Playing with Fire_Shen

by Shen, L. J.

  He lifted one thick eyebrow. I could practically hear him thinking, what the fuck?

  I tried to communicate to him with the power of telepathy that he needed to do this. For her. For himself. His square jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. He didn’t appreciate my interference—or telepathic abilities.

  “Didn’t know you were my pimp, Gray Cap.”

  He kept calling me Virgin Mary and Gray Cap, because he had no idea what my name was. The thought was depressing, but I held his gaze.

  I didn’t know why, but having him look at me didn’t feel so horrifying. Maybe because he looked directly into my eyes, as opposed to being distracted by my scar.

  “C’mon, she needs to save face,” I whispered. The combination of ‘save’ and ‘face’ made my stomach churn.

  West turned back to the girl. She looked like she was holding her breath.

  “The answer is no. The humble pie is on the house and so is the free slushie.” He handed her my slushie. I ground my teeth together. The girl took it, lowering her head dejectedly.

  “Is it because I’m seventeen?” she asked, trying to keep her tone careless and flirty.

  “Sixteen,” her friend coughed into her fist.

  “No, it’s because if I indulge your underage ass, fifty schoolgirls will be lining up here tomorrow. I can’t afford the gas, the trouble, or the pissed-off daddies. Not to mention, I’ll get nothing out of this deal, since I don’t mix with jailbait. I’m not Netflix. I’m not made for your entertainment. Now beat it.”

  “You givin’ lessons in etiquette in your spare time?” I groaned, pressing the back of my head to the food truck’s wall as I closed my eyes.

  West kicked a crate around on the floor, moving it out of his way of the grill.

  “Depends. You buying?”

  I shook my head. “You were dang rude back there, St. Claire.”

  “I’m their parents’ worst nightmare, the reason their daddies buy baseball bats and put on extra locks. They see me as an exotic animal, a rebellious phase. I’m not a pony they can ride in turns,” he spat, sounding surprisingly heated.

  “That’s not what the rumors say,” I mumbled, eyes still closed.

  Now I was the one making sexual innuendos? What was I saying and why was I saying it? His reputation was none of my business. Not to mention, even I was starting to see Karlie’s point. I was terribly out of line.

  “Wanna know what the rumors say about you?” he taunted, but his heart wasn’t in it. His tone was stony. Emotionless.

  “No.”

  “Good, because you’re not interesting enough to be talked about.”

  Turning my face to the window so he wouldn’t see me blush, I dropped the subject. He was right. He was being objectified. If he were a woman, I’d be offended on his behalf. But because he was a guy, I assumed he enjoyed the attention. I also owed him an apology for bossing him around. For a lot of things, actually.

  “I may have overstepped,” I offered, after a few minutes of absentmindedly scrubbing lettuce from the window crack with a rag.

  He didn’t answer. I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me, or chose not to accept the apology, but then he spoke.

  “I may have been a dickwad about that ad. I just wanted the job.”

  I turned around at the same time he threw me a smirk behind his shoulder.

  It scared me to think Karlie was spot-on.

  That I objected to working with him because I was intimidated.

  That the world frightened me so much, I didn’t want to do anything that forced me to take one step out of my comfort zone.

  “I don’t actually know your name.” He turned off the grill, throwing a dishtowel over his shoulder.

  “Grace.” I cleared my throat. “You’re Warren, right?”

  We both chuckled at that.

  “Wallace,” he corrected.

  “Cool.”

  There was a beat of silence, and then …

  “Truce, Grace?” He offered me his pinky. His raspy voice sent shivers down my spine. My whole body tremored. That couldn’t be good.

  I clasped my pinky against his, feeling silly and dangerously not unhappy.

  “Truce.”

  When I got into my pickup, there was a message waiting for me from Karlie.

  Karlie: Well? Do I need to fire him?

  Me: He can stay.

  Karlie: I KNEW IT. ADMIT IT. HE IS NICE. I KNEW HE WOULD BE.

