Kiss

By E. R. Henderson

As a teenager Vincent Lyons was scarred over ninety nine per cent of his body by a malicious act of random cruelty. Now, two decades later, he is the reluctant recipient of accolades for his heroic efforts to save lives, with a touch of jealousy-driven animosity from a misguided lawyer. When Vincent’s life long friend and physician, Dr. Samuel Wilson, dies, Vincent is stunned by Samuel’s recommendation that he continue to have his medical needs served by Dr. Stella Winters, a beautiful and enthusiastic young physician with expertise in stem cell therapy. For the first time in over twenty years Vincent allows himself to ‘feel’, albeit with trepidation, and he and Stella embark on a highly experimental stem cell treatment for his burns, and a parallel friendship that matures into true love. While the stem cell treatment holds great promise, it also forces Vincent to make the most difficult decision of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312882362

Book preview

Kiss

KISS

E. R. Henderson

***

[e-mail]

www.erichenderson.com

***

Copyright © 2014 by Eric Henderson and Henderbooks

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2014

ISBN: 978-1-312-88236-2

Henderbooks

Ankeny, Iowa 50021

www.erichenderson.com

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Chapter 1

Fire (2009)

It spit and raged like an angry dragon. Vincent could tell the hotspots from the color. Orange and yellow, hot but not over the top, that was reserved for the whites and, curiously, blues. While the clamor around him intensified, he just stared at the burning house. Out of the corner of his good eye he could see the younger firefighters glancing at him, doing what they were trained to do and wondering why the Captain always just stared.

But they knew what was coming.

There. Second story, upper left window, a movement. He was afraid of that. The adults had been rescued but the woman was hysterical and it was not clear if, and how many, children were still in the house. In three minutes they would be dead, in five, reduced to black, burnt human toast.

He stared, the fire raged, his crew looked on and scurried about doing what he had taught them to do.

Then he acted.

Rocketing forward straight through the front door that had morphed into the mouth of hell. Tendrils of death reaching out to him, grasping and teasing as he bounded up the stairs three at a time. He was holding his breath the entire time. No oxygen mask, no elaborate gear, just the standard facemask and suit.

He didn’t need it. If he could not get in and out in sixty seconds, the length of time he could keep from breathing, it didn’t matter anyway.

Visualizing the three dimensional arrangement of the house, typical architecture that he had seen hundreds of times in hundreds of fires, he blasted through the closed door of the kid’s room, scooped up two children, a girl and a boy probably five and seven years old, and turned to the door. Too late, it was engulfed. He could get through it, but not the kids. They would be burned, third degree. Leaving scars that last a lifetime.

In less than a second he was hurtling toward the window, shielding their faces with his arms and hands as he blasted through the glass and fell to the front lawn.

It was a risk; the alternative was two small coffins.

He hit the ground hard, and rolled, the kids and their flaming pajamas held to his chest to protect them and snuff out the flames. After the second roll he stopped, lifted himself off the two terrified children, and assessed the situation.

No more fire, they were alive. No apparent broken bones, although that would be evaluated later as the paramedics, now rushing over in disbelief at what they had just seen, began to work on the kids. One of them, a young man new to the job, began to explore Vincent for signs of damage and received a powerful shove with the words, I’m fine, focus on the kids.

Vincent walked away, not looking back. The usual stares and even some applause were lost on him as he moved out of his local mind and into his detached mind.

This is where he lived, where he had to live.

A reporter broke away from the other firefighters despite their efforts to restrain her and rushed to him.

Captain Lyons, what the hell just happened?  That was incredible, how did you do that?  Please, Captain Lyons, give me just a minute.

He turned, still wearing his protective mask and clothes, stared at her for a moment, and lifted his headgear.

She gasped, gagged, turned and began to retch.

I have a special talent.

Vincent turned and walked back to his private car, the one he took to all fires, by himself. Always by himself.

He was not offended by the reporter’s response to his appearance. He had seen it a thousand times and would a thousand more. Over the years he had learned to live with it, removed the mirrors in his house, been to therapy, worthless as it was, and finally found a tiny island of peace in his meditative and eastern art practices.

A small island, but after so many years of nothing, it was relative paradise.

***

Chapter 2

Love (1975)

The kid was harmless, sixteen years old and constantly harboring a crush on one girl or another. The most recent romantic focus was Sandra Dellingware. She was spectacular, tight blue jeans and a peasant blouse. She was just turning sixteen and against all the odds, she had agreed to go to the movies with Vincent.

