Playing with Fire

Fuck. My. Life.

Both women sized each other up in the way females did, grinning simultaneously, as if unearthing some rare secret. Grace did a little wave. I almost forgot that behind the sarcastic minx I wanted to shut up with my reproductive organ was a polite, Southern belle just ready to burst out at the first sign of a worrying momma.

“Howdy, ma’am. I’m Grace Shaw.”

“Caroline St. Claire, West’s mother. Such a pleasure.” Mom ditched any attempt to act like a civilized human and jumped Grace’s bones in a suffocating hug. Texas, of course, returned the favor, squeezing her right back.

I opened the door all the way, even though if it were up to me, I’d rather slam it in both their faces.

“Why, you must join us for dinner!” Mom exclaimed. It didn’t take a genius to do the math. Texas was The Chosen One whom I’d spent my birthday with.

She was my so-called redemption.

Antidote to my poison.

The one Mom had been praying for.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.” Grace blushed, batting her eyelashes and tucking her chin down. She was hiding her scar. Smart girl. If Mom saw her face properly, the shit show train would officially get off the rails and head straight off the cliff.

My mother and Grace in the same room was my idea of a nightmare, for too many reasons to count.

“Nonsense! We would love to have you. Westie doesn’t have very many friends, and I’m dying to hear more about his life on campus.”

Mom was now pulling Grace into the house, even when the latter dug her heels at the door like a cat approaching a full tub. Caroline St. Claire would lock the poor girl in a glass room, if it meant making sure she’d dine with us.

Texas shot me a sorry look. It was the first time she was here. She looked around, her aqua eyes big and exploring. I normally didn’t feel embarrassed about where I lived. And it wasn’t that Grace’s house was going to hit MTV Cribs anytime soon. Still, I hated that my brokenness, my poorness, was right up in her face.

When Grace entered the kitchen, Easton stood up and greeted her while Mom took out another plate and utensils. We all sat down and tucked in. I avoided eye contact and all attempts at conversation.

My mother, of course, was in full Spanish Inquisition mode.

“So you work with Westie?” she asked before Texas took her first bite.

“Yes, ma’am. At a food truck just down the road from here.”

“Do you go to Sheridan University, too?”

“I do. I major in theater and arts.”

“Then you must know our Easton well.”

“Sure do. He’s got himself quite the following.” Grace nodded, and I wanted to stab my own chest with a fork. “West too.” She shot me an apologetic smile.

“Really?” Mom’s brows knitted incredulously. “Is he known for anything on campus?”

Making people bleed.

Texas didn’t even flinch.

“He is quite popular with the ladies.”

“Always has been. Why, sweetie, you can take off that hat now.”

Being handsy as all fuck, Mom took it upon herself to remove Grace’s ball cap, tossing it to the counter behind her shoulder. “I want to take a look at your pretty fa—”

She never got to finish the sentence because Grace let out a squeak that sounded like an injured animal was trapped inside her throat.

Then there was silence.

A whole fucking lot of it.

Utensils cluttered on the plates. Easton sucked in a breath. The red, angry, ragged skin under Texas’ makeup told a horror story that wasn’t dinner-table appropriate.

It wasn’t that Texas’ face still wasn’t caked with enough makeup to open a Sephora, but even through it, you could see the Freddy Krueger complexion she desperately tried to hide.

Both Grace and I shot up from our seats in unison, reaching for the ball cap. She pawed it first, slapping it over her head with shaky fingers.

Mom cleared her throat, clutching her fake pearls. Easton looked down.

I tried to block away the disturbing fact that Grace Shaw was stunning. Because she absolutely fucking was. With her ball cap down, and her face in full view, the magnificence of her was like a punch to the gut.

“I’m so sorry. How did you …”

I’d known Grace Shaw for months and refrained from asking about her scar. My mother had known her for less than fifteen minutes and already felt comfortable digging in.

“I mean, when did that happen?” Mom finished.

“That’s none of your goddamn business, and you have no right asking her that,” I roared, knocking my fist against the table. Every single thing on it bounced up in the air, and my mother let out a cry.

Easton jumped up from his seat and asked Grace to help him open another bottle of wine, even though the one on the table was half-full.

They both disappeared to the living room while I pierced my mother with a deadly stare.