Free The Darkest Joy by Marata Eros

heat, the sensation melting to my toes, my heart trying to escape my rib cage.
    Somehow I become aware that Evan has come around behind my savior’s shoulder.
    “Hey Brooke, meet Chance . . . Chance Taylor.”

    “Hi . . . Brooke ,” Chance says with a smile.
    I search his face, very aware of his big hands on my waist as he lowers me to the street.
    He’s very tall , I note, swallowing in a suddenly dry throat.
    “Here’s Boss Man,” Evan says, unwrapping a Blow Pop and shoving it into his mouth.
    Of course, I can’t even fake indifference. I stand stupidly, staring up into my savior’s eyes. I blink.
    “Cat got your tongue?” Chance drawls and I flush.
    Shit . . . fuck . He’s going to . . . what?
    “Hi,” I croak.
    His hands leave my waist. I look up into his face as Chance puts out the hand that was just on my body for me to shake.
    The guy who saved my life.
    Who I work for.
    Who’s seen me in my underwear .
    As if in a daze I put my hand in his, his larger one swallowing mine, giving a gentle squeeze.
    A tingle of pure electricity shoots between us as our skin mingles and my eyes widen as his tighten. I can tell he felt it too. But at his touch, the memory of last night crashes into me and I realize that Chance Taylor, my boss , isn’t going to want to mess with a washed-up pianist-turned-orphan with a death wish.
    “That’s the longest handshake in the history of the universe . . . Just sayin’,” Evan comments in the background, his voice droll.
    I snatch my hand away as though it burns.
    Chance’s small smile widens to a grin. “Do you have any gear?” he asks, ignoring the big fat pink elephant romping around between us.
    Last night.
    The chemistry .
    Total awkwardness.
    My cell vibrates in my pocket and I ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away?
    Chance’s eyes dip to my pocket where my cell twitters and shakes. I feel heat rise to my face, his eyes pegged on my hip.What is wrong with me? I need to get a grip here, I’m not sixteen.
    “Yeah, it’s in the back . . .” I stammer as he smirks, turning to the Jeep.
    He jerks the small door open and pushes the seat forward, hauling out all the goodies I got for the job.
    “We start tomorrow,” he says, his back to me, and I watch the muscles in his shoulders roll underneath the thin T-shirt he wears and gulp again.
    I want to close my eyes against the view but I can’t look away; suddenly I’m mesmerized by the ornate tattoos peeking out from under his shirtsleeves, wondering about the story behind them.
    I sigh.
    He carries my gear to a small lean-to office that is one of many shanty-type buildings that line the beach, an elevated and weathered boardwalk running along the front of the shops, their façades similar. As I follow him I glance at the colorful hand-lettered signs, each one pronouncing a different trade. The tin roofs stand alongside one another in a melody of different hues. Their bright colors appear to stand in opposition to the quiet power that lays just beyond the row of small buildings.
    Evan trails behind us, his hands jammed into his pockets, a moody expression riding his face, the stick from the sucker standing at angry attention in his mouth.
    We’re outside the door as my eyes latch onto a wooden sign, the words burned into the wood: Take a Chance with Taylor. And then below in small print it reads: And Catch Some ’But!A larger sign stands above the wood sign, which reads: Deep Sea Charter.
    A bell chimes as Chance passes through with my gear and Evan stays my arm with his hand. I turn, looking up at him.
    He looks down at me. “What the hell,” he mutters and swoops me up into a hug.
    I hug him back. It feels good to be liked. I soak in the act of affection like a flower starved for the sun.
    I know in my head that I should keep people at a distance. I can’t stand the mere suggestion of more loss. But I let him hug me anyway.
    Evan pulls away and whispers, “His bark is worse that his bite.”
    Oh