Ember Boys (Flint and Tinder Book 1), page 11
And then I stopped, staring at my shadow reflection, finally eye to eye with the thing on the other side of the glass. It wasn’t Jim’s fault I was a fucking monster. He wasn’t the first guy who couldn’t stand to look at me; he wouldn’t be the last. It just hurt, that was all. It hurt more with Jim, for some reason. And that was stupid.
I thought of him coming after me, so sick he could barely stand, but coming after me because the poor dumb fuck was worried about me, thought I was the one who needed help. Too fucking stupid to realize he was the one who needed me, at least for now. And I thought about the facts: I had no money, no phone, no way back to San Elredo, and no way to score. I thought I’d gotten clean in rehab; I thought I’d been better. But right then, my head was already starting to hurt. I wanted a needle and a spoon and a few minutes when I didn’t have to remember: that I’d killed a girl I loved; that I’d walked away from a boy who loved me and needed me; that I was the thing on the other side of the glass.
I headed back the way I’d come, and two miles later, I found Jim stumbling around, barefoot, in his jeans and shirt but no coat. The moonlight washed all the color out of him; his strawberry blond hair, gray; his face, gray; his eyes, gray.
He was burning up with fever when I grabbed his arm.
“I made you mad,” he said, falling against me, his skin like cinders where he touched me. “I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have—I don’t even know what I’m saying, Emmett, I just didn’t want to make you mad.”
“Don’t talk.”
“I feel like shit.”
“I said don’t talk.”
“I really feel like shit,” he said, and then he bent over and emptied his guts all over my shoes.
I held him and stroked his neck—desert hot, dry.
“Come on,” I said, “let’s get you back to the room.”
It was harder this time; Jim was exhausted, and he’d banged his feet up pretty bad coming after me. By the last few blocks, I was almost carrying him, and the son of a bitch was a full-grown man. For a nerd who loved books, he had packed on an irritating amount of muscle. He kept falling, and every time I caught him, he wanted to cuddle, hooking his arms around me, nuzzling into my neck.
“I hate you,” I reminded him.
If he heard me, he didn’t give any sign.
The motel I’d picked was a shitty L, the long leg stretching away from the road. I’d gotten us a room on the second floor, and the place only had exterior corridors, so we climbed the stairs and made our way down the rough, indoor-outdoor carpeting. It probably would have looked funny, all the falling and staggering, like a two-buck comedy routine. Dumbfuck and Dumbfuck. When we finally got into the room, I kicked off my puke shoes and pushed him onto the bed.
“Jesus Christ,” I said after giving him a once-over, “your feet. Stay down.” He sat up, and I shoved him back. “I said stay down.” I studied him for a moment. I knew what I was about to do, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Not completely, anyway. Then I climbed onto the bed and started turning Jim out of his clothes.
I talked while I worked. “You’re a selfish, ungrateful, stupid asshole.”
He moaned, and I rolled him over and got one arm out of its sleeve.
“You’re not pretty.”
I rolled him again and got the second arm.
“You’re really not smart.”
He mumbled something.
“You’re not funny. At all. If you tried to be funny, you’d probably just make stupid dad jokes,” I grunted as I popped his shirt off and saw the toned muscle, the dusting of blond hair, the thicker patch that disappeared under his waistband. “And you’re so old you don’t even know what dad jokes are.”
My hands were only shaking a little as I undid his fly.
I kept talking, now just trying to distract myself. “You were a shitty teacher.” I yanked on the jeans, and they came down a few inches, exposing tight black boxers and—Mother of God, not fair—a fat bulge. “You are a shitty friend. You are condescending,” yank on the jeans, “you are oblivious,” yank, “you are annoying,” yank, “and you have done nothing but make my life worse since you showed up in San Elredo.” The pants came free from around his ankles, faster than I expected, and I fell back on my butt.
I stared at Jim Spencer, sprawled out, somehow graceful and gorgeous even after he’d puked on my shoes. I followed the long, muscled lines of his legs, the stiff, sparse strawberry hairs on his thighs, up to the tight cuffs of black cotton and whatever he was hiding in there. A fucking python, by the looks of it.
“You are never, ever, ever going to hurt me again,” I told him.
He snored softly.
“Nobody is.”
Sighing, I got a washcloth, cleaned Jim up, and tucked him under the covers.
The thing about addicts? In addition to being fuck-ups, thieves, cheats, and all-around pieces of shit? We’re world-class liars. Especially to ourselves.
16 | JIM
When I woke, my head throbbed, and every inch of me ached like I’d been run over by a truck. It was better than I’d felt in days because my head was finally clear. I rolled onto my side, and details began filtering in.
The motel.
The bed.
The fact that I was stripped down to my briefs.
I sat up, throwing a frantic glance around the room, and spotted Emmett asleep in a chair. He’d taken one of the blankets from the bed, and he was sleeping the way teenagers do: anywhere, any position, no matter how uncomfortable or impossible. Right then, his head was pillowed on the arm of the chair, while the rest of his lanky body spilled off the seat. It would have given me a stiff neck for a week, but he didn’t seem to mind.
In sleep, he looked even younger. The barriers he put up, the walls he hid behind, they were down for a moment. His hair stood up in clumps on one side, showing that he had changed position at some time during the night. The blanket had slipped, exposing the delicate lines of scarring across his chest and shoulder. I remembered parts of last night: kissing the inside of his elbow, the way he had said, I hate you.