She had no idea that it had taken him a month to work up the courage to ask her. His armpits were like Niagara Falls on the day he approached her on the lawn at Hollywood High School.

‘Scuse me, he said.

She turned, squinting in the sun that was just over his left shoulder.

Oh hi Vin, what’s up?

Um, do you have something to do tonight?

Sandra smiled and Vincent thought she could see his shirt moving from his heart beating so heard beneath.

No Vin, not really, why, what are you doing?

She opened the door!  He mentally grabbed himself by the balls and said, "I’m going to see ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’. I have two tickets if you want to go …

She answered instantly, Well I have to check with my Dad, but since it’s Friday I am pretty sure I can go. What time is the movie?

It took every ounce of control to keep himself from screaming, his voice was quavering as he said, Starts at seven, I can pick you up at six thirty and get you back right after the movie, maybe nine thirty?

Sure, and we don’t have to rush home, maybe grab some ice cream or something.

Yeah, that would be fantastic, great, great. Let me know what your Dad says. Here’s my number.

He grabbed a piece of paper from his backpack and started writing his number.

No problem, I already have your number.

He smiled, he was in heaven. Her lips were red, her eyes were blue, and she had his number. It could not get any better than this.

OK, see you later, and thanks.

Sure Vin, see ya.

She turned back to her friends and they began talking as he floated away. He thought he caught his name and the words, … total stud, but he must have been mistaken. He wasn’t the school football star or anything. Just a sixteen-year-old average boy from the city who was about to have his first date with a beautiful girl.

Sean Casey walked up to him and abruptly snapped him back to reality.

Jesus dude, is that a cucumber in your pocket or are you just a freakin’ faggot?

Vincent was momentarily stunned, he had been so enamored with the romance of the prospective date that he had ignored the more prurient component that was on clear display through is tight jeans and boxer shorts.

Naw, man, I was just thinking about your mother and popped a giant boner.

It was not the best come back line, but apparently it was sufficient because Sean, one of fourteen kids from and Irish Catholic family, immediately tried to punch Vincent in the head. Vincent, blessed with superior reactions and natural athleticism, easily evaded the big right hook, stepped one foot behind Sean and pushed his friend and rival hard. Sean went sprawling backwards, flailing his arms and smashing into the shrubs that surrounded all of the school buildings. As he tried to regain his standing posture and some smidgen of social standing in the ever-dynamic male hierarchy that defines the High School experience, he said, Damn man, that hurt like a bitch.

Vincent, always the diplomat, accepted what stands for surrender amongst sixteen-year-old boys and said, You ok Sean? I didn’t mean to push you so hard dude.

Yeah, no problem. Then, at a safe distance, striking a boxer’s pose and throwing a few harmless punches at the air, Man, we gotta find a gym with a ring, then we can really throw down and I won’t be trippin’ into no bushes and shit.

"Yeah, boxing ring, that would be cool …

Vincent’s sentence trailed off as he returned to his thoughts of Sandra and what wonderful explorations the evening might bring. He barely acknowledged Sean as he said, Later dude, gotta get to gay ceramics class. We’re making like twelve pronged dildos or something.

"Yeah, later …

Vincent was planning everything; he kept checking his wallet, the two tickets and twelve dollars intact. He had put gas in his 1961 VW minibus, a total piece of crap that he worked on constantly to keep running. Some guy had told him about the car abandoned up near Santa Barbara and said, Kid, you fix it, it’s yours.

That is exactly what he did and now he was in his second year of High School, had his own wheels and was going on a date with a goddess.

It didn’t get any better than this. Well, maybe if he was lucky tonight, a little bit better …

***

Chapter 3

Commendation (2009)

Vincent had learned that hate was a waste of energy, but this came as close to hate as anything could in his life.

Vin, I want to see you, said the Chief on the talkie.

Uh, sure Chief. What’s up?

Just get over here, and soon, like now!

The Chief, normally a firm but fair kinda guy, sounded mighty pissed off.

Crap, what now? muttered Vincent.

This was the near-hate part. Not a dressing down by the Chief, that he wouldn’t like, but it was nothing in the grand scheme. He disliked, but did not hate being called Vin, a named he left behind many years ago in an ally just north of Hollywood Boulevard.

What he hated was a meeting. An other people kind of meeting. Not a phone conference but a face to face, and with his face, it never, ever, went well. He had been through it before and would be again, but like a trip to the dentist on steroids, it sucked, every time.

