Page 19 of The Fire We Crave

“Can I take care of that for you?” Isla says, sliding her hand down over it and squeezing gently.

My first thought is,She’s not Quinn.

My second thought is,She’s not Quinn.

But I find myself wrapping my hand around her ponytail, like she intended, even as I get annoyed she’s topping from the bottom.

“You want to join us, Atom?” she asks.

Atom shakes his head. “Only one pussy I want into, and it isn’t yours.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Welcome back, brother.”

Out of respect for the brother’s choice to settle with one woman, I wait until Atom has stepped away.

“New ground rules, Isla. One, you leave Atom the fuck alone. In case you forgot, the pussy he wants is Ember’s. She’s the daughter of the president and the old lady of the club’s enforcer, so in any battle between the two of you, you not only lose, but you get thrown out of the club. If you don’t want that to happen, you don’t do that. Understood?”

Isla’s eyes are wide when I’m done. She doesn’t say anything, but nods.

“Two, if I’m fucking you, I decide who, if anyone, gets to join us. Not you. I don’t cater to you, because I’m not your Dom, and you aren’t my submissive. You’re someone I fuck.”

Isla finds her voice. “We’re more than that, and you know it. I’ve always been your girl.”

I shake my head. “I don’t play favorites. Don’t think you’re special. You, Nola, Poppy…you’re all interchangeable.”

“Wow, you left to fight a fire and came back an asshole,” Isla says.

At that, my cock loses interest. “Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was just excited to see you, and you were talking about me so indifferently.”

“That’s because, to me, you’re not important,” I say as I turn on my heel. “I’m going to my room, and don’t even think about following me.”

6

QUINN

Ituck the last of the Tupperware containers that hold the remnants of the nice dinner I cooked for Smoke into the fridge.

The place settings have been put back in the cupboard, the cutlery returned to the drawer, and the pots and preparation dishes cleaned.

Who knows, maybe he hates Greek-style lemon chicken with orzo and salad, and somehow telepathically knew what was for dinner and so made a choice to not come home.

Not that he owes me any explanation.

But the sun has long since dipped below the horizon, and I’m pissed I put so much effort into it. I had this idea that it might set us off on the right foot, to cook him a lovely dinner. For him to come home to a living room that has been vacuumed to remove most of the dog hair and the scent of fresh and healthy food.

A million years ago, I watched a movie about a chef whose cooking always tasted like whatever emotion she felt when she was making it. I think it was something to do with a mysterious and magical crab. I can’t say I ever really wanted to be a cook, or a baker for that matter, but I’ve thought about that movie often.

I try not to prepare food when I’m angry, so food doesn’t taste bitter. I try not to prepare food when I’m sad, so the food doesn’t taste unseasoned.

So, the food I just stuffed in the fridge will taste fine. But if it can absorb flavor-feelings from the way it’s put into the fridge, it will likely poison Smoke and kill him.

I reach for my phone for the thousandth time today. I was making individual carrot cakes this morning when another idea came to me. I could leave here for a little while. I could make plans for the bakery to open on part-time hours. Maybe close for two quieter days of the week and reduce the hours. That way, I could ask Kinsey to run it five days a week and go stay with my dad for a month to get away from this town.

I’d leave a sign in the window with contact details for Melody. Part of the reason I’ve found vacation so hard is the worry over what happens if Melody comes by and I’m not there. What if she doesn’t ask Kinsey where the old owners are? Or knocks on the apartment door and doesn’t get an answer?

While with my father, I could talk to him about his share of the bakery, about ownership of the apartment. I’m living in limbo where, for all intents and purposes, everything is mine to run and operate, and yet I own none of it.

But it means calling my dad.

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