Set the Dark on Fire

by Jill Sorenson

  If she’d returned any of his calls, he’d have dropped the pickup game and asked her out in a heartbeat. She hadn’t, and he was pretty sure he knew why.

  Dylan couldn’t believe his stupid sister had busted in on them this morning. Of all the lousy luck. Shay hardly ever came into his room. Not only that, she’d been out boozing it up with her friends the night before, and she couldn’t handle her liquor worth shit. He’d expected her to sleep in late.

  His only chance to get laid in the past seventeen years, and she’d totally ruined it.

  He didn’t fool himself into thinking Angel would be up for a repeat performance. At eighteen, she was an elusive older woman, ten times better looking than he was, and way out of his league. She’d also made it clear she didn’t consider him boyfriend material, and as far as he knew, she didn’t sleep around. Damn it.

  She’d probably only let him kiss her out of gratitude.

  Last night had been totally out of control. By the time they got to his door, it was already late, and they were both tired, but he’d invited her inside anyway. To his surprise, she accepted. They started talking about music, and although he’d never had a girl in his room before, let alone a really hot one with a knockout body, he felt comfortable with her. Which had been cool, because he’d always been tongue-tied around her before.

  It was the bane of his existence. He had a 4.0 GPA. All of his classes were college prep, advanced placement, or honors. But when he tried to talk to girls, his brain shut off and his mouth went numb.

  Cursing himself, and his sister for interrupting the most exciting moment of his life, he continued walking, even though he knew Angel didn’t want him, and that he would probably never drum up the nerve to talk to her again.

  Like most of the houses on Calle Remolino, hers was quiet and dark. The Martinezes used to have a dog, a mangy old shepherd mix with a menacing bark and a mouthful of sharp teeth, but when he died, they hadn’t replaced him. Angel’s dad had a hard enough time feeding his kids.

  Feeling like a stalker, and a fool, he walked along the side of the house, wondering which bedroom was hers, hoping Fernando wouldn’t come out with a loaded shotgun. He was about to turn around and head home when he noticed the muted glow from the kitchen window.

  He stepped forward, drawn to the light.

  Angel was inside, standing at the sink, her back to him. Apron strings were tied loosely around her waist, and her ponytail, sooty black in the fluorescent light, was curled over one shoulder. She was washing dishes.

  He froze, struck by a powerful recollection of another time he’d spied on her without her knowing.

  Her brother, Juan Carlos, was a year younger than Dylan, and he’d always been an enterprising little bastard. Right now he was in juvenile hall for selling an assortment of drugs out of his locker at Palomar High. When Dylan was thirteen, he’d paid Juan Carlos five bucks for the opportunity to watch Angel take a shower.

  His gut clenched with guilt and longing, because he remembered the incident in achingly vivid detail.

  After pocketing the cash, Juan Carlos had taken him to his dad’s workshop, a small outbuilding next to the main house. The bathroom window was visible through the shop’s dusty windowpane. Juan Carlos instructed him to stand on the worktable, and from that vantage point, Dylan could see into the shower stall.

  A few minutes later, Angel had come in, taken off her robe, and stood under the shower spray in her bare naked glory.

  He was floored by the sight. He’d looked at dirty magazines before, of course, but this was different. She was real. While he stared, transfixed, she’d turned and let the water cascade down her slender back. By the time she started shampooing her hair, he was painfully aroused. With his eyes peeled and his mouth slack, he’d watched soapy rivulets course down her belly and into the dark triangle between her thighs.

  Juan Carlos must have decided upon seeing Dylan’s reaction that pimping out a peep show of his sister was wrong because he let out a feral growl and tackled him. They landed in a heap of arms and legs on the shop’s dirt floor, and Dylan, too stunned to fight back, didn’t even begin to defend himself until Juan Carlos bloodied his nose.

  “It was your idea,” he protested when Juan Carlos let up on him.

  “Cochino,” Juan Carlos shot back, spitting on the dirt. “I changed my mind.”

