Page 44 of Ablaze

But I can’t. Even though I feel like shit taking this stance, I just fucking can’t keep spinning in the same hamster wheel.

Leveling my gaze back on her, I go with my gut. “I’m sorry, Jess. Like I said, I can’t help this time.”

Jessie’s reddish-brown brows knit as she realizes how serious I am, her expression changing from hopeful just seconds ago to aggravated and resentful. She lets my arms go and squares her shoulder. “I’m asking for you to help him once more, Dean. And it’s sad that despite you livin’ in tall cotton, you won’t. He’s not just anyone; he’s my one and only brother.”

There’s no point to me repeating myself, but I do anyway. “I have helped him. Twice. And I haven’t even asked for the money back because of that. Because he’s your brother.”

Jessie’s gaze sharpens. “He’s gonna pay you back, Dean. He’s just between a rock and a hard place right now.”

I shrug. “You might believe that, Jess, but I don’t. Again, I’m sorry, but I can’t help him.”

Jessie nods, making her large earrings swing, and a resolute look takes over her countenance. “Well, if that’s how you’re gonna be, Dean . . . If you’re gonna act like you’re too big for your britches, then I don’t know that this,” she waves between us, “can work between us anymore.”

I try to reason with her, but I can tell she’s beyond it at this point. “Jessie–”

“Save it.” She lifts her hand, stopping me from continuing before blowing her bangs off her forehead and walking away in a huff. “I heard you loud and clear, Dean Meyer, so you can kiss my grits.”

Chapter Thirteen

DEAN

“Alright, I got one for you.” I take another swig of my beer. It’s my third one and I’m finally starting to feel the day loosen from my bones. That, or because of the girl sitting at the other end of the couch, swimming inside her oversized Paw Patrol hoodie–yes, she has one of those–with her back against the armrest and her toes tucked under my thigh. She’s a wonderment of various temperatures and climates, all within one small frame. Her fingers and toes are always like ice. “What type of murderer has the most kind of fiber?”

“A cereal killer,” Mala scoffs. “Dean, that is the easiest one in the book.”

The girl’s good at riddles. I learned that when we first started the riddle game through our texts, and she consistently whooped my ass. I often wonder if she sits around memorizing answers to riddles in her spare time. It wouldn’t surprise me. She’s a peculiar one.

Peculiar and perfect.

I take another swig of my beer as the thought bounces around in my mind. She’s perfect. I’ve always thought that, always known it. Haven’t I? So, why does it feel so surprising right now? Like finding your sunglasses on the top of your head when you’d been looking for them everywhere.

I texted her after my shift at the station. After the ordeal with Jessie. All I asked was if she was busy. A half hour later, she was pulling into my driveway. I don’t know if there was a tone that she read through my one-line text or just me asking if she was busy was enough to give her an indication, but she said she could tell something was wrong.

But now as I feel the press of her toes under my thigh, the scent of her freshly shampooed hair permeating the space between us, I can’t recall what was ever wrong.

I eye the martini glass in her hand. She’s a lightweight if I’ve ever seen one, so the fact that she’s on her third one tells me she’s likely on her way to passing out on my couch. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Alright, smartass, I have one more.”

Mala lifts her brows haughtily. “Bring it on, pookster.”

I groan at her use of the damn nickname Nora gave me all those years ago. Fucking pookster! Who the fuck calls someone that? I should have broken things off the minute she came up with it. And now, this pain in my ass–the one sitting in her short-ass shorts and phenomenal long-ass legs stretched across my sofa–won’t let the damn nickname go.

“What month has twenty-eight days?” I take another swig, feeling confident I’ve got her this time. She can’t know all of them. That would be ridiculous.

Mala hiccups, and my eyes roam over her. Yeah, she’s not going to make it back home. Fine by me. “All of them.”

I balk at her. How the fuck? “You’ve got problems, you know that? Serious ones.” At her giggle and another hiccup, I take the empty glass from her hand and put it on the coffee table in front of us. “No one should be that big of a nerd.”

She wiggles her toes under my thigh and I grab the back of her calf, feeling her smooth skin under my palm. “You’re just jealous that, as usual, I’m better at everything.”

I shake my head but don’t argue.

A few moments later, I ask the question that’s been lingering in the back of my mind, though truthfully, I hate that it’s even there. “How are things with you and Warren?”

I try to blank my expression, to not let my distaste for her boyfriend be so obvious. I can’t point out a particular reason as to why I can’t stand the guy–it’s just a multitude of things. From his flashy shoes, to his slicked-back hair with not a strand out of place, to his overbearingness. There’s also something about the way he grabs her that sets my teeth on edge.

Though, it doesn’t seem like Mala minds any of it–from all accounts, she looks happy. He does seem to care about her, too. It’s just that there’s something about him. Something I can’t quite place my finger on.

Mala hums. “Things are good. He’s out of town for the next couple of days to visit his dad.”

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