Set the Dark on Fire

by Jill Sorenson

  “No, because you’re incapable of thinking about anyone besides yourself.”

  His jaw dropped. “That’s not tr—”

  “Yes it is,” she said, jumping to her feet. He stood also, not about to let a short girl tower over him on his own turf. “You’re so angry about your mother dying and your father leaving that you can’t appreciate what you have.”

  “I have nothing!” he protested, throwing his arms out at his sides. She need only look around his disaster area of a room to see the proof.

  “You have everything,” she said, startling him with her vehemence. “You have the potential to be anything. You can leave this town and go wherever you want, do whatever you want, become whoever you want.” Her voice softened once again, growing irresistibly husky.

  “Do you know what I would give to have that, just for a moment? To be able to look at words and numbers and just … understand?”

  He stared back at her in silence, thinking his intellect was as much a curse as a gift. There was so much pressure on him to live up to his “potential.” What if he didn’t want to be all he could be? What if he’d rather blow up the world than make it a better place?

  Sometimes he wished he was normal. A high IQ and straight-A average had never won him a date, or earned him any friends at school. Everyone treated him like a leper. Even his own family.

  “Do you know what I would give to have what you have?” he asked.

  “What do I have?”

  “A dad who cares enough to stick around,” he said, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “And three brothers who would give their lives for you.”

  She let out a flustered breath. “Please. My brothers treat me like a maid.”

  “No. Juan Carlos jumped me once just for looking at you.”

  His statement gave her pause. “Really? I don’t remember that.”

  He laughed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, not about to elaborate on the incident. “It’s true. I had to be very careful about checking you out after that.”

  The corner of her mouth tipped up. “You weren’t that careful.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said, disagreeing quietly. “If I’d stared at you as often as I wanted to, I’d have been beaten down on a daily basis. And if he knew what I was imagining … he’d have killed me.”

  Her smile disappeared. He didn’t think she was offended by his admission, but he didn’t fool himself into believing she was flattered. She’d hate him if she found out he’d seen her naked, and be disgusted by how many times he’d pleasured himself to that mental image. Dylan knew next to nothing about girls, but he was pretty sure they didn’t want to be jerked off to and treated like sex objects.

  Feeling heat creep up his neck, he sat back down at his desk, taking a paper and pen in hand. “What’s the first line?”

  She took a deep breath and sang the song again, her sexy, raspy voice vibrating down his spine like a silken caress, all the more effective a cappella. Her songwriting skills were impressive, but it was her singing that blew him away. The hairs on his arms stood up and every fiber of his being was aware of her, awakened by her, aroused by her.

  As she finished the last verse, he gripped the pen so tightly that blood welled up from the fresh cut on his hand.

  “What did you do to yourself?” she asked, wrapping her slender fingers around his wrist. Bringing his hand toward her, she laid it across her lap, palm up.

  “Nothing,” he said, sounding hoarse. “It happened at work.”

  “Work?”

  “I got a job on the rez. Casino construction.”

  Her lips parted in astonishment. “You didn’t.”

  “I did,” he asserted, annoyed by her reaction.

  “Oh, Dylan,” she murmured, making the same face Shay had. Concern and confusion, like he’d signed up for the front line in Iraq. “You’ll ruin your hands.”

  “I’ll ruin my hands?” he repeated, angry and incredulous. “Who the fuck do you think I am, Itzhak Perlman?”

  She flinched. “Who’s that?”

  “Never mind,” he muttered, pulling away from her.

  “You need a bandage.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Where’s the stuff? I’ll do it.” Undaunted by his attitude, she sashayed out of his room and into the bathroom, rifling through the medicine cabinet like she owned the place. “Ooh,” she said, examining a small spray canister. “Man perfume. Where do you put this?”

  He shifted in his chair. “Come here and I’ll show you.”