  I thought about his exchange with the girls. I wouldn’t call West nice. Hell, I wouldn’t even call him civilized. Fair, maybe.

  Me: He is fine.

  Karlie: Girl, he IS fiiiiiine. Just don’t fall in love with him. That’d be a total cliché, and he is the type to break your heart.

  Me: That’s not a thing you need to worry about unless I’m a victim of a massive head injury, followed by a lengthy concussion. How’s the school load?

  Karlie: It’s whatever. How’s your grams?

  Me: Surviving.

  Barely.

  I put my phone down on the passenger seat and closed my eyes.

  When I opened them again, I saw West on the other side of the parking lot. He was sitting there on the curb alone, the dusk framing him in furious orange, red, and gold, next to his motorcycle. He chewed on his awful candy stick, blankly staring at nothing, deep in thought.

  As I watched him there, I didn’t see the most popular guy in college.

  The sex god.

  The illegal fighter.

  I saw the loneliest boy I’d ever laid eyes on.

  Sweet, confused, and lost.

  And I thought, bitterly, he didn’t even know that across the parking lot sat a girl just like him.

  Grace

  The next couple weeks passed in a blur.

  Between exams, attending lectures back-to-back and trying to keep up with my university assignments, I barely had time to breathe.

  I’d ignored Professor McGraw’s request to secure an acting role in A Streetcar Named Desire, biting my nails down to the bed each rehearsal as I envisioned her blasting through the double doors, kicking me out of the course publicly. This, of course, never happened. The reality was Professor McGraw hadn’t gotten back to me with an answer on whether or not she was going to give me another extension on the performance part, which meant she fully expected me to contact Cruz Finlay for the role.

  Which I didn’t.

  I felt like I was suspended in the air, my feet on the last inch of a cliff, bracing myself for a fall.

  It didn’t help that Grams was a handful. Marla said she was extra forgetful. That during her shifts she barely recognized her anymore, and that she was constantly in a sour mood.

  Surprisingly, the one thing that wasn’t a total disaster was working with West. Not that we’d become best buddies or anything. Ever since he’d started working at That Taco Truck, waves upon waves of new customers began knocking on our window. It had gotten so bad we had to put up a sign advising people they had to make a purchase in order to get a selfie with the Almighty St. Claire.

  But Karlie was right. They did.

  Twice, I’d had to call Mrs. Contreras to get more ingredients because we’d run out, and most days, we barely had time to breathe, let alone engage in small talk. But the shifts passed quickly, and by the time I went home, every bone in my body ached.

  West worked with his shirt off the entire first week. The second week, he brought a portable A/C. It looked brand-new, and dang expensive. He pretended that it was no big deal that he’d just bought (stole?) an air-con that was probably going to save our lives. He put it smack-dab between us, turned it on blast, and stood beside it casually. It was the day I realized not all heroes wore capes. Some were clad in dirty Diesel jeans, Blundstones, and shirts that had seen better days.

  Despite my unexplainable need not to like him, I had to mutter a quick thank you.

  “What’s that?” He cupped his ear, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes.

  Dang you, St.
Claire.

  “I said thank you,” I murmured under my breath.

  “Why, you’re very welcome. Now you can stop ogling me. I feel objectified already.”

  It made me laugh so hard, I let out a horrifying snort. We both knew I’d avoided looking directly at his bare torso.

  Lord. I’d snorted. In front of West St. Claire. Death by humiliation had never seemed so viable.

  “I’m sorry. I sounded like a pig.” I covered my face with both hands.

  He threw a piece of fish at me.

  “If you were an animal, what would you be?”

  “A phoenix,” I said, without even giving it some thought. My hand shot to my broken flame ring, turning it on my thumb. West nodded. I didn’t know why, but somehow I had a feeling he knew exactly what I was talking about.

  “You?” I asked.

  “Koala. I’d get to sleep all day, but still be cute as fuck, so getting laid wouldn’t be an issue.”

  “I heard koalas are actually pretty vicious. And stinky. And are prone to poop on people.” I offered my useless knowledge of wildlife. Good thing I wasn’t trying to flirt. Talking with hot men was definitely not my forte.

