Burn for You

by Jillian Leeson

  Her hand shifts from her chest to mine, the contact triggering a rush of emotions inside me—joy, excitement, gratitude. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you say that. Because this is what I’ve always wanted for us.”

  I cover her hand with mine, and she briefly shuts her eyes. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to open myself up, to really trust you.”

  Turning over her hand, I press a kiss into her palm. “Don’t say you’re sorry. If anyone, I should be the one to say that to you. Lately, I’ve been too focused on work. I was so afraid to lose it all: my business, my money, my success. And I told myself I was worried about my staff and the charities I support.”

  Elle shakes her head. “Hey, you can’t save everyone. You have to save yourself before you can help others.”

  A pang of guilt hits me in the chest. I wish I were as noble as she makes me out to be.

  I clear my throat. “I’ve got to say, that wasn’t the real reason behind my fears.”

  Lowering my head, I finally own up to what I didn’t dare to admit, even to myself.

  “No, it was pride. I was afraid of becoming a failure. To lose it all, end up with nothing, and be treated like dirt, like when I was a little boy roaming the streets. I’ve worked so hard to become successful. I thought that every cent I earned made me who I am today.

  “But if anything this experience has taught me it’s that my money doesn’t define me. And that in life, there isn’t anything more important than this.” I look up and gaze deep into her eyes.

  “You and me.”

  I cup her cheek and draw her mouth toward mine until we share the same breath. As she closes her eyes, I lightly brush my bottom lip against hers. The light contact sends a thrill through me, stirring a hungry need to go deeper. Elle feels the same way—she grabs a handful of my shirt to yank me closer to her. And when I crush my lips against hers, she parts her mouth, allowing my tongue to enter. I thread my fingers through her hair, pulling her close, as I explore the hot, dark depths of her mouth. She moans, and my hunger for her grows even stronger—I need to be closer, go deeper until I get lost in her and only her.

  But a rude jolt of my seat brings me back to earth, and I reluctantly break our kiss. Eyes are glaring at us from all sides, but I ignore them—Elle is all I care about.

  A flight attendant comes striding down the aisle, clearing tables and collecting headsets, while the pilot makes an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have just been cleared to land at JFK airport. As we start our descent, your seat and table should be in the upright position. Please make sure your seat belt is securely fastened.”

  With a sigh, Elle slides back into her seat, fixes her seatbelt, and directs her gaze to me. I see her love for me reflected in her eyes and feel my stomach drop—is it my feelings of love for her or the plane making its descent? I don’t know. All I know is I am falling—we are falling, to depths we have never reached before. And it doesn’t matter how far we fall, as long as we do it together.

  Elle shakes her head. “This has been a crazy holiday.”

  I nod. “It’s not exactly what I had in mind for you. But look at it this way, it can only get better from here on out.” I point to the window, where the millions of New York City’s lights are twinkling below us, and take her hand in mine.

  We have a lot of problems ahead of us. But for the first time, I am confident we will work them out somehow.

  Because as long as we have each other, we will have forever.

  Do you want more Elle and Ryder?

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  Extract from Burn Into Me (first part in the Burn Into Me series) by Jillian Leeson

  ELLE

  “I think I’m lesbian.”

  I study my sister’s face as I say this, and am handsomely rewarded when her eyes grow round as saucers. And that’s saying something when they’re normally almond-shaped, just like our mother, who is Chinese.

  Rose is two years older than me, and she’s got the straight-A college-student look down pat, complete with black-rimmed glasses and a stack of textbooks spilling out of her bag. I laugh when I see sparks shooting from her eyes.

  “You. Are. Not.” Her tone is that of the oldest-sister-knows-better, even though she knows that drives me up the wall, and more than once propelled me to do the exact opposite of her sisterly commands. “You’ve always liked boys. Even if you like to toss them aside after use.”

