Free Damsel in Distress by Liz Stafford

Chapter Two
     
    Shawn was in love. Pure and simple. The dark-haired woman pacing before the row of aquariums would be his future wife. Something was wrong though. Most people buying aquariums looked happy, expectant, like they couldn’t wait to begin picking out their new finned friends. This woman was clearly sad; there were red circles around her ebony eyes. He straightened his nametag, ran a hand through his too-long hair, and approached.
    “Hi, could I help you pick out an aquarium?”
    She whirled around. The red ribbon holding back her shoulder-length hair whacked him in the cheek. “Oh. Hi. I need an aquarium fast. Saltwater.”
    A pair of big bubbly tears appeared in the corners of her eyes as she detailed a break-in that occurred while she was out of her apartment. Shopping, she said—not for clothes, she was quick to explain—for groceries. When she returned home, the place was a shambles, and her precious fish were flip-flopping on the floor.
    Shawn helped her pick out a new twenty-five-gallon tank, then had what he considered a brilliant idea. It would not only get her new tank set up and running, but hopefully would get him in good with his future wife—the mother of his someday children. He would move the pet shop fish out of one of the tanks, bag up the already-conditioned water and haul it to her house. That way her damsel fish would be saved the stress of newly treated water.
    An hour later, they stood in her living room before the new tank. Nine damsel fish: two goldens, three yellow tails, and four electric blues, swam cautiously in the new surroundings. Three neons had died, Carmen said. She opened a battered cigar box and showed him the tiny carcasses. Tomorrow they would get a burial in the backyard.
    It wasn’t easy, but Shawn managed not to laugh. Nor did he tell her that every fish that died in the pet shop found its way into the sewer pipe.
    Shawn stayed to help clean up the mess. He used a whole roll of paper towels soaking up the salt water from the carpet. Then he ran the vacuum to pick up as much glass as possible. Carmen stood to the side dabbing a tissue to her eyes as she alternated her gaze from the new tank to the cigar box on the end of the kitchen counter.
    This time Shawn couldn’t hold in the chuckle. They were just fish, easily replaced if one died. She caught him laughing and had to run for a fresh tissue. He felt bad for laughing. At least she had emotions, cared about living things. He’d once been on a date and had to slam on the brakes because a fox had come into the road. It stood there, blinded by the headlights. His date had shouted, “Hit it, hit it!” He never took her out again.
    As a thankful Carmen was leading him to the door, it happened: he cupped her chin, pulled her close and kissed her directly on the lips. Usually, his early dates got kissed only on the corner of the lips. Carmen’s were as soft as he expected. Part of him expected her to haul off and clobber him for being so forward. When her arms did shoot up, he braced himself for the blows, but they folded around his shoulders. She leaned into him, her momentum thumped his ass and shoulder blades into the wall, her tongue poked between his lips. His cock, which had been at half-mast all afternoon, went to grand slam-proportions.
    Carmen’s right hand dropped from his shoulder, traced a hair-raising path down his left arm and onto his ribcage, then lower. For a second it rested on his hip. Then, with very little fumbling, it found its way under the elastic waistband of the dumb-ass scrubs the store made the clerks wear. Till this moment he’d hated the outfit, thought it made him look like a female nurse’s aide. Right now, he was more than pleased because the elastic waist was sliding down, down. It stopped just below his butt in the back, hung up on his cock in front. But Shawn barely noticed the pressure because Carmen’s hand pushed between him and the wall, clamped on his left butt cheek and