  Dylan groaned and stayed where he was on the floor, unable to move, unable to think. Incredibly, the furious attack hadn’t eased the pressure in his groin.

  “Sácate, cabrón,” Juan Carlos said, standing him up and pushing him out the door.

  Walking was difficult, for the clutch of desire refused to release him. Blood was dripping from his nose but he hardly felt it. He couldn’t see anything but wet skin. He couldn’t think of anything but hot sex.

  He got as far away as he could manage, into the copse of trees near his house, and jerked open the fly of his pants. A couple of awkward strokes and he was convulsing with pleasure, sinking to his knees and gasping for air. It was kind of like dying, he supposed. And so compelling an act … that when he’d recovered well enough to catch his breath, he immediately chose to die again.

  Now, four years later, he was an expert in self-gratification. But he still felt awkward around Angel Martinez, the sight of her still made him breathless, and the prospect of seeing her naked again still had the power to bring him to his knees.

  Angel finished drying the dishes and hung up her apron with an exhausted yawn. She hadn’t slept at all last night, and Saturdays were always rough. The amount of housework this family generated was astronomical.

  Rubbing her tired eyes, she left the kitchen via the back door and rounded the side of the house, anticipating nothing more adventurous than a full night’s sleep.

  Her thoughts scattered as a man came out of no where, clamping his arm around her waist and securing his hand over her mouth. Her first instinct was to scream, but she couldn’t draw breath. When she tasted the salty skin of his palm, she bit down hard, sinking her nails into his forearm and kicking out with her legs at the same time.

  “Ow!” he said, releasing her.

  Angel whirled around, to see Dylan Phillips standing in the shadows. “Hijo de puta,” she gasped, holding her hand over her galloping heart. “Are you loco?”

  “Sorry,” he said with a wince, cradling his injured palm. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was afraid you would see me and scream.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

  When he made no reply, she realized he’d had no intention of approaching her back door. He’d been hanging around in the dark, spying on her.

  For a genius, he acted pretty dumb sometimes.

  “Come on,” she said, walking toward her bedroom door. Last year, when she turned eighteen, her dad had converted his dusty old workshop into a studio for her. It still didn’t have electricity, but it boasted other luxurious amenities, such as a private bathroom with running water and a door that locked.

  Inside, she lit the kerosene lamp before she turned to face him.

  “Is this your room now?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  She scanned the contents of her bedroom, wondering if he was being sarcastic. The place was sparsely furnished, cramped, and rustic, but it was hers. Her jail. Her only sanctuary. “Is your hand bleeding?” she asked, dragging her gaze back to him.

  Frowning, he rubbed a thumb over the wound on his palm. “Nah. You didn’t break the skin. I think it’ll bruise, though. It hurts like a mother.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, it was my fault. I didn’t mean to remind you of what happened last night.” Even in the meager light, she noticed the flush that stole over his cheekbones. “At the Graveyard, I mean. Not in my room.”

  He wasn’t smooth, but he was chivalrous. He’d proven that much the night before. “Why did you come here?” she asked, annoyed with herself for finding him so appealing.

  “
You forgot to take the CD when you left.” Shrugging out of his backpack, he rummaged around for it. “Here.”

  She took the disc from him reluctantly. Before last night, she’d never have considered hooking up with him. He’d always been her little brother’s friend, the skinny kid whose hair stuck up all over the place, the nerdy boy next door.

  Since Angel had dropped out of high school, he’d changed. He’d grown about six inches taller, for one. He was still skinny, but now he had a lot of lean muscle under those baggy clothes. He was still nerdy, with his thrift store T-shirts and serious blue eyes, but these days he made quirky look hot. His hair still stuck up in the middle, but even that flaw worked in his favor. He had this new punk rock haircut, short on the sides and spiky on top.

  The biggest difference was in his demeanor. He’d always been mischievous, and he’d often been angry. Now that he’d matured, he’d learned how to guard his emotions more effectively, but he was still troubled.

