Page 42 of Jump

My heart swells in my chest, and a stupid, goofy grin rolls across my lips, big enough to make me look around and make sure I’m alone. Then picking up my book and setting it aside, I study the one beneath it.

Read this one, the post-it on the cover instructs. It’s not a spy thriller, and it does have kissing in it. But there’s a fantastic plot beneath the love story. You’re off-duty for the next twenty-four hours, right? Give it your best shot, and we can discuss when I get home from work.

It’ll be a late night for me. I have a family coming to meet a dog, but they can’t get there till 7:30. If it’s a successful introduction, I’ll have another hour or so of paperwork and stuff to do after that.

I know we’re not actually, ya know… chatty. And everything is still kinda tense. But books seem to be a safe meeting place for us.

I read yours, now you read mine.

Don’t judge it by the man-chest on the cover.

Ana.

“Ana’s back.” My throat burns impossibly dry and leaves me almost breathless. But I snatch up the book, pluck an apple from the fruit bowl in the corner of the counter, grab my coffee thermos, then I head into the living room and park my ass on the couch.

I don’t sleep, like I probably should after a night shift, and I don’t go to my room, though that’s where I prefer to read. Instead, I eat my snack to keep my blood sugars steady, and chug my coffee to keep me awake. Then I read, page after page, as our heroine meets her hero.

He’s a firefighter. She’s no one’s damsel. He’s protective, but she’s not incapable of taking care of herself. There’s kissing, just like Viv said there would be; more than that, I stumble into straight-up pornographic fucking that makes my cock hard and has a nervous laugh rolling through my chest.

I guess I was expecting something a little… tamer. A brushing hand. A tossed handkerchief. I expected the female lead would be thankful for the firefighter’s attention, and he, too busy to give it.

But that’s not how this story goes. They’re into each other without restraint, so when it’s time to go to bed, there’s no holding back.

The fact I’m tempted to stroke my cock and relieve the tension that this fictional pair ignites in my blood surprises me. But I keep my hand out of my pants and my fingers eagerly flipping pages. Because beneath the lovey-dovey porn, there’s an arson case to solve—and I’ll be damned if the author doesn’t nail every fucking aspect of the investigation.

I see the scenes play out in my mind, and use my own experiences and memories to fill in the gaps. I watch the flames roll above the hero’s head, feel the warmth of the inferno fighting to get below his turnouts. And later, I study the scorch marks on the floor of an old Victorian home: not only in one place, but three.

Three points of origin… that’s no fucking accident.

My phone trills at some point later in the day, but when I check the screen and it’s not Vivian reaching out, I ignore the call and continue reading.

Because this is how I get out of my own head. It’s how I escape purgatory and instead visit somewhere fresh and exciting and new.

And for as long as I read this book, I get to be with Ana again.

Vivian

MURKY WATERS. MUDDY JEANS.

“I’m so happy to meet you.” I make my smile big, and extend my hand when a middle-aged couple stops in Friendly Paws’ pathetic excuse for a reception area.

The man is graying around the edges, with a salt and pepper flair through his otherwise black hair, and smile lines stretching away from his eyes that are both charming and telling.

He’s a kind man, and going by his body, he takes enough care of himself that I have no doubt he’ll be around for a long time yet to take care of sweet Diesel.

His wife is a little rounder. Significantly shorter, even by my standards. Her face is soft, and her eyes are warm. She wears a beanie on her head to battle the cold, and gloves on her hands so her fingers don’t ache.

I drop the man’s hand and move to his wife’s. “I’m Vivian,” I tell them both. “I’m the owner and director of Friendly Paws.”

“You’re the one I spoke to on the phone,” the woman, Phoebe, says. Her voice is gentle and as welcoming as the rest of her. “You’re very pretty in person.”

“Oh!” A furious blush floods my cheeks and makes me feel dumb. But I drop her hand and scramble for a scrap of professionalism. “You’re so kind, thank you. If you follow me into the back, I can officially introduce you to our boy, Diesel.”

I grab my keys and my phone, since it’s dark out, on the verge of snowing, and I’m here all alone, considering Jase left a little over an hour ago.

Phoebe and Grant Davies are nice. But I’m not so foolish as to think everyone is safe and innocent. So I drop one hand into my pocket—holding my phone, with my thumb hovering over the emergency button that Google says will call my emergency contacts with two quick taps—then I pass through the doorway and into the area of the shelter where cages line every wall.

Six feet long, but three feet wide. Concrete floor, and a bed in the back corner so each animal gets that small modicum of comfort and doesn’t have to sleep on the cold floor.

---