. Asked if he talked about me yesterday.

He probably didn’t. I think I’d be disappointed if he did because what kind of guy goes around talking about a girl he slept with the night before?

None I want to hang out with.

 

BY THE TIME I arrive at work, I know I’m in deep because I’m ready to Google Caleb, especially after seeing his roommate. Or then there’s the thought of pulling all the fire alarms and fainting with the hopes he responds to the call to give me mouth to mouth. Firefighters do that, right?

But then I walk through the lobby of Wellington Suites and realize there’s no time for it because there’re rooms that have been double booked, a VIP arriving tomorrow, a convention for hundreds of guests that need tending too and department heads with needs.

I spend the majority of my day with managers and making sure guests get checked in okay, and their wants are meant. Running a hotel is a lot like preparing for a dinner party but doing that every single day. You want your place clean and enough food and refreshments for your guests. You also have to consider everyone has different tastes and no two guests are the same.

When your guests arrive, you want to make them comfortable and ensure they’re having a good time. At the same time, you have to make sure dinner is ready on time, and everything is exactly the way they want it. With as many restaurants as we have here in the hotel, that’s a huge task in itself.

And then once the party is over and your guests are leaving, you have to clean up the mess. Even the ones who had too much to drink, acted like an asshole and puked all over your white carpet. For a start, never ever have white carpet, but you get my point. It’s a lot of work hosting a party.

Now imagine doing that every single day and your house has 100 plus rooms and all your guests are spending the night, and they want breakfast in the morning.

That’s exactly how running a hotel can be.

On top of that, we have hotel employees with their own needs because they’re just as important as the guests. If we didn’t have employees, we wouldn’t have the guests. If you have unhappy staff, the guests know this, and in turn, it makes their experience awful, and you get bad reviews on Yelp or Google.

My job is to make sure everyone is communicating, and any problems or opinions are addressed at the morning meetings. Sound stressful?

You have no idea. Unless you run a hotel. If that’s the case, we should be friends.

 

AFTER MY MORNING department heads meeting, Izzy finds me in my office on my laptop replying to e-mails.

Izzy’s one of our massage therapists in the spa, and I love her and her tiny heart to pieces. I don’t mean tiny heart as in she’s a bitch, I mean she’s actually just a tiny person. She’s one of those people where you’re sure everyone in their family is miniature. I met her mother once though, and she’s normal height, so I’m not sure what went on with little Izzy Bizzy.

At barely five foot one, you wouldn’t believe she’s dating a six-foot-five hockey player in Vancouver, but she is. Crazy, right? Scarlet and I give her shit about it all the time.

Izzy’s dating Zane Hackett—or Gigantor as we call him, but never ever to her face—who plays for the Vancouver Canucks. They met at this hotel actually, and he couldn’t forget her hands. It’s the oddest combination if you ask me. I can’t imagine how awkward their sex life is.

When they’re in the missionary position, is her face at his nipples? The logistics of it baffles me. I bet she doesn’t have to bend over to give him head. She can probably do it standing up which I’m kind of jealous of.

“Hey, Izzy Bizzy,” I say, typing an e-mail to the department heads about Shade’s arrival tomorrow and warning them that under no circumstances is he allowed a key to the pool after hours. Been there. Done that. We had to drain the fucking thing after he left because somehow, he and his delinquent brothers glued jewels to the tiles in the shape of a big lifelike vagina. Crazy talented if you ask me but imagine standing on the diving board in the deep end, and your view is a jeweled vagina and it’s like your diving into it.

While I can see the appeal for men, I personally think vaginas are ugly so it had to be removed . . . and before my dad found out about it because guess who gave Shade the key to the pool at two in the morning?

Me. Just wait. Shade is one convincing guy. You’ll see.

“Morning,” she grumbles and sits across from me, adjusting her yellow cardigan around her boney little shoulders.

My apprehensive eyes lift to hers. She’s upset. I try to recall anything I would have forgotten today and can’t think of anything. Surprisingly, the spa is one of the better departments and usually never runs into problems. Izzy and Christine work well together.

