Page 9 of The Fire We Crave

I smile at that and run my finger over the words.

If she were mine, I’d be so eager to get home so I could thrust my cock so far down her throat, she’d gag, and tears would spill down her face. I’d tell her to try not to choke on this either.

“Fuck,” I curse, slamming the note back down onto the table.

It’s Quinn.

Quinn.

And there’s so much water between us, we’d drown if we tried to reach each other. I’m sexually very open, but even I squirm a little at the idea of fucking an ex’s little sister. That’s surely some kind of etiquette faux pas, something you just don’t do.

I manage to make a couple of slices of toast. Buttering the damn things is a lesson in patience. It hurts to spread the butter, hurts to spread the jam, and hurts to raise it to my mouth to eat it.

I switch hands to my left side, and it makes it marginally more bearable.

As I eat, I walk around the kitchen and look at the things she’s brought over. There’s one of those Dutch oven things and a large industrial-scale food mixer, all shiny and chrome, that takes up half the counter.

I catch sight of my laundered clothes flapping on the line. Quinn must have been up early to get that done. It’s gonna be a small pleasure to put on sun-dried things that have been washed in my own laundry soap.

On the kitchen table is a pile of books, maybe twenty of them. The first pile looks like a whole bunch of romance books with naked-chested guys on the cover or odd-looking cartoony covers where the couple have no faces.

I pick up a book that’s got two famous actresses on the cover. The cover is worn, the pages have that well-flicked-through vibe, where the cover no longer sits flat, and the corners are rounded.

Practical Magicby Alice Hoffman.

When I open it, there is line after line of highlighted text and colored sticky tabs.

All the quotes noted with blue tabs have the same melancholy tone. One is about loneliness, another about a soul filled with sorrow. A sense of loss and sadness that makesmefeel all those things too.

I slam the book back onto the pile and go take a shower, which ends up being a terrible idea. I’m not supposed to get the dressing wet, so I try to point the showerhead away from it but fail miserably. Yet, I figure I’ll be getting it changed in about thirty minutes, so who cares?

It hurts to get into the truck instead of onto my bike, the two vehicles side by side in the garage. Much as I’d love the joy of the ride, the feel of the wind on my face, I’m just not sure my body is up to my bike yet.

By the time I get to the medical center for my appointment, there is a large wet patch on my T-shirt from the soggy dressing, and the one on my arm is dripping slow and steady onto my jeans.

I grab the clean T-shirt I brought with me and step inside.

The person assigned to change the dressing looks a little disgusted. But honestly, I stank like rotten fish, and that was worse than this mess. Thankfully, the oozing is easing. Might only need one more dressing change, where it will be healed enough to go without.

When I step outside, there’s a bike next to my truck, and Butcher is leaning against it. The salt in his salt-and-pepper hair stands out in the bright sunlight. There’s a weathered expression on his face, and something unreadable in his eyes.

“Heard you were going to be here,” he says, standing to his full height when he sees me. “Welcome back.”

I glance up and down the street. I don’t know why, but I’m not ready to see him. Not ready to talk to him. Being road captain is something I’ve always been proud of. For some reason, I don’t feel worthy of the title anymore.

“Thanks, Butcher.”

He takes a drag of his cigarette, then points it in my direction as he exhales a stream of smoke. “I’ve seen that look before. Never expected to see it on you.”

“What look?” I tuck my hands into my jean pockets.

“Doubt.”

I huff and shake my head. “Not doubting shit,” I lie.

He lifts off the bike and walks toward me, before grabbing my shoulders. “What happened was not your fault.”

I step back out of his reach. “Nope. Not talking about that with you. Or anyone. Shit happened. I’m home.”

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