  He fairly smoldered with pent-up rage.

  With his edgy new look, pretty blue eyes, and fuck-you attitude, Dylan Phillips wasn’t just hot. He was dangerous.

  She studied him from beneath lowered lashes, thinking it was too bad she wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend. Because after a few basic instructions, he’d been an exceptional kisser. He had great instincts. And good hands.

  “Dylan,” she said, sitting down on the edge of her bed and urging him to take a seat beside her. The eager expression on his face told her everything she needed to know. “I don’t want there to be any confusion, because of last night. I know I said one thing and did another, but after what happened, I guess I felt … indebted to you.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Is that how you always repay your debts?”

  She flushed. Sometimes she liked him better when he was at a loss for words. “Of course not. It’s just that you’ve always been more like—”

  “A friend?”

  “A kid brother,” she corrected, pulling no punches.

  His eyes darkened. “I’m not a kid.”

  She couldn’t help but remember the way he’d touched her last night, the weight of his body on hers, and the delicious friction of his nylon basketball shorts as he moved against her. “No,” she agreed, swallowing dryly.

  “Are you seeing someone else?” he demanded.

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t see why we can’t—”

  “Sleep together on the down-low?”

  “I never said that,” he murmured, less angry with her than she wanted him to be. “I’d be happy just to kiss.” His gaze, which was usually trained on her face, refreshingly enough, dropped to the apex of her thighs. “On the down-low. Or wherever else.”

  Her belly warmed at his insinuation. She was tempted to pull him over her and let him have another go. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that boys always thought kissing led to sex, no matter what they said. Her only other intimate encounter had been with a major fumbler, and she wasn’t in any hurry to make that mistake again. Nor was she knowledgeable enough to think she could tutor a virgin.

  Sometimes it was better to be cruel than kind.

  “Look, Dylan, you’re a great guy,” she began, implementing a classic brush-off technique, “and I’m sure you’ll make some other girl very happy. But I’m not looking for a boyfriend right now. Even if I were, I’d choose someone older …” she had to force herself to continue, knowing this part would sting, “… and more experienced.”

  His eyes dulled with disappointment. She knew that in his short life, he’d been let down too many times. Well, so had she.

  “Right,” he said, pulling his backpack on as he stood. He may be young, and easily bruised, but he’d never been dense. “Tell Juan Carlos I said hi, will you?”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling too brightly.

  He paused on his way out, and she held her breath, afraid he would be so selfless as to extend her his friendship. If you ever just want to talk … he’d say, and her façade would crumble.

  Fortunately for her, pride won out over nobility, and he left without another word.

  Dylan kicked an aluminum can out of his way as he headed back down the gravel road, moonlight and self-loathing his only companions.

  He would never understand women.

  His own mother had been diaphanous and distant, a pale, pretty mystery. He’d given up trying to figure her out, or even capture her attention, at a very young age. She’d rarely ventured from the confines of her room or the safety of her daydreams. When faced with harsh reality, she only retreated further.

  He hadn’t even been able to count on her in an emergency. When he was seven, he’d fallen from a tree in the backyard and broken his arm. He’d run to her bedroom, screaming, his arm hanging at an odd angle by his side. She’d patted him on the head and told him an obscure fairy tale. They didn’t have phone service at the time, because she’d forgotten to pay the bill, and he hurt too much to walk down to the Martinez place.

  He remembered sitting on the front step for what seemed like hours, snot-nosed and teary-eyed, until Shay came home from school.

  His sister had mothered him more than Lilah over the years, but now they were more like strangers than siblings. Shay said she cared about him, but she spent most of her time at work. She said she was proud of him, but she paid more attention to him when he was in trouble. She was pleased by his grades and she came to his big games, but they never talked about anything important. It was like they were stuck in limbo, refusing to discuss the past, unable to relate to each other in the present, and afraid to speculate on the future.

