Scorching to the Touch, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Ofelia Martinez
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Edition
ISBN 978-1-954906-25-9 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-954906-26-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-954906-17-4 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905753
CONTENTS
Author's Note
1. Erica
2. Fritz
3. Erica
4. Fritz
5. Erica
6. Fritz
7. Erica
8. Erica
9. Fritz
10. Erica
11. Erica
12. Fritz
13. Erica
14. Fritz
15. Fritz
16. Erica
17. Fritz
4 Months later
18. Erica
19. Erica
20. Erica
21. Fritz
22. Fritz
23. Erica
24. Erica
Two Months Later
25. Erica
26. Erica
27. Fritz
28. Fritz
29. Erica
30. Erica
31. Fritz
32. Fritz
Six Months Later
33. Fritz
34. Fritz
35. Fritz
36. Fritz
37. Erica
38. Fritz
39. Fritz
40. Erica
41. Fritz
42. Erica
43. Fritz
44. Fritz
45. Erica
46. Fritz
Two Months Later
47. Erica
48. Fritz
49. Fritz
50. Erica
Epilogue: Erica
Also by Ofelia Martinez
Blazing in the Blizzard Excerpt
Blazing in the Blizzard Excerpt
Afterword
About the Author
For the women strong enough to walk away.
And for the women’s shelter volunteers around the world.
You made me feel safe.
I’m grateful for you every day.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
CAUTION: MAY GET WET
Joking aside, this book came at a very dark time in my life, and like all art, my feelings at the time seeped into my work. I strongly encourage you to check the content warnings I have listed at www.ofeliamartinez.com/cws. This is not a dark romance in the truest sense of the word, but it is the darkest I have written to date.
Exactly zero percent of this book’s plot, back story, or trauma involves Erica’s size or how she takes up space in the world. At the start of this story, she already loves her body and always has.
Erica is not kind, nurturing, funny, or one of the ‘bros’—all common tropes for how she could get the hot, billionaire rock star. He simply loves her for who she is and is entirely turned on by her body as much as she is by his.
She is toxic AF and owns it. I wanted a plus-sized Daisy Buchannan who could pierce the heart of a modern-day Heathcliff with her stiletto heel, and Erica delivers that vision to my heart’s content.
While I understand the limitations of the words “plus-size” and that the more accurate adjective is “fat,” I will continue to describe Erica as plus-size for this story. So long as the proper descriptor continues to be weaponized to insult bigger women and continues to cause anxiety in women who have experienced bullying, I will avoid it. I, the author, am a plus-size (fat) woman myself and will dive deeper into my experiences and how they informed this book in the afterword.
Louder for those in the back: This is not a safe romance. Both characters are TOXIC.*
It is a love story, and there will be a happily ever after, but first, it’s a story about hate.
After all that, if you still dare to turn the page, strap in for the wild ride that is Friedrich (Fritz, Federico) Hartmann.
*I will not be accepting hate mail.
1
ERICA
“I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death, and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts . . . and since he has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him.”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
Love can be poison if you let it, and only walking away can purge it from the bloodstream.
Which is why I’m in Kansas City with a mission: to say goodbye.
None of the photographers flanking the entrance to the hotel take my photo when I get out of my limousine. I’m more than fashionably late to the event, so there’s no one on the red carpet apart from me. And while some of them turn to look at me with interest, recognition crosses none of their faces. Nevertheless, one of them snaps a photo and sends me a sad smile.
They’ll all know who I am soon enough. Every. Single. One.
I smile and walk straight through the doors.
I’m shown to a table with only one empty seat. The four women already seated smile at me, and I’m glad the speaker is coming to the podium, making small talk impossible. I’m not in the mood tonight. I’m here to do one thing and one thing only.
The waist trainer under my dress forces my posture tall, and I smooth the silk of my gown over my thighs. The sexy gown with a plunging neckline fits like a glove apart from the slit cut so high, it’s almost indecent. I smile. His heart will stop when he sees me.
If only.
2
FRITZ
Bren is trying to hide the fact he is dying of laughter inside as I try, and fail, to put on the bow tie.
“Will you stop?” I ask him.
We’re backstage, where I’m about to be auctioned off like a prize pig. It was supposed to be Karl going through this, not me. Why did our guitarist have to go on such a long honeymoon anyway?
“You’re lucky your wife protects you, or you’d be in my situation right now, too,” I say to Bren, my vocalist. I look to Adrian, our drummer, for support, but he only shrugs.
Perfect.
