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  She snaps her head to look at me, her honeypot ponytail swishing behind her back.

  “Oh,” I say, pointing to the table, “were you expecting company?”

  “Yeah,” she replies, “anyone but you.”

  I halve a meatball with my fork. “Come on now. We’re partners.”

  She stabs a meatball of her own, the end of the fork grinding against the plate. “It’s not by choice, believe me.”

  God, she smells amazing. I’m betting her pussy’s going to smell even better with my nose nuzzling up against it, my tongue driving deep inside her.

  Whoa. Time to wind it back, superstar.

  I extend my hand. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Payton.”

  I note the slight break in composure. She wasn’t expecting capitulation. She cautiously takes my hand and gives it a single shake. “Lacey,” she states.

  “Well, Lacey, what brings you to the Hot House?”

  She stares down at her food. “You know, naked guys running around with their pathetic little penises out thinking they’re in a Porkies reboot. And you? Why do you want to be a firefighter?”

  I’m smiling real good now. I love a challenge. “Girls love a guy in uniform, especially a firefighter. A cop? No one’s happy to see a cop, but show up wearing the black and gold, and it’s a sure thing.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Saving lives, helping your community—none of that factored into your decision?”

  I lean closer. “You’re short, you know.”

  Now she looks at me. Her eyes are bottle green, alive. They’re telling me she’s just as competitive as I am. “Neg all you want, but what’s your point?”

  I shovel in half a meatball. “I see a lot of confined spaces in your future, that’s all.”

  She shrugs. “Fine by me.”

  “And if you break a nail?”

  She smiles, and already I’m dreaming about those plump lips suffocating my cock. “You mean while I’m clawing your eyes out?”

  I shrug back, lifting an eyebrow. “Hey, I like it rough. All you’re doing is turning me on.”

  She stands and takes up her tray. “Funny. All you’re doing is turning me off.”

  I watch her walk away, that same egg-cracker of an ass begging for my hands, maybe a good spanking to show her who’s boss.

  But it appears I’m not the only one looking to score.

  Struggle was the name of the game in PE earlier, but apart from Lacey, there was one other source of potential competition—Ryan Fielding. He sits with a group of others, but his eyes are following Lacey, and I sure as fuck don’t like the vibe they’re giving off. I recognize a fellow alpha when I see one, but there’s only room for one top dog here.

  He sees me watching him and nods.

  I nod back.

  Fucker.

  Someone fills Lacey’s seat beside me. I swivel to find the captain-appointed class clown, Jackson King, sitting beside me. There’s nothing on his tray but jell-o.

  “Payton Cox, right?” he says, and holy shit is his hair red in this light.

  “That’s my name,” I reply.

  “You’re from upstate, Brown?”

  I scan the room, make sure no one’s eavesdropping. “Perhaps.”

  Jackson starts to spoon in jell-o. “I thought so. I saw you play the Bulldogs last season. You’ve got a killer fucking arm, bro. What was it? Three, four touchdowns that night?”

  My teeth grind together. I was hoping to keep this quiet. “That was then. This is now. I’ve moved on.”

  “What happened?” he continues. He waves his spoon around. “I mean, this is hardly Ivy League, is it?”

  I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze lightly. “Why don’t we just keep this between you and me, huh?”

  He nods, swallowing. “Whatever you say.”

  I let go. “Good.”

  I turn around and notice Fielding’s still watching me. There’s a look on his face I recognize from the field, a call to arms of sorts.

  I return to my food while Jackson continues to blubber away about fire this and fire that. The kid’s fucking obsessed.

  But my mind’s elsewhere. It’s on Lacey and delicate features, on her tight body and no doubt tighter pussy.

  Day one and I’m only warming up.

  Game on.

  *

  The small bar across the road looks busy for a Monday night. ‘Dante’s’ the neon sign reads, a flashing arrow pointing downwards to the door.

