Page 7 of Hot Shot

What else is a girl to do but throw some more?

So I chuck them, hand over fist in succession, until my heart is beating so fast I tip my face up to the sky and let out a battle cry to the heavens.

Jessa yelps, and when I tear my eyes away from the moon, I realize that in my fervor, I’ve disturbed the variety of toxic textiles in the inferno. The fire is taller than me, and a breeze has pushed it into the fence. One plank is lit like a birthday candle, the flames wavering in the dark.

“Shit!” I panic and pick up one of Mom’s potted begonias, dumping the contents into the bonfire while Jessa runs for the hose.

With only a little fumbling, Jessa gets a solid stream of water going, eyeing me as she sprays the fence. “Perhaps let’s just one at a time, darling.” Her British accent is adorable.

“If I wasn’t currently worried about my mother’s wrath or burning the house down, I’d call you a buzzkill.”

She chuckles, making her way back to the whiskey. “Pace yourself, darling. Wouldn’t want you to run out of fuel for all that rage.”

“I’ll never run out of fuel for that particular fire,” I assure her.

At that, I take a good look at the mountain of boxes, cataloging the contents. “These stupid boxes have been sitting in the garage for two months. One minute, I want to donate the whole lot of it with no attachment, and the next I’m crying over a box of men’s underwear like it’s sacred. I don’t want to wallow—I’ve done enough of that. I don’t want to think abouthim anymore. I just want to move on, and if all this shit is still hanging around, how am I supposed to forget about it? Forget about him?” The words pile up in my throat, choking me. I pick up a stack of photos, image after image of Davis and me, smiling and happy.

What a fool I was to think I’d found forever.

I chuck them in the now manageable fire and watch the flames eat holes in them.

“Do you miss him?” Jessa asks softly.

“I’m too pissed to miss him.”

I feel like she has a follow-up question, but instead, she says gently, “I know you want to forget,” while I dig through a fresh box. “I know you want to move on. And you will. But you were with himten years. Give yourself a bit of grace.”

“Fuck grace. And fuuuuucktime!” I hold up his Tag Heuer and pitch it in, not remembering there being sirens in the hip-hop song playing from the speaker on the deck. “Fuck him for leaving me with nothing to call mine.” I grab a whole box of clothes and dump it on top. “Even this stupid sweatshirt is his,” I say, pulling it off and chucking it. “He bought these fucking shoes for me.” With a kick, one goes toe over heel in an arc into the fire. “Damn, even hammered I’m a good shot.”

“Uh, Cass?” Jessa’s brows are drawn. She looks over her shoulder.

I kick off the other shoe, but overshoot. It hits the grass on the other side of the fire with a thud. “Jinxed it,” I mutter, but my mission isn’t lost. “Literally nothing. There’s not one fucking thing I own that isn’t tainted by him, Jess. My earrings he gave me for my birthday!” I undo them and toss them in, unsatisfied when they disappear soundlessly into the pile of glowing logs at the heart of the fire. “This stupid bra! I was supposed to wear this on my honeymoon, for God’s sake,” I say, wrestling with its clasp.

“Um, is that…” Jessa stands, looking toward the side of the house, but I barely register her.

“Tits out!” I shout, whooping when I throw in the lacy bra from the outrageously priced designer boutique in Milan. The second my hands are free, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my palazzo pants. “I got these stupid pants in Fiji on vacation with that traitor! Benedict Arnold! Rat fink!” Hopping around in a circle, I hinge to help out my drunk foot, which is very stupid and very stuck. “Double-crosser! Two-timer! Lying, cheating sonofa?—”

It’s very still, and very quiet. Balancing on one foot—the other is still tangled in the leg of my pants—I freeze, my red hair half covering my face when I look up.

Unexpectedly, I find my best friend with her jaw on the ground and her gaze locked on the eight firefighters standing in my backyard.

I close one eye.

Scratch that—fourfirefighters in full gear are gobsmacked and staring at me, four of whom I’m pretty sure I went to high school with. One whose jawline I’d know drunk, in the dark, and seeing double.

The shield of Wilder’s helmet is pushed up so I can see his face, from that unmistakable square jaw to his wide mouth. I’ve kissed that mouth a hundred thousand times, traced the bridge of his nose with loving fingertips, smoothed the lines between his dark brows with nothing more than a smile in his direction. But it’s the look in his eyes that locks my lungs, tight with heat that has nothing to do with the fire, despite the flames dancing in their reflection.

And in the middle of those flames is me.

CHAPTER 2

HOT TO GO

CASS

Iteeter, spinning a little as I try to catch myself, but it’s no use—I’m going down. I brace myself, close my eyes, and give myself over to gravity in the hopes I’ll hit my head hard enough to give me amnesia.

But I never hit the ground.

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