Up In Flames (Club Chrome 3)

If he’d known it would be the only time he’d hear his baby’s heartbeat, he might’ve made more of an effort.

Maybe hearing that little blip-blip-blip on the machine would’ve unlocked whatever decency he’d had left-over from childhood and he would’ve been able to turn things around. Make changes that mattered.

Fuck! Why was drowning in memories he wanted to forget? He scrubbed his face and moved to the kitchen to find himself some whiskey. Bury the pain, obliterate the burden. That was his motto. He downed a shot of the cheap whiskey and didn’t even wince at the familiar burn down his throat. He followed with another. By the third, he was feeling it and could breathe again.

The bathroom door opened with a cloud of steam and Angel emerged with a towel wrapped tightly around her thin frame. Her skin, scrubbed clean, had lost some of the sallow coloring and he was struck by how different she seemed. Her eyes, green as a summer meadow, were different from Ashley’s but just as mesmerizing and it took a moment to realize he was staring.

“Do you have a shirt I could borrow?” she asked, lifting her chin as she met his gaze. “Mine smells like puke.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he responded, snapping out of his stupor and moving to his room to grab something. He found an old rock T-shirt and handed it to her along with a pair of ratty sweat pants that didn’t fit him any longer but would at least cover her ass. “It’s not the best but it’s clean,” he told her as she accepted the clothing with a short grateful nod. She disappeared back into the bathroom and he let out a shaky breath. What was wrong with him? Panting after a girl who was too young for one, and two, he had no business even thinking about. Pathetic. Way to go, Pyro. When you fuck up, you go all in. He shook his head in disgust at himself and stalked away from the bathroom door to throw some more soup in a bowl. He could keep shoving food down her throat at the very least.

Angel exited the bathroom, fully dressed, though the old pants hung on her frame and the rock tee clung to her tits in a way that immediately made his pants tight. She carried her soiled clothing in a ball clutched to her chest as she made an attempt to look around, saying, “If you’ve got a washing machine, I could throw these in and get your clothes back to you.”

“Washing machine is downstairs. Leave it on the floor and I’ll get it done for you. I have a feeling you might not want to run into my neighbor again.”

She nodded and dropped the wad of clothing near the bedroom door. “Thanks,” she said, her voice still hoarse. She sniffed the air, realizing the soup was bubbling and she admitted, “You’re pretty good with a soup can. Either that, or I’m pretty damn hungry.”

“Probably the latter. Go sit down and I’ll bring it to you. We’ve got some talking to do and you still don’t look strong enough to hold much more than a napkin.”

Angel’s expression puckered into a scowl as she said, “I’m not made of China. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time now.”

“Yeah and doing a bang up job of it, I can see,” he quipped darkly. He didn’t care if she didn’t like what he had to say. She came to him — not the other way around. Angel slid into the cracked dining room chair and accepted the steaming bowl with a murmured thanks and then slowly started eating. Her color was better but the rings under her eyes told a story that he knew well enough. “How long you been a junkie?” he asked, going straight to the point.

“I’m not a junkie,” she shot back with a glower over her soup bowl. “And since when did you get all judgy? I remember when you weren’t above doing a line or smoking a joint.”

“Not talking about me. We’re talking about you. The girl I remember was a pudgy sixteen-year-old who cared more about her cell phone and her next exam than a woman who’s obviously strung out and looking as if she’s been walking Ninth Street at night.”

“I told you, I’m not a whore,” Angel said quietly, scratching at her forearm with a cranky movement.

“Then tell me what happened.”

Angel deliberately ladled another bite into her mouth as if stalling but he had no doubt the hunger was real. He allowed her the brief moment but as the silence continued, he sank into the chair beside her with a grunt, saying, “You will give me answers or you’ll find yourself in the first cab out of here.”

-4-

The hot soup was doing a good job of soothing the acid bath in her gut but the intense look in Pyro’s gaze sent her nerves into chaos. She couldn’t escape the way his eyes seemed to bore into her soul and pluck at her raw heart in a way that scared her. She hadn’t remembered Pyro being so fucking primal, so quintessentially male. Her tongue darted out to lick the remnants of her soup from her lips and Pyro’s jaw tightened as if he were pissed off and agitated for deeper reasons than the fact that she was an uninvited guest.

Benton told her to gain his trust. How was she supposed to do that? Pyro didn’t trust anyone and he had zero reasons to put his trust in her. She was plainly drugged up, fighting addiction and on the run. Mila’s little face popped into her thoughts and she sucked in a short breath as pain arced across her heart. Mila was counting on her. Her baby was in the worst possible hands and if she failed, Mila…Angel couldn’t even fathom the depravity Benton would gleefully inflict on her child.

“Do you ever think of her?” Angel asked, deliberately going for the jugular to throw him off her trail. She trailed her spoon through the remaining broth. Pyro settled back, kicking his leg out casually but the hard glint in his eyes was anything but. She tacked on unnecessarily, “My sister, Ashley.”

“I know who you meant.”

She shrugged. “Just checking. It’s been a while.”

“Six years.”

Angel nodded. Genuine tears sprang to her eyes at the mere mention of Ashley. God, she missed her sister. Maybe things would’ve been different if Ashley had lived, if perhaps she’d never met Pyro. “I think of her everyday.”

“Is that why you came? To walk down Memory Lane?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Get to the point. Why are you

here? What kind of trouble are you in? You keep telling me you’re not a whore but you show up on my doorstep, drugged up and running from someone. If it ain’t a pimp you’re running from…who’s after you?”

Angel worried a hangnail on her index finger, her skin starting to itch again. “An ex-boyfriend. He…beats me and forces me to do drugs. I had to get away.” The best lie was a partial truth. She’d learned that on the streets a long time ago. “I asked around and found your address. You were the only person I knew wouldn’t be scared of him.”

“Yeah? And why is that?”

“Because everyone is scared of you.”

He chuckled but there was a speculative light in his eyes that made her nervous. “Okay, let’s just say I believe some of your story because I see the bruises and you were definitely fucked up when you arrived…I don’t believe that you just asked around and someone told you where I live. Try again. This time…try the full truth.”

She opened her mouth to protest but Pyro could see right through her, which only meant she needed to up her game. She let the spoon fall into the bowl with a clatter. “I only need a few days. I’m not asking you to take me in forever. All I’m asking for is a few days. After everything you’ve done to fuck up my life, you can’t give me that?”

Bullseye. He didn’t visibly flinch but she sensed she’d managed to shove an arrow right through the cracks in the armor to the soft flesh beneath. “A few days…that’s all you need to get your head straight?” he finally asked, the wary tone betraying his reluctance. “How are you going to keep this asshole from tracking you down?”

She smiled. “That’s what you’re here for. I’m sure you can persuade him to leave me alone if he shows up.”

He grunted in agreement, rubbing his stubbled chin, drawing her attention to the strong, angular jaw, and the muscles hiding beneath his wife-beater. She swallowed and darted her gaze, confused and alarmed by the sudden bent of her thoughts. She’d done a lot of things she wasn’t proud of but noticing Pyro in anyway that even hinted at sexual made her ill. Pyro leaned forward, both arms stretched out on the table, looking mean and menacing and all things bad, and said, “I hope he shows up” before pushing off and going to the kitchen to pour himself a shot of whiskey.