  I pass the sole security guard and walk inside to country music, wooden floors, and the overpowering stench of stale beer. I breathe it in. Hello, friend.

  Campus curfew’s at ten—plenty of time to play.

  Others from the class spot me and call me to the corner. I’m handed a beer, chug it down, and head to the bar for another round. Forget the fucking academy, this is where the real legends will be made.

  The bartender’s sort of cute in an early Britney way, but my focus is on Lacey. Nothing else is going to satisfy. I order another round of beers and a whiskey for myself.

  I spot Jackson over near a table of middle-aged local women. A puff of flame rises from his outstretched hand, the women looking suitably shocked.

  Fucking magic tricks—a sure-fire way to keep panties in place.

  Good luck, buddy.

  “Funny, I didn’t take you for a whiskey sort of guy.”

  I look down the bar to where Lacey Nelson is sitting by herself, a glass of what could either be a club soda or straight vodka in front of her. I take my whiskey, slapping down cash for the round, and walk down to her. She’s wearing a white tank and jeans so tight they’re basically a second skin. I don’t think she deliberately tried to dress sexy, but given the twitching in my pants, it’s working like a fucking charm.

  I perch myself on the stool beside her. “I have to say, you’re the last person I expected to see here tonight.”

  “It is the unofficial class mixer,” she replies.

  “You want to hang with the cool kids, don’t you? You have ever since high school.”

  “I was Homecoming Queen, actually.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  She plays with the rim of her glass, nodding over to Jackson. “Poor guy. I don’t think he’s getting the hint.”

  True to that, Jackson’s trying to follow the women out of the bar, lurching to show them another trick. “Yeah,” I say, “he’s kind of creepy, isn’t he?”.

  “Says the guy running around with his,” she takes a sip before continuing, “organ out.”

  “Organ?” I laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “You’ve got your own pet name for it? Let me guess. ‘The Dominator,’ right?”

  “No, but that’s a good one. What do you call your dick?” I tease.

  She goes to get up. I place my hand lightly against her side. “I’m joking. Come on. Why so serious?”

  “Because some people aren’t here to fuck around.”

  I reel back. “Behold, the Homecoming Queen with a chip on her shoulder.”

  “No,” she states firmly, “the former Homecoming Queen who’s come to realize there’s more to life than getting laid and getting wasted.”

  “Not necessarily in that order.”

  She’s shaking her head. I’m losing her. “Come on,” I start, “I’m a good partner. You should be thankful to have me.”

  She’s halfway through drinking, almost loses it across the bar in laughter. “You?” she exclaims. “I should be lucky to have you? Who do you think you are?”

  The fucking Allies didn’t encounter this much resistance. “I’m Payton Cox, only child of William and Brenda Cox, former college football star, and discerning lover of the finer things in life. I’ve got a trust fund, a ten-inch cock, and more drive to succeed than anyone in here, present company included. I’m the best of the fucking best and, like I said, you’re lucky to have me, so I ask, who the fuck are you?”

  It’s full-on, I
know, could go either way, but her response comes unexpected.

  She slides her glass away and leans close, a shadow shifting over her cleavage, her jade eyes iridescent. “I’m the girl who’s finally going to put you in your place.”

  “Is that so?”

  Her eyes don’t shift. “It’s a promise, as ironclad as can be.”

  If I was hard before, I’m fucking concrete now.

  If it’s competition she wants, it’s competition she’ll get.

  It arrives sooner than expected when Ryan takes a seat on the other side of her. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  I put my hand up. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Funny,” he replies, his hand falling onto Lacey’s thigh. “Well?” he says. “You want a drink or you want to skip straight to orgasm I’m going to give you in the bathroom back there?”

  The. Fucking. Balls.

  I stand. “I don’t think she’s buying, bud, so why don’t you beat it back to your ass-bandit friends over at the Pink Flamingo, huh?”

  Lacey goes to peel his hand away, but he simply slides it higher.

  “Get your god damn ha—” she starts.