  Shay was the closest person in the world to him, but he still found her impossible to read. Why didn’t women just say what they meant?

  Although Dylan could solve the most complicated quadratic equations, he couldn’t figure out, for the life of him, what Angel Martinez was thinking.

  She said she was sorry he’d fought with Chad over her, and then brushed her lips over his abraded knuckles like what he’d done had turned her on. She said she didn’t want a boyfriend, but when he kissed her, she kissed him back. She told him not to take off any of her clothes, but she hadn’t been shy about helping him out of his.

  She said he was like a kid brother to her, but she’d moaned and dug her fingernails into his shoulders when he’d moved against her.

  That last part had been exquisite. He’d stripped down to his basketball shorts and she’d been soft and pliant beneath him, mouth open, legs spread. A few more minutes and he probably would have embarrassed himself.

  If Angel didn’t like him, not even a little bit, why had she let him do that? Had she been toying with him, getting him all revved up for fun?

  Maybe his friends were right. Maybe she was a tease.

  In her bedroom just now, she’d been giving him the same sultry looks as last night, and he’d been almost certain she wanted him to kiss her again. Then she’d torn his heart out of his chest and stomped on it. And although she smiled at him before he walked away, he could have sworn she was about to cry.

  Like she was the one who was devastated instead of him.

  “What the fuck?” he muttered as he approached his driveway. The house was dark now, so Shay was probably asleep. Good. This morning she’d been too rushed to give him a talk about the birds and the bees, but he knew one was coming.

  Jesus. She’d probably show him an educational video. Lions in Love, or some shit.

  Groaning, he rubbed his hand over his face. His dad was a total loser, almost as bad as his mom, but he hadn’t shirked out on all of his duties as a parent. The day Dylan came home with blood on his face from the fight with Juan Carlos, the old man sat him down for a talk. Dylan spilled the whole story, including the part about watching Angel in the shower and his powerful experience in the oak trees after.

  Rather than reprimanding Dylan for being a Peeping Tom, his dad had smiled and clapped him on the back. Along with a bunch of o
utdated sex advice, he’d given Dylan a stack of old Playboys and told him to have at it.

  Not all of his dad’s pointers were worthless, now that he thought about it.

  Hank Phillips was a “make love not war” kind of guy, and Dylan rolled his eyes when his dad talked too much hippie crap, but he did say one thing that stuck: don’t force it. He’d stressed that women’s bodies were gifts, not prizes. Hers to give, not yours to take.

  Which was one of the main reasons Dylan had intervened when Travis and Chad had been hassling Angel last night.

  Scowling, because his friends were idiots, he used his key to unlock the front door and went straight to his bedroom. Normally he raided the fridge as soon as he came home, but tonight he wasn’t hungry. He shed his outer clothes and climbed into bed, vowing to put Angel Martinez out of his mind for good.

  It wasn’t like there weren’t any other pretty girls in Tenaja Falls.

  He liked Jennie Heinz a lot. She had a great body and decent taste in music. So what if she giggled over her bad grades and bragged about getting stoned? No one was perfect. And, let’s face it, he wasn’t that interested in her brain.

  Dylan decided he would try to talk to her on Monday. But it was Angel’s face he pictured, not Jennie’s, in the vulnerable moment before he drifted off to sleep.

  6

  Luke’s fourth day as interim sheriff started out much the same as the previous three. He hadn’t slept well in his jailhouse-style digs at the firehouse. A couple of wet-behind-the-ears Explorer Scouts made runny eggs, muddy coffee, and a lot of superfluous noise.

  It was clear that the firefighters-in-training didn’t mean any harm, but if Luke heard any more questions about Vegas or jokes about showgirls, he’d lose it. Had he ever been that young and stupid? He couldn’t remember.

  By the time Luke got to the station Deputy Snell was already there, sitting at his desk reading the newspaper. Even more surprising, Luke smelled fresh coffee, a better blend than the stuff he’d choked down earlier.