“Here. You’re hopeless.” Bren grabs me by the shoulders and turns me toward him so he can do my tie for me. I try not to smirk at exactly how much of a dad move that is because I don’t want to shake this rare good mood he seems to be in.
When I look past Bren’s shoulder, I see his wife—or rather, partner, Sofia—running toward us.
“You’re never going to believe this,” she says, slightly out of breath when she reaches us. “Erica Morán is here!”
All blood drains from my head. I didn’t hear that right.
“Who?” Adrian asks, but they all sound like I’m hearing them from underwater.
“Erica Morán! You know, the actress?”
The floor moves under my feet, and I grab onto Bren’s arm for balance. His brow furrows when he looks at me, but Sofia and Adrian keep talking, so he can’t ask what’s wrong.
“She famous or something?” Adrian asks.
“You know! Remember when we were in Mexico, you were watching that telenovela, and there was that one actress you really liked? The sexy plus-size one? Oh, what was that show called?” Sofia asks, tapping her chin. “Oh, this is going to bug me. I used to watch it all the time.”
After letting go of Bren’s arm and straightening myself to pretend I’m unaffected, I say, “Curvas Peligrosas,” but it comes out a whisper.
“What?” Sofia asks.
“The telenovela. It’s called Curvas Peligrosas.”
“That’s right!” She squeals. “Dangerous Curves! Remember, Adrian? You had a crush on her the entire time we were in Mexico.” she pauses to look at me. “Are you okay, Fritz?”
“Yeah. Just don’t fucking know why I have to do this.” Now that the initial shock of hearing Erica is here has leveled out, my teeth hurt from all the clenching.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about.” She runs her fingers through my short beard. “You look really handsome. And I know Carolina already thanked you, but from me too, Fritz. Thank you. I know it’s not your thing, but tonight we’ll raise so much money for cancer research that it will be worth it.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, incapable of more. I sneak off to side-stage and pull the curtain a bit to peek out. I scan the tables looking for her, and sure enough, there she is, in the middle of the room.
Erica.
Mi reina.
Wearing a black silk gown because she knows how much I love her curves in skin-tight silk. Her long black hair is straight tonight and flows over one shoulder. Crimson lipstick painted on her lush lips. She’s every bit the femme fatale she looks to be.
And even though I’m the one on stage for this circus of a bachelor auction, it’s her web I’ll be stepping into tonight.
3
ERICA
“I hate him for himself, but despise him for the memories he revives.”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
The first bachelors out to auction are handsome enough, but all B-listers at best. I know Friedrich will go last because he’s the most famous on stage tonight. I would say the most handsome, but I’m biased, and let’s not forget, he’s also the wealthiest. I can practically see the drool from all women around me when his name is called and he steps on stage. A collective gasp floods the room, and all their eyes glimmer—but I can’t blame them. The rock star billionaire is breathtaking.
Unfortunately for them, Industrial November’s bassist is mine. If only for tonight.
I came here to purchase him. To shame him and humiliate him by buying him. He’ll never forgive me. Then again, he never does.
I fake composure when I see him. I pretend as if my breath doesn’t hitch in the back of my throat at the sight of him. I lie to myself about my thighs clenching under the table. I haven’t seen him in two months. That’s about the longest we’ve ever gone, and my body misses him.
I don’t.
My heart certainly doesn’t miss him.
But the rest of me does. My body, the traitor, that sings at his touch. If it could ever stop, we could maybe one day be able to walk away from each other.
Be able to stop hurting each other.
As women punch the air with auction paddles, I fake a yawn I know he sees, and even from my spot at my table, I watch as his eyes narrow to slits. I pretend to be unaffected and sip my red wine, leaving a crimson red print on the lip of the glass that I study to avoid looking him in the eye.
The pace slows down a bit when the price hits ten thousand dollars. I sip my wine and laugh a little when Friedrich seems to think, for a moment, I’m not going to jump into the battle for him. Instead of his initial disdain for my presence, now he’s looking at me with panicked, questioning eyes. Despite his initial anger, I know he’d rather donate the money himself than leave this hotel with anyone other than me. Now he’s angry for an entirely different reason.
As I watch his hands fist at his sides, I can’t help but laugh. Oh, Fritz darling, you’re far too easy to anger.
He makes it so much fun, toying with him—my little puppet on strings. The bid is now up to twenty thousand dollars, the amount driven up by two women. One of them, a young blonde, looks like she’s going to be sick. She’ll be out soon.