  She laughed and kept looking until she found some rubbing alcohol and a liquid bandage. Intent on coddling him as if he were one of her kid brothers, she sat down on his bed and brought his hand toward her once again. “I didn’t mean to imply that your hands are feminine,” she murmured, cleaning the cut with a square of moistened gauze.

  He sucked in a sharp breath.

  “They aren’t.” Leaning forward slightly, she lifted his hand to her mouth and blew, drying his skin.

  If she’d put her face in his lap, his reaction couldn’t have been stronger. Who knew his palm was connected directly to his groin? One touch, and he was totally turned on.

  “Does that hurt?” she said, lifting her head in surprise.

  He realized he’d just groaned. “No,” he said, clearing his throat. “Are you kidding? It feels good.”

  She rolled her eyes, thinking he was lying. “Don’t move,” she warned, applying a thin line of blue adhesive to the cut. When she lowered her head again, her soft breath fanning his skin, he held himself motionless, caught between exquisite pleasure and mild pain.

  Dude. What a time to find out he was a masochist.

  His excitement was impossible to miss; and the sudden tension in the room, difficult to ignore. She straightened abruptly, her gaze flying to his face. “I’m—sorry,” she stuttered, dropping his hand like it was hot.

  He clenched his jaw, disinclined to apologize for something he had so little control over. She knew he wanted her. If she was shocked that blowing on him got him all worked up, that was just too damned bad. He hadn’t asked her to come over here and tease him.

  But she didn’t look shocked, any more than she’d looked offended when he admitted to entertaining impure thoughts about her. If anything, she seemed kind of … curious.

  “Do you enjoy this?” he asked, an edge in his voice.

  She moistened her lips. Her eyes had this smoky glaze to them, a dark heat he wanted to sink into. “Enjoy what?”

  “Getting me hard? Having me lust after you?”

  “No, I …” She trailed off, an almost indiscernible blush tainting her cheeks. On her, embarrassment looked delicious. “I enjoy being … desired. But I don’t like your anger.”

  He wondered, and not for the first time, if her past experiences had caused her to be confused about her sexuality. Hell, he was confused about his, and he didn’t even have any past experiences. Maybe she was afraid of him. Maybe she just wasn’t ready.

  He was more than ready, so ready he was about to explode. Even so, if she’d hinted that she wanted to pursue something romantic, rather than sexual, he’d have given her all the time she needed. Instead, she was gazing up at him with those sultry black eyes and “kiss me” lips, sending signals even the horniest kid in the world couldn’t misinterpret.

  With a Herculean effort, he tore his gaze away from her, because he was in no mood to be jerked around—encouraged and rejected—yet again.

  If she’d waited another minute, he’d have walked her home, but she rushed out of his room before he’d recovered well enough to follow. And she left both copies of her lyrics on the top of his desk.

  He stared at the pages for a long time, comparing his slanted scrawl to her awkward, meticulous letters until the pages blurred.

  Making a strangled, furious sound, he swept his arm across the surface of his desk, clearing it. When that failed to satisfy, he stood and upended the son of a bitch, sending it
careening across the room. One sharp corner tore a jagged edge in the drywall before it landed on its side, contents spilling from the drawers, littering the floor.

  Angel ran blindly, tears stinging her eyes, the cool night air biting her cheeks and upper arms. She stumbled over a rock on the side of the road and almost went sprawling, but she didn’t slow down until she reached the edge of her father’s property.

  Cutting across the yard in silence, she approached her tiny studio, tiptoeing in the dark, panting lightly.

  As she put the key in the lock, someone laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “Madre de Dios,” she blurted, almost jumping out of her skin.

  Her father chuckled at her skittishness. “Lo siento,” he said, putting his hands up. “You are very nervous these days, mi angelita.”

  Angelita. Little angel. She was hardly that. “No, Papá,” she protested, dragging her fingers through her hair. “I was just—”

  “Visiting the neighbor boy? Dylan Phillips?”

