Head 01 Hot Head (2 page)

a couple rounds on somebody else who might be feeling patriotic. With Italians it meant someone was always accusing you of scoping their girl. Kids giggled and old ladies were always trying to sneak a peek under.

Dante’s mouth got tight as he waited for Griff to beg off.

What does he need to talk about?

For once, Griff wished he’d thrown on jeans instead. He tried to catch Dante’s eye and shake his head.

“That’s some junk in your trunk.” The Indian girl leaned in to squeeze his haunch. She filed every inch of her little dress. “So damn huge, huh? You ful Scot?”

Griff blushed, feeling the pink heat wash over his cheeks and neck.

Her hand was stil there. “Redheads have the roundest butts.”

Dante winked. “Can’t drive a spike with a tack hammer. Griff’s like 245 pounds, solid muscle.”

Griff’s dick shifted under the pleated wool while Dante discussed him like a prize bul. He tried to swalow, but his mouth was the Dust Bowl.

Jesus
.

Griff was terrible at this part and not interested. He was tired and stil keyed up from the almost-fight. For no good reason, he wanted to grab his buddy and

ditch the crowd, but he knew that wasn’t friendly. He was supposed to want to stay. He was supposed to get trashed and bag some babe. Women were on the

town looking for FDNY tonight. Ugh. September 11th was the worst.

Pick a fireman, any fireman.

Griff smiled apologeticaly. “Sorry. We were just heading out for pizza.”

“Nah. Forget it, G.” Dante looked guarded; he shook his head and his life-of-every-party grin appeared a little too fast to be real. “Nah—nah. Let’s stay.

We’l stay. I’m good.”

“C’mon man. I’m wiped.” Griff looked at his best friend, who just shook his head, insisting. For a crazy second he wanted to smile thanks-no-thanks at his

curvy admirer and just hook an arm around Dante’s neck so they could go get a slice. But by now, her friends had crowded around Dante, jostling each other.

Ten seconds more and we could’ve split.

The Indian girl looked between them, stil patting Griff’s round butt.
Pat pat
. Like he was a Saint Bernard on two legs.

“Your ass is so… mmngh-manly!” She grabbed a handful of Griff’s haunch through the kilt, pushing the pleats into his sweaty crack. She licked her lower lip.

Her eyebrows rose. “Ohmygod, you’re totaly commando under there!”

A few yards away, Dante snorted beer out of his nose. The other girls yelped and groaned and wiped themselves with napkins.

Griff scowled into Dante’s handsome face. He tipped his head again toward the door, making a silent suggestion:
Let’s go.

In the middle of the girls, Dante’s smiling eyes were dark-dark-dark as he shook his head and winked. “Nah. I’m good.” He turned to whisper something to

a slender brunette that made her laugh and blush.

Shit
.

Griff turned back and tried to hear what the Indian chick was saying. Something about a concert they’d seen at BAM. He nodded like he was listening. Over

her shoulder he watched Dante spread his arms on the bar behind two of her uptown friends, being charming. His left hand had a bad cut across al four knuckles.

That needs a bandage.

Griff got plenty, even though he wasn’t usualy looking. He’d always been broad across the shoulders and chest. Massive arms, legs like trees. His wide,

broken nose had been a blessing on his baby face. And for al Dante’s ribbing, Griff’s pale skin and cinnamon hair stood out in bars where most of the crowd was Italian and Latino. When your whole neighborhood had a year-round tan, peaches’n’cream was exotic. Ladies loved marking his fair skin, and his fat, rosy meat

didn’t hurt his chances any. Moby Dick-tater, Dante caled it.

This Indian chick was determined and pretty gorgeous, if only he’d been into the idea. “You wanna…?”

No, I don’t. But I should.

But Griff smiled mechanicaly at his curvy admirer. She smiled back. Her lips were stained a ripe brick red that should have seemed sexy. Her thick hair was

almost the same glossy midnight as his best friend’s.

Dante was watching them again, biting his lip and nodding encouragement, eyes glittering black.

Griff’s cock gave a jerk, and he had to hold it against his thigh as she puled him back to the bathrooms.

Remember: this is what you want.

If you were FDNY, September 11th was only good for a meaningless poke and a free pitcher. Rocks off. Friendly bar sex. Griff Muir didn’t have the heart

to fight back.

