Set the Dark on Fire (12 page)

She was almost to the safety of the cave when the ground tilted beneath her feet. Gravity pulled her backward, into Luke’s arms, and he caught her neatly, as if they’d choreographed the incident. “Hello there,” she said, blinking up at him.

He looked mad, or maybe that was just his face.

“You could have fallen forward,” he said from between clenched teeth. “Or to the side.”

Shay didn’t have to peek over the edge to know it was a long way down. She wanted to mumble something sarcastic about him being her knight in shining uniform, but her mouth wouldn’t form the words.

“You’re ice cold,” he added, continuing to scold.

He wasn’t, she noted, clinging to his shoulders. Despite the wet shirt, his skin was hot. She put her cold lips to his bare neck, seeking warmth.

He carried her the rest of the way. She was a tall woman and not exactly a featherweight, but he managed the task with impressive ease, as boasted. If she weren’t so disoriented, she might have enjoyed the ride.

He set her down on the floor of the cave and immediately found the basket of supplies. On her last visit she’d brought a small stack of firewood, some food and water, and—bless her industrious little heart—a multicolored wool blanket in one of those airtight space bags. Getting her warm must be his first priority, so he spread the blanket out on the ground next to her. After shrugging out of his own wet shirt, he went to work on her clothes.

The way he undressed her was insultingly impersonal. His eyes were cold and his hands were hot. While he unlaced her boots and removed them, peeled off her pants and checked her knee, she lay there like a corpse, immobile but not indifferent. For some reason, tears stung at her eyes, and he saw them.

“Lift up your arms.”

She did. He pulled the soggy tank top over her head. Beneath it she wore a plain white cotton bra, no under-wire, no padding, no artifice. He didn’t look. Rolling onto his side, he brought her body toward his, spoon-style, and pulled the blanket over both of them.

It occurred to Shay that her physical breakdown had some kind of emotional root, and she felt ashamed. Her reaction to her mother’s death had been the same. Shock. Confusion. Despair. And a complete inability to articulate her feelings.

“Tell me about your mother,” she whispered.

His body tensed, then relaxed. “She’s not Luiseño.”

“She’s white?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that by looking.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s not an insult. You must know you’re handsome.”

He shifted, uncomfortable with the subject. Shay didn’t mind. Regardless of what had passed between them, before or after the fire, they were here and they were alive and she would ask whatever she pleased. “So you like her? Better than your dad?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your favorite thing about her?” she continued. “What do you miss the most, when you don’t see her?”

It was a tough question, and he gave it the consideration it deserved. “Her smile, I guess. There are so many other things, but her smile … it’s just, always there. She’s always happy to see me, even if I was with her the day before.”

Shay felt more tears coming, and she sniffed them back. “Have you ever told her that?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“I will.”

She believed him and so she quieted, resting her cheek on his bicep. It was nice to be with someone who loved his mother, even if he didn’t like her. “My mama had a beautiful smile.”

“Did she look like you?”

“No. Dylan and I both take after Daddy. She was a redhead, all soft and delicate.”

“You have her skin,” he surmised.

“Yes,” she said, thinking her mother had made pale and freckled look as sweet and fresh as a bowl of strawberry ice cream. Her mind skittered to the way her mother’s face had been made up for the funeral, and back further, to an even darker place, to how she had looked, swollen and grotesque, in the short hours after death.

“What happened to her?”

Shay didn’t talk about this—ever—but she found herself saying, “She hung herself in the barn behind the house,” in a faraway voice, as if the incident had happened to some other mother, some other girl. “I found her.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“The only good thing about it was that Dylan was away,” she said, thinking back. “It was the middle of summer, and she’d sent him to camp. She’d also packed up all her things and put them in marked boxes. She’d planned so far ahead! I think she’d have made the funeral arrangements if it wouldn’t have drawn suspicion.”

“You couldn’t have known,” he said softly, reading her mind.

Logic told her those words were true, even if her heart said different. “I’m glad we didn’t die,” she murmured, changing the subject.

His arm tightened around her. Outside the cave, it was almost pitch black. In a few moments they wouldn’t be able to see a thing.

“I hate to suggest this, but we should make a fire,” she said. “For warmth, and light, and to keep away animals.”

That got him moving. There was a circle of rocks near the mouth of the cave. He put a couple of small logs in the middle of it and found a book of matches. Then he frowned, as if he knew something was missing. “What about …”

“Kindling? There should be some palm fronds in that basket.”

He rummaged around, going by feel in the deepening gloom. “You brought this stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Have you stayed here before?”

“Not overnight.”