  I shrug. “That’s exactly what I mean. What’s the use of holding on? Once I’ve had my way with a guy, I just lose interest. And lately I’ve been wondering why. Aren’t girls supposed to want to hold on? So I was thinking, maybe I’ve been playing on the wrong side of the field.”

  To be honest, I don’t give a damn about relationships, especially with men. I’m happy with my life. I don’t need someone telling me what to do, where to go; I’ve had more than enough of that growing up. But I love getting Rose worked up—she’s such an easy target.

  And now she can’t wait to lay into me; I can tell by the way her knuckles have turned white from gripping the edge of the table.

  “Elle, I’m your sister. I’ve known you since birth. And if there’s anything I know you’re not, it’s that you’re not—you know. Ah, can’t even say the word. You do not like girls. And you never will.”

  We’re in a café downtown—a swanky one she picked just to annoy me—and her raised voice makes a few perfectly coiffed heads turn. Grinning, I sweep a pink-streaked lock of hair from my face and play with my spiked-barbell eyebrow piercing. My eye falls on a poster on the wall— a surrealist work showing a girl behind bars underneath the enlarged face of that same girl. I don’t know why, but the image resonates with me.

  Even though we’ve grown up together, there’s so much my sister doesn’t know about me. But in this case, she is dead right.

  And she is not even aware of my little experiment when I was a senior in high school. Sally-Ann Winters had been giving me funny looks all year, so I decided to put my sexuality to the test. After dragging her into an empty classroom, I tried to kiss her, but it just felt so…wrong. Almost a head taller, I had to bend down to reach her, making me feel like I was a guy—a weird and unwelcome feeling. And having her ample curves pressed against me didn’t arouse me, but made my skin crawl. That’s what growing up with two sisters does to you.

  “Maybe you’re right about me being straight. But it’s kinda annoying seeing those couples on campus, with their nauseating smiles and kisses. I just don’t get it. What’s the fun in that?”

  I glance over at the next table, where a couple is holding hands, looking deep in one another’s eyes, completely oblivious of the world around them. Furrowing my brow, I take a sip of my black double espresso.

  Rose lets out a loud sigh. “You have to realize, it’s all about quality. I know where you pick up guys—seedy bars, crazy parties, your anti-capital group.”

  “Anti-capitalist.”

  “Whatever. That’s not where you’ll find any guys worth your salt. And look at you. Look at how you dress. No wonder you’re attracting the wrong men.” She sips from her cup of English breakfast tea.

  “What’s wrong with my clothes? I happen to like this.”

  I point at my leopard print top from Goodwill, paired with cut-off denim shorts and high-heeled, thigh-high boots. A look I can pull off with my long legs, making me even taller than I am. It looks pretty restrained compared to my usual get-up.

  Shaking her head, Rose leans over the table.

  “I’ll tell you a secret. You know where to find the right guys? They’re either in their dorms or in the library, studying. Maybe you should try it for a change. Even if you don’t find anyone,
you’ll end up with a piece of paper that gets you somewhere in life.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, and I can assure you, I’ve heard it all before. In case you haven’t noticed, you sound just like your mother.”

  I don’t say “our”, refusing to acknowledge any bond with the woman. I haven’t seen her for almost a year now, and the only contact I have with her is through Rose, mainly to pass letters that were sent to the house. House—not home. I’ve never experienced what so many other kids take for granted. But I’m not the nostalgic type; I’ve lived on my own since I was sixteen, and home is my tiny studio in Harlem. I figured out early that I’d rather be alone than spend my time around people who make me feel even more worthless than I already am.

  “Will you make Thanksgiving this year?”

  The hopeful look in her eyes makes my heart sink, and I instantly regret bringing up the dreaded woman and prompting Rose to talk about her favorite family event. An event she thinks makes our dysfunctional family seem normal—American. Even though we get to eat handmade noodles and steamed dumplings instead of a simple turkey, and red bean soup for dessert.

  My phone starts playing “Bad to the Bone”, and I am relieved I have an excuse not to answer her question.

