Page 8 of The Fire We Crave

I hope he remembers, like I do, the time he came to pick Melody up for a date and she was late getting ready. It had taken an age to convince our parents that she should be allowed to go, even though she was eighteen and technically could do what she wanted.

She was supposed to make me dinner before she left, but they were going to the movie theater in the next town, and Melody wanted to look perfect and was taking forever in the bathroom. Smoke had said at least three times that she looked fine and that they were going to be late. While we waited, Smoke offered to make me something to eat. “My range is pretty limited, kid. But I do a mean grilled cheese sandwich.”

He cobbled it together with one of those small cans of condensed tomato soup. And I sat at the kitchen island and devoured it like it was the most incredible thing I’d ever tasted.

I’m not even sure what was so special about it now. And I’ve tried plenty of times to recreate it.

Maybe it was the man who cooked it. Because once upon a time, we had the makings of being friends. Back when he produced my favorite candy from his cut when no one was looking. When he seemed like a good guy with a sharp sense of humor, who tolerated his girlfriend’s much younger sister.

He might have been my first childlike crush, before he became my first enemy. I used to think Smoke killed her. But over time, and in discussion with the police about the facts of the case as I got older, I know that isn’t true. But I’ve always wondered if he knew more than he ever admitted.

“Fed up with rubbery and slippery eggs after being in the hospital. I’ll take the soup and cheese.” And with that, he turns and walks out of the screen door onto the back porch, leaving me as relieved as I am confused.

But one thing is true.

Between us are eight years in age, thirteen inches in height, and my sister’s disappearance. And yet, this is the safest I’ve felt since the day of the break in.

3

SMOKE

When my alarm goes off in the morning, the first thing I notice is that the house is utterly silent. The second is that I can smell coffee.

And bread.

Despite the external silence, my head rages with a thousand bells when I try to move. Fucking whiskey and painkillers.

Seems to be the only combination that allows me to sleep without nightmares.

Gingerly, I make my way out of bed. The dressing grips and tugs at my skin as I move and is a constant reminder of what I’ve lost. I have an appointment today to get the dressing changed, which is always a bundle of fun. Not looking forward to conversations about exudate management, which is a fancy word for the shit oozing from me, and serious pain management, which I’m avoiding because I have the kind of personality that might find heavy-duty drugs a little too enticing.

Not even the panoramic view of the mountains from the family room brightens my spirits as I follow my nose to the kitchen.

There’s a pot of coffee sitting on the counter in a coffee maker I sure as fuck don’t own. It’s silver with fancy buttons, but the brewed pot is filled with the liquid of the gods.

I grab a mug off the drying rack, because it’s easier than trying to reach into the cupboard. I’m guessing it’s the one Quinn used and washed by hand, and my cock stirs in my boxer briefs that she’s had her lips on it.

Fuck my life.

I’ve barely thought about sex since the accident, but now I’m getting aroused by ceramic.

The nutty aroma gets even stronger as I pour a large mugful. It’s piping hot and burns my lips when I sip some, but man, it might be the nicest coffee I’ve ever tasted.

There’s a wooden cutting board with a small dish of butter sat in some ice, a little dish of jam with a glass lid, and a checkered cloth, which I remove to reveal a fresh loaf of bread with a few slices already cut in perfectly even strokes.

Next to it is a small note.

Thanks for not kicking me out. Yet. The bread’s warm, the coffee’s hot. Try not to choke on either. Quinn.

The sass in the note arouses me, and it’s not just the brattiness in the way she speaks to me. It’s the domesticity of it.

I’ve spent years not getting attached to anyone I fuck. I’m an exhibitionist who loves sex, and there’s nowhere in the clubhouse I haven’t fucked. My routine’s been so good, I haven’t wanted a relationship in a long time.

But I can’t help liking that Quinn made the bread with her own hands, setting it to rise last night. And she’s taken the time to decant shit into pretty dishes and make an ordinary plate of bread and butter into something…special.

There’s something soul-stirring about being thought about and cared for.

Try not to choke on either.

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