Firefighter's Virgin

“I’m not coming home. I have a restraining order, remember? Stop calling me, Dad, or I’ll have to notify the authorities.”

“Notify the authorities? When did you get to be such a little snot face? I’m your father, Daffy!” I hate when he calls me that, and he knows it. “Please, baby. Daddy’s sick. I need you.”

Daddy’s sick; how many times had I heard that before? “Dad, I’m going to hang up now. When you sober up, you’ll remember why you shouldn’t be calling me. I hope you’ve been going to see your counselor.”

“I don’t need a shrink. I need my Daffy.” His voice got low then, and I could tell he was letting his mind wander as he said, “Do you remember the good times we used to have together, baby girl?”

I hung up and dropped the phone on the counter. My hands were shaking, and I thought I might have to throw up. I moved to get away from him. I was probably going to have to change my phone number—again.

I pulled off the apron and picked up my purse and keys. I needed to get out of there. I needed to go for a walk…clear my head…have a beer, maybe—anything to get my mind off of him.

******

It was after eight p.m. on a weekday evening and people still littered the streets. Couples mostly—something I was depressingly aware I had never been a part of at the ripe old age of 22. They were all dressed up on their way to eat at a nice restaurant or meet friends for a drink at a bar.

I walked in their midst, completely alone in the crowd. I desperately needed something different in my life besides work and church.

Bethany, the friend who had gotten me my job and helped me find my apartment, was always trying to get me to go out. Even when I lived in Boston, she never gave up on trying to set me up with one of her boyfriend’s friends. In Boston, there was definitely no room in my life for socializing. Now that I was out of there and I had plenty of room for it, I had no idea how to go about it.

I turned down one of the main streets downtown and walked past a few bars that looked too “yuppie” or “hip.” I wasn’t in the mood to mingle with the business crowd; besides, I didn’t fit in.

I stopped and looked up at the pink neon sign of a place called After Hours. It looked and sounded like just what I needed. I pushed through the door and came face to face with a tattooed, bald, and muscled up God in a black t-shirt that said “Security” in bold, yellow letters.

He looked me up and down and said, “I’ll need to see your I.D.” I handed it to him and he used a flashlight to scrutinize it. Finally satisfied that although I only looked 18, I was in fact 22, he handed it back and said, “Have fun.”

I waited until my eyes adjusted to the subdued light and looked around. The place wasn’t exactly hopping, and I was happy about that. There was a group of suits sitting on one side on a set of low, brown leather couches. A few couples and groups of women and men were scattered throughout at tables and in front of the bar that glowed with the same pink hue the sign out front had.

With a deep breath, I smoothed down my black skirt and ventured towards the bar. I took a seat on an empty stool and tucked my pleated, A-line skirt underneath my thighs. I reached for a cocktail menu and started reading through it. I was not really a drinker; I had no idea what to order.

The bartender was suddenly hovering over me. I looked up at another large man; this one had on a white t-shirt with a V-neck that showed his chest was as tattooed as his arms and neck. In spite of all the ink, he had kind eyes and wavy brown hair that gave him an innocent look. He was probably a serial killer. I’m a horrible judge of character.

“What’ll it be?”

“Um…something sweet with one of those pretty umbrellas on top,” I said. I realized as soon as I said it how stupid it sounded.

The bartender smiled and said, “Coming right up.” The guy next to me was still laughing when he was gone.

I looked at him and my breath caught in my throat. This one had on a green t-shirt and his arms were completely ink free, but incredibly sexy and muscular. His eyes were as dark green as his shirt and his sandy blond hair had that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that made a girl want to rake her fingers through it. I’d planned on chastising him for laughing at a stranger, but I couldn't find my words.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a smooth voice that I instantly knew I could listen to all day. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“But you did, anyways.”

“I did. I’m sorry.” He laughed again.

“You’re apologizing, but you’re still laughing.”

He looked directly at me and everything inside of me turned to hot liquid. “I’m sorry. You just sounded like you were ordering something from an ice cream truck instead of a bar.”

“I suppose you ordered a scotch neat,” I said, lowering my voice into a mock baritone.

He laughed again. “Almost, only I asked for it on the rocks.” I caught the little slur in his words that time. He’d already had a few.

Suddenly, I was reminded of my father. The bartender sat my pink drink down in front of me; I passed him a twenty and picked the drink up. The hot, drunk guy tried to slide my twenty back to me. “I got it,” he said.

“No, you do not. I can pay for my own drinks, thank you!” I looked at the bartender and said, “Keep the change.” Then I picked up my drink and carried it as far away from the laughing man as I could get. I tucked myself into a booth in the back where I could drink, watch people, and hopefully stay invisible.

The drink was delicious. I have no idea what it was, but it took me about three minutes to suck the entire thing down through a straw. I was about to try and get the waitress’s attention when suddenly I looked up into those jade eyes. He was holding a golden liquid in one hand and a pink one in the other. “It’s an apology drink,” he said.