Page 20 of Fire Fight

Psychologically damaging, yes, but he couldn’t anticipate I’d freak out and think I did it to myself. He could have meant it as gentle ribbing. The equivalent to drawing a dick and balls on a friends face when they’re out of it at a party.

Not malice but teasing.

And what about the landing just now? Are you going to pretend he didn’t grab you by the throat?

Stomach churning, I walk into the bathroom, forcing myself to look in the mirror. His grip on my neck had been threatening, but the only visible reminder is a slight redness to my skin, not deep enough to blossom into bruises.

But I don’t want to think about the brutality of his hands and the softness of his breath as he confronted me. The revelation is hard enough to process without remembering how my pulse beat against his fingers, the way I’d tilted my head back to better feel the punishing grip against my tender skin.

Instead, I put myself in his shoes. After all, I did give Harriet pills I had no business handing her. Twisted with grief over his mother, he overreacted, sure, but boot camp probably wasn’t thecosy correctional option the right-wing politicians make it out to be.

And Drake used to be different.

The older my memories of him, the better. We often wound up at the same places by virtue of our mothers shouldering the burden of parenthood alone… and being broke.

From the ages of eight through thirteen, that translated into community programs during the holidays. The local churches held a round robin of childminding duties, each taking their turn until the new school term started.

The activities were bland, but Drake could make anything fun, cracking jokes, doing hilarious impressions. He had a penchant for turning any activity into an adventure by creating elaborate back stories for the staff and the equipment.

All of it accompanied with an infectious grin a mile wide.

As we grew older, the activities became more gendered, and we spent less time together. By high school, we’d outgrown the programs. During the holidays, we took care of ourselves.

It’s hard to reconcile the joyful eight-year-old who snuck under the raised stage, risking a thunderbolt from God to score a full bottle of gold glitter with the bitter man who confronted me at the top of the stairs.

But the friendly neighbourhood kid must still hide inside him somewhere.

And his eyes might be cold, but his hands are hot, hot, hot.

I bite my lip, clamping down on that thought before my heart hammers again. I cross to the bed and feel under the pillow for my phone and pills. My device is there, but the small bottle isn’t.

A quick search tells me it’s not in or under my bed and my scalp crawls with anxiety. Now I know they’re not responsible for some weird fugue state, the medication has resumed its previous role—the only way to sleep when my fears play an orchestral movement on my nerves.

Drake must have taken them.

They’re probably in his room right now.

I go to my door, pulling it slightly ajar, head tilted as I listen for movement. He said he was going to the beach, but I haven’t been concentrating since our confrontation; I have no idea if he actually went.

The indecision makes me shift from foot to foot. Dare I go into his room?

He might be in there. He might be seconds away from returning.

I force myself to tiptoe along the short hallway to his door, finding it ajar. My heart beats so hard I can see the pulse in my eyes as I step closer, gaze trained on the narrow opening.

Drake sits on his bed, a lighter in his hand. He spins the wheel, the scratching noise like fingernails on bone, followed by a smallphumphsound as the spark catches. The moment it does, his eyes come to life, staring at the flame with a reverence that borders on hypnosis.

The opposite hand lowers, getting nearer and nearer until I cringe back from the sight, palm itching with sympathetic heat.

As he holds it steady, my muscles tighten, tighten, tighten, then I turn, scampering back to the safety of my room, softly closing the door.

There’s no lock.

If I don’t have my pills, Ineeda lock. Otherwise, I’ll never feel secure.

I take the chair from beneath the desk and prop it beneath the doorhandle. The slatted back is sturdy, but I worry it won’t hold fast so test it on the bathroom door, leaving enough of a gap to slip through. It wedges solidly against the floor and putting my shoulder to the door makes the chair stick harder.

With a pleased smile, I wedge it under my main door, testing the angles to find one that works best.

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