Playing with Fire

by Lexi Ryan

  She squeezes her eyes shut. “If we’re going to try this, I need to move slowly.”

  “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “I don’t mean physically,” she says. “It’s not as simple as that. I’m saying I need to slow this down emotionally. It’s not easy for me to open up to people.”

  “Then I will astound you with my patience.”

  She swallows so hard that I hear it. “It’s not going to be easy for me. Any of this. Can you promise me that if I need to end this, you’ll let me go? No questions asked?”

  “I don’t want you to be my prisoner.” I trace her bottom lip with my thumb. “I want you to be my girl.”

  * * *

  Nix

  Instead of a sexy shower and a trip to Max’s bed, he made me dinner. Honestly, after my little freak-out in the tree house, this is exactly what I need—no-pressure intimate moments with Max. Before we came inside, I made a decision. I’m going to tell Max about Patrick.

  He grilled a couple of steaks and some veggies and threw some potatoes in the oven. The only problem with this romantic setup and perfectly delicious meal is that after twelve hundred second guesses where my plan is concerned, my stomach pretty much hates me.

  I attempt a small bite of my steak before leaning back in my seat. “You can cook.”

  Max grins. “Yes, well, when you’re trying to raise a princess and get a struggling business off the ground, money for takeout isn’t exactly in the budget.”

  “Do you still cook a lot?” I ask. “Now that money isn’t an issue?”

  He nods. “Claire and I have dinner together every night. My mom did that for us. No matter how shitty my dad was being, I had that stability. A hot meal with Mom every night. It’s not that Claire has anything bad in her life like my dad was for me, but those memories of simple meals at the dinner table stuck with me. I wanted to give that to her.”

  My heart squeezes, like it does every time he talks about his daughter.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Max says.

  I drop my gaze to my barely touched steak. “I don’t think you’d like it.”

  “I don’t have to like everything you’re thinking, Doc. That’s the beauty of free will and all that. Remember, I’m not interested in a prisoner.”

  “Okay.” I take a breath. “I was thinking that, as much as I’d like to indulge in an affair with you, I’m not sure it should extend beyond when Claire gets home.”

  He props his forearms on the table and rubs his forehead before shaking his head. “Well, I guess you called that one.”

  “Don’t like it, do you?”

  He holds up a hand. “Only because I thought we had this conversation outside an hour ago.”

  “That was about me falling for you. This is about you protecting your daughter.”

  Any humor left in his face falls away, just as I knew it would. “What are you talking about?”

  My stomach churns unhappily. “You ask me what I’m so afraid of, and the question isn’t what but who. I went to dinner with Cade because I wanted his help tracking down the man I thought might be stalking me.” Max tenses, and I say, “His name is Patrick McCane.” I hold his gaze as I speak. “I haven’t seen him in thirteen years. Cade was trying to track him down because I thought he might be behind some of the stuff that was happening.”

  “Stuff? What’s happened other than the fire in your yard?”

  “Weird phone calls, feeling like I’m being followed and once . . . I thought I saw him in my house.” I lower my voice. “That’s why I’m afraid to sleep there.”

  “You told Cade about this and not me?” His voice is a deadly whisper, and hurt shows in his eyes.

  “I didn’t want you to know anything about my past; it’s the reason Kent left me.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’m not Kent. I don’t scare off so easily.” When I don’t speak, he says, “Start from the beginning.”

  The beginning. Jesus. I don’t know if I can.

  Max squeezes my hand. I take a deep breath and start at the very beginning.

  “There was a fire the night I was born. My mom inhaled a bunch of smoke and they weren’t sure she was going to make it, but she did. And they did an emergency C-section, and I made it too.”

  “And that’s why she named you Phoenix?”

  I nod. “She lived in a commune when she got pregnant with me. It was strict. People had a hard time getting out.”

  “So, like a cult?” Max asks.

  I flinch. “One person’s cult is another person’s community. People on the news talk about cults like there’s a clear-cut definition—this is a cult and that isn’t—but we all live in the confines of communities. Some are just more culturally acceptable than others.” Fear of what Max must think of me knots my throat, but instead of looking at me with disgust, his eyes are full of patience and compassion.

  “Okay,” he says. “So she was living in a commune.”

  “It wasn’t very big. A few houses and a church. Someone torched the church while everyone was inside.”

  “Jesus.”

  “She named me Phoenix, and I imagine at first she was grateful that I’d risen from the ashes of that old life.” I shift my eyes to the wall. I can’t look Max in the eye while I tell him the truth about my family. My mother used to accuse me of being ashamed of who I am and where I came from. She was right.

  “She didn’t talk about the old commune much. But when she did, it was almost as if it was a living thing to her—a spouse she’d wanted to escape and then regretted losing.” I take a deep breath, and the words seem to tumble from my lips. “Mom tried, but she couldn’t handle living on the outside, and little by little she began to convince herself that I brought that fire into her world. I took away her family.”

  Max’s jaw hardens, and his nostrils flare. “Her family?” he asks. “What about you?”