After sweeping her jet-black pixie-length hair from her eyes, she crosses her tiny arms over her chest and taps her foot. “So I ran into Scarlet this morning, and she told me she took you out the other night. I thought we agreed you weren’t going to do that anymore?”

Unfortunately, Izzy cannot only drop a grown-ass man to his knees with her wickedly talented baby hands, but she also knows me. The reminder of my lack of judgment the other night has my thoughts drifting to Caleb. Actually, every time I move today I keep thinking of him. It was like a good workout the other night and a reminder my sex life with Judah was seriously lacking if the firefighter was able to put my body in this condition after just one night.

Screw the vibrating tongue ring. Caleb didn’t need any of that. His cock was like a magical being with special orgasm inducing powers.

And she’s waiting for an answer. One I don’t want to give her because she’s right. I think at some point last year I agreed to something of that nature. Let’s be real, I wasn’t serious. No one ever is when they say they’re not going to drink and party anymore. Things change in a matter of hours.

And goddamn Scarlet for telling on me. She knows I’m scared of Izzy.

I should explain myself because she and her partially shaved head is waiting for an answer. I reach out and run my hand of the shaved part because I like the way the hair feels when it’s starting to grow back. It’s all soft and prickly. “You remember that one guy I was living with, right?”

“Ju—”

Leaning forward, I press my fingertips to her miniature lips. “Shh shh, don’t say his name. It’ll upset me. Anyway, we broke up the other night. I caught him fucking the neighbor, so I went to the bar with Scarlet.” I lay blame on Scarlet, as if this is all her fault and as far as I’m concerned, it totally is. “Well, she convinced me to sit on this firefighter’s lap and it went from there. I was too drunk so he fed me and then I had to repay him the favor.”

“Mila, this guy better not be like the whole Judah thing.”

Given my track record with men, she has a right to ask. “He’s not a drummer.”

Her eyebrow arches but she drops her hands from her hips, so I think she might let me off the hook. “Is he in a band at all?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He’s a firefighter. At least he said he was.”

“He’s probably lying.”

“Maybe.”

I hope he wasn’t.

“I have a client,” she mumbles, glancing down at her phone.

She’s distracted. I think I’m off the hook.

“Do you have any openings today?” I roll my neck, the stiffness evident.

Shrugging, she clicks a few buttons on her phone. “I have one opening in an hour, why?”

“I could really use a massage today.”

“Okay, well, come by then.”

Closing my laptop, I stand from my chair and follow Izzy out of my office. She’s quick to take a left and head toward the spa entrance at the end of the hall, and I watch her walk away. She reminds me of a librarian with the way she dresses—if librarians shaved the side of their head and had a nose ring and a tattoo from their hip all the way to the side of their neck.

Smiling, I sigh and limp toward the elevators in the east wing. I’m starving and need to find food. I also need to find Scarlet and kick her ass for telling on me.

I head downstairs to the employee breakroom, assuming that’s where I’ll find her. She’s usually in there lying on the couch when she doesn’t have rooms to clean. Or should I say when she doesn’t feel like cleaning rooms.

 

WHENEVER I WALK around the hotel, people watch me. Being the owner’s daughter, most of them are terrified of me and think if they look at me wrong, I’m going to fire them.

Then you have managers like Heather and Larry who hate me and don’t care if I can get them fired or not. Their mission in life is to get me out of the hotel.

It’s the same when I walk inside the employee breakroom on the lower level. About half the employees kiss my ass, the others stare at me like I’m an alien misplaced on the wrong planet.

With my second coffee of the day in hand, I find Scarlet is in fact on the couch eating a bag of pretzels and talking to Tom.

When she notices me walk in, Scarlet hits Tom in the stomach.

He coughs, hunching over on the couch next to her. “Why’d you do that?”

“Give that to Judah, from Mila.” She’s panicking, and sadly Tom is usually the one who gets the short stick on Scarlet’s odd behavior.

He blinks a few times, looks at me and then Scarlet like he can’t believe she just did that. “I’m not Judah.”

“You’re the closest thing to him.”

Rolling up the sleeves of his gray shirt, he shakes his head at her and moves away about a foot. “Whatever.”