  She moistened her lips, tasting salt from the tears she’d already forgotten.

  “Let’s talk,” he said, frowning at her closed door. He’d installed the lock himself, saying a girl her age needed some privacy, and had rarely visited her here. “Do you want to go to the kitchen?”

  As surreptitiously as possible, she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “My room is fine.” She opened the door and turned on the lamp, glad she’d had the foresight to put her bus schedules away. Gesturing toward the only chair, she took a seat on the edge of her bed, her heart pounding with trepidation.

  Her dad was quiet, steady, reliable. He worked his fingers to the bone for their family and had never asked her to do the same. She couldn’t imagine what he wanted to speak to her about, because he wasn’t one for long, meaningful discussions. A nod or a smile was the most encouragement he gave, a simple reprimand the most punishment.

  “Qué honda?” she murmured. What’s up?

  He hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching, as if searching for the right words. Deep grooves etched into his forehead, making him appear far older than he was. “I know you have had a hard time since your mother left.”

  “I’ve been okay,” she mumbled.

  “Your brothers have done well. Except for Juan Carlos, of course. And Yoli hardly remembers. But you …” He placed his fist against the center of his chest. “Te dueles.”

  She hurt. Fresh tears sprang into her eyes, much too easily.

  “Do you know that when I saw the dead woman lying there, I thought it was you?”

  She shook her head, astounded by his words.

  “I knew you had gone out the night before, and when I left before dawn the next morning, you had not yet returned. I was very worried.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, hanging her head in shame.

  “Do not be. You are entitled to have fun with your friends. To live a life of your own. To make your own mistakes.”

  When he said “mistakes,” he looked into her eyes, and she knew he understood what she’d been going through better than he let on.

  “I know what happens at the Graveyard, and I will not tell you what to do. But I hate to see you going with boys to fill an empty place in your heart. They will only take from you, and leave you emptier than before.”

  She stared down at her pointy-toed boots, unable to claim she didn’t know firsthand how true his words were.

  “What happened with Tony? Did he mistreat you?”

  Sniffling, she shrugged her shoulders. “Not really.” Tony Duran had been her boyfriend for almost three years, and in that time he’d never once raised his voice to her. He might not have ever really noticed her. They’d certainly never engaged in a passionate argument like she and Dylan. Nor a passionate anything else.

  They’d broken up after Christmas, after Chad. She hadn’t told him what she’d done, or given any reason for her decision, but he’d accepted it the way he did everything else, with neither question nor complaint. If she’d proposed marriage, his reaction might have been the same, so she didn’t waste any time crying over him. It was kind of hard to feel upset about ending your relationship with a robot.

  “I will buy you a car,” her father decided. “I know you want to get out of the house. Now that Yoli is in school, you could get a job, or take classes at the community college.”

  “You can’t afford to buy me a car,” she protested. “The boys need new shoes, and the dryer’s busted, and the hot water heater’s going out. If you didn’t send money to Mamá—”

  His face darkened with anger, and she knew she’d gone too far. She clamped her mouth shut, but she couldn’t take back those impulsive words.

  “One of my customers has an old car for sale,” he continued in a tone that brooked no argument. “I will see if he is interested in trading for services.”

  Angel wasn’t a perfect, dutiful daughter, but neither was she openly defiant. She didn’t talk back to her father. Showing disrespect, in her family, wasn’t an option. Although she knew he couldn’t buy her a car, not even an old junker, without cutting corners elsewhere, literally taking food from her siblings’ mouths, she didn’t say anything more.

  Nor could she tell him of her plans, because it would break his spirit, and he would never agree to let her go.

  Ending the discussion, he stood slowly and shuffled out the door, moving the way he always did when his back was hurting. Like a man who’d suffered several lifetimes’ worth.

  Wishing circumstances were different, and that she had any other choice to make, Angel went to her wardrobe, took out her only suitcase, and began to pack.

