The Moth and the Flame (When Rivals Play Book 2)

by B. B. Reid

  Would he break it off? I couldn’t help but hope that he would, and at that moment, I learned three things about myself I hadn’t known before.

  I was possessive, selfish, and completely irrational.

  Then again, maybe these feelings had been born rather than freed. I’d only known Wren for less than a day, and already, I could feel myself changing, and I wasn’t entirely sure it was for the better.

  I had only just managed to school my features when he glanced over his shoulder. “You going to help or not?”

  As casually as I could, I asked, “Shouldn’t you call your girlfriend—or whoever you’re buying that for—to help you?”

  He turned away from the rack with a scowl so fierce that I involuntarily took a step back and then cursed myself for cowering.

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Or whoever,” I repeated.

  His expression evened out, and then he chuckled as he rubbed his lips with his forefinger. “I was just talking about fucking you not even an hour ago. What makes you think I have a girlfriend?”

  “Men are dogs,” I pointed out with a shrug.

  “Not. Me,” Wren growled as if I should have known.

  I stared back at him in disbelief while wondering if I’d offended him or if ‘pissed off’ was just his default. “I just met you.”

  He looked me up and down and not in the slow, appreciative way I pretended not to like. “So you did.” Turning back to the rack, he angrily ripped an olive green coat from it. A lady in the next aisle gasped when the hanger flew over her head from the force and landed two aisles over. I tucked my lips in to stifle my laugh at the way her already magnified eyes had grown even larger thanks to the bifocals perched on her nose. She was still blinking rapidly in disapproval even after Wren mumbled an apology and turned to me.

  “Let’s go,” he said between clenched teeth.

  I eyed the coat strangled in his fist as he stalked away. It was even uglier than the orange one, and I giddily hoped whoever Wren was shopping for was as hideous as that coat.

  I struggled to keep up with his long, determined strides to the cash register. Once we reached the front, I stood silently as he grabbed a gray ribbed beanie with a black and gray fuzzy ball on top from a bin along with a thick, black scarf and matching gloves. I nodded my approval and decided to keep them for myself the moment he wasn’t looking.

  The cashier cheerily greeted us both. Of course, Wren only rudely managed a nod while remaining tight-lipped. I offered a halted wave, and my smile was even more awkward as we waited for him to ring up the items.

  “That will be $114.99,” the cashier stated. Wren reached into his pocket for his wallet and paused when he came up short.

  Shit.

  “What the fu—” His eyes cut to me.

  I considered denying stealing his wallet to satisfy my jealous heart, but his hard expression told me there wasn’t a chance he’d believe me.

  Shamelessly, I reached into my pocket, removed two hundred dollar bills from his wallet, and handed it to the suddenly nervous cashier.

  “When did you—”

  “While we were getting shot at.”

  The cashier paused from counting my change, but neither of us paid him much mind.

  “You save my life, and then you steal from me?” Wren questioned in a low tone. I should have been afraid, but he’d vowed not to hurt me, and I had the sense he didn’t break his promises easily—certainly not over a few bucks.

  “No, Renny. I saved your life so I could steal from you.”

  The cashier interrupted Wren’s reply by stuttering the amount of his change. I snatched it before Wren could even react and tossed him his wallet while pocketing the cash. I then bounced out of the store thinking how well I’d eat with eighty-five bucks plus the Benny I’d already pilfered.

  I hadn’t even remembered taking his wallet until I’d dug through my rucksack after my shower, hoping to find a cleaner shirt. I couldn’t help wanting to know as much as I could about him, so before I came downstairs, I rummaged through it. Sadly, other than cash, there had been nothing inside but his license and a picture of a young dark-haired woman so beautiful it almost hurt. She wasn’t alone in the photo, either. A little boy, maybe eight or nine, with almost identical features was sitting next to her. It didn’t take a genius to know the boy was Wren and the woman he’d been smiling up at with such love and adoration was his mother.