THE employee bathroom was open and Griff had his key, but when the two of them had shut the door, the whole bar-sex plan went to hel.

She was climbing him like a jungle gym and her mouth felt nice on him, but his heart wasn’t in it. Her long hair was silky, but it felt fake on his skin. He was braced against the sink and kept thinking about Dante’s unreadable eyes.

What is he worried about?

Maybe if he could get this over in a couple minutes, they could stil split and grab a slice. Griff put his face under the raven curtain of her hair and sucked on her smooth brown throat while she fumbled under his kilt for his package. Eventualy he fel stil.

No dice.

She clocked his reluctance and stopped trying, kissed his neck with a mouth that smeled like menthols. Her enormous, exotic eyes lifted a question to his.

He grimaced and shook his head once. “Sorry. This is a hard day for me. You’re beautiful and al, but—”

“You’re FDNY.” A sweet smile on her brown face, she nodded in sympathy.

Griff nodded, feeling like a jerk.

“You were there when the Towers….”

He swalowed, looking at the floor.

“I get it. I got a soft spot for firemen. Like a kink.” She climbed off his lap.

“Sorry… I like your soft spot fine.” He wanted to be nice to her, but he also wanted to be gone. His voice echoed off the grubby tile and mildewed ceiling.

She squeezed him through the kilt. “You’re so hard. Are you sure you don’t want to try?”

Griff sat on the lid of the toilet, knotting his thick fingers together. “No. I should go home.”

“Maybe another night. You’re just so damn cute. That hair like hot coals.” She stroked the side of his head and frowned lightly. “I need to find my girlfriends.”

“Wel… my friend might’ve hooked up with ’em. You need a ride?”

“Nah. I live in the Heights. I’m married.” She flipped open a compact and checked her face.

“Right.”

Griff was starting to miss the point of marriage. It made women into sacks and men into bulies. His mom’s passing had wrecked his dad. And Lord knew

Griff had screwed up his own marriage.

He looked up at her in the dim bathroom. “How did you know I was a firefighter?”

She giggled. “I can spot you boys at fifty paces. With or without rubber pants. I won’t… say anything.” About dropping the bal, she meant. “Hel, I may lie

to my friends and say we did it twice.”

“How was I?” He laughed and blushed til his ears were warm.

She licked her upper lip and flashed those big eyes. “Amazing!”

“Thanks.” Griff realized he’d become a story she’d tel: the ginger giant in a kilt from the 9/11 party. Fair enough—a naughty anecdote seemed like a fine

thing to be.

Wel, that was
mostly
true. He could almost picture her teling the story to her girlfriends over coffee and salads, bragging and exaggerating it a bit more each time til he was seven feet tal and sending her love letters. He wished he could actualy
be
the stud she was going to build him into later, to make her bathroom no-starter seem sexier, cooler, riskier.

Loser.

She smoothed lipstick on and ran a hand through her glossy hair. “Just doing my civic duty.” With a wink and a wiggle to get her skirt straight, she slipped out the door.

Griff stood and turned on the tap. He splashed his face and stared into his bleary gray eyes in the mirror.

Loser. Idiot. Creep.

The guys would be horrified if they’d watched him turn down such hot tail. They’d be even more horrified if they knew why. Under the kilt, he stil had a thick erection pushing at the pleats, but it wasn’t for her. Big problem. If he went out there like this, everyone would see. He squeezed his bloated shaft through the wool and gasped.

He locked the door and dug under the pleats. He fumbled to get hold of his straining cannon, then wrapped a hand around himself.

Two minutes, tops.

Griff sat back down and closed his eyes and stopped fighting his real fantasy.

A FEW minutes later and Griff felt like he’d had breakfast and a shower. Wel… maybe an Egg McMuffin and a squeeze of Purel. Axe waxed, nothing complicated.

By the time he emerged from the toilet, his bals had finaly stopped hugging his groin and shifted downward. He’d wiped up with a paper towel, but he could

feel a swipe of semen drying on his inner thighs.

The Stone Bone had filed up even more. Other firefighters had come in wearing firehouse T-shirts as chick bait, wives far, far away. As one, everyone at the

bar raised their elbows and glasses as the little Cuban barback swiped a grayish towel over the pitted, carved surface:
bigcock
and
Shasta loves Ronnie
and a game of tic-tac-toe.