He arrived at the Chief’s office fifteen minutes after the call. Ducking his head as always, he sprinted up the cement stairs, past the flags, through the doors, passed the gawkers and to the Chief’s secretary. Gloria had known Vincent for twenty years; she did not blink an eye when he approached. She even managed a smile.

Hi Vincent. You’d better get in there, he’s steaming.

What the hell did I do? Vincent asked.

Not sure, but I hope you’re not the one banging his wife.

Vincent smiled internally since his face would not accommodate a smile, nor any other expression. Gloria saw it in his eyes, clear and sharp, one blue and one blue/white.

Get yer ass in there bud! she feigned authority.

Yessir, he said and turned to the Chief’s door. Knocking twice and entering before being addressed he saw the Chief standing beside his desk, looking furious. Next to him was an asshole lawyer named Deacon Deans. A born again everything annoying, he lived to make people miserable so he could feel superior. Unfortunately, he was smart and legally agile. A total dick.

You wanted to see me Chief.

Hell yes, sit down! ordered the Chief, looking Vincent straight in the eyes.

Deacon, on the other hand, was looking down, an uncommon posture for him, trying in vain to hide his obvious revulsion.

Now listen and do not speak. Deacon has brought to my attention the risk you took the other night. What the hell were you thinking - don’t answer! Jumping out of a second story window with two children in hand, are you fucking crazy?

The Chief never swore. Something big was up.

Deacon started to speak but the Chief cut him off.

Look Vincent, one more movie star stunt like that and you are out of here and in the bread line, you got me?

Vincent said nothing, but nodded, trying to catch the Chief’s real motivation.

The Chief turned to Deacon and said, Please excuse us Deacon, I have a few more things to say to Vincent but I want to say them privately. You know, man to man.

Well, Deacon started, I’d really like to be present. I have a few things I’d like to say myself to your cowboy firefighter, glancing momentarily at Vincent, and then back to the Chief.

Perhaps that is better said in court, should we get there. I’d appreciate it much if we could cut this conversation short, I’m at the end of my rope.

OK, Chief, your call I guess, but don’t let me hear about something like this again, you understand the trauma caused by Vincent’s action. And it reflects badly on you too, Chief. My firm is ready to fire all barrels if we are pushed to that decision by your inability to control your, men … and, um, women, Deacon, a pure bred chauvinist said to avoid giving the opposition any legal ammunition.

Deacon picked up his briefcase nodded to the Chief, turned, barely acknowledged Vincent and left the office, slamming the door.

When Deacon was out of ear shot Vincent offered, Chief, I screwed up, I’m sorry for the problems it caused you and the departme … .

Shut the hell up Vincent.

Vincent looked at the Chief, who was opening the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out a plaque and handed it to Vincent. It was a Maltese Cross engraved in bronze with the words, For Valor Above and Beyond the Call of Duty.

The Chief cracked a broad smile and said, "Vincent, just keep doing what you do best. I will deal with the scum suckers like Deacon and anybody else who tries to get in your way. You are a hero and these stupid bastards don’t even recognize it. Never will. But I do, and so do your friends in the department. Just keep kicking ass, OK?

Vincent felt that terrible knot in the throat feeling. Something he had learned to suppress through years and years of struggle, but here it came again, the tear devil. Then the pain. Pressure building in his eyes from the water that could not flow past the scar tissue. It became excruciating, but in the orchestra of pain that was his physical life, it was trivial. He waited until he was sure he could speak clearly, belying the ocean of emotion beneath his flat affect.

Thanks Chief. You really scared me, I was expecting an ass kicking of celestial proportions.

That will be the day. Vincent if I had a whole company of men like you nobody in Los Angeles would ever die at the hand of fire. Keep fighting the good fight out there and I’ll have your back in here.

Vincent looked down at the plaque, reading it again with his good eye, then up at the Chief.

It’s ironic isn’t it chief?

What’s that?

Fire. The beast that takes so many lives is the one thing keeping me alive.

Vincent didn’t see the water welling up in Fire Chief Angus Atweiler’s eyes. He had turned and headed out the door, waving briskly to Gloria, and rushing out of the building to his car. Tinted windows all around, the tension relaxed a little bit and he just sat there until the tears retreated retrograde along his tear ducts and drained into his throat.

When he got to his house he parked in the connected garage and entered through the internal door as always. He walked to his library, a truly amazing room full of thousands of books, classics and obscure titles covering myriad topics. He moved to a file cabinet and opened the bottom drawer, inserting the plaque in front