Playing with Fire

“Uh …” My eyes roamed the truck. “I’m not sure strippin’ is the best course of action. For one thing, it’s highly unhygienic.”

“I’m not going to hold the tongs with my nipples,” he said wryly. “Unless it’ll get us more tips. In which case, I’m open to trying.”

I let out a stunned, hysterical laugh. I didn’t want to see his nipples, or any other part of him. In fact, I didn’t want to acknowledge he had more of that bronze, muscular body underneath his clothes. It was bad enough the flawlessness of him was right in front of my eyes all shift.

“I was referrin’ to your chest hair.”

Stop talking about his chest. Stop speaking at all, Grace.

“Ain’t got none,” he said in a fake Texan accent I’d find insulting if it wasn’t so accurate. He held the hem of his faded tee, raising it up to his brown nipples. His body was smooth, tan, and hairless. His six-pack was something out of an Armani underwear commercial. I wanted to trace the ridges between his abs with my index finger, which was extremely unexpected and laughable altogether.

I didn’t crush on people.

Not anymore, anyway.

“Final verdict?” He dropped the shirt, waiting for an answer.

I felt myself turning crimson. I didn’t want to look like a nerd and a prude.

“No.”

“Let me amend: I was being polite. I’m taking off the fucking shirt, and, if I am being honest, you should do the same.”

A second later, West’s shirt was gone, and his six-pack was accompanied by defined pecs, Adonis belt veins, and the kind of back you wanted to marry. He turned to the grill and resumed his work. He had a faded purple-yellow welt on his lower back.

“Lookie here, Virgin Mary is still alive.” He smirked when he caught me glaring.

I cleared my throat and looked away.

He moved past me, clapping my shoulder casually.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. For you to get knocked up, we’d have to at least hold hands. You’re safe with me.”

West St. Claire had touched me. Willingly.

My throat clogged up unexpectedly, the normalcy in his action making me feel like my old self for a fraction of a second. Not that I was bullied for having a scar. Not per se.

In some ways, people’s reactions were far worse. Girls were nice to me in a fake, superficial, we’re-cool-but-don’t-get-too-close way. It was obvious I wasn’t a competition to them anymore. Guys ignored me altogether. I confused them. I still had the same cheerleader body and long blonde hair, but I also had the scars, and they knew that whatever was wrong with the left side of my face bled underneath the clothes, to the rest of my torso.

At first, after the fire, I’d actually had the audacity to try to pretend everything was normal. To hatch the phoenix from its egg with a hammer. I went to the same parties, hung out with the same people. My peers set the record straight at supersonic speed. Through whispers, giggles, gasps, and rumors. My then-boyfriend, Tucker, whom I’d lost my virginity to, cemented the fact I was no longer my old self by quickly replacing me with Rachelle Muir, a fellow flyer. Everyone evaporated from my life like the sweat under my hoodie. The only people who stayed were Karlie and Grandma Savvy.

“Hellooooo?” a feminine voice drawled from outside the window. “Anybody in there?”

Yeah, me and my deranged, teenybopper thoughts.

I turned to the window. There were four high school girls in cut-off jeans, cowboy boots, and matching hats. They were giggling and elbowing each other, clutching their phones to their chests. One of them ordered a margarita slushie, while the others peeked behind my back, extending their necks.

“Is he there?” one whispered as I poured the drink.

“Yeah, I see him. Oh my God. Ohmigod, Kelly. He’s like, freakin’ gorgeous.”

I handed Slushie Girl her change and drink, but the teenagers didn’t budge.

“He’s shirtless,” the prettiest one, Kelly, who had long, honey-brown hair and a nipple piercing outlined through her cropped white tee, gulped.

“Yup.”

“Ask him.”

“No, you ask him.”

“Are you kiddin’ me? You go.”

“We had a bet.”

“Shut up, you said you’re not scared!”

My gaze ping-ponged between them. The rumor West St. Claire worked here had spread like wildfire. I was expecting this to be the norm from now on. Piles upon piles of fangirls knocking on our window, doing the whole Oh, this? That’s just me in my tiny bikini purchasing a taco after getting my hair professionally done, no big deal spiel.

I didn’t like the extra traffic to the truck, but there was little I could do about it, and it wasn’t technically West’s fault.

“Can I help y’all?” I grabbed my rag, wiping my station clean. They pushed one another, like cubs learning how to play. One of them finally snapped into action.

“Can we speak to West, please?”