She could tell by the way he proceeded that he didn’t have much experience building fires, but she enjoyed his shirtless performance too much to offer any advice, and before long he had it going. While she lazed about, getting warm and cozy, he brought her water and they shared a tin of crackers and some beef jerky from her stash. They saved the last energy bar and a can of peaches for breakfast, although Shay could have eaten more.

Luke knew enough not to burn all the wood at once, so the fire was small and didn’t give off much heat. He must be cold in wet trousers and no shirt, and she would have invited him under her blanket if she thought he would accept.

From the way he kept his distance, she knew he wouldn’t. In fact, he looked prepared to stay up all night, holding vigil.

The fire did generate plenty of light, illuminating the dips and curves in the walls of the cave. Some of the natural rock features had been enhanced by human hands, and they drew Luke’s attention. “What’s this?” he asked, running his fingertips over a plump crevice.

She assumed he knew it was a petroglyph. Apparently, he didn’t know what the rock carving represented. “It’s a yoni,” she explained. “A female fertility symbol.”

Realizing he’d just been fondling a sacred stone vulva, he dropped his hand like it had been burned.

Shay smothered a laugh. “Cahuilla women used to rub it for good luck. They thought if they slept with their husbands after touching the shrine, a baby would come.”

He stared at his fingertips in dismay.

“I don’t think it works the same way for men,” she said with a smile.

Wiping his hand against the fabric of his pants anyway, anxious to get rid of whatever fertility mojo he may have picked up, he said, “You should try to get some sleep.”

Shay got his meaning, loud and clear: He didn’t want to share a blanket with her. He didn’t want to have sex with her. He didn’t even want to
talk
to her.

Incensed, she sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me earlier.”

He looked at her mouth, her bare shoulders, then away, into the darkness. “I know.”

“I didn’t even want you to.”

At that, he shrugged, as if the subject was debatable. Or maybe just not interesting enough to warrant a verbal response.

She looked around for something to throw at his head, and came up empty. “I’m not going to jump on you if you lay down next to me, either,” she said in a scathing tone. “Don’t worry, your virtue is safe.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he asked, “It’s not fire season, is it?”

“What?”

“April isn’t fire season.”

“No,” she said, feeling derailed. She’d wanted an argument, not a casual discussion about the weather. “But this is the desert. All a fire needs is dry fuel.”

He nodded, staring out into the black night once again. “I should keep watch.”

Understanding dawned. “You think someone set that fire deliberately? Knowing we were out here?”

“It came from the same direction we did.”

“So does the wind.”

“Then an arsonist could predict its path.”

She was flabbergasted. “Who would do that? And why?”

“To keep us away from something. To protect someone. I don’t know. Why would anyone move a dead body?”

She shook her head helplessly.

“Try to get some sleep,” he repeated, more gently this time. “You’ll need it if we’re going to hike out of here tomorrow.”

11

Dylan turned off the TV with a flick of his wrist and tossed the remote aside.

He was frustrated by the lack of information about the fire. Nothing that happened in Tenaja Falls ever rated a top story. The television crews in San Diego probably wouldn’t care if the whole town burned down.

According to the brief news bite, a small fire had engulfed several thousand acres on the Los Coyotes Indian Reservation. Now fully contained, its origins were unknown.

So where the hell was Shay?

When he saw black smoke curling up through the air on his way home from the construction site, his first thought had been: Oh, shit. What if his extracurricular science project had started the fire? He’d chosen the construction site precisely because it was deserted. There was nothing out there but freshly leveled dirt, with nary a bush or tree in sight. He knew a spark could travel quite a distance on the wind, so he’d been meticulous.

And he’d covered his tracks.

He was getting more worried now, because Shay hadn’t called, and he couldn’t reach her cell phone. Cell service was usually unreliable, but his sister never was. She always let him know when she was going to be late.

“Goddamned cops,” he muttered, blaming Luke for detaining her. His sister had been a little crazy when she was younger, but she’d never been irresponsible. And the sheriff had practically been drooling all over her this morning. If she encouraged him, Dylan figured Luke would be happy to serve her.

The new sheriff seemed like an okay guy, but Dylan hated Garrett Snell, and every other man who abused his power, with an alarming ferocity. Sulking, he imagined blowing the sheriff’s station to smithereens.

The doorbell rang, interrupting his fantasies of mayhem.

He rose to his feet, the bag of ice that was resting in his lap falling to the floor with a squishy clink. Hobbling less than he had a few hours ago, he made his way to the front door, and opened it to Angel Martinez.

She jerked her hand away from her mouth, as if she’d been biting her fingernails and didn’t want to get caught. In a plain black T-shirt and dark jeans, she looked fantastically beautiful. Her hair was pulled away from her face by a headband with a skull-and-crossbones design and a series of tiny silver hoops graced the curve of her ear.