  But I’ve already sprung into action. I get a solid right in, Ryan’s head snapping sideways, the blow sending him spindling off onto the floor.

  He stands up holding his jaw. “You’re going to regret that.”

  He rushes forward and tackles me around the torso, driving me hard up against the bar, Lacey’s glass falls to shatter on the floorboards.

  Someone shouts, another glass dropping.

  The fucker’s strong, I’ll give him that. We spin. I pull him into a headlock, but he manages to break free and jab me in the ribs.

  I’m about to bring my elbow down on his neck when something pushes us apart.

  The security guard holds me back by the chest, shoving Ryan away, a cut on his cheek opening up. I go to rush forward again, but the security guy, a three-hundred-pound immovable object, holds me away.

  “Go!” he shouts at Ryan, thumbing to the door.

  Ryan points back to me. “You just fucked up.”

  He leaves, the security guard turning to me and nodding to my whiskey. “You too. Finish your drink and get the fuck out.”

  I take my seat, lifting the tumbler to my lips.

  Lacey’s looking at me with her face scrunched up.

  “What?” I exclaim. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice.”

  She stands, hands on her hips. “I can fight my own battles.”

  She walks off.

  “Wait!” I call, but it’s too late.

  The bartender laughs. “Way to go, Sugar Ray.” She places her hands on the bar. “Now, shall we say a hundred even for damages?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  LACEY

  I sit on my bed with my back pressed against the wall. I didn’t hear my beloved neighbor come in last night, no headboard tapping or cries of pleasure.

  That pleasure could be yours, I think.

  Sure, it’s hard not to find Payton physically attractive. From those broad shoulders to the Adonis-like vee directing you to the main attraction, he’s a ten out of ten. But man candy or not, I like the full package—personality included.

  Package, my brain repeats. He certainly had that.

  My cell is warm against my ear, morning sun heating the small space of the room.

  “So,” says Mom, “how’s it going, pumpkin?”

  I wish she’d stop calling me that. I’m twenty for crying out loud. It’s probably the same reason she keeps all my pageant trophies on the shelf, every soft toy I owned as a child still laid out over my duvet. “They’re not making me jump off burning buildings if that’s what you’re asking.”

  A resigned sigh follows. “I’m not allowed to worry about my little girl?”

  My teeth grate together. “I can handle myself, Mom.”

  I’m getting a touch sick of reiterating this.

  “Just remember you can come home any time,” she continues. “Did you know Cassie Temper’s working at the Buy ’n’ Sell down the road? She says she’ll be a manager in a year. Isn’t that wonderful, making an honest, safe living like that?”

  “Mom…”

  “You were Homecoming Queen, Lace. Imagine the possibilities for you here.”

  My mother’s never been big on subtlety, but if she thinks I’m going to be another girl caught in the small-town trap, she’s wrong. I aspire to be a bit more than a manager at the mighty Buy ’n’ Sell, the biggest store in the two-thousand-strong mining town of Willow Falls.

  “Good for her,” I respond, “but I’m staying put.”

  “You’re stubborn, Lacey Nelson, stubborn like your father was. You’re stubborn, but I still love you.”

  “I know, Mom, and you have nothing to worry about, honestly.”

  “What about your classmates? Are there any other girls there?”

  The first thing I did when I arrived was ditch the rape whistle she gave me. “No, Mom, but I do have a partner.”

  I’m not exactly sure why I’ve thrown this tidbit out, but she seizes on it.

  “Really?” she says. “What’s her name?”

  Did she not hear me when I said there were no girls in my class? “His name is Payton.”

  A pause. “Hmm, sounds like a troublemaker.”

  You have no idea. “He’s… fit.” It’s the only positive attribute I can come up with on the spot. Oh, and he has a penis like a telegraph pole.

  “And are they feeding you at this place? I don’t want my pumpkin coming home all bony and brittle.”

