Page 19 of Roaring Flames

Ansel drags me into a room dominated by metal shelves. There’s barely room to stand side by side. On one shelf, I see televisions, radios, computers, and iPads. On another are more miscellaneous items—a copier, a printer, and an overhead machine I used to see in school.

Ansel points out items at random to Ted as my confusion grows.

“What…?”

“Trust me?” His earnest eyes ensnare my own.

I don’t have any reason to trust him, yet…

I do.

Slowly, never taking my gaze off his, I nod.

The smile that erupts on his face is radiant. Heat and butterflies vie for dominance in my stomach.

“Come on.” Ansel leads me towards the far wall of the room while Ted remains behind, grabbing the items Ansel indicated.

Ansel first hands me a navy jumpsuit.

“Um…”

“Just put it on, Izzy.” Ansel rolls his eyes like my hesitation is ridiculous and annoying.

I step into the hideous jumpsuit and begin to pull it over my clothes. “Are you arresting me or something? Is that what this is? Because let me tell you…I won’t survive long in prison. I don’t have the face for it.”

“Yes. You caught me. I’m taking you to a secluded location to put you in a jumpsuit and then ship you off to the nearest women’s penitentiary,” he deadpans.

“Oh, he jokes.”

“Oh, she listens,” he retorts, moving to stand in front of me.

He helps me pull up the suit the rest of the way. His fingers graze my collarbone, exacerbating the goose bumps already present there. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold rushes through me.

I just pray Ansel doesn’t notice.

Once the jumpsuit is in place, he steps away and returns with green gloves and a glass shield mask.

“Okay, now this is getting weird,” I tell him as I take the objects and put them on. I feel ridiculous and clumpy. “Is this some kind of kink you’re secretly into?”

“What?” He blushes and quickly lowers his eyes from mine. “No! Of course not!”

I lift my hand to cover the laugh that threatens to bubble up. Ansel seems to understand sarcasm and jokes…unless a sexualinnuendo is involved. Only then will he take my words literally and blush brighter than a nun in a porn shop.

“I’m joking,” I tell him, pushing up on my tiptoes to place my hands on his shoulders. I can practically feel his muscles relax. “But are you going to tell me what this is?”

“Have you never heard of break-room therapy before?” he asks, eyebrows lifting.

“Why does that conjure up images of a bunch of stuffy businessmen and women sitting around a table, eating their lunches and discussing the weather?”

“Not that type of breakroom, pretty girl.” Ansel gently grabs my wrists and removes my hands from his shoulders.

Did he just call me pretty?

Warmth winds its way down my spine.

“Then what…?”

“Come on.” Ansel once again guides me forward. “Let's go watch you break the shit out of stuff.”

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