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Lady Luck (Chapt III)

Lady Luck finally begins to shine on Brett, but how long will it last?
Chapter III

I follow Tammy around the back of the bar and through a heavily scarred wooden door with a prominent “Employees Only” sign. Navigating empty beer cartons and stacks of liquor cases, I can’t help watching her perfect ass as it sways side to side with every step. 

She is wearing faded, ultra-short, cut-off jeans and a snug fitting, sleeveless white top that shows off her well-tanned midriff. Soft, firm buttocks peek teasingly from beneath the frayed cut of her shorts. My favorite part of the female body. The soft, tender flesh where the upper thigh and buttock meet. I’m once again hypnotized by the natural sexuality that emanates from her every movement. My little voice of reason catches me taking too long of a look at her perfect little butt. Just get her insurance info and get the hell out of here. He’s such a cock-blocking little twit.

We turn a corner and Tammy pushes through another well-worn door into a small break room. I guess the decorators and remodelers never made it to this part of the building when Yazooz! moved in. There is a folding table shoved against one wall, surrounded by three unmatched, battered chairs. The opposite wall is occupied by a row of metal lockers that were probably salvaged from a demolished high school. An ancient refrigerator coughs and sputters in the corner opposite the door.

The walls are covered in various posters and flyers ranging from employee hand-washing instructions and customer service points to photos of various rock bands and liquor ads. The table is covered in newspaper ads, old magazines, and enough stains to indicate it has never been introduced to anything resembling a damp sponge.

Damp, stagnant air is tainted with the smell of musty cardboard, stale tobacco smoke and a hint of bourbon. An ancient boom box sits atop a stack of magazines and the faint sound of real music from the local classic rock station leaks into the room.

Tammy opens a locker, retrieves her purse, and plops it on the table. She digs through the pockets until she finds a pack of Marlboro Lights, shakes one from the pack and places it between heavily glossed lips.

“Look, Brett, I’m sorry about last night,” the cigarette bounces between pursed lips as she rummages through her bag for a lighter.

For the first time, I’m a little turned off. The bouncing cigarette conjures images of Tammy standing on a trailer park porch with curlers in her hair, yelling at her kids to feed the damned dogs.

“Don’t be. I’m over it. I just want my Jeep fixed,” I try to sound business-like.

“Oh, that’s what I meant,” Tammy finds the lighter and takes a deep first drag before continuing, “I’m sorry about your car. I’m not sorry about the rest.”

She shoots me a sly grin before leaning her head back and blowing blue smoke upward in a half-hearted attempt to keep from blowing it in my face.

“So you’re not sorry about giving me a bullshit number and making me feel like a jack-ass? Sweet. Glad to know you have no remorse.”

“No. That’s not what I meant. I meant that I wasn’t sorry that we, well, you know…hooked up. You’re a sweet guy and I’m really sorry about your car but I was scared and didn’t know what to do because I can’t afford for my insurance to go up again,” Tammy has turned on the ‘poor, pitiful bartender’ routine. Kinda pisses me off.

“That’s not my problem. I need my Jeep fixed. So, you can either turn it in to your insurance company, or give me the money to fix it. I don’t care which,” I’m kind of impressed with my ability to stand firm. She is so damned cute, even with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a blue haze around her head.

Tammy moves closer, her bright blue eyes twinkling mischievously, “Are you sure there’s not some other way we can work this out?”

Her hand finds my crotch and begins to gently stroke my cock, which immediately stiffens in response to her attention. Dear Lady Luck, Not exactly what I had hoped for, but it’ll do. Thanks, Brett.

My little voice of reason is freaking out. This isn’t going to get your Jeep fixed. This is only going to end badly. She’s obviously a two-faced slut. Don’t trust her. Just get her info. Please don’t fall for this bullshit!!

Shut up, dickhead. I’ve got this.

“And how, exactly, do you propose we work it out?” As if it isn’t obvious.

Crushing the cigarette out in an old, plastic ashtray, Tammy turns and begins to grind her ass into my crotch, “Anything you want. Any time. Just call me,” she coos seductively.