  “Hey babe, it’s me.”

  I smile. It’s Damon, one of the few males I respect and like to hang with. I don’t see him very often, but when we do get together, it’s always fun.

  “What’s up?” I say.

  “There’s a race on tonight. You wanna go?”

  “I don’t know. I’m tired today, didn’t have much sleep last night.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not gonna be the same without you. We’ll have that macadamia ice-cream you like after the race.”

  Only Damon knows how to press my buttons. “Alright then. Text me the time and place. I’ll be there.”

  After I’ve hung up, Rose looks at me with narrowed eyes.

  “Who was that? Was it that Damon?”

  She lifts one eyebrow, and I say, “Yeah, so what?”

  “He’s bad news and you know it.” Rose is scrunching up her nose in disgust, lifting up her glasses momentarily.

  “You’ve never even met him. But thanks for reminding me. Now I remember why I like him so much.”

  Rose knows Damon and I met at the tattoo parlor where I went for my first piercing—something she believes only bad girls would do. I still don’t understand why she still has faith in me; she doesn’t get that I’m also one of them.

  She says, “All I heard is he’s a college dropout and rides a motorcycle, that’s enough for me. I’m glad you told me you’re not into relationships, I’d be worried if you’d hook up with him.”

  She has no idea. Because she’d be worried if she knew where I was going tonight. Really, really worried.

  “There’s nothing going on between us. I wish there was, ‘cos I actually like him, but I just don’t have feelings for him. It’s probably because we’re too much alike.”

  “I’m just saying. Be careful.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  As soon as the word comes out of my mouth, I regret saying it. And predictably, Rose pounces on it like a starving dog thrown a bone.

  “You reminded me, Thanksgiving?”

  I sigh and mumble, “We’ll see.”

  I take the last sip of my coffee and stand up to leave.

  When I get home to my poky apartment, I slide off my boots and eat some leftover pasta salad from the day before. I finish it in two minutes and drop dead on the worn couch. I wasn’t kidding when I told Damon I was tired. I’d been up more than half the night zapping mindless TV and re-reading Brave New World when I couldn’t get myself to fall asleep.

  In the past few weeks, I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I don’t know why; nothing I’m aware of is bothering me. I haven’t had any of my usual dramas—no fights, no arguments, no screaming matches. It’s been life as usual: a few classes, weekday runs, work in the café, group meetings. Yet at night I can’t seem to wind down. I’m tense, on edge.

  I sit up when my phone double-beeps, and smile when I see it’s Damon texting me the details of the race. I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks now, and I’m glad I agreed to join him tonight. Perhaps this is what I needed all along to ease off the tension.

  I get up, and put on a flaming-skull t-shirt, jeans, and black boots. I sling my jacket over my shoulder when I close the door behind me.

  Time for some fun.

  RYDER

  A loud knock on the door breaks the silence in my office. I look up, welcoming the distraction from the piles of work that cover the expanse of my marble-topped desk.

  “Come in.”

  Before the door opens, I know it’s Alex. After a client once caught me on my desk with his ex, my PA screens and announces every single one of my guests, and only my best buddy has the privilege to barge in like this.

  “Hey, boss. Feel like doing something really exciting tonight?”

  Alex’s eyes are sparkling against his dark skin, and I sit up, shifting to the edge of my seat. I’ve been feeling irritable and restless lately, and I think I’m suffering severe withdrawal symptoms from a lack of challenges—killing for an adrenaline junkie like me.

  Strangely, the sports that used to give me that exhilarating rush, don’t do it for me anymore. These days, rock climbing and skydiving feel to me like smoking pot to douse a craving for a shot of heroin. Hearing Alex mention an activity that could potentially bring back the kick I so crave for, makes the hairs in my neck stand to attention.

  “What did you have in mind? Don’t tell me you want to go to Studio 69 again.”

  “No, nothing like that. You’re really going to like this one.”

