Page 104 of Rescue Me (Forget the Past 1)

The flames heat my skin as the smoke burns my eyes.

Good. This is meant to be a punishment. A lesson. A warning.

I pull another magazine from the stack and almost laugh at the way fate mocks me. The title flows across the top in curving yellow letters.

Corvette.

On the cover is a canary yellow ’63, with its tell-tale split rear window. That gaping blind spot. Just as dangerous as the girl who sat me down on the leather seats and kissed me in that car.

I don’t remember buying this magazine, but I’ve picked up so many since getting out that I could’ve bought it a week ago or a year ago. Mrs. Herbert works on a quality brand that caught my attention even before I met her daughter.

Before I loved her daughter.

I let out a growl and throw the offending magazine into the flames, the force of its landing sending up sparks. Good thing I live in New Orleans where humidity reigns supreme.

Still, I tried not to be too stupid about my ceremonial burning of all things tempting. Borrowed a cheap fire pit from the couple across the street. They’ve got an energetic pit bull mix I helped train and sometimes walk for them when they work late, so they were happy to lend it to me.

Cole sat on the back stairs while I set everything up, but when I brought out my armful of contraband reading material and started tossing them in, he scowled and retreated inside the house.

Not that I cared. He can think I’m an idiot all he wants.

In fact, fuck him.

I grab another magazine and feed it to the hungry flames.

He should be happy I’m doing this. Fucking overjoyed. It was stupid for me to have bought these in the first place. Just more temptation. One day, I probably wouldn’t have been content with just looking at the cars on glossy pages. I would’ve gone out and stolen one just for the love of it.

Better to cut myself off from them completely.

Just like with Paige.

My pile of kindling runs out, but I know I have at least one more load. The back stairs creak under my feet as I mount them. I don’t linger in the kitchen, worried the memory of Paige stirring her gumbo at the stove and laughing at my work stories will drive me insane. But my bedroom isn’t any better. The sheets are rumbled, just like they were when I pushed up her skirt and feasted on her until she clutched my hair and called out my name.

I press my fingers into my eyes and drop to the floor. When I reach under the bed, I locate an untidy pile of offending magazines. I bundle them into my arms and hurry back outside, to a place where Paige hasn’t left her mark. A place she never will.

In my hurry to be free of the images of beautiful cars, I add too many to the fire at once, almost snuffing out the flames.

“Calm down,” I mutter.

Talking to myself now?That’s just great.

While the flames slowly recover from the influx of fuel, I straighten the remaining ones, so the smooth shiny covers aren’t sliding out of my arms. But for some reason, I can’t get them exactly aligned. There’s a bulge in the middle of the pile throwing the whole thing off.

Thinking one of the magazines has just been folded in half, I sift through the pages until I reach the obstruction. The item slips out of my hold and lands with a light thump on the damp grass.

Realizing what it is, I swoop down to save it from possible damage, realizing a moment later my instinct is ridiculous.

The novel Paige first wrote her phone number in belongs in the fire more than anything else I’ve burned today.

But the flames are still too low, I reason. I’ll get rid of it in a minute.

My fingers, acting completely on their own, flip to the first page.

Above a familiar phone number, the letters sit, small and precise.

And green, of course.

Please teach me your magical dog whispering ways. I want to know all the spells.

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