My cock is throbbing. The more I learn about this girl, the less I like her. Strangely, though, the more I want to fuck her. I reach around and cup her firm breast, the nipple hard against my palm. With the other hand I grasp her hip and grind the crease of her ass harder against my aching erection in long, slow strokes. Effectively masturbating with her.

“Yeah?” I try to sound skeptical, “The last time I called you it didn’t work out so well. How do I know this isn’t just more of your bullshit?”

Tammy turns and smiles sheepishly, “I know, but I’ll make that up to you right now.”

She breaks away from my grip and slowly walks to the door. Unnecessarily bending at the waist, she leans down to lock the door. She throws a sexy smile over her shoulder and holds her position for a long moment, gently swaying from side to side, causing her ass to roll beneath the cut-offs.

With the door safely locked, and my cock hard enough to shatter, Tammy turns and walks slowly back to me. Exaggerating the sway in her hips and seductively biting her lower lip, she is a rock video vixen come to life. The lyrics to Cherry Pie roll through my head as my eyes stroll along her smooth, toned legs and up to her flat, tanned stomach. Pert breasts with erect nipples straining against the cotton in her top detain my eyes for a long moment before finally moving on to her wicked-sly smile.

This is a horrible idea. Voice of reason is right, it can only end badly. I should really listen to my little voice of reason and stop this nonsense. Just get her info and go, that’s what I should do. Don’t get excited, voice of reason. Just because I know I should listen to you doesn’t mean I’m gonna. Be a pal and go play in the other room for a little while. I’m about to do something we’re not gonna be proud of.

Cool, blue eyes trap my gaze as she slowly kneels before me. Her hands work the button and zipper of my jeans and she rolls them to the floor, allowing my engorged cock to spring free.

Maintaining eye contact, Tammy smiles sweetly, parts her pouty lips, and allows my cock to slide down her throat in one long, fluid motion. Sensation overwhelms me as her warm, velvety tongue caresses the sensitive, underside of my shaft while her throat contracts around the swollen head. My thighs tremble and for a moment I’m afraid I might fall.

I steady myself by leaning against the wall, but with each twist of her tongue my legs threaten to bail on me. I’m forced to pull my cock from her mouth just long enough to remove my jeans from around my ankles. I throw them on the table before collapsing into one of the folding chairs. Naked from the waist down, except for my boots, the cold metal chair sends a shiver up my spine.

As Tammy situates herself in front of me, I fish my phone from the pocket of my jeans and smile wickedly at her, “I wanna record you.”

She returns a delighted smile, “Anything you want.”

I bring up the camera on the phone and tap the record button. Tammy smiles into the camera and slowly begins to work her tongue along the soft, spongy flesh of my swollen cock. I can’t help wondering if she can taste all that’s left of my short-lived relationship with Dr. Wendy. Oh well, not my problem.

The video quality is going to be horrible. I can barely hold the damned camera still as her sweet mouth engulfs me once again. Her head bobs slowly up and down in rhythmic cycles. She is either truly enjoying herself or wasting the talents of an Oscar-caliber actress behind the bar of a shitty West Texas nightclub.

Tingling waves of pleasure wash up and down my body in time with Tammy’s long, slow strokes. Her mouth is warm and wet. Her tongue firm but gentle. Liquid blue eyes twinkle happily as she slides up and down my shaft with confident, well-practiced technique.

Soon I feel the warm glow of orgasm building deep in my stomach. Thick, sticky lube is oozing from the tip of my cock. Tammy graciously makes a show for the camera of stroking my cock until the clear, syrupy liquid begins to trickle down my shaft. She catches the glistening bead with her tongue, sensuously licking her way back to the pulsing head. In agonizing slow motion, using my cock like a lip gloss applicator, she coats her full lips with a glistening, salty glaze. She then smiles happily into the camera before licking them clean and swallowing the slippery mess.

