A Thousand Fires

by Shannon Price

  “Jax only said I could go so he wouldn’t have me in the house,” Micah had responded bitterly. “No way he’d let you go.”

  “You’re right,” I responded, and I meant it—but it doesn’t mean I’m not a little antsy about having Micah out there alone. Glancing over at Jax, I try to read his emotions, but he’s focused on the TV.

  On the screen, the press conference is getting underway.

  “We are proud to announce this joint initiative between the San Francisco Police Department, the City of San Francisco, and the Weston Corporation,” Kilmer says. “The TRUCE Initiative will make the city safer by offering amnesty and rehabilitation programs to gang members from all groups. We are transparent in our goal. We want peace.”

  The lines around his eyes have gotten worse. His salt-and-pepper hair has gone full silver. His beard is less police officer and more tired pirate. I take a certain bit of pride in seeing him like this. He’s worn down. Older.

  I wonder just how different my life would be if it weren’t for high-and-mighty John Kilmer. What if he hadn’t walked away from Leo’s investigation so quickly? It was written off like nothing: another casualty of the Wars.

  Kilmer clears his throat and goes on. “Gang members need only to surrender themselves at a police station and enroll. Arrests will be formalized, with sentences given in proportion to the crimes. All those who participate will be allowed into treatment centers for addictions and mental health facilities aimed at easing PTSD.

  “We understand that those in the deepest circles of this bloodshed will not come forward,” says Kilmer. “And we have no intention of letting any violence go unpunished. The Weston Corporation and their affiliate, Olympus Enterprises, have been generous with their time, their money, and their technology. This cooperative effort has led to multiple leads on various gang members, all of which are ongoing.”

  The camera zooms out again. A ticker tape crosses the bottom of the screen, giving the highlights of his speech. Full coverage tonight at 5 P.M.

  “At this point, I’d like to invite Mr. Tomas Olvera to the stage,” Kilmer says.

  Jax and Nianna suck air in through their teeth at the same time. I’ve studied the binders enough to know why.

  A muscular guy with buzzed black hair comes to stand by the podium. A Boar tattoo is clearly visible on his skull. Tomas is six months in, maybe seven. He looks different than his picture.

  “Like many of our city’s young adults, Tomas joined the Boars,” says Chief Kilmer. “But effective today, he is no longer a member of the gangs. As the first initiate to the TRUCE program, Tomas will answer for the crimes he committed in a safe environment, focused on rehabilitation and public service.”

  Jax laughs and Mako echoes with a chuckle, but his eyes spark with curiosity. I look at Kate. She’s tugging at a knot in her hair.

  The coverage winds down. Reporters shout questions, which Kilmer answers. The Stags’ interest dwindles. Nianna flips through channels and lands on a food competition. I watch as three competitors try to make a dessert out of bubblegum ice cream, chocolate milk, and bean sprouts, but the distraction doesn’t take.

  Matthew got his one. He’s so confident in TRUCE that he’s let his family name go onto it. That has to count for something. Micah gets home. He and Jax talk in their room a while, then Jax comes down the stairs.

  “Nianna, go get Mako,” Jax says. “We’re going to meet with Ty and some of the senior Boars.”

  Nianna tosses the remote onto the couch and grabs her jacket. Mako joins them in the hall, a black hoodie pulled over his slicked hair. From what I can tell, none of them are armed as they leave, and I mentally cross my fingers that the Boars are as trustworthy as Jax thinks.

  Micah shuffles down the hall a few minutes after.

  “You didn’t want to go?” I ask.

  He gives me a shrug. “Jax didn’t ask me.”

  “Oh.” I switch gears. “Did you see any of the Boars or Herons there? At City Hall?” I ask.

  “No,” Micah says. “It was just press.”

  My friend’s eyes are hollow, and it makes my chest hurt. “Hey,” I start. “I really am sorry that I didn’t tell you about TRUCE. It never crossed my mind.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Are we okay, though?”

  “Yeah.” He gives me a quick smile as if that’d seal the deal. “We’re fine.”