  He considered this. “Well, that’s just selling me the koala gig even more.”

  Other than that conversation, we were polite, but professional. I’d eased into the idea of us coexisting like treading into a dark, strange basement. There was no immediate reason to suspect I’d get hurt, but it was still scary.

  I couldn’t help but stare each time I noticed a new welt or bruise on his body. I never mentioned it, though. And the few times I saw him outside the food truck, at school sitting in the cafeteria or on the lawn by the fountain, or the grocery store, all we did was nod to each other and look away.

  Two and a half weeks after West and I began working together, my life fell apart in a spectacular fashion, reminding me normal simply wasn’t in the cards for me.

  It was late evening. An unexpected graveyard shift after the Westival (West Festival) of the last few weeks. There was a spring fair two towns over, and every Sheridan citizen and their mother seemed to take advantage of the activity and drove up to Foothill to enjoy the rodeo, stale popcorn, candy floss, tilt-a-whirl, and bluebonnet blossom.

  Fireworks blasted beyond the darkened yellow dunes. West and I watched them from the food truck window in childish awe, shoulder to shoulder. My phone buzzed in my hoodie’s pocket. I checked the caller ID. Marla. I picked up, knowing she wasn’t one to interrupt me at work unless it was important. I turned my back on the fireworks and ambled inside, pressing a finger to my ear so I could hear her through the explosions.

  “Heya, Marla.”

  “Honey, I don’t want you getting too worried, but I can’t find the old bat. Ten minutes I’ve been lookin’ for her, but I don’t think she’s home.”

  Marla talked about Grams with earnest disdain, which I’d learned to warm up to.

  My breath caught in my throat. I leaned against the fridge, feeling my anxiety climbing up my toes to the rest of my body, like little ants.

  “Did she look lucid to you last time you saw her?”

  “She spent a whole lotta time in her room today, gettin’ fancy. I thought maybe she wanted to go to the fair, so I let her do her thing while I cleaned up the kitchen, waiting for her to come downstairs. The radio was on—you know what her hearing’s like—I must’ve missed it when she opened the front door. My car’s still in the garage, so she couldn’t have gone far. I’m going to look for her now. I just wanted to keep you in the loop.”

  “Thank you.” My voice broke. Panic ran through me, and my blood turned cold. “Please keep me posted.”

  I killed the call and slammed my phone on the counter, letting my head drop. I wanted to scream. To break something. To lash out.

  Not again, Grams. We’ve been through this dozens of times before.

  The routine of looking for her everywhere, finding her at a neighbor’s house or downtown—blabbing to someone incoherently—and removing her from the scene as I apologized from the bottom of my heart always wore me down.

  I could feel West’s sharp gaze on my back. He didn’t say anything, but I knew he was watching me. A couple of customers showed up, asking for tacos, nachos, and slushies, and West served them, manning both our stations without making a big stink about it.

  I looked down at my phone again and texted Marla.

  Me: Where could she be?

  Me: Can U check the shed, please?

  Me: I’m going to call Sherriff Jones. Maybe he heard something.

  I dialed up Sheriff Jones’ number, pacing back and forth.

  “Grace?” By the commotion in the background, he was at the fair with his family.

  “Sheriff Jones? Sorry to call you so late. Grandma Savvy went missin’ again.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Ah, a few hours.” Probably less, but I knew he wasn’t going to take it seriously. Grams went missing often and was always found a couple miles away from home.

  “I’ll call my guys. Grace,” he hesitated, before sighing. “Try not to worry too much. It’s always like that, isn’t it? We’ll find her before the night’s over.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for your help.”

  I hung up, tears prickling my eyeballs. As always, I didn’t let them loose. I hated this part. Where I had to beg people for help. I couldn’t blame Marla. Grams had sneaked out of the house plenty of times while she was under my watch.

  I sank onto an upside down crate, clutching my head in my hands.