I slap Scarlet on the shoulder. “Why’d you tell Izzy about the other night?”

Scarlet’s eyes widen. “I forgot it was a secret.”

“Damn it, Scar. You know I’m scared of Izzy, and now she’s lecturing me on what I should and shouldn’t do.”

Tossing her pretzel bag in the garbage beside the couch, she shrugs. “Well stop confiding in her, and she won’t feel the need to counsel you.”

Scarlet does have a point. Before Izzy wanted to be a massage therapist, she went to school for psychology. If you ask me, the two go together perfectly because the things people tell their massage therapist should be confidential and most of the time border on the need for a self-help session. Or maybe that’s just me. The moment those hands touch my back, I spill everything to Izzy, including how awful my boyfriends is, or was.

Sighing, I reach into my pocket for my ringing phone. It never stops during the day. “Just don’t tell her anything.” I peek down at the number to see it’s Larry. I send it to voice mail. “If I want her to know, I will.”

Scarlet reaches for her apron on the back of the couch, smacking Tom with it as she pulls the ties around her waist. “Fine, I won’t.” And then she grins, giving me a head nod. “What time does Shade check in tomorrow?”

“No idea. He never gives a time.” I don’t think Shade Sawyer even knows how to tell time. If it wasn’t for his assistant telling him where to be and when, he’d walk around lost. Let’s just hope for his sake Willa, his assistant, doesn’t get tired of his ass and find a new job because I’m almost certain he pays her a million dollars a year to put up with his shit. If not, he should.

Scarlet leaves and Tom watches her and cranes his neck forward to get my attention. “What’s with this Shade Sawyer guy everyone’s freaking out about?”

“He’s a VIP.”

“VIP of what though?”

I have to laugh. Tom thinks he’s a VIP of a company, not a VIP guest. I also have to laugh because Tom’s met Shade like fifteen times in the four years he’s been staying at our hotel. Tom can’t remember yesterday though, so I don’t hold this against his pretty face. “No, Tom, he’s famous. VIP guest of the hotel. He races motocross and does freestyle stunt stuff. He’s won like the X-Games or something a few times.”

He seems impressed, which is hard to do with Tom. He doesn’t show much emotion unless he’s confused. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Tom nods to the door Scarlet just left out of. “That’s the guy Scar’s in love with, right?”

“You mean obsessed with?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, that’s him.” And then I notice Tom’s holding a romance novel in his hand. “Are you reading that?”

He tosses it on the floor beside him. “Nope. Scarlet was and I took it from her. Those books give women unrealistic expectations about what a relationship should be like.”

“How do you know anything about a relationship?”

He points to his chest, clearly offended. “I have emotional depth you can’t see.” His voice may sound irritated, but the smile on his lips says differently.

“Uh huh. Sure you do. And maybe those books just prove men are unreliable.” I’m talking about Judah and he knows it.

But he won’t let me get away with saying men are unreliable just yet. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters under his breath and then laughs.

“Is it? I don’t see how romance novels would give us a false representation of what relationships would be like. And while we’re at it, I’ve watched porn, Tom. Pornos give men false representation of what women will do for them.”

A beaming smile spreads over his ridiculously charming face, excited we’re talking about porn. “Is that so?”

“Yes. It is. I don’t know many women who want a cock stuck up their ass and then in their mouth. That’s unsanitary. You’d get a stomach flu from hell by doing that. And I sure as shit”—yep, totally threw that in there by design—“don’t want a man coming on my face while he tells me what a good girl I’ve been.” Unless of course his name is Caleb and he’s a firefighter. If that’s the case, he can come wherever the fuck he wants to. “Have you ever gotten semen in your eye, Tom? It burns like a motherfucker.”

Tom’s laugh echos through the break room. Why wouldn’t he laugh? This conversation has gotten way out of control. Even for me.

My phone rings again. Thankfully. This time it’s Nixon Shaw, an investment banker and son of a man who owns stock in our hotel. That translates into me needing to take this call. “I have to go.”

Tom grabs my hand before I leave. “I’m sorry about Judah. He’s dumb.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for telling me before I moved in with him and wasted six months of my life.”

