Playing with Fire

“Yup. You’re the real Texas. I got the 2.0 version. Are you water-resistant?”

“Not at this time.”

“Shame. I bet you’re a sight in a two-piece.”

“You’re about to be cut into twenty pieces if you keep it up.”

I felt like I was my old self again, and I didn’t know why, but I thought he felt the same about himself, too.

That for some reason, we brought out in each other the previous people that we were and missed terribly.

We stopped by his Ducati. He took out two helmets, shoving one into my hands. This time, I turned around, ditched my ball cap, and put it on dutifully.

“Two helmets?” I turned back to face him when my helmet was on.

He shrugged. “Knew I was going to thaw your frigid ass.”

“Are you always so confident?”

“Every second of the day.” He spat out the apple candy in his mouth, putting his helmet on. “Are you always so nosy?”

“When I’m interested in something enough to explore it.” I raised one shoulder. “While we’re on the subject of my being nosy—what’s with the apple candy? A bit dated, ain’t it?”

“Not for me. Don’t you have something that’s nostalgic to you? A piece of your history that’s close to your heart?”

Without meaning to, I brushed my fingers over my flame ring, feeling my throat working.

“I do, actually. This flame ring”—I lifted my hand—“belonged to my mom.”

“It’s …” He took my small, soft hand in his big, rough one, examining it. “Hideous. Anyway, the apple candy is it for me.”

Feeling frisky, I grabbed one of them from his back pocket, where I knew he stashed them, and stuck it into my mouth under the helmet.

“It’s … tasteless.”

So tasteless, in fact, that I wondered what had him coming back to this specific candy, over and over again. Of course, if he wanted me to know, he’d volunteer the information.

West grinned, giving a lazy shake of his head.

I waited for him to mount the motorcycle then hopped behind him. He brought my arms to clasp his pecs. The engine roared to life. We zipped through the highway, bypassing a traffic jam, the dessert wind licking at our bodies. I pressed against him, inhaling as much as I could of him. I loved wearing a helmet. It covered my face completely, giving the illusion I could be anyone. When I was like this, draped over a gorgeous man, my long blonde hair twirling, and all people could see was my body, it looked like I was normal. Just another girl going about her day.

No one could guess that my body and face were scarred.

That my grandmomma was sick.

That I was going to fail my semester this year.

The whole time, West’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. I could feel it against my inner thigh. But I didn’t want to chance ruining the moment by asking who it was.

We got to 2nd Street District, grabbed iced coffee, and walked around for a little while. The streets were crowded, booming with college kids and shoppers and blossoming flowerpots; light-decorated trees lined everywhere. The coffee shops poured with chattering youth. We talked about school and Friday night fights, and about my acting when West stopped dead on the curb and yanked my hoodie sleeve, causing a human traffic jam behind us.

“Jack. Fucking. Pot.”

I looked up at the sign in front of us. It was a ball cap shop. I rearranged my faded gray cap self-consciously. I only took it off when I wore West’s helmet or I was at home. He grabbed my hand, leading me inside.

“If you’re going to hide your face under this thing for eternity, at least don’t saddle me with the same old Nike logo. Keep shit fresh for me, Tex. That’s the recipe for a good relationship.”

“Fine, but you’ll have to turn around when I try them. I must protect my virtue.” I kept it light, shoving my fists back into my hoodie’s pockets. We strolled between rows of hats. Unlike the street, the place was quiet. Other than a salesman in his late teens staffing the register, it was just the two of us.

“Not being seen is really that big a deal to you, huh?” West ran a hand over a dozen hats.

I thumbed through a stack of university-themed caps, shrugging.

“I like my privacy.”

“You like being invisible.”

“What’s the problem with that?”

“That you’re not.” He stopped walking, rubbing his knuckles against his chiseled jaw. “Let’s compromise—I’ll close my eyes every time you try a cap on and open them when you’re ready. Trust me?”

“Why do you even care?” I stopped next to him, eyeing a baby pink cap with a cherry print on it. I was a girly girl and owned up to it prior to The Fire. I thought the cap would look super cute and wondered why I hadn’t thought of buying a new one before. But the answer was obvious—I didn’t think anyone was looking at me, and when they did, it was clearly for the wrong reasons.