Dylan tossed the phone on the bed and sprinted to the bathroom, shower on and clothes off in seconds. If he’d learned nothing else in a decade or so of firefighting, it was how to take a one-minute shower.
He looked down as the water soaked him. Damn it. Hard as rock and pointing up with an accusing eye.
Make that a two minute shower. If he showed up at work with a boner like this he might as well paint it neon green and tie a red ribbon on it.
The second he touched himself his mind flashed—for the first time, ever—not to Jill, but to the mysterious woman in his dream last night.
Blond, wavy hair and creamy skin. That’s all he remembered. The warm, enveloping love of her touch, the air tinged with compassion and passion, too. With excitement and comfort and—everything.
But not Jill.
A few strokes and he was close, remembering how he’d nuzzled the woman’s neck, how Mike’s hand appeared across her generous ass, palms memorizing the planes of this new, unexplored, lush land.
Her breath had come out in little moans that—
And he was done.
Spent. Like a thirteen-year-old boy with a lingerie catalog.
The rest of the shower went quickly, but his skin warmed at the thought of the dream woman. Something all-pervasive invaded his thoughts, his flesh, his sense of self.
As he toweled off, he gave his mirror reflection a half smile. Maybe she was a manifestation of hope. If he wasn’t dreaming about Jill, finally, with every waking second he could spare, then perhaps the grief counselors at the oncology ward of the hospital had been right.
You really do move on. Eventually. And you can find love again, too.
He threw on an old Star Wars t-shirt and jeans, stuffing his feet in brown loafers, hair still wet as he marched into the kitchen, grabbed a bottled water and an apple, and snaked his keys off the hook next to the door.
“Where are you going?” Mike asked, incredulous, as Dylan snapped the front door open with ruthless efficiency.
“Work.” He had to get out, get away, go do something with people who didn’t look at him with the kind of pain Mike carried in his eyes nonstop. Rescuing people from fires, working on car accident victims, helping old ladies with chest pain was better than this.
God, that made him feel like a jackass.
But it was true.
*
“We gotta do something, man. We’re not cut out to live the rest of our lives as monks,” Dylan said, opening up his laptop and plunking down on the couch next to Mike. Dinner had been reheated beef stew Mike had made yesterday. They both had cracked open beers -- and they’d need them for what Dylan had planned.
One of the finer points of getting a ton of money this year had been upgrading from a laptop that was heavier than a semi-truck’s wheel. The sleek, slim computer made him feel guilty. The money came from Jill. From her death. From her secret.
But damn if it didn’t make life a lot easier.
“I’m perfectly happy living like a monk,” Mike said, eyes glued to the television. Dylan looked at the screen. Some nature bullshit show. How much did they really need to learn about the mating habits of some Australian fish?
They the had mating habits of the North American Male Human to worry about.
“We need to do something, Mike. Anything. I’ve gone out on a few dates, at least.”
“Yeah. I know. You’re ready and I’m not. Now be quiet so I can concentrate.”
Dylan peered at the television. “Dude, they’re showing footage of a fish’s erection. If that’s your idea of porn these days, you are way more desperate than I am. At least I look at human genitals.”
Mike snorted and clicked the television off. He turned to Dylan. The guy was scruffy. Three days of growth on his face, the same t-shirt Dylan saw him wearing...three days ago, and a stinky funk that made him wonder.
“Have you gone running in those clothes?” he asked, afraid of the answer. He really hoped that crusty look to the shorts was from sweat.
“Sure,” Mike said with a shrug. “Why?”
“You’ve gone running and then you didn’t bother to shower?”
“No time.” Mike’s answers were turning into two word utterances. Uh oh. Dylan knew what that meant.
“No time?” Dylan made a derisive noise as he focused his attention on the laptop, navigating to the online dating site he’d picked out for both of them. “You’re a ski instructor. It’s July. If there’s ever time to take a shower, now is it.”