  His license was interesting, too, though not nearly.

  Wren Joseph Harlan had brown hair, blue eyes (sometimes), and was born August 31st…1995.

  My stomach twisted into knots almost as tight as it did the first time I did the math. He’d be eighteen soon.

  I didn’t like that the age gap between us was more than I’d thought. I’d only turned fifteen a few days ago. I wondered if Wren would have made that pact with me if he knew just how much younger I was or that I wasn’t even old enough to drive much less have sex.

  “Give me my money back,” Wren demanded when he finally joined me on the sidewalk.

  “Why? You obviously don’t need it. You’re just upset that I bested you,” I boasted with a wink.

  “Lou…”

  “Renny.”

  He blew out air, and without a word, stalked across the parking lot with the shopping bag in hand. Once we settled inside the still-warm truck, I studied him. He didn’t look as pissed as he was a second ago. In fact, he seemed completely relaxed.

  “You know she’s going to hate it, right?”

  “Hate what?” he said as he started the truck and backed out slowly.

  “The coat. It’s ugly as all hell.”

  “Good,” he said with a smirk. “Because the coat is for you.”

  I tried to speak and choked on my tongue instead. “For me?” I squeaked.

  “For you,” he confirmed.

  “Well…” Say thank you! “Why’d you have to pick the ugliest one?” I grumbled instead. I knew I sounded ungrateful as hell, but it was better than swooning, for fuck’s sake.

  He peered over at me in disbelief. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”

  “Would you rather I lie?”

  At his black look, I shrank back into my seat. He quickly closed his eyes and silently cursed. When he opened them again, his eyes were blue, but the scowl was gone. “Please don’t.”

  I felt my eyebrows bunch and my heart crack just a little. “You have problems with trust, don’t you?”

  “Everyone does. Some have trouble giving it, and some have trouble keeping it. We all learn that the hard way.”

  I laid my hand on his arm and felt the muscles bunch underneath. “I have the feeling this will be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I trust you.”

  I didn’t miss his wince or the way his hands strangled the steering wheel, but I chose to chalk it up to grumpiness. Maybe he didn’t really want a friend, but he could sure use one.

  Neither of us spoke the entire way back to Shane’s house. It had started to snow again, and I wondered—no, panicked at the thought of spending another night trapped in his house. When Wren turned down the street, my heart skipped a beat when I noticed the police cruiser and an all too familiar white Ford sedan with blue writing on the side.

  Wren didn’t miss a beat as he pulled into the driveway.

  “I have to get out of here,” I whispered. He must not have heard me, though, because he put the truck in park.

  I looked around anxiously trying to figure out a route of escape. Seeing none, I turned helplessly once more to Wren and paused at the guilt I saw lining his profile. I knew right then that he had been the one to call them.

  Sighing, he shut off the truck. “You really shouldn’t, Louchana.”

  My eyes bulged at the sound of my real name even as my entire body shook with rage. He knew? How?

  “Shouldn’t what?” I spat instead. It didn’t matter how he’d learned my name. What
mattered now was what he’d done with it.

  “Trust me.”

  Snow continued drifting from the sky, and the silence that followed seemed heavier than the blanket of falling white flakes. Ms. Laura Strickland—my social worker—and two officers exited their cars at the same time and locked eyes with me through the windshield.

  “Noted.”

  “Now you just remember, young lady, we expect you back in this house by four and not a minute later.”

  I shouldered my backpack and nodded while Eliza Henderson, my foster parents’ daughter, smiled reassuringly.

  That smile quickly fell when her father added, “And Eliza, you will let us know if she’s late, won’t you?” The Henderson’s both worked for one of the prisons—I could never remember the name—and worked long hours that frequently extended into the night. And when they weren’t working, they were at the church down the street, at Bible study or running one of the many programs I refused to attend.

  “Eliza,” her mother snapped when she hesitated.

