Page 39 of The Fire We Crave

“Everyone calls me Babyface. I’ll put money on it becoming my road name. But I’m twenty-two and been driving my dad’s tractor since I was seven.”

“Fucking Babyface,” I mutter, but I get in the car anyway.

He drives to the gate, which has been opened for us. “I’d prefer it if you puked out the window, Smoke.”

I glance over at him. “You’re a fucking prospect. If I want to puke all over you and your car, I will, and you’ll say thank you, Mr. Smoke.”

The kid has the audacity to grin. “Whatever you say, Mr. Smoke.”

I’m still drunk when I let myself into my house fifteen minutes later. Still weaving on my feet.

But in the kitchen, I find some of Quinn’s sourdough loaf, and I butcher cutting some, so it looks more like a wedge than a slice.

Can’t be bothered to toast it, and yet it still tastes just as good as I remember.

Once I’ve devoured it, I start taking my clothes off. I kick the boots off where I stand. I drop other things as I walk towards my room. My cut gets tossed over a dining room chair. My shirt is in the entrance hall. I shuck my jeans and socks outside the bathroom.

But just as I go to walk past Quinn’s room, I see her door is open.

She’s lying in navy bedding wearing a boxy pajama shirt with short sleeves and a prim collar.

I don’t know what my life holds.

Can barely think straight for all the Jack sloshing around in my system.

But one thing I know for sure?

I want to sleep like she’s sleeping.

I want the peace that comes from feeling safe.

Everything about me is rattled, but around her, it feels calm.

I nudge the door even further open. Should probably wake her and ask before I lift the covers and climb in bed behind her, so I don’t terrify her.

But I don’t.

My cock’s covered in my boxer briefs, likely limp as fuck because whiskey dick is real. I slide my hand beneath her, and instead of turning around to slap my face, she turns and curls up against me.

Her breath comes in small puffs against my pec. And the warmth of her trickles through me, replacing some of the shame. Shame that I can’t handle this. Shame that my brothers heard my dreaming. Shame that I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring because I feel like every day gets a little worse.

When I close my eyes, instead of scenes of despair, I dream about Quinn and me.

The life we can’t possibly have.

Because she doesn’t deserve someone this broken inside.

11

QUINN

The only time the world is quiet is in those first few minutes before I fully wake. When my brain has been quiet in sleep and hasn’t yet woken up enough to realize it’s free to start its daily rampage of thoughts and to dos and remembering that one time nine years ago when I was at a party and said the wrong thing.

But this morning, there is only one thing…one person…on my mind.

Smoke.

He’s wrapped around me so tightly, it would be impossible to squeeze a nickel between the two of us.

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