  “My mother is a paranoid schizophrenic, Max. For whatever reason, the commune made her feel safe . . . or at least gave her a place to direct her paranoia. Us versus them was comforting to her, and on the outside she couldn’t have that. There was no ‘us,’ only ‘them’ everywhere she turned.”

  “Was she officially diagnosed? Did she ever get help?”

  I trace the scars on my ribcage through my shirt. “Some social workers tried, and she was medicated on and off for a few years, but she got pregnant with my little sister and had to stop taking the meds. Honestly, in retrospect, she was never what professionals would call stable. She probably should have been institutionalized. But she was the only mother I’d ever known, and she did have good days.”

  His fingertips brush across my shoulder. I love how patient he’s being. When I tried to tell Kent about this, his questions were rapid-fire, as if he could be protected from my family’s illness if only he had the information fast enough. He didn’t mean to be cruel. He was just so far out of his element.

  The thought of Kent sends a sharp pain through my stomach, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Max isn’t Kent. I need to trust that he’s stronger than Kent was and that he can handle this. When I open my eyes, Max is waiting, his lips pressed together.

  “It was okay, though,” I say. “I learned her triggers early on and sheltered her as much as I could from anything I thought might set her off. She worked from home writing articles for some evangelist’s website, and I went to school, took care of my little sister, and made sure no one ever met my mom who didn’t have to.”

  “That must have been hard,” he says.

  “I wish I could say it wasn’t that bad, but the truth is it was rough. When I was sixteen years old, I met Patrick. He was eighteen and charming and smart. I fell for him before I ever learned that he had ties to a commune much like the one my mom had once lived in.”

  “Shit,” Max whispers.

  “Everything happened so fast. One minute, I was dating this guy, having my first kiss long after all the other girls I knew, and the
next Mom, Amy, and I were moving into a commune, and I was being told I had to dress a certain way and act a certain way.” I tug my bottom lip between my teeth. “At first, it was nice. I’d been carrying the brunt of the adult responsibilities at home for so long, it was nice to feel like everything wasn’t on my shoulders.” I exhale slowly. “And, of course, there was Patrick.”

  “You were in love with him.”

  I nod. “The crazy hard, irrational love unique to young people. He could talk philosophy and he read voraciously. If someone had asked my sixteen-year-old self about my dream guy before I met Patrick, he’s pretty much what I would have described.”

  “Only he was tied to this cult.”

  “He’d been raised in Camelot,” I explain, still squirming at the word “cult.” “His father was the commune leader—he’d established the place when Patrick was a toddler. Patrick’s mother had the dubious honor of being Vicar Jeremiah’s first wife.”

  “First wife? So were they Mormons or something?”

  I laugh, an ugly, hollow sound. “Or something. Camelot wasn’t that simple to pin down. In some ways, they were very fundamentalist—women were to serve, children seen not heard, male-centered leadership within the community and the individual households. But then they believed in things like runes and Tarot cards and solstice celebrations. It was an amalgamation of all the pieces of religions that appealed to Vicar Jeremiah. He had many wives. The other men—the few there were—could only take one wife.”

  “Where did he find his wives?” Max asks. “Was it a large commune?”

  “Not very big at all. When I was there, the vicar probably had fewer than a hundred disciples living in Camelot. Some of them seemed to have been with him forever, and others were like my mom—like-minded single mothers who, from what I could gather, were desperate for help in a world that seemed stacked against them. Jeremiah welcomed them into the fold and taught them and their children. Just like he took in my family.” I take a breath and lift my eyes to Max, who kisses my knuckles. The sweetness of the gesture nearly destroys me. When I told Kent the story of my time in Camelot, he was disgusted that I would try to defend it. It’s easy to criticize that world when the outside has always been good to you, but as grateful as I am to have escaped, I recognized then and now that it offered the stability my family needed.

  “So it was good at first,” Max says, “if unconventional. But something happened?”

  I nod and feel tears fill my throat. It’s not grief that’s bringing it on. It’s Max’s compassion. With every word of my story, he takes a tiny piece of its weight, as if a mighty dam has held my tears back for thirteen years and he’s deconstructing it one pebble at a time.

  “I wasn’t raised there,” I say. “Maybe I’d read too much or seen too much, or maybe my mind has always been too analytical to fit into a community like that. I don’t know. But as nice as it was, I had a bad feeling from the moment Jeremiah asked us to move, and it grew with every day I spent there. There were a few other girls my age, and none of them wanted to go to college or have a life outside of Camelot. In fact, it seemed like the only aspiration they had was to become one of the wives of the next vicar. One of Patrick’s wives.”

  “Your boyfriend was going to be the next leader?”

  I nod. “He was the Chosen One.”

  “But you knew that wasn’t the life you wanted. You wanted to go to college.”

  “True.” I’m not ready to explain just yet that my reasons for leaving were so much more complicated than my dreams of higher education. “I didn’t belong there. I belonged on the outside. And when things got bad and I told Patrick I wanted to leave, he told me the only way I could leave their world was to rise from the ash again. Destroying that world was the only way to escape it. Just like my mom had escaped her old commune in the fire.”

  “What was that supposed to mean?”