My thighs begin to tremble and sensing my impending orgasm, Tammy slides my cock to the back of her throat and begins to slowly stroke the shaft with her hand. Her sweet, soft mouth milking my oozing nectar down her throat. Wanting blue eyes lock with mine. Her tongue works the sensitive underside of my cock, coaxing the orgasm to fill her mouth with warm, liquid passion.

Heat and electricity overwhelm me as my cock bucks inside her mouth and spurts the first of several long, sticky ropes of salty cum. I feel her throat desperately clench and relax, clench and relax, as she swallows frantically in an effort to keep up with the flow of creamy spunk coating her tongue and sliding down her throat. A small trickle escapes the corner of her mouth and runs down her chin and neck as she relentlessly strokes every drop from my flexing manhood.

As the orgasm subsides, Tammy continues to gently massage my fading erection with her warm, velvety lips. She looks into the camera seductively as she caresses the stiffness out of my cock with her soft tongue.

After a final shudder of ecstasy courses through me, Tammy pulls my cock from her mouth and absently strokes it against her cheek. Nuzzling my spent cock, she looks into the camera, licks her puffy lips, then swallows hard and smiles sweetly before saying, “Thank you.”

I turn the camera off and set it on the table. Tammy stands and moves to a mirror hanging by the fridge to tidy up as I work to sort out my tangled jeans and put them back on.

While Tammy is distracted with her own reflection, I slide her purse over and retrieve her wallet. Inside I find her license and insurance card tucked in a side pocket.

“What are you doing?” Tammy turns and eyes me suspiciously.

I hold the I.D. and insurance card up for her to see, “Insurance, Doll.”

“I thought we had a deal?” Tammy flushes with hesitant anger.

“I don’t remember agreeing to anything, Sweetheart.”

“You can’t just take my license. That’s illegal.”

“You’re probably right. Call a cop,” I shoot back indifferently as I start toward the door, “be sure and tell them we had a deal and you blew me instead of fixing my Jeep. They’ll love that.”

“You can forget calling me,” Tammy huffs, “fucking asshole.”

“Won’t have to, Sugar. You’ll call me. If I don’t hear from you or your insurance company by tomorrow afternoon, I’m sure your manager would love to see the video of what you snack on in his break room,” I slide an evil smile her way and wave my phone for dramatic effect.

“You wouldn’t,” her tone suggests she is trying, unsuccessfully, to convince herself that I won’t show the video to Mr. No-fun-will-be-tolerated.

“Don’t think so? Hell, let’s go find him now and save ourselves some time,” I turn the knob and step into the cluttered warehouse.

“I don’t even have your number,” Tammy calls out in defeated desperation.

“I’ll leave it at the bar,” I reply indifferently.

“Can’t we talk about this?” Her eyes are pooling slightly.

Phony charm engaged, I shake my head and reply through a sarcastic smile, “Gotta go, Babe. Gotta work in the morning. Great to see ya again, been fun. If I haven’t heard from you by the time I get off work, I’ll be back up here for a private movie premiere.”

“I’ll call the insurance company first thing in the morning,” Tammy’s voice breaks slightly and I am purposefully out of earshot before tears get the chance to dissolve my resolve.


“Keep pushing along the wall, Rook,” my shout is muffled by the facepiece of my SCOTT airpack.

Thick smoke is banked all the way to the floor and I can feel intense heat building above us as we crawl along the wall searching for the bedroom that’s on fire. It’s taking too long. Conditions are deteriorating quickly and my internal clock is on the verge of sounding the ‘get the hell out’ alarm. The heat, smoke conditions, and even the creaking, crackling sounds above us tell me that we are dangerously close to everything reaching its ignition temperature and lighting off at the same time. We call it flashover. Bad news. Like, cancel Christmas because you’re dead bad news. Dear Lady Luck, No bullshit…really need ya right now Babe.

My radio squawks and the canned voice of the Battalion Chief comes through the mike at my ear, “Engine Thirteen Alpha, this is Command. Have you guys made it to the fire room yet?”

“Command, this is Thirteen Alpha. Negative Chief. Nearly there,” My reply is labored from the exertion of crawling blindly through the heat.