  Eliza reluctantly nodded while avoiding my gaze. I shrugged, not blaming her for the corner her parents had backed her into, and headed for the door. Besides, I didn’t think Eliza would snitch. I had a bus to catch that I didn’t want to miss because the alternative was a ride to school and more time for lectures.

  The Hendersons were good people, but my parents had been good people, too.

  Eliza, who was a year younger than me, had tried desperately to befriend me, but I refused to budge.

  I didn’t like getting too close to people.

  In the two and a half years since my parents ditched me, I had succeeded—until Wren fucking Harlan. In less than twenty-four hours, he had taught me a valuable lesson.

  Trust no one.

  No matter how much I desperately wanted to.

  It had only been a week since he gave me up. Surprisingly, the Hendersons were willing to do what no other family had—they accepted me back into their home, which was more than I deserved. A good placement was like winning the lottery, and I’d unknowingly hit the jackpot when I found this kind family.

  The only real problem in the multimillion-dollar equation was me. It was only a matter of time before I ran away again. I knew it, the Hendersons knew it, and my goddamn social worker knew it. But she was patient and kind too. Anyone else would have thrown me into a group home or juvie and been done with me a long time ago. It’s happened before, and I could count on my fingers and toes, and all of my many caseworkers’ too, how many times I’d gotten into a fight at group homes. The only good that came from it was that I was now pretty scrappy. It served me well whenever I decided I’d rather live on the streets than subject myself to warm, family dinners or perverted men. You name it, I’ve lived it. It’s been a hard couple of years, but I wised up fast.

  “Hey, wait up!” I heard Eliza shout.

  Ignoring her request, I didn’t stop until I reached the bus stop.

  She was panting when she caught up to me. “You know I’d never rat on you, right?”

  “I hear ya.”

  “Seriously.” She tugged my arm until I faced her. “I want to be friends.”

  Where have I heard this before? Oh, right. From a certain dark-haired gangbanger with eyes that changed colors, and who had a reoccurring appearance in my dreams. “Well, I don’t.”

  “I know you want me to think you’re a total bitch, and if I’m honest, sometimes you’re really convincing, but I already know you’re not. I heard about what you did to that girl who called me a porker.”

  Eliza was on the heavier side—a size eighteen she’d gleefully gloat—but that only added to the fact she was beautiful as fuck. She had red hair that fell to her thick waist, green eyes, big and round enough to make Bambi envious, and lips so pink and pouty even I’d wondered a couple of times what it would be like to kiss her. Hell, if anyone could convince me to give up boys, it would be Eliza.

  All the girls at school knew she was a babe, and so did the boys, which is why she got more shit thrown at her than anyone else, including me. I was homeless, orphaned, and a loner. Wherever the totem pole ended at my school, I was ten feet below it. Eliza, simply because she was beautiful inside and out, had been forced even lower.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course, you do.” She huffed. “People are saying Cora Peterson will need plastic surgery if she wants her nose straight again.”

  I shrugged while inspecting my nails. “Cora has a bad habit of not watching her step. I warned her before, but she’s so clumsy that she tripped anyway.”

  “Into her locker?” Eliza questioned with a raised brow.

  “It broke her fall.”

  Thankfully, the loud rumbling of our bus stole her attention, and we both watched as it slowly approached the stop sign across the street. It hissed as it rolled to a stop and blocked my view of the cars that were parallel parked. But not before I glimpsed the sun beaming off the hood of a 1966 Chevy Impala. My legs suddenly turned to jelly, and if they shook any harder, my knees would be knocking together. The bus started forward, hissing and rumbling as it turned and rolled toward our stop, continuing to block my view. Once the bus doors opened, everyone pushed forward at once, and since I was standing in the middle of the small crowd, I was herded up the steps. I anxiously made my way toward the back of the bus, shoving aside the ones slow to take their seat, and peered out the emergency door’s window.

  The spot where the Impala had been was now empty.

