Page 20 of The Truths We Burn

They speak the same things about fire.

And, well, we see how well I listened to those tales of caution.

Sage

“Fucking mentally deranged rejects!”

My boyfriend of choice yells as he kicks the tire of his burnt Range Rover. I hated that car to begin with, so this almost seems like an improvement.

Our homecoming parade has officially gone up in smoke.

Pun intended.

Madness and confusion sweep over the rambunctious crowd that has gathered to watch their high school students celebrate before our rival football game tomorrow. Children scream for their parents, students speed away as quickly as possible.

Sure, it’s just a car on fire, but everyone knows who’s responsible, and no one, not a single soul, wants to wait around to see if they have more in store.

My friends, or lack thereof, had abandoned me as soon as danger was detected, and considering I had ridden with the target of their rage, I’m going to need to find a ride home.

Even as people dart past me and spectators whisper, I’m caught in a momentary daze watching the orange blaze overtake the vehicle, knowing deep in my stomach every cruel intention that was meant when they set that fire.

This is a warning.

A message.

One that should not be taken lightly.

“Watch your language in public, son.”

Stephen Sinclair’s voice means business as always. It has to, being the dean of a world-renowned university known for breeding some of the world’s most successful adults. There isn’t much he misses or lets his son get away with.

Dating Easton did leaps and bounds for my reputation, but the same energy isn’t reciprocated when it comes to anything outside the public image.

He cowers in situations where he should stand his ground. Always fading into the blur of normalcy. Nothing he ever did excited me.

Ignited me.

Yes, he’s blinding to look at, but he never made my heart skip or butteries flutter between my thighs. Which means breaking up with him after graduation will be a breeze.

Until then, I’ll continue letting him tote me around like a Pomeranian shoved inside a Prada bag.

“Dad, but my fu—” Easton starts but stops his sentence when Stephen’s eyes laser through him. A glare that saysif you say another curse word, you’ll regret it.

People linger, watching from a safe distance but close enough to hear any form of drama they could scoop up. His father knows that; he’s always aware of prying eyes and open ears.

“My car is totaled, and don’t act like you don’t know who did it! I’m not letting his father get him out of this one.” He seethes. The nice boy who wears ties on game days is gone.

There is a moment of silence, one that hangs like a pendulum in the air, swaying back and forth, getting closer to Easton’s throat.

With practiced form, Stephen holds his phone to his ear with a tight smile, while the other hand dusts his son’s letterman jacket off before resting his fingers there.

“You let me worry about the car and who is responsible. And don’t you dare think of retaliating, do you understand?” he warns with a severe tone, squeezing Easton’s shoulder with a deeper grip.

Then like a switch, his smile is genuine as he turns to the rest of the remaining crowd.

“Plus, we have a football game to win tomorrow night, isn’t that right?” he booms.

The people clap and cheer, the fire completely out and forgotten about. This place is very good at covering up shit with fake happiness.

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