  Alex and I like visiting exclusive clubs on Friday or Saturday night to pick up escorts for our weekly one-nighters. But in the past few months, even the hottest, impeccably-dressed women I’ve picked haven’t been able to take the edge off my restlessness.

  Alex crosses the distance between the door and my desk, loosening his red-and-white striped tie.

  “Ryder, my man, the time has come. I’ve finally decided you can put that beautiful bike of yours to some good use.”

  “You don’t mean—a street race?”

  Grinning, Alex nods his head, and excitement rips through me. “Yes!”

  I am normally a car fanatic, but have recently developed an interest in motorbikes, mostly due to Alex’s infectious enthusiasm. He was constantly cajoling me to join him on his road trips. Initially I told him I’d rather feel the wind in my hair with my McLaren 12C Spider’s top open, but once he persuaded me to take a spin on his Suzuki Hayabusa, or Busa, as it is known in bike circles, I was hooked. After numerous test rides, I bought my own bike: a BMW S1000RR, incurring the wrath of Busa die-hard Alex. But even he reluctantly acknowledged the superior power of my wheels.

  “When’s the race?”

  “Midnight tonight. I’ll pick you up, we’ll ride together. And don’t forget to bring some cash.”

  “How much?”

  “At least two grand. More if you want a bigger piece of the action.”

  I almost leap out of my chair and give Alex a hug, but I restrain myself and make do with a cool, “Thanks, dude. I’ll see you tonight.”

  I can’t remember feeling so excited for a very long time. Alex and I have been racing one another for a while now, and have even taken lessons from drag racing champion Rickey Gadson. I know I’m pretty decent, beating Alex more than once. But to my frustration, he keeps saying I am not ready for a real street race, claiming it is too dangerous for white boys like me. I don’t know what has changed his mind, but I don’t care. Tonight is the night I’ve been longing for.

  It seems like I’ve waited a lifetime before Alex picks me up in front of my underground garage. We ride into the cold, dark night along the Henry Hudson Parkway to the secret rendezvous place, which turns out to be an abandoned parking lot. It is crowded with what lo
oks like a hundred modified sport bikes, a lot of them Busas. On and around the bikes congregate their riders—leather-clad African Americans with colored doo-rags around their heads. Through the din of shouting, cussing and the rev of engines, DMX’s “Ruff Ryders Anthem” is playing. How appropriate. I smile, seeing it as a lucky sign.

  When I bring my bike to a stop and take off my helmet, a black dude wearing black Vanson leathers and a black-and-white doo-rag comes up to me.

  “Hey, white boy. Wha’cha doin’ here? Get yo’ ass home before yo’ get hurt.”

  He’s clearly out to intimidate me, and I’m about to mouth off at him, but Alex holds up his hand to me, signaling to keep my trap shut.

  “Chill out, man. He’s wit’ me,” he says, and the guy backs off, but not before he jerks his head to the side. Alex gets off his bike and follows him. Vanson Leathers introduces him to a tall, broad-shouldered guy of mixed race, and they start talking.

  After a few minutes, Alex saunters back and says, “He’s callin’ your ass out.”

  “Who? That guy you’re talking to?”

  “No, not him. The dude on the bike.” He points at a helmeted skinny rider on a red-and-white Suzuki GSX-R1000.

  “I don’t know. He looks like a scrawny college kid to me. I’m not sure if he’s in my league.”

  “Looks like you ain’t got no choice. You don’ want ‘em to think you’re bitchin’ up on ‘em.”

  I chuckle, amazed at Alex’s transformation from sharply dressed business executive to street-gangsta-in-leathers. “Don’t worry. Let them know I accept the race.”

  “How much? A grand?”

  “Okay.”

  Alex walks back up to them, and the tall guy nods once. He gets on his bike and my opponent, Alex, and I, as well as a small crowd, follow him onto the road. After a short ride, we arrive at a stretch of two-lane highway without streetlights. A couple of bikes ride on to the finish line at the quarter mile to call the race.