  “Okay,” I say. I tilt my head to the door. “I’m sorry Jax is still giving you shit.”

  “We’re gonna give each other space,” he says. “He’ll come around. But I’ve already said sorry. The rest is up to him, like it always is.”

  * * *

  Later that day, I catch Kate as she leaves the bathroom. A hot-pink towel is wrapped around her pale limbs.

  “Can we talk?” I whisper. “In a minute. Take your time.”

  “Eh, I don’t care.” She waves me into the room.

  Their floor is covered with discarded articles of clothing and old dinner plates. The bed’s unmade, but I smooth out the cherry blossom–patterned comforter as I take a seat. Neatness isn’t exactly Kate’s or Mako’s forte. The former hums to herself as she slips on her bra and underwear—a matching lilac set. Kate lets the towel fall completely, and just like that my brain has other things to focus on.

  A dark line of straight, straight scars runs from her thigh to her hip. If I didn’t have them myself, I’d probably be shocked. We’re two of a kind.

  “So, what’s up?” she asks, pulling on a loose sweater.

  “I was thinking about TRUCE,” I say, watching her face for any clues to what she’s thinking. “I think it sounds like a pretty good idea. What do you think?”

  Her face clouds with instinctive resistance. “Val, don’t be dumb. No one leaves before their time.”

  “I think this is different. The Westons have so much money, Kate. So much it’s stupid. I grew up with it. Well, not with it. But looking at it.”

  She grabs at a pair of black pants and pulls them on. “So?”

  “So, I know whatever plan they have is real. No bullshit.” I take a huge breath. “I think you should go for it.”

  Kate scrunches her hair, creating silky waves. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “What about Mako? I know he wants you out.”

  “I don’t have anything to go back to,” she says. “My dad’s a loser, and my sister’s in Arizona and she doesn’t talk to me. My mom’s dead. I’m almost done, anyhow. Once I’m out, I’m safe—really safe. Theresa’s got connections to last a lifetime. Isn’t that why you joined?”

  “No,” I reply. “I joined for my brother. Jax knows which Boar killed him in that crossfire.”

  Kate goes very still, both her hands frozen on either side of her head. “Val … you know Leo wasn’t just caught in a crossfire, right?”

  “What?” My heartbeats are thunder.

  “The Boars picked him to get back at the Herons for beating up one of their own. She was in a coma for, like, seven months before she died.”

  Holy shit. “But Leo was a kid. And we’re not a Heron family.”

  “Aren’t you, though?” She puts her hands on her hips. “Matthew Weston was too protected to be a target. But the Boars saw how close he and Leo were. They thought—hey, how can we hit the Herons right where it hurts?”

  “Kate, what are you saying?”

  “Matthew Weston was in line to lead the Herons like his brothers, yeah? The Boars wanted to keep him out of it. The Boars shot your brother because Matthew Weston loved him. It’s his fault Leo’s dead.”

  “How would you know that?”

  She sighs—but not enough to make her anger ebb. “Jax got drunk and told Mako once. Just ask him.” She brushes by me and goes into the hall, shutting the door behind her.

  I don’t know how much time passes. The air gets cold. Doors open and shut in the hallway, but no one comes for me. I’m unimportant. Unnecessary.

  On the bones of a ghost, I go into t
he bathroom and take a shower that lasts an hour. Maybe two. I don’t have my knife here in the bathroom, but I scratch at my scars until the skin breaks. But this time, it doesn’t help. Doesn’t take everything away.

  I stay there even when Mako knocks at the door, and later breaks it in. I don’t shut off the water as he shouts, as he taps at the closed shower curtain.

  Somewhere through the clouds of steam, I hear Kate tell Mako that I know now and to leave me be a while longer.

  * * *

  When I finally muster the courage to leave the safety of the shower, I get dressed, blot my hair, and head straight for Jax’s room. I knock three times.

  “Jax? I need to talk to you.”

  He comes to the door. He searches my face for clues, then frowns. “What’s up?”

