Playing with Fire

So he saw my scars and knew about Grams. Big freaking deal.

“I normally fight with sane people. This time, my opponent was a bitch-ass coward who did everything short of pulling out a gun. Kade Appleton, man.” He shook his head. “A dick from hell.”

“You fought Kade Appleton?” My breath hitched.

Everybody knew Kade Appleton around Sheridan. I’d never met him, but I’d heard countless stories. He was a bully all throughout school, dropped out at sixteen, packed his stuff and moved to Vegas to fight. Word was he’d joined a gang while he was there. “What the hell is wrong with you? He’s dubbed Appleton the Bad Apple in this neck of the woods. Do you want to die?”

“Not actively, but surely it won’t be the worst thing in the world. All the cool kids are doing it. Kurt Cobain, Abraham Lincoln, Dr. Seuss …”

“West!” I hollered, slapping my thigh.

“Fine. I’m changing Dr. Seuss to Buddy Holly, but only because you’re twisting my arm here.”

When I shot him a sharp look that showed him I didn’t find any of this funny, he jerked his chin toward me.

“Why were you late today?”

“Grams,” I croaked, surprised with how naturally the truth jumped out of my mouth. It was liberating to talk to someone about her openly.

“She burned herself on the stove this morning. It was bad. I was with her in the ER until Marla, her caregiver, took over.”

“Has she been diagnosed?”

I shook my head. “Not the last time I took her to get checked, but that was a couple years ago. She refuses to get another CT, and things have been gettin’ pretty bad.”

“She should be medicated.”

“I know.”

Not only that, but she should get more exercise and sunshine and scheduled activities. Marla could only do so much for her, and by the time I got home every night after school and work, I was too exhausted to give Grams everything she deserved.

West got up and made both of us margarita slushies. He dropped extra gummy bears into each of them and handed me one. We saluted at the same time, oddly in sync, taking greedy slurps from our drinks as he sat back down.

“Back to the scar thing.” He motioned to his own face with his hand. “Is that why you don’t go onstage? Because you don’t like the way you look?”

He was referring to that time he saw me at rehearsal, mouthing all the words but staying far away from the limelight.

I felt the tips of my ears pinking. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“I’m a smart guy. Lay it on me.”

“I haven’t always been like this. I was kind of Miss Popular. I fought really hard to get where I was. My mom was a junkie who died when I was a toddler, and my father … Well, I don’t even know who he is. The one thing I always had goin’ for me was my looks, as shallow as it sounds.” I laughed nervously. “I was in cheer. I was in drama. I was that girl, you know. With the pretty Sunday church dress and dimpled smile, always camera-ready. I learned early on how to play the cards I’d been dealt. I thought I had the game figured out. But then …”

“Someone flipped the table upside down mid-round and all the rules changed.” West chewed on his straw, contemplating. “Same happened to me, so I know firsthand how bad it sucks.”

“Oh, yeah?” I grinned, feeling dangerously comfortable around him. It was stupid. Like a kitten thinking it could befriend a tiger because they were vaguely from the same family. “You discarded your lifelong dream to become an actor because you experienced a traumatic childhood tragedy that has caused you to look disfigured beyond repair?”

He used the tip of his boot to shove my crate back. He scratched his temple with his middle finger. I laughed.

“What I mean is, the rules changed on me, too, mid-game,” he clarified.

“I don’t see how. You’re still popular.”

“I was Easton Braun-popular. Linebacker. Homecoming king. The obnoxious, wholesome, perfect, Tom Brady-type guy people low-key suspect is secretly a serial killer.”

I ran my eyes over his injured frame. I never would have guessed West played ball. That he had a sweet, straitlaced side.

“What made you switch to the dark side?”

“I became the sole provider in my family. Well, my parents work now, but they’re mainly chasing bills.”

“Oh.”

Did I just say oh? Out of all the words in the English language, I chose this one? Really? Do better! “That’s … rough.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“Do you have any siblings?”

He shook his head. “Just me, my parents, and a mountain of unpaid loans that keeps on getting higher. You?”

“Just me, Grams, and my in-the-gutter self-esteem.” I smiled tiredly. “Yay us.”

We clinked our drinks together.

Silence stretched between us like bubble gum, extending, on the verge of snapping. West was the first to put a needle in it. He slapped his rock-hard thigh.