“343! 343!” At the back of the bar, a group of firemen from Brooklyn Ladders and Engines belowed a toast, beers high. The civilians clapped and raised

glasses around them. Back in 2001, 343 members of the FDNY had given their lives at Ground Zero, and New York was stil grateful. That was good. That felt

right, the city remembering ten years later, even after the Pit had been paved over and the Twin Towers were just another tacky statue for the tourists to take home to Pennsyltucky.

Griff maneuvered his massive frame to the bar. Head and shoulders above the crowd, he jerked his head at the busty bartender, shouting over The Doors.

“You seen Anastagio?”

The bartender shrugged and bugged her eyes at the packed room. Griff chuckled and smiled his thanks. Where had Dante gone? Griff sighed, suddenly

hungry for real. Dante’s pizza idea sounded even better now. His stomach growled in agreement.

Then as if the thought had summoned him, his best friend appeared—black hair sweaty and tangled against his neck, rough hand on Griff’s shoulder.

“There’s my man! Big G!” Dante stood crushed against the bar, popping gum with that pirate smile stil smeared across his face.

“Hey, midget.” Griff wedged closer to him and breathed the sharp tang of Dante’s particular smel: sweet and leathery and musty like a clean locker room.

Griff smiled; he’d know that scent anywhere.

“Hey! Five feet eleven is normal. You’re a mutant.” Dante was peeling the label off his fourth beer, the other three curled in front of him on the bar. He hadn’t shaved in a couple days, and the blue stubble on his chiseled Roman profile made him look like a thug in a cartoon. He took another deep swalow from the bottle, the muscles of his long throat working.

“Let’s get outta here, huh?” Griff jerked his head toward the door.

Dante sounded a little drunk. “You’re having a good time. And we al found company, looks like.” He scanned the party, where the rest of the guys were

splashing in puddles of female fans.

“So let’s rol. I’m starving. And you wanted to talk….” Griff searched Dante’s eyes, trying to read the concern flickering there. He rarely asked anyone for

anything.

Dante snapped his fingers as if he hadn’t been planning to ask already. “Pizza to go. Why don’t we go back to my house and you can crash?” He always

invited and Griff always said no.

Bad idea.

Griff shook his head in apology. “I gotta be up early. I should get home.”

“And my clocks don’t keep time?” Dante made his vilage idiot face, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out sideways.

“I don’t fit in any of your beds. But pizza, yeah. We can talk on the way, if you’re ready….” Griff stood close to him like a bum huddling at a trashcan fire

and tried to catch his charcoal eyes.

Dante glanced at him for a second, then searched the floor, down where Griff’s huge calves bunched above his socks and boots.

Griff flexed them involuntarily.

“Y’sure?” Dante rocked on his feet and squinted sideways at him.

“Yeah, D.” He was already turning toward the front. “What the hel do you need to talk about?”

“Not here.”

“Okay. Okay.” Griff laughed. “I could realy go for Lucali’s. If you don’t mind the line.”

“Uhh. I got zero cash.” Something dark moved in Dante’s eyes.

Griff didn’t hesitate to offer. “I’l buy us a whole pie. C’mon.”

Is it money that’s got him so worried?

Dante shook his head and jerked it toward the door. He was practicaly vibrating. “Here’s the thing….”

Griff stepped back and poked him. “Anastagio, I can spot you. You need a loan til payday? I can cover whatever.”

He could swing it. Aside from bouncing in this dump, Griff also did framing for a local contractor who was always looking for capable hands. Al the guys did

work on the side. The FDNY was famous for paying shit wages to the loony bastards who ran into burning buildings while everyone else was running out.

Dante bumped shoulders and nudged Griff to the exit. The Stone Bone was so packed now that moving meant sliding past everyone’s bodies in ful contact.

Dante was practicaly pressed against his back, abs against Griff’s butt. Thank God he was a couple inches shorter so nothing, uh, lined up.

Someone touched his shoulder, and Griff turned.

“Mr. Muir.” Alek lifted his glass goodbye. Apparently, the slick Russian had made his way back to the mob of firefighters too, looking a little out of place in his suit, gesturing like a car salesman while he chatted with a couple of EMS workers from Queens.

Griff nodded but didn’t stop moving toward the front. He just wanted to get out of this crowd and the noise and find out what was wrong. Coming here