  She makes me sound like a Butterfinger. “Yes, there’s plenty of food, Mom.”

  I’m starting to regret this call, but I know if I don’t call she’ll be dialing every hospital in the state fearing the worst. She thinks I’m this fragile flower who should be sheltered from the world, settling down with my mine-working husband and our two-point-five children, a two-bedroom in the outskirts of town with a bird bath and scabby lawn. No, thanks.

  It’s even worse being Homecoming Queen. It comes with a certain expectation of what will follow next—either complete self-destruction, which is what everyone secretly wishes for, or a quick ascension to greatness, maybe a receptionist in the Big Smoke, a personal assistant… The sky is the limit! You should have seen the expressions on their faces when I told them I’d be heading a thousand miles away to middle of the desert to become a firefighter.

  “Are girl firefighters, like, a thing?” Nancy Stewart asked, as if it were the most natural question in the world. This from the girl who thought you could use a plastic bag for a condom.

  “What about the scholarship?” Mom continues. “Was that all sorted when you arrived?”

  I hate lying, especially to my own mother, but it was a necessary evil. “Yes. Everything’s being looked after.” I can’t handle any more questions. “Class is about to start, Mom. I’ve got to go.”

  “You’ll call me at the end of the week, as we agreed?”

  I roll my eyes. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Alright then. Stay safe, pumpkin.”

  “You’ve got to stop calling me that.”

  She either ignores me or is too busy sticking to her agenda. “Call if you need anything. There’s no shame in backing out.”

  Such a pillar of support. “I will. Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you too.”

  I end the call and slowly remove the cell from my ear.

  I stand and take a breath.

  Back to business, Lace.

  *

  We’re standing out in the open, partnered and geared up. I expected the breathing apparatus to be heavy, but it’s like carrying a sack of concrete on my back. It’s hot out, too, the bunker suit, thankfully as unflattering as all get out, even hotter.

  Payton leans over to whisper, “Don’t worry. You still look fucking incredible.”

  I stand there shaking my head. I see Ryan down the far end of th
e group eyeing me.

  The Captain points up to a blackened skeleton of a building behind us. It has to be a good ten or eleven stories high. “That,” he announces, pausing for dramatic effect, “is the Tower.”

  Payton whistles, hands on his hips.

  “Do we get to set it on fire, Cap?” asks Jackson.

  The Captain walks over to him. “Say what, son? Jesus H. Get down and give me twenty.”

  “Now?” Jackson protests.

  “No, tomorrow,” replies the captain, still shaking his head. “Get on with it.”

  The Captain’s smiling while he addresses us. “The Tower is going to break you, recruits. You’re going to know every step and corner of it as intimately as your mother’s womb. You’re going to sweat and bleed getting to know one another.” He points to the roof. “The elevators aren’t working and the ladders can’t reach, so what are you going to do?”

  He’s met with silence even though the answer is obvious.

  “That’s right,” he smirks. “You’re going to hoof up the stairwell and retrieve a body each from the roof.” He takes out a stopwatch. “You’ll go up in pairs. The last of each pair down gets to do it over. Nelson and Cox, you’re up.” He clicks the stopwatch. “Go.”

  For a split-second Payton and I look at each other… and then it’s on.

  We sprint hard for the stairwell, Payton managing to get there first, swinging the door wide. It almost collects me on the way through. I whip it open and start up the stairs right on Payton’s — admittedly attractive — tail.

  By the third floor we’re both breathing hard, Payton using the railing to pull himself around the corners. “Why don’t you drop back, take a rest?” he shouts, his Halligan bar bouncing by his side.

  “Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” I call back.

  He laughs and continues upwards.

  By the time we come out onto the roof I’m sweating up a storm. I may as well be wearing a raincoat. My heart’s hammering, but I’m feeling good, pumped.

  We race to the pile of dummies side by side, Payton elbowing me out of the way to get there first, tossing the first over his shoulder with ease as we were shown yesterday and already heading back to the stairs.