I have no idea how far we are from the fire. Thick black smoke obscures all light and I can’t see six inches. I only know the rookie is still in front of me because I have a death grip on his right boot. We crawl over and around furniture and scattered household items while maintaining contact with the wall and our hoseline. Frankie is at the door feeding hose.

“Thirteen Alpha, this is Command. The room just self-vented and we have heavy smoke and fire from the window. Smoke is pushing from the eaves too, fire possibly extended to the attic.”

No shit, Chief. I thought the Snap, Crackle, and Pop I’m hearing above me was the Rice Crispies boys bringin’ us breakfast.

“Thirteen Alpha clear. Possible attic involvement.”

We turn left into a hallway and the going gets easier except for the damned hose hanging up periodically. About fifteen feet down the hallway, the rookie stops and feels along the wall for something. I feel heat tingling in my ears through my Nomex hood. We’re close. The rookie leans close and shouts through his mask so I can hear.

“I got a door, El-Tee. Think it might be the bedroom. I can feel the heat through my glove.”

“Okay,” I shout back, “this is the real deal, Rook. Stay low and open the door. It’s gonna roll out over us so be ready with the nozzle and hit it high. This ain’t no training burn so pour the water to it ‘til it blacks down. Don’t quit ‘til I tell ya.”

I’m a little nervous about this one because it’s the rookie’s first real fire and the conditions are right for everything to go to hell in a hurry. Not a good time for amateur hour.

The rookie pops the door and a bright orange glow silhouettes him as liquid fingers of fire roll out over our heads. It’s magnificently beautiful, deadly beautiful. Heat doubles, then doubles again. I hear the welcome swoosh of the nozzle opening and 250 gpm hitting the ceiling and converting to steam. The glow immediately flickers and sputters into nonexistence as steam expands throughout the room and chokes life from the dragon. The world turns black once again. Heat from the upper levels of the room descends and I feel the skin on my neck, shoulders and upper back tingle from steam burns. Gonna be a nice strawberry. Kinda feels like a bad sunburn.

“Command, this is Thirteen Alpha,” my voice is strained from exertion and heat, “we’ve got it blacked out. Still heavy smoke and high heat conditions inside. What are the conditions on the outside?”

“Thirteen Alpha, Command. Smoke and steam pushing from the window. No flame. Looks like it’s going our way. Need to check the attic as soon as possible.”

“Thirteen Alpha clear. Send me a crew in here with pike poles to start pulling ceiling. Also need a truck crew to get a primary search on the rest of the house.”

“Command clear. Engine Six will assist you with attic access. Ladder Seven will be the search team. You’ll be Interior Division Leader.”

“Thirteen Alpha clear. Interior Leader.”

I direct the rookie to sweep the stream back and forth across the still burning contents of the room. Soon the heat dissipates to a level that allows us to stand. Most of the smoke and steam are clearing through the window when the guys from Engine Six arrive with pike poles and start pulling ceilings.

I pull the lieutenant from Engine Six close and shout into his ear, competing with the rumbling racket of sheetrock breaking and high pressure water flowing, “We’re gonna go take a breather and get our air bottles changed out. You’ll be Interior Leader.”

Six Alpha nods agreement and I round up the rookie and head for the door, “Command, Thirteen Alpha, we are exiting the structure for bottle change and rehab. Six Alpha will be Interior Leader.”

“Command clear.”

As we exit the front door of the house, I pull my mask off and breathe deeply to enjoy the cool, fresh air outside. My eyes scan the street looking for my driver, Alan Drifter. At 6’2” and 235 pounds, he’s pretty easy to pick out of the crowd. I spot him standing at the front of our Engine with fresh air cylinders ready.

“Hey Rook, change your bottle, then get outta that bunker coat. Find some shade and cool off,” I instruct our newly baptized rookie, “but don’t wander off too far. We’ll probably be going back in.”

“Hot one?” Alan smiles knowingly as I shake out of my bunker coat and feel the cool breeze hit my sweat-soaked uniform shirt.

“Hottest in a while. Close to flashover. Too close,” I roll my bunker pants down to let the cool air circulate against my soaking wet duty pants.