“Hi,” she said, a little breathlessly.

He leaned against the doorjamb. “Hi.”

She looked down at her pointy-toed boots, and then back up at him. “Can we talk for a minute?”

His seventeen-year-old libido, ever frisky, revved up at her words.

“Sure,” he said, stepping aside. Trying to walk as though he hadn’t been kneed in the crotch earlier, he led her toward the living room. He sat on one side of the couch and she took the other. Both of them stared at the soggy ice pack resting on the worn carpet.

He didn’t offer any explanation for it. “My sister’s not home,” he said when her eyes returned to his.

“Oh.” After fiddling with some white threads at the knee of her worn jeans, she picked up one of the couch pillows and hugged it to her chest. Why did girls do that? “I just wanted to say I was sorry about the way things turned out. I should never have led you on.”

Her apology made him feel like a real jerk. He’d stormed over to her house and accused her of having no standards.
He
should be apologizing to
her
. “You didn’t—”

“Let me finish,” she said. “Please.”

He shrugged one shoulder, uncomfortable.

“One of the reasons I didn’t want to … get involved with you … is because of what happened with Chad. I knew you’d be mad if you found out.”

She was right, and he was ashamed of himself, not just for being predictable, but for disrespecting her. “I acted like a total jackass, and I’m sorry.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “It’s none of my business who you go out with.”

“Chad and I didn’t even go out,” she admitted, misery brimming in her dark eyes. “It was just … one of those things. A mistake I don’t want to make again.”

Dylan knew what she meant. She regretted what she’d done with Chad, and she regretted what she’d done with him. The foolish hope he’d been entertaining since she walked through the door died a swift, painful death. Angel hadn’t come to tell him she was wrong, or that she’d changed her mind. She didn’t want a boyfriend. She didn’t want
him
.

No one ever had.

Her eyes softened with sympathy as she read his disappointment, and he hated her for that. She nibbled on her lower lip, drawing his attention to it, and he hated himself, too, because he still wanted her.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for helping me fight off Travis.”

His gaze lingered on her mouth. “You thanked me enough. Although I wouldn’t mind getting thanked a little more.”

It was meant to be an insult, but his delivery was off. Maybe because he was more eager than angry. Her lips looked glossy and ripe, as if she’d put some shiny girl-stuff on them, and her chest rose and fell in agitation. Or anticipation.

The ache in his groin returned with a vengeance, reminding him not to risk his heart. Too many of his important parts had been crushed lately. Besides, she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested in being his girl, no matter how many fuck-me looks she gave him.

No meant no.

He pulled his attention from her lips and stared down at the melting ice at his feet, trying to channel cool energy.

“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.

“I ran into Deputy Snell. He hurt me.”

“Where?”

“Same place you hurt Travis.”

She frowned at his lap. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” he said, his stomach muscles tightening. If she kept staring, his blue nylon basketball shorts wouldn’t be able to conceal the proof of how well he was recovering. Everything seemed normal down there, if a bit tender, so he figured he was in better shape than Travis. His overzealous friend had screamed like a little girl when Angel kicked him. He’d also vomited, but that might have been from the beer.

“Come on,” he said, standing. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to.”

Ignoring that, he picked up the bag of ice water and took it to the sink, wishing it didn’t seem like a metaphor for the cool-off between them. Why did he inspire lukewarm emotions? Everyone he’d ever been close to had disappeared too soon; every feeling of affection had melted away.

Angel couldn’t think of anything to say as they walked down Calle Remolino, side by side, the gulf between them as wide as the Anza-Borrego Desert.

Since discovering that he liked girls in general, and her in particular, Dylan had been nervous around her. She’d always thought it was cute. Now it was she who felt tongue-tied when they were together, she who blushed every time he looked at her a certain way, and she who kept stealing furtive glances at his whipcord physique.

Qué loca!

This was Dylan Phillips, not Brad Pitt. He wasn’t built. He wasn’t suave. He wasn’t even gorgeous.

Okay, so he was kind of hot, if you liked quirky white boys, and he had some muscles here and there. He’d be a real heartbreaker when he filled out, but right now he was just a trouble-seeking teenager, all angst and hormones.

She wasn’t sure why she came to apologize. He’d acted like a jerk earlier and she’d given him a proper put-down. She supposed she felt guilty for encouraging him in his bedroom, and responsible for the rift between him and his lame friends.

He
had
fought with both of them to protect her.

She’d also known him her entire life and considered him a friend. The least she could do, before she left, was clear the air between them.

“Do you want to come in my room?” she asked when they arrived at her doorstep.