  “He said I’d have to destroy Camelot if I wanted a life outside.” Tension squeezes the back of my neck in a tight fist, and I try to rub it away. “The symbol you saw burning outside my house is the rune of protection, but it’s also the rune for people who challenge old tradition. Patrick would tell me again and again that it was a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “A reminder that it’s best not to start a battle, but if you do, you’d better finish it.” I bite my lip hard and taste blood. “I haven’t seen him in thirteen years—haven’t even heard from him aside from the email he sent me when I was in medical school. Nobody at the commune knows where he is. He disappeared the night I escaped.”

  He studies me for a beat, his brow creased. “Was that what you were afraid to tell me?”

  I shake my head. “There’s more. But I can’t . . . give me time.”

  The struggle plays out on his face. He wants to ask me questions but doesn’t want to push. “You asked Cade to help you. What has he found?”

  I shrug. “Nothing. He says there’s no public record of anyone with that name and description.”

  “What the fuck good is he, then?” Max leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling.

  “You aren’t totally freaked?”

  “Do I look calm? I’m ready to buy that fucking stallion and ride it to kick Patrick’s ass, and I don’t even like horses.”

  That makes me laugh. “The only problems with that plan, of course, are that I don’t even know it’s him and we don’t know where he is.”

  “Minor details,” he mutters.

  “You aren’t freaked about where I come from?”

  Standing, he comes around the table and pulls me out of my seat. “I don’t scare off that easily.” He presses a kiss to my forehead.

  “I needed to tell you about Patrick. You have a daughter to think of, and as long as Patrick is after me, my presence in your life is dangerous.”

  “What does that mean for you and me?”

  “It means what happens next is up to you.”

  He shakes his head slowly and traces the edge of my jaw. “No, Doc. What happens next is up to you. We take this at your pace, remember?”

  I wish I could hide my heart and lock it up tight. When I look into his eyes, I feel as if I’m stumbling, losing my footing on a ledge over unknown heights, and it’s only a matter of time before I fall.

  * * *

  Thirteen years ago . . .

  “Phoenix,” Vicar Jeremiah says. “Thank you for joining us today.”

  I bow my head, avoiding eye contact, as I know I’m expected to. “Of course.” I know why they called me here.

  “Are you aware of the punishment for premarital sex in this community, Phoenix?” Vicar Jeremiah asks.

  My gaze flicks to Patrick, who’s recently taken the seat beside his father in the meetings of the elders. It’s been four months since Patrick and I went to the honeymoon cottage. He stares right through me, and even though I knew he wouldn’t be able to speak up for me, even though we talked about this and I begged him not to take responsibility, I feel my heart crack a little under the weight of what’s coming.

  “I have sinned, Your Grace.” I swallow. This is the only way. Blatant lies to protect Patrick. I’ll be punished either way, so why bring him down with me? “I’m an imperfect and sinful creature, and that’s why I need your guidance. But premarital sex isn’t among my sins.”

  Vicar Jeremiah lifts his chin, leveling me with the intensity of his gaze. “Then how do you explain the child growing in your womb?”

  “She’s lying,” Elder Jeffery says. “Another sin. Tell us who the father is.”

  I shake my head frantically and squeeze my eyes shut so I can’t look at Patrick. “There’s no father.”

  “Would you take us for fools?” Elder Wallace says.

  The room bursts into noise as the elders voice their distrust of me. Then Vicar Jeremiah holds up a hand to silence them. “We will pray on this, Phoenix. I ask that you do the same.”

  Nineteen

  Nix />
  “I need a hot bath and a foot massage,” Krystal says.

  Next to her, Hanna tilts her head from side to side, then rubs the back of her neck. “I’d be getting both of those things right now if I weren’t here with you ladies. In fact, Nate said that if I get home before he falls asleep—”

  “No!” Krystal covers Hanna’s mouth with her hand. “No more. I can stand zero more details about your perfect husband today. I have an itch I haven’t been able to scratch since I moved back to this godforsaken town, and hearing about my sisters’ perfect sex lives is not helping.”

  Liz giggles. “The guy at the mall offered to take you home and cook you dinner. Maybe you should have let him scratch your itch.”

  Krystal narrows her eyes. “I’m not going to go home with an eighteen-year-old college kid. Dear God, how desperate do you think I am?”

  Liz and Hanna exchange a look but apparently know better than to answer that question.

  Instead of a traditional bachelorette party, the girls spent all day shopping in Indianapolis. I begged off the shopping—since twelve hours of fashion-oriented socializing fails to appeal to me on so many levels—but promised I’d meet them for drinks at Brady’s after.

  “Oh!” Hanna squeaks, pulling one of her bags off the floor and plopping it on the table in front of me. “We got you something.”

  The bag says Pillow Talk, and it’s so pretty my throat goes tight. I have friends who surprise me with gifts in pretty bags. This is my life now. This and Max tucking me into bed every night, no matter what crazy hour I get home, and kissing me good night in ways that put ideas in my head and make me want to cut the bitch who told him to take things slow.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

  “Oh, yes we did,” Liz says. “You’re living with Max but you’re not sleeping with Max.”

  Uh-oh.

  “And that would be okay,” Hanna chimes in, “but when you look at Max, your face says that you really wish you were sleeping with him.”