  “I want to call Matthew Weston,” I state. “I need to. Kate … Kate just told me that my brother died because of him and I need to know if it’s true.”

  After a beat, Jax nods. “Let’s go downstairs, so no one else hears.”

  He retrieves the phone, and we head to my room. I stare pointedly forward, avoiding Kate’s gaze as she looks up from the TV. Fuck you, I think, then feel bad. I’m glad I know now, but she didn’t have to deliver it in such a cruel way.

  When I’m ready, Jax hands me the phone.

  “I’ll put it on speaker,” I say, fingers already tapping the phone to get to the right setting.

  “You don’t have to,” Jax says. My head snaps up. He nods, mouth pulling into an amused smile at my reaction. “I trust you.”

  My heart pounds, and I force myself to stop staring at his stupidly handsome face. I have more important things to worry about.

  I call. It rings once, then twice. Will Matt even pick up, after what happened in the Sunset? Please, please ans—

  “Hello?” Matthew says.

  My body fails me, and can’t seem to breathe, let alone speak.

  “Val?”

  “I need to ask you something,” I stammer. Leo. My Leo, my sweet baby brother. I relive the last time I saw him—at the kitchen table with Mom setting down his cereal. Blue striped shirt. Neon-green shoes with knots I tied.

  “What is it?” Matthew asks, and I slam back to the ground.

  “Did you…” I say. Jax reaches out and brushes his fingers against mine. I take the invitation and slide my fingers into his. “Did you know that the Boars killed Leo because of you?”

  “What?”

  “They targeted him because you were close to him,” I stammer, tears falling freely now. “They were trying to scare you, or something.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “Who told you that? Are you sure they’re telling you the truth?”

  “I have no reason to doubt it,” I reply. “Matthew, for the love of … did you know?”

  He breathes into the phone and my heart threatens to burst out of my chest until—

  “Yes. They told me when I joined.”

  “And yet you didn’t tell me!” I say, covering my face with my hands. “Fuck you, Matthew. I have nothing more to say to you, ever.”

  I hang up. “I want to be alone,” I say to Jax.

  He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Stay down here. No one will bother you.”

  He walks up the stairs, leaving me alone. I cry and cry until I don’t have any tears left before fading into an uneasy sleep.

  * * *

  I don’t know what Jax told the others, but when I finally return upstairs the next day, they’re overly gracious in their niceness. Mako and Kate prepare breakfast, insisting I don’t lift a finger.

  Mako sets down the pancakes between a pitcher of orange juice and a bowl of fruit salad—apples, bananas, and raspberries. A spark of nostalgia catches in my chest.

  Snagging a handful of chocolate chips from the cabinets, I pick through the fruit salad so my plate is nothing but raspberries. I take one and flip it bucket-side up then shove a chocolate chip into it.

  Matthew. This is his favorite dessert. Raspberries and chocolate chips. It is one of the many things I loved him for—the simplicity. He didn’t want his mother’s crème brûlée, her Swedish princess cake, or her poached cinnamon pears drenched in white wine. No. He wanted raspberries with chocolate chips.

  I smush the berry against my plate and don’t eat it.

  We eat and Nianna joins shortly after, pulled from her room by the smell of butter and sugar. Even Jaws makes an appearance inside the house. He doesn’t eat, just leans against the counter drinking a bottle of water.

  I’m wiping a pool of syrup off my plate when Jax saunters into the room. “Morning, lovelies.”

  “Morning,” I reply. Jax lifts my pancake from the stack, folds it in half, then takes a bite.

  “That is the weirdest fucking way to eat a pancake,” says Nianna, and even with last night’s news weighing me down, I can’t help smiling. As I take another forkful of my own breakfast, she points to me. “See, Val is civilized.”

  “I’m just living in the future,” Jax says defensively. “Pretty soon you’ll all be eating pancakes like this.” He makes a motion like he’s dusting off his hands to show he’s finished. He tilts his chin to me.

  “Almost done?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Good. I want to take you somewhere. Just you and me.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say. “Give me twenty minutes?”

