Hung

I lift the edge of the blanket and peer into the trashcan. Charred paper, some melted plastic bits, a box, and…blackened roses? Far be it from me to judge, but I see no keeper stuff in the charred contents.

“Looks like trash to me.”

Crazy huffs loudly. “Who do you think you are?”

“The fire department.”

She visibly wilts. I tell myself I do not want to haul her into my arms and pat her on the back. Or anywhere else she’ll let me touch her.

Jesus. “Why are you having a bonfire at—” I check my watch “—five thirty in the morning?”

“I’m hosting a summer break up camp,” she whispers so low that I have to lean forward to catch the words.

“Not following,” I say.

She dismisses my concerns with a wave of her hand. Her nails are a bright, robin’s egg blue with little diamonds dotting all of the available surface area like mini disco balls. “You’re a penis. You wouldn’t understand.”

I cross my arms over my chest and lean down until we’re practically nose to nose. “Try me.”

It’s not as if there’s any doubt in my mind—or other places—that she’s a girl and I’m a boy, but that’s not actually grounds for outright warfare. Yes, I have a penis. The thing is attached, it comes with me, and I’m usually a big fan of it. Right now, however, I’m wondering at its taste because it seems to feel that Crazy here is the best-looking woman we’ve seen in a long time. Perhaps forever. She’s a fruitcake, I tell my misbehaving dick. She doesn’t like me. She’s a drama queen and both my dick and I know that means we slap a Steer Clear label on her pretty ass and give her a berth wide enough to park a cruise ship.

“Lola Miller.” She points to herself but doesn’t stick her hand out. Probably smart, seeing as how I’m now wearing the after effects of not one but two fires. “I’m the president of the Break Up Club.”

“Hunter Black,” I grunt back at her. I’m certain no such club is registered with the local Chamber of Commerce but I nod as if her bizarre declaration makes perfect sense to me.

“We were burning our memorabilia,” she whisper-shouts.

I look down at the charred fragments of crap in the trashcan. Memorabilia is a fancy word for what I’m seeing. Whatever. Crazy can label the scraps the lost works of Van Gogh and it wouldn’t change one important thing: she doesn’t have a permit, trash burns are illegal, and she’s busted. My dick suggests I perform a citizen’s arrest and I resist the urge to smack it.

“It couldn’t wait until daylight?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head and the messy knot of hair on top of her head gives up and slides down her shoulders. “It’s a symbolic act at the beginning of a new day.” She pauses and then glares suspiciously at me. “You’re not opposed to symbolism, are you?”

“Only if it kills people,” I assure her. “What were you thinking, starting a fire in a can? I see no fire extinguisher, no water, no safety gear.”

She glares at me, and now that I’m this close, I can see that her eyes are one of those colors I always get wrong. Not blue, not gray, but the shade you see in the sky or on the surface of a lake right before a shit storm of epic proportions.

“We were on a mission.” She points vehemently at the charred collection in the can. “You made us fail.”

I shake my head. “You made yourself fail. If you’d had the proper permits. We wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Her glare deepens. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“You see that motel over there?” I wrap an arm around her shoulders and turn her to face the slightly rundown row of vacation cabins. She has really nice shoulders, and thanks to the scantiness of her tank top, I can feel so firsthand. It’s always nice to be wanted. “I think preventing that motel from getting burned down by your…your weird little party is worth the trouble.”

I make a mental note to drive by more often in case her urge to burn things isn’t a one-time thing. And then I engage the crazy and ask the question. “What’s the Break Up Club anyway?”