As much as I want to blame Tom for Judah, it’s not his fault. It’s mine for believing a drummer was capable of loving someone.

 

NIXON SHAW IS like I said, an investment banker. His dad owns Shaw Investments and partners with my dad on probably more deals than I know about. Most of their business meetings take place in our hotel. They rent out the fifth floor for their clients, show them Seattle and get them to invest. Or something like that. I don’t know. I manage a hotel, not a bank.

I’ve known Nixon since I was a kid and though he’s a nice guy, he’s not my type. He’s very . . . banker. He wears a black suit most of the time and slicks his hair back like Nick does. It makes me want to run my hands through it and mess it up because it looks ridiculous.

If you’ve seen The Matrix, he’s straight out of those movies.

I’m just about to call him back when I enter the hotel lobby and see him talking to a group of men in suits, his eyes on me walking toward him.

My throat tightens. He makes me nervous. The kind of nerves that make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Stopping at the front desk, I make sure the front desk staff don’t need anything and then make my way over to Nixon. He quickly excuses himself from the men he’s talking to and smiles my way like he hasn’t seen me in years.

I literally saw him last week.

He reaches inside his suit jack and pulls out a long black box and hands it to me. “I didn’t see you on Christmas,” he says, the rough tone of his voice sounding like a haggard old man who’s spent a lifetime smoking. Nixon doesn’t smoke though. He’s just got one of those gravelly voices, but it’s not sexy. It’s like trying to have a conversation with Darth Vadar and having to repeat everything in your head hoping you heard him correctly.

“Oh, well Merry Christmas.” Awkwardly I slip my phone into the pocket of my black pants and take the box from him. I’m really strange about gifts. I don’t like to open them in front of people, but I know he’s expecting me to.

It’s a bracelet. A diamond fucking bracelet. Told you the dude is strange. Who gets a friend of the family a diamond bracelet for Christmas?

Nixon Shaw does. Told you the dude is weird.

“Here,” he says excitedly, motioning toward the box and then removing the bracelet. “Try it on.”

He’s trying to buy my love. I know it.

After the bracelets on, his hands linger. “Do you like it?”

I smile, attempting to be nice. “It’s beautiful, but you really didn’t have to get me anything.”

Nixon nods slowly. “I know, but I wanted to.”

I’m smart enough to understand that translates into, I have money, and I want you to know it.

“Eh, thanks.”

He nods over his shoulder, his jet-black hair still perfectly intact and slicked back. “I’ve got a client.”

Just as I’m wondering how I might take this off and figure out a way to give it back to him without seeming like a total bitch, my dad approaches me with Carl Hamilton. Carl is part of Shade Sawyer’s security team and usually arrives the day before to check his room out and make sure we have everything in order for his arrival.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hamilton.” I take his hand. “It’s good to see you again.” Just the motion of extending my damn arm hurts, that all-body ache I have apparent from being on the go all morning.

He greets me with a bright smile and a warm hug. I’ve become one of his favorites here. Probably because out of all the hotels Shade likes to stay at around town, we’re the ones who treat him like he’s royalty. If he can afford the 10k a night it costs to stay in the suite on the top floor, more power to him.

And I’ve watched Shade race. Another perk of him staying here. Free tickets to events he’s at. He’s incredibly talented on a motorcycle, and by incredible, I really mean a gifted motherfucker. Anyone who can fly over a hundred feet off the ground and let go of their bike and then find it midair after doing a back flip is gifted.

Carl gives me the details on Shade arriving and the entrance he wants to use.

When Carl excuses himself, my father stares at Nixon standing in the valet waiting for his car, then the sparkles on my wrist. “I have to say Shaw’s kid is weird.”

“He’s hardly a kid, Dad. He’s thirtysomething.” I sigh. “But you’re right. He’s weird. He bought me a bracelet for Christmas.” I hold it up, the diamonds shining under the lights of the lobby. “Who does that?”

“It’s all about showing off with him and his father.” I know this for a fact.

Nixon drives around in a fucking Maserati, if that tells you anything and his dad? A Bentley. They have more money than they can spend.