“Ya look like you could use a chew, El-Tee,” he knows the real reason I searched him out and passes a can of Copenhagen my way.

“Thanks, Tex,” nobody calls him Alan. I’m not sure where he got the name ‘Tex’, but it was already in place when we went through the academy together nine years ago. We’ve been close friends ever since but for some reason the subject has never come up. I guess I’ve always assumed it was just his slow, West Texas drawl, and affinity for cowboy boots and southern rock that earned him the moniker.

I take the can and tuck a generous pinch of bitter, salty tobacco into my lower lip. I quit dipping six years ago, but allow myself the pleasure of a nicotine rush after a good fire.

“How’d the rookie do?” Tex beams a wide grin, knowing I was probably tweaked to the max going into an intense situation with an unknown factor at the nozzle.

“He did good, didn’t hesitate. I think he’s gonna be alright. Still missed Chyla, though. Didn’t have to worry about her.”

Tex grins and looks over his shoulder to make sure no one is around, “Okay, so finish tellin’ me about the doctor lady.”

Back at the station, I had been in the middle of running down the Tammy and Dr. Wendy stories when we got the tone for this fire. Tex loves to bask in my torment, especially when it comes to matters involving women. A category of my life I seem to have an uncanny knack for fucking up.

I give him the microwave version of my adventures with Dr. Wendy and the backroom blowjob at Yazooz!! Tex listens intently, the whole time grinning and shaking his head in disbelief. When I’m finished, his blue-grey eyes literally sparkle. He regards me with the same expression a frustrated parent might wear with an incorrigible child.

“I love ya, Brother, but you sure can be a dumb-ass,” he’s chuckling at me.

“What? Why am I a dumb-ass?”

“Well, first, you didn’t have to go through all that shit just to get your Jeep fixed. Just call your insurance company, give ‘em her license plate number and they’ll deal with her insurance company. Let them fight it out. That’s what you pay ‘em for, dumb-ass.”

Okay. Good point. I guess I should add that, although he hides it well with the slow drawl and crude sense of humor, Tex is one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Most people wouldn’t be able to picture him reading a book and would be completely astonished to learn that he actually writes them. For fun. He’s an ironic dude.

Tex is unbelievably quick-witted, in a smart-assed kind of way, and able to think on his feet faster than anyone I’ve ever been around. His West Texas twang is also the voice I hear when my little voice of reason is fucking with me. They’re both assholes. And they’re both, almost without fail, right about everything. This only serves to make them that much more annoying.

“Second,” Tex continues his lecture, “I can’t believe you threw Doctor Hot Twat’s number away. If you didn’t want it, I woulda gladly been her Monday or Thursday. No love for your’ ol’ buddy Tex? After all I’ve done for you?…Dumb-ass!!”

“Dude, she’s married,” I know my reasoning will fall on the wrong side of Tex-logic.

“I don’t give a fuck. I don’t know her husband. Besides, it ain’t like she’s gonna stop fuckin’ around just because you ain’t the one doin’ it. I swear, Brett, sometimes I just don’t know about you,” he shoots me an evil grin to soften the remark, “Dumb-ass.”

Tex-logic. It makes no sense at all to the rest of the world, but no one can come up with a solid argument to it either. Pisses me off.

“Whatever. I gotta…”

The radio squawks and interrupts my thought, “Thirteen Alpha, this is Command.”

“You’re up Honcho,” Tex grins and turns to go check his pump panel.

“Thirteen Alpha, go ahead,” I bark back into the mike.

“Come to the Command Post.”

“Ten-four,” I wonder what I’m in trouble for now.

“Hey,” I call to Tex as I’m walking to the Chief’s Wagon, “get Frankie and the Rook to start breaking down these pre-connects and y’all get the rig buttoned up and ready for the next one.”

Tex tosses me a mock, left-handed salute before I turn to make the short walk. I hear him barking at the other crew members as I make my way to the Chevy Suburban occupied by Battalion Chief Castillo and his assistant, Captain I-can’t-remember-his-name because he is from across town, covering for our normal CA.