  18

  Shay couldn’t invite Luke back to her bedroom while her brother was home, and he couldn’t sneak her into the firehouse. Booking a hotel room wasn’t an option in a town as small as Tenaja Falls either, so they were going to the Visitors’ Center at Dark Canyon.

  It was risky, but not as risky as tearing each other’s clothes off in a public parking lot.

  She knew Luke only wanted her for sex, and that she was allowing him to treat her like the kind of woman he thought she was. If it was any consolation, she only wanted one thing from him, too. For the first time in a long while, she was willing to give up the standards nobody believed she had, and enjoy a man solely for his body.

  And what a body it was.

  She studied him as he drove along the deserted road toward Dark Canyon, eyes trailing over his flat stomach and sinewy arms, admiring the contrast between his pale gray T-shirt and bronzed skin. He handled a truck the way men did, leaning back as far as the space allowed, thighs braced wide, his right arm fully extended and his hand resting lightly on top of the wheel. After meeting up with Jesse’s square-shaped face, his knuckles must be throbbing, but he didn’t complain. His position was deceptively relaxed, belied only by the tenseness in his jaw and the hard line of his triceps.

  Not to mention the ridge of his erection beneath his button fly.

  She pulled her gaze away from the front of his jeans, uncomfortably aware of her own arousal. Her nipples strained against the soft cotton T-shirt, and between her legs she felt achy and swollen. In her heightened state of consciousness, the lacy fabric of her panties against her sensitive flesh was both pleasurable and abrasive.

  She squirmed in her seat, wishing he would put his hand there. Wishing she had the nerve to put her hand there.

  A few moments before they arrived, she unlatched her seat belt.

  “You stay over there,” he growled, proving he was attuned to her every move.

  Smiling, she toyed with the frayed edge of her skirt, which was almost short enough to be called indecent. His eyes traveled down the length of her legs, then jerked back to the road.

  Heart racing with anticipation, she reached underneath her skirt and took off her panties, careful to avoid getting the stretchy lace snagged on her high heels. He glanced at her again, eyes black with lust, nostrils flaring as if he could sme
ll her.

  Well, maybe he could. Her panties were very wet.

  Scarcely able to believe her audacity, she opened her purse and dropped the lacy red thong inside, stashing it with a smart click.

  He turned his attention back to driving, his expression promising he would make her pay later for taunting him.

  She couldn’t wait.

  As soon as they pulled into the parking lot, she got out of the truck and strode toward the front entrance, keys in hand. While he stood behind her, heat coming off of him in waves, she unlocked the door to the Visitors’ Center.

  Dark Canyon State Preserve headquarters wasn’t an ideal location for a tryst. There were shelves of informational brochures, examples of taxidermy that were as creepy as ghosts in the moonlight, and glass cases of biological items such as owl barf and coyote scat.

  A romantic getaway, it was not.

  Bypassing the scientific displays, she took Luke by the hand and led him back to her office. There was nothing in there but her computer desk, a couple of office chairs, and an old wool love seat, but at least they were alone.

  Ignoring the overhead light, she clicked on her desk lamp, illuminating the small space with a cozy glow. When she snuck a glance at him, the look on his face was priceless. He obviously found the room lacking in sexual possibilities, and she couldn’t blame him, but he was so out of his element the situation struck her as comical.

  “You think too much,” she decided, grabbing him by the front of the shirt. Instead of kissing him senseless, she played a bit coy, nibbling her way across his jaw. When he tried to capture her mouth with his, she pulled her head away, teasing him. His eyes flashed with pique. And arousal.

  With no panties on, she could feel moisture slicking her inner thighs. Wanting more freedom, more reaction, more sensation, she stepped back and took off her shirt, dragging the soft cotton over her aching nipples as she bared her breasts.

  He didn’t blink once.

  Smiling, she wiggled her tiny skirt down her hips and stood brazenly before him, clad in high heels and her birthday suit.