  Jax nods. “It’s a date.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I finish eating, then change into jeans and a nice sweater, then tug a black jacket over it. I wish Jax hadn’t said it was a date, because now I’m second-guessing everything. Should I wear makeup? I’ll wear makeup. I slap on some foundation and eyeliner. A crescendo of excitement builds in my chest and I almost poke my eye out with the mascara wand. I can’t focus.

  Jax wants alone time with me—that has to mean he’s ready to tell me who killed Leo. All this is finally going to be worth it.

  Minutes later, I’m climbing into the car with Jax. Recklessness flickers in his eyes as he turns toward the freeway. He takes the on-ramp too quickly and I tighten my seat belt.

  “So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask.

  “We’re going to pay our respects.”

  “To who?”

  “Stags who came before you.”

  I notice he says you and not us. Jax is the beginning and the end.

  We head north on Highway 1 toward the Presidio, the same way Micah and I did a few weeks ago. This time the sea does nothing to calm my nerves. As we cruise past the polished homes of the Marina District, the Golden Gate comes into view. It really is a beautiful bridge. If you came halfway around the world to see its sleek cables, sturdy beams, and graceful curves, you wouldn’t be disappointed.

  Jax drums his fingers as we wait for a parking space. With every passing minute, I expect him to snap and start shouting at the other cars, but he just waits. He even hums to himself.

  We park. Jax pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt as he gets out. I sidestep a group of tourists, inciting a glare from a jogger whose path I inadvertently crossed.

  Clouds loom above the sprawling green of Crissy Field. To the left is a white-walled building called the Warming Hut with a gift shop and café. My mouth waters at the smell of bacon-wrapped hot dogs sizzling at the stand nearby.

  The Golden Gate cuts across the water toward the Marin headlands—a splinter of red in the vast blue. Tourists mill about in groups, snapping selfies and adjusting their camera settings. Jax stops and offers to take an Indian couple’s picture. They thank him, and he grins at my confused look. “What? I can be nice.”

  “Never said you couldn’t.” We both smile.

  Jax leads me out onto the rocky sand as lacy white foam washes up and back, up and back.

  “Why are we here?” I ask.

  His shoulders slouch as he takes a seat on the sand. “Needed to be away from th
e house for a while.” He takes out a cigarette, lights it, and inhales. “I come here to remember Stags who died.”

  “Oh.”

  Not sure what to do, I sit next to him. Mako said Jax takes care of his own. I bet he thought he’d protect them, too. I know that feeling.

  “How many have died?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  I take a beat to think. “Yes.”

  “Two. One was in a hit-and-run down in SoMa. Another was jumped in the Tenderloin while he was lighting a cigarette. Coward fucking beat him up in an alleyway. He died in the hospital. Boars took credit for both.”

  Credit. “Jesus.”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  It takes me a second. “This doesn’t seem like a time for jokes.”

  “I choose my moments.” He winks. “Besides, Will—the one in SoMa—was a bit of a jokester. He’d have laughed.”

  He pulls down his hood, running his hand through his long hair to push it back. As he tilts his face toward the sky, my eyes run along his square jaw, roughed up right now with a hint of scruff. Even with unpredictable moods, I don’t doubt that Jax’s actions are entirely planned. Purposeful chaos. It’s probably why people are so drawn to him.

  “What about Brianna? Nianna told me,” I say, seeing his look. “Why didn’t you look for her? Or bring her back to the Stags, send her money or something?”

  “That wasn’t Nianna’s story to tell,” he replies.

  “We don’t have to talk about it. Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” I say hastily. He’s in a good mood, let’s not ruin it, Val. “Why do you come here to … honor them?” I ask. “You could pick anywhere, like the places they died.”

  Jax tilts his head at the bridge. “It’s our namesake. The Wars could have been called anything. Some reporter came up with the Red Bridge Wars, and it stuck.”

  I nod—a Seattle reporter, if my online research was correct. Like any good native, I’m offended it doesn’t get the name of the paint right.

  As if on cue, Jax says, “Of course, it’s not red. The paint’s called International Orange.”