Chief Castillo rolls down his window as I approach, “You got any idea on cause for this one yet?”

“Nah, Chief. It’s beaucoup fucked up in there. Prolly gonna have to get the FMO (Fire Marshall’s Office) out here on this one.”

Chief Castillo frantically slashes one hand across his throat in a shut-the-hell-up gesture while pointing to the onboard camera with the other.

“Watch your French, Lieutenant, camera’s running,” he gives me a pleading glare.

“Oh, sorry Chief. It’s really fucked up in there and I’m not comfortable giving a for-sure cause,” I shoot him a sly wink.

Chief Castillo rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but can’t help smiling. He covers the camera mike with his thumb and, in mostly feigned exasperation, “Okay smart-ass, get your crew together and your equipment stowed and get back in service. Have your sorry asses outta here in five.” He uncovers the mike.

“Will do, Chief,” I reach over and tap the windshield (right in front of the camera lens) twice with a middle finger salute. I’ll probably get a proper, down-town-with-the-big-chiefs ass chewing for that one.

Chief Castillo forgets to cover the mike this time, “Dammit Delaney!! You know this footage can wind up in court,” under his breath he adds, “ya hard-headed, mick son-of-a-bitch.”

I shoot him a wide grin and a wink, “Aw, c’mon Chief, it’ll give the boys down at Division a chance to use all that fancy editing equipment they bought instead of givin’ us a raise.”

Chief Castillo turns away and rolls his window up to signify the end of our conversation. Walking back to the rig, I fish my phone out of my pocket and check for messages. One text and one voicemail. Both from unfamiliar numbers.

Tex, Frankie, and the rookie are sitting on the tailboard of the engine, waiting for instruction. Still absorbed in my phone, I absently make a circular, lassoing motion above my head to signal that we are leaving. They pop up and quickly circle the rig to close compartments and stow gear before someone changes their mind. It’s a rare treat to get released before having to help the other crews tear out sheetrock, drag smoldering furniture out of the house, roll up five inch supply hose, and generally do all of the things that are the least fun parts of the job.

Climbing into the cab I shove my coat over the console and situate myself in the cramped, equipment-packed officer’s seat. I push play for the voicemail and hold the phone to my ear:

Hey Brett, this is Tammy. I called the insurance company this morning and they are supposed to be getting in touch with you to get your insurance information. I’m really sorry. Please call me back at this number when you get a chance.

Weird. Really didn’t expect her to wanna talk to me again. Ever. I thumb the text messages icon and find a message from Brianna:

Hi Brett. Just got your e-mail and wanted to let you know I’m good with meeting anytime. Just let me know when. I work until around four most weekdays, but I can do lunch between 11:30 and 1:00. So I’ll leave it up to you. Just text me at this number. Can’t wait to hear from you!! Oh, this is Brianna.

Tex puts the engine in gear and eases around the ladder truck parked in front of us. While he maneuvers through scattered emergency vehicles, I quickly scan my mental appointment book and confirm that I don’t have shit to do tomorrow. Should I go with safe and ask her to lunch or shoot for dinner and hope it leads to breakfast? Dumb question:

Hey Brianna. Really nice to hear from you!! I’m at work tonight (Friday), but I’m off all day tomorrow. I’m thinking dinner at around 8:00? I’ll let you pick the place, I’m not picky. If that doesn’t work for you, I can do dinner Sunday. Looking forward to meeting you. Brett.

Send. I put my headset on and click the radio mike, “Dispatch, Engine Thirteen is clear of 49 th Street, back in service.”

My phone vibrates. Didn’t expect such a quick response, but the text is from Brianna:

Rudy’s on University at 8:00 tomorrow?

I send a quick reply to confirm the date. Rudy’s huh? Good food, cold beer, and best of all, it’s cheap. Thank you, Lady Luck!

Even my little voice of reason is grudgingly nodding approval. He wants to find something wrong with Brianna, but he can’t. Such a whiny, douchebag of a poor sport when he’s wrong. This is gonna be good. I can feel it.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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