That eager, almost desperate expression flickered across his face, then his eyes became shuttered and it was gone. “Sure,” he said anyway, probably just to be polite.

Feeling unsettled, she opened her door and turned on the lamp, bathing the room in a pale yellow light. With its small desk, large bed, and single armoire, the space was cozy, but cramped. And although it was clean, she was embarrassed by her Spartan quarters. Why had she invited him in?

“Do you play?” he asked, nodding toward the guitar case on the bed.

Maldiciónes
. She’d forgotten to put it away. “Um. Yeah. A little.”

“Cool,” he said, sitting down next to it. The bed had once belonged to her parents, and it dominated the tiny room. His long, rangy body seemed well suited to the space, and her mind manufactured several inventive ways they could put it to good use. “Play something.”

Angel looked everywhere but the bed. Which was hard to do, with him sitting on it. “Oh, no. I’m not that good and I haven’t been practicing enough and you wouldn’t like any of the songs I know …” She snuck another glance at him. He arched a brow.

Her choices were to stare at the wall or play her guitar, so she stopped stammering and picked up her acoustic. Like the armoire in the opposite corner, the guitar was an art piece, one of a kind, and hand-carved. Both were from Paracho, Mexico, famous for woodwork. Her mother’s hometown.

She pulled the ladder-back chair away from her desk and sat facing him. The style of music she played differed greatly from the kind he preferred. She liked to listen to a wide range of genres, from punk to pop, and although she was especially fond of some of the furious noise Dylan favored, what she played was more forlorn than angry.

Too self-conscious to break into one of her originals, she decided on an older ballad by Shakira. The song was pensive and soulful, with a folksy sound she often tried to emulate. If the lyrics hit a little too close to home for comfort, at least they were in Spanish, so that felt safer.

Mis días sin ti son tan oscuros, tan largos, tan grises …

She stumbled through the first few verses, in which the speaker describes how dark her days are without the one she loves. Her voice was pitchy and her fingers fumbled for the right chords, and then she just sort of … found her rhythm. Found herself.

It was always like this with music. She got lost in the melody, and the rest of the world faded away.

When she was finished, she let the last chord ring out and slowly came back down to earth. By the way Dylan was staring at her, she knew the song had been a poor choice. Foreign language aside, the emotion of the piece must have been written all over her face.

“That was beautiful,” he said.

Her insides warmed as though she’d taken a sip of brandy. “I didn’t write it,” she said unnecessarily. Of course he wouldn’t think she’d written such a lovely song. “It’s called
‘Moscas en la casa.’
That means ‘Flies in the house.’”

He smiled. “I know. Everything sounds so much more poetic in Spanish.”

“You understood the words?”

“All but
ahogándome en llanto
. Drowning in tires?”

It was her turn to smile. “Drowning in tears.”

His look of confusion cleared. “Ah.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew Spanish. He was Dylan Phillips. He knew everything. He probably spoke her native language as well as she did. Now she felt completely exposed, as if she’d shown him a piece of her heart.

“Do you play an instrument?” she asked, scrutinizing him in return.

His brows rose. “Me? No.”

“Why not?”

When his eyes darkened with sadness, she regretted the innocent question. Dylan may be gifted, but he was also wounded, and it was clear the subject disturbed him. “My mother played the violin,” he said, which was explanation enough. “Her music was … strange. Sorrowful. Haunting.” He swallowed visibly. “It was one of the only things she seemed to enjoy … near the end. I think playing kept her well, for a while. She wanted me to take it up, but I was too antsy. Too impatient.”

Angel smiled, remembering how hyperactive he was as a little kid. Like his mind, his arms and legs had never stilled.

“Reading music was easy for me. That part I understood immediately. I just couldn’t get my fingers to cooperate.” He made a stiff claw with his right hand, as if trying to force it into a more elegant position. “I should have tried harder.”

Her heart broke for him, for the boy he’d been. All of seven or eight years old when his mom died, and here he was, thinking he could have made a difference.

Angel had gone around that bend herself, many times. She and Dylan had a lot in common—none of it good.

“Now, a basketball,” he continued, reshaping his hands around a phantom ball, “that always felt right.”

Her tummy tingled as she imagined his hands on her rounded parts. Yes, she could certainly attest to the fact that his touch felt right.

Their eyes met and held. He dropped his gaze, and his hands. “Your voice is incredible.”

“No,” she protested. “It’s all scratchy. Not appropriate for singing.”

“That’s what I like about it. It’s unusual. Sexy.”

The sensation in the pit of her stomach deepened into a dull ache. “I want to be a songwriter, actually.”

“Really?” His eyes brightened with interest. “Play one of yours.”