So I turn to my other side to find the other woman, who seems to be much more confident. She’s my only real competition tonight.
She’s pretty, brunette, with a fantastic poker face. Without knowing anything about her, at least physically, she seems like Fritz’s type. She’s confident, shoulders back, chin high—all the things he loves.
But she doesn’t have a chance. She never did.
The auctioneer begins to count down. “Going once, going twice . . .”
I stand and raise my paddle. “Fifty-thousand dollars,” I call out, and he stops counting.
All eyes turn to me, and I grin at Fritz. I like people watching me.
I lavish in all eyes on me, mainly because if there’s one thing Fritz loathes, it’s eyes on me.
Most of all, I love how I’m the center of attention even as Fritz, one of the most famous men worldwide, is on stage.
I win.
His back is to me when I find him in the hallway. I recognize Bren, the singer of Industrial November in front of him, and Adrian along with Bren’s partner, though I don’t remember her name. I’ve never met them. Fritz keeps me well-hidden. I’m his dirtiest little secret. Well, not so little, given the plus-size curves he’s addicted to.
I’m about to make him sweat.
“I’m never doing anything for you again, Sofia,” Fritz hisses as I approach them. He starts undoing his bow tie. “This is the stupidest, most—” The woman, Sofia, puts a hand on Fritz’s arm to stop him as she looks at me.
“Hello,” she says, and her hand drops from Fritz so she can shake mine. “I’m Sofia Ocampo. I’m such a huge fan. Thank you so much for coming out tonight.”
“It’s my pleasure. I’m Erica—”
“We all know who you are,” Fritz hisses.
“That was rude,” Sofia says, blinking at him, but Fritz pays her no mind.
The man I recognize as the drummer for Industrial November, Adrian, steps forward, intending to take my hand and speak, but Fritz steps in between us.
He grabs my hand and leads me away from the group.
“Fritz?” Sofia calls out after us, and I turn back at her to smile apologetically, but Fritz keeps on marching us away.
Down the hallway, he busts a door open and leads me inside.
It’s the luxurious sitting room just outside the women’s restroom. He walks to the stalls to ensure they’re empty, then grabs a chair to barricade the door shut.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
He is too calm. His tone too measured. Maybe I outdid myself this time.
His bandmates and friend will surely know he knows me, and I do my best not to wince at his incoming wrath.
Just one more reason for Friedrich Hartmann to hate me, but honestly, it’s a drop of water in the ocean at this point.
“I’m sorry, Fritz.” I pout with an innocent act. “I thought it was obvious.”
“No. We had a deal. No one knows about us.”
“You didn’t think I’d pass up the opportunity to buy you, did you?”
He looks away from me for a moment, thinking. His body shaking with fury. His fingers flexed, fighting not to fist at his sides. He looks at me again. Bitter hatred—no, not hate—acrimony. Bitter acrimony flaring in his dark pupils.
“You’ll be photographed,” he says, trying to be reasonable.
“No one recognized me when I walked in.”
“You know that will change by the time you walk out.”
I smile. I do know that. It happens every time I’m in the states for an event. The photographers will do a quick image search on their phones, find Mexico’s most infamous telenovela diva, and ready their cameras for when I leave.
“Relax. We’ll say we met at the auction tonight.”
He nods, his angry eyes holding mine. “You didn’t come here just to buy me,” he says.
I laugh—laugh in his face. Make him think I think he’s stupid. “Of course not. I also want to get my money’s worth.”
“What do you want?” he asks, frustrated with my game.
“Fifty thousand dollars, Fritz. I’m not sure you’re worth it.”
“Tell me what you want and leave—”
“You’re taking all the fun out of it.” I stretch out my hand and inspect my blood-red manicure as if bored. He also hates it when I act bored. I can love him, or I can hate him, but he prefers hatred over indifference. And damn. So do I.
Because love is so out of the question.
“What’s it going to take to quietly get you out of this hotel?”
I tap my chin, pretending to think. I love when Fritz squirms. There is something so empowering about making a man that large, virile, and strong squirm. Fritz is tall. Closer to seven feet than six, I’m sure. Broad shoulders and a handsome face. He’d be pretty if it weren’t for the scarring over his right eyebrow splitting it in two, or the beard he insists on because he thinks I hate it—I don’t. I secretly love it. No wonder women go crazy when they see him in the flesh. He’s breathtaking.
And only for me—if only for tonight.
“Well?” he asks, frustrated. He runs a hand through his short brown hair and fixes those dark-brown eyes on me.