Dad rolls his eyes and then nods to my phone that’s ringing, again. “Is everything set for Mr. Shade’s arrival? Carl’s worried about security this time. Apparently, there were a few fans who managed to make it to his room the last time he was here.”

This time I’m the one rolling my eyes. “That’s because he took those girls to his room. Carl just doesn’t understand his door is a revolving door for anything half-dressed and a vagina.”

“Well that might be.” Dad laughs, adjusting his tie. “But we need to make sure everything is in order. I don’t want any problems with Mr. Sawyer or his brothers.”

Shade has two brothers. Tiller and Roan. Both equally as charming and as hot as Shade. I’d like to say Tiller is manageable, but I’d be lying. All three of the Sawyer boys are holy terrors, and I’m not sure they’ve ever been parented.

My dad only knows the half of everything that goes on with the Sawyer boys, but he knows enough to understand they not only pay out the ass to stay here, but they also cause problems. Problems a hotel owner doesn’t want.

It’s my job to make sure those problems don’t affect the other guests at the hotel or call in the cops.

 

IT’S AROUND THREE when I’m able to get my massage, the only free hour of the day I have and Izzy asks me why I’m so sore.

Taking off my bra, I toss it aside and lie down on the table on my stomach. “I’ve been sleeping on Scarlet’s couch. It’s not very comfortable.” Not technically a lie.

Izzy moves around the room reaching for the massage oil I like the best. Also the only one I’m not allergic to. Eucalyptus and mint.

She raises a disapproving eyebrow. “Is that so?”

I lift my head to meet her stare. Sometimes it gets old having her judge me like this, but then again, it’s my fault I tell her everything. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you the truth.”

Izzy frowns. She’s caught on. Shit. “Really, Mila? You told me the truth?”

“God, you’re a jerk. Yes, I told you the truth. Maybe not 100 percent of the truth, but I told you a version of the truth. The version I wanted you to hear and if you’re not nice to me, I’m going to leave.”

I’m lying out of my ass. I won’t leave, but I like to pretend I will.

Izzy cracks about the time Scarlet barges in.

“Do you want me to help you or not?” Izzy asks, taking a towel from the warmer and handing it to me. I like to rest my face on a hot towel while she’s massaging my back.

“Yes, I do. I’m so sore I can’t even walk right. It’s like he tore a muscle in my vagina.” And then I eye her carefully before putting my head down. “I bet you know what I’m talking about, don’t you? You probably know what reverse childbirth feels like, don’t you, Izzy Bizzy?”

Her smile cracks. “Shush and put your head down.”

“No, I’m curious,” Scarlet interrupts. I almost forgot she’d walked in here, but she likes to just sit in the spa and pretend she’s meditating. Which is her way of avoiding work and slapping a fancy title on it. “How does he not cut you in half?”

We laugh, and Izzy ignores us, which is what she usually does. She never gives us details about her hockey player.

While Scarlet goes on to talk about Shade, my thoughts drift to Caleb, the reason I’m lying here on the massage table in the middle of the day is because I think I did, in fact, pull a muscle in my vagina. I try not to think about him too much because Izzy’s touching me and I don’t want her to get the wrong impression here.

Once Izzy’s finished, and I’m in a jelly state, I stare at Scarlet who’s still looking through a magazine. “Why aren’t you working?”

Scarlet shrugs. “I’m tired. And disgusted.” She peeks over her magazine at me and Izzy. “You wouldn’t believe it but the rich, pretentious assholes who stays here are a bunch of dirty motherfuckers.”

I slide off the table and smooth out my skirt. “Actually, that’s not surprising at all.”

“I found so much hair in a bathroom this morning from a man, I could have made a small dog with it.”

“Speaking of dogs . . .” I smile, and I know she knows where I’m going with this. “What happened with Owen?”

Izzy shakes her head and pulls the sheets off the massage table, wadding them up and then replacing them with fresh white ones. She never dishes dirt on Gigantor.

“Nothing happened. We had sex, and he left,” Scarlet tells us, like it’s no big deal. It probably isn’t to her. I wish I had her self-control. But I don’t. I’m weak and contemplating starting fires to find Caleb.