  As hard as I tried to convince myself, I knew I hadn’t imagined it. I was warm all over, not to mention I felt like my blood was rushing and every pleasure point my body possessed had been awakened. I couldn’t quite catch my breath. Dazed, I sank into the empty seat next to Eliza and ignored her curious glances as my mind continued to race.

  Why had Wren come? What could he hope to gain by stalking me? And most importantly, why the hell was I so excited by the possibilities?

  I could think of nothing else. The entire day passed by in a blur, and I couldn’t recall a single moment beyond spotting Wren’s car. During the bus ride home, my eyes kept scanning the street and every parked car, but I didn’t spot the Impala hiding in plain sight.

  Did he know that I’d seen him? Would he come back? Did I want him to?

  I didn’t go straight to the Hendersons’ as I’d been instructed. Instead, I hopped another bus against Eliza’s warnings and spent the next few hours spinning in circles, figuratively and literally.

  Roll Down was a roller disco and a weekly tradition for my parents and me, along with weekend trips to our favorite dessert bar—where they served the tastiest macaroons—and summer bike rides through Central Park.

  Bike riding was always my mom’s idea. She had this vintage mint-colored bike that she loved with a basket in the front that she decorated with fresh flowers whenever I wasn’t riding the handlebars. I’d hurriedly snap pictures before the moments I knew I would want to relive could pass me by. I’m not sure when I fell hopelessly in love with her bike, but she would often promise that one day, it would be mine. My mom loved everything vintage, from retro diners and drive-ins to rotary-dial telephones, vinyl record players, and Mary Janes. She collected so much that stepping into our home had been like stepping into the past.

  Now it was all gone and so was she.

  Dad’s only passion was running one of the many bodegas clustered in our old neighborhood. Viva Las Deli was a piece of home for those who had hailed from Vegas and was the best sandwich shop and convenience store on our block. My dad made a mean hero, and people would drive across the city in a hail storm just for one of his mouthwatering subs. When I was growing up, the bodega was one of my favorite places to be during the summer because it usually meant all the cherry popsicles I could eat. And when I wasn’t ruining my appetite, as Mom would scold, I was running around the neighborhood chasing memories.

  Photography for me wasn’t about the art—I didn�
�t know shit about lighting, angles, or which high-end camera performed best. It was about my need to possess all the things beautiful so I could admire them later. It was like catching butterflies.

  At least, that’s how it began. The night I’d met Wren was the first time since my parents left that I felt that long-forgotten urge.

  When I finally walked through the door a little after seven, Eliza jumped up from the kitchen table covered with her. “Louchana! Are you trying to give me a heart attack? My parents will be home any minute!”

  “You’re a little young to have a heart attack, aren’t you?”

  “Hey, man, I watch House,” she said, referring to the medical drama whose reruns she couldn’t get enough of.

  I snorted, and she giggled in return. “I think you just have the hots for Hugh Laurie.”

  “What’s not to like? He’s tall, handsome, and his character can get me out of gym class. I’ll even put up with his grumpiness if he can save me from sixty minutes of Coach Brown’s screaming.”

  “Coach will choke on that whistle before that happens.”

  Eliza sighed and got this look in her eye as if imagining it. “One can only hope.”

  I joined her at the table where she goaded me into helping her with her Algebra homework. I had a knack for math that Eliza exploited every chance she got.

  “I wish you wouldn’t skip school,” she fussed as she packed up a couple of hours later. “You’re easily the smartest kid at our school. You could go to Harvard.”

  “A couple of A’s doesn’t make me a genius.”

  Eliza waggled her finger and tsked. “Humble and smart…forget Harvard. You could rule the world, Louchana Valentine. Or at least be president.” Her eyes suddenly widened, and I knew she wasn’t done. “You could date Nick Jonas!” she squealed as if that were better than being president.

  I shook my head, amused and unable to hide it, and she returned it with a frustrated frown.

  “I saw your transcripts, Lou. You’ve never dropped below an A. Not even for a single B.”