  “Is this an I-wanna-talk-about-it crisis or mind-your-own-fucking-business crisis?” West grumbled above my head, sounding more annoyed than concerned.

  The former.

  “The latter.”

  “Thank fuck.”

  “Jerk.”

  “Let me know if that changes.”

  “You bein’ a jerk? Fat chance.”

  “Don’t insult the chance. It did nothing wrong.” He wiped his sweat with the bottom of his shirt, still eyeing me in his periphery. I was an odd, out-of-place creature he couldn’t decide what to do with. An unhappy female.

  “I didn’t insult the chance. I insulted you.”

  “Still sarcastic. That’s a good sign.”

  I needed to be out of this place and look for Grams, but the entire Contreras family was at the fair, and by the time one of them could come to replace me, my shift would be over.

  Thirty minutes had passed without any news on Grams. I was completely out of it by the time West put his hand on my shoulder. It was heavy and warm and strangely reassuring. Like I was floating in the air, feet above the ground, and he anchored me back to gravity.

  “That’s enough of your sulking ass. Give me the keys. I’ll close up and drop them in your mailbox. I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but you should be focusing on pulling it out, not burning time here.”

  I shook my head, finding that all I needed to burst into tears for the first time since my hospital stay was him acknowledging something was wrong. People had stopped giving a crap. In Sheridan, I was just another statistic. Basket case grandmother, junkie mom. That was why Sheriff Jones hadn’t even attempted to pretend he was going to leave the fair and help me look for Grams.

  No one cared.

  Hot, fat tears slid down my face. I wiped my cheeks with my sleeves, horrified that I was crying in front of him, and even more upset that I was probably smearing my makeup.

  West regarded me with calm curiosity. Something in my gut told me he wasn’t used to comforting women. He usually handled them when they were conveniently cheerful and trying to please him.

  I shook my head. “I’m fine. Really. We only have thirty minutes left.”

  “Exactly,” he bit out. “Thirty minutes is nothing. You’ve been as useful as a nun in a brothel since that phone call. Spare me the moping and get the hell outta here.”

  I eyed him from my spot on the crate. Was it irrespons
ible of me to consider his offer? I knew if Karlie and Mrs. Contreras were aware of the situation, they’d tell me to leave the food truck’s keys with him, no doubt, but if something went wrong …

  West read my mind, groaning. “Not gonna do anything shady. Give me your address.”

  I continued blinking at him.

  He bit his inner cheeks, seething. “Not gonna come for your ass in the middle of the night either.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “You shouldn’t,” he said, point-blank. “Trust is putting your optimism in another person, the very definition of being dumb. You should believe me because stealing from the register would get me nowhere. And because this is Texas, and there ought to be at least one motherfucker in your household with a loaded gun willing to blow out my brains if I decide to climb up your window uninvited.”

  It seemed crazy to hand him the keys. He’d been working here for less than a month. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and I was the very definition of desperate.

  I had to find Grams. It was already late, and the more time had passed, the farther away she could wander off. Marla’s shift was officially over, and running around in the middle of the night looking for Grams was above her pay grade.

  “Okay.” I grabbed a note, scribbling down my address. “Drop the money in Karlie’s mailbox, then bring me back the keys. I owe you one.”

  He took the note, shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans, and kicked the door open, shoving me through it callously.

  I stumbled toward my Chevy, struggling to control my flailing limbs.

  It was only when I rolled into my garage that I realized what date it was.

  Grandpa Freddie passed away a decade ago today.

  Grams knew exactly what she was doing.

  Where she was going.

  She wanted to find him.

  On my fifth circle around my block, someone flashed their lights behind me repeatedly, signaling me to stop. I kept walking, hugging my midriff.

  I’d looked for Grams all over Sheridan. I’d gone to the cemetery first, thinking she would visit Grandpa Freddie’s grave. Then I’d headed downtown, checked the local park, and called Mrs. Serle from the grocery store to ask if Grams had paid her a visit. I’d stopped by all our neighbors and friends. It was like the earth had opened its jaws and swallowed my grandmother whole.