Page 1 of A Touch of Brimstone

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Jackson, my ex, red-faced, doubled over and clutching his berries while lambasting me for “overreacting” while sprinkling in variations of “bitch” wasn’t how I expected our three-year relationship to end. But there we were. One of my best friends—or rather one of my ex-best friends—cowered in the corner, hastily trying to dress. She was making a desperate attempt to keep the top sheet she’d swiped off the bed around her.

“Don’t bother with discretion, Ava. I’ve seen you naked before and Jackson definitely has, too.”

She hurriedly put on her shirt and panties, grabbed her pants and shoes, and scurried out of the room. Jackson was huffing and grunting in pain, his hands cradling his cheating stick.

Finding them in bed together was more than just shocking and enraging; it was a revelation about him and our relationship. My discovery made his confidence, which I had adored during our relationship, morph into something ugly. What was on full display when he rolled out of the bed was a cruel audacity that bordered on narcissism. Standing in front of me as naked as the day he was born, his Good and Plentys dangling, he showed no remorse or shame, and his eyes fluttered with annoyance as he mumbled something about it not being what I thought.

In a moment of awestruck incredulity, I was rendered speechless. What?

“Really? It’s not what I think. So, you weren’t just inside Ava with her moaning like she was making an upload for Pornhub. I can assure you; I know what sex looks like. This is exactly what I think.”

He simply jutted out his arrogant, self-entitled jaw in defiance. “Luna, as usual, you’re overreacting. It was an accid—”

“Accident? Did you trip and fall into her?”

His response, accusing me of being unnecessarily crass, led to me kneeing him in the groin. That wasn’t an accident.

“Where are you, Luna?” Emoni asked, leaning across the counter of the coffee shop of Books and Brew, where I was seated. Her face was just inches from mine. I wondered how long she’d been trying to get my attention. Telling her I’d been thinking about Jackson was out of the question; she’d worry. Something she’d done often over the past few months. Concern had already etched a frown on her face. I flashed her a smile and tapped the book in front of me.

“Sorry. It’s such an interesting read. One of those rare books where you just ruminate over the information,” I lied.

Picking up the book, she grimaced at the title, The Discovery of Magic, then flipped through Post-its I’d used as placeholders, since it was a borrowed book.

“This is so you. You’re finding yourself musing over witches, goblins, fae, vampires, werewolves, and all the freaky things that go bump in the night,” she teased as she returned to restocking the cups. Her tone was light and playful, but I caught the furtive look of concern she gave me.

“No fae or goblins. They don’t specify werewolves, just shifters.”

Her brow hitched. “No.” She pointed an accusatory finger at me. “Bad Luna. You will not try to pull me into your world of fantasy. It’s not my thing and you can’t make me.”

“It reads like fiction,” I told her, aware that nothing I said would change her mind.

“But it’s not fiction.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it.”

Working at Books and Brew was a reader’s dream job, but of the many things Emoni and I had in common that made us fast friends in college, our reading preferences weren’t among them. They couldn’t be any more different. My tastes were less discerning; if it seemed interesting, I’d give it a try. Emoni loved fiction, biographies, mystery, and thrillers and rarely strayed from those genres. After a moment of silence, each of us giving the other half smiles and persuading looks that had never worked in the past, we ended at an impasse.

“What are you having?” she asked.

“Whatever will keep me awake for my shift.” I worked more now and that hadn’t escaped Emoni’s notice. The humor drained from her eyes and unease crept back into them the way they always did when she knew the conversation topic was veering toward my breakup with Jackson.

It wasn’t just catching Jackson cheating that hurt. It was how much his cheating changed my life. For a few weeks I was homeless, staying on Emoni’s sofa until I made the move from the three-bedroom house we’d rented from his parents, below market value, into a one-bedroom apartment, just a few square feet larger than the bedroom Jackson and I had shared and in a questionable neighborhood. Money was tight and it was hard getting used to sleeping alone.

“Are you getting settled in your apartment?” she asked, her voice neutral, although her eyes couldn’t hide what she felt. She wanted desperately to wish my sorrow and pain away.

My smile took more effort than I wanted to admit, but the more I hurt, the more Emoni alluded to kneecapping Jackson.

“It’s cozy.”

Cozy and very tiny. But mine. There wasn’t anyone to complain about the stack of books on the nightstand, me staying up too late to read, or, well, about anything. Over the years of living together, Jackson’s complaints became plentiful. I thought it was a product of two very different people sharing a space. He was probably comparing me to Ava. I tried to find the humor in the irony of how much they disliked each other initially.

For a brief moment, I delved into the emotional rabbit hole, trying to pinpoint the moment she’d stopped thinking of him as being too pompous and aloof, a claim she’d made often, and started viewing him as someone she’d betray a friendship for. Or when he started to find her overly whimsical personality endearing rather than annoying.

I wasn’t getting out of the rabbit hole anytime soon because I started replaying the moments when Jackson invited Ava over to watch movies, to join us for drinks, and for dinner. I mistook their change in attitude toward each other as the inevitable transition to tolerating each other for the sake of the person you both loved. He and Emoni had undergone a similar evolution, though a wall of wary distance always remained between them. There wasn’t any doubt they’d tolerated each other for the sake of their relationship with me.

Emoni, the self-proclaimed barista extraordinaire, handing me a cup of coffee pulled me out of the labyrinth that had the potential of ruining my day. “Here you go. A finely ground Robusta coffee. If this won’t get you through an eight-hour shift, I’m not sure what will.”

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