“Don’t be creepy,” he said without opening his eyes.
“Oh,” I said. “Hey.”
“That was pretty pathetic.”
Yes, I thought. Yes, it was. And suddenly I was aware of the cool air against my skin, and I gathered the sheet and pulled it up my chest.
His eyes came open and fixed on me. “Well?”
“Did you sleep ok?”
“Come on, you can do better than that.”
“I would have—you could have—” I made a gesture to the bed. “I would have been fine on the floor.”
He made a noise in his throat, somewhere between disgust and aggravation, and stretched. Dark patches of hair showed as he reached both arms over his head. Then he smirked, hands clasped at the back of his neck, and watched me.
I pulled the sheet higher.
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he asked.
“Emmett.”
“No. I don’t want to hear you say my name right now. When I want to hear you say my name, trust me: I’ll give you a good reason.”
“We need to talk about last night.”
“Yes, we do.” He arched his back, and the blanket slid down, exposing more of his chest, dark nipples, the slight definition of his abs. “You get a free pass last night because you’re sick, ok? That’s what I decided.”
“Uh. Thank you. I want you to know that I would never have—I mean, I know it was completely inappropriate. I think you’re a great guy, and I know you’ll find the right person who can appreciate you for—”
Emmett’s face hadn’t changed, not exactly, but he was doing that teenager thing where he was sending a million nonverbal signals that I was the dumbest fucker he’d ever encountered.
“No,” he said slowly. “I think we need to be really clear about something, Jim: I think you’re hot. I’m legal. And I’m going to get what I want, which in this case, is you. You can wring your hands and pretend to be horrified and drag the whole thing out. Or you can get on board and speed things along. Either way, we’re going to have some fantastic fucks before I get tired of you, and then we’ll split up, go our separate ways, no hard feelings.”
Heat prickled across my face and chest like sunburn. I made myself meet his eyes and I shook my head.
“Oh yes,” he said, biting the ruined corner of his mouth. “Just wait and see.”
“I’m sorry, Emmett. I guess you’re right. We should have talked about this. I care about you. A lot, actually. You’re the most important person in my life right now.”
“So sweet,” he said, the words soft. Not mocking, not in their tone. But they felt like a slap.
“I’m not going to mess that up. You deserve a good guy, and you deserve someone close to your own age.”
“Anything else?” The same soft tone. One hand came down, sliding along his ribs, his chest, skating past a nipple.
“Besides, uh.”
He was scratching lightly at the dark bush under one arm. He raised an eyebrow, his whole face a politely interested go on.
“We have, uh, a previous relationship—” I had to stop and swallow. “It’s not ethical, not when I was in a position with those unequal power dynamics, when I could have been taking advantage of you.”
“Get it all out,” he said, still touching himself everywhere, light, brushing touches, like he just enjoyed the sensation of skin on skin. “This is your one chance.”
“I know you’re hurting because of how things ended with Vie. I know—” Was that my voice, sounding like a cat being strangled? “I know you’ve gone through some really bad spots, especially in your romantic relationships. I want to be more than that. I want to be your friend. I want you to have someone stable in your life.”
“That’s really noble,” he whispered, his eyes suddenly wet. “Is that really what you want?”
“Yes. I want you to be happy. And I want to be part of that, just not—just not the way you said.”
Then he blinked, his eyes suddenly hard and clear again, and he laughed. “That’s some white-knight-on-a-horse level bullshit.” Then, ticking items off on his fingers, he said, “One: I’m not hurting from Vie, and he certainly wasn’t a romantic relationship. He was an easy fuck. He was a cheap fuck. He was a piece of trash tweaker I could do whatever I wanted to. Let’s be really fucking straight about that. Two: you don’t get to decide what I need in my life; you don’t have any idea what’s best for me. Look at your own life. Look how well you’ve fucked that up. So thanks for the best wishes, but I think I can take better fucking care of myself. And three.” His mouth curved into the shortened smirk, the scarred side pulling tight. “The first time we fuck, when you’re desperate for it, I’m going to make you tell me all about power dynamics before I give you what you want. Think about that. Remember that.”
I had to take a deep breath and really, really focus to put that out of my head before saying, “I know it’s scary—”
“Fuck you.”
“I know it’s hard to hear—”
“Fuck. You.”
“Emmett, I—”
He was out of the seat so fast I didn’t even realize he was moving. Not until the slap connected. Just a little pop, nothing hard, but it shocked me; the sting lingered in my cheek and the corner of my mouth.
“I told you I don’t want you saying my name. Not like you’re calling fucking roll. Not like you’re my fucking guidance counselor.”
Rubbing my cheek, I tried really hard to pull the anger back inside, back where it couldn’t hurt anyone, not even me. Not even when the little shit deserved it.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Let it out. Let me see.”
“I know you’ve—”
He slapped me again. Harder this time, hard enough that spots ran across my vision.
“Yell at me,” he said, just barely loud enough for me to hear. “Throw me around. Hit me. Burn me. You think you can hurt me? Give it a shot, you stupid piece of shit.”
“Sit down,” I said.
He swung again, and this time, I caught his wrist. He didn’t struggle. He just stood there, grinning, his eyes wide like he was buzzed.
“What is going on?” I asked, spacing the words out. “That really hurt.”
“No?” he said, studying me. “Nothing? What if I—”
He pulled, trying to get free, and I forgot about trying to keep things calm. Just for an instant, but it was enough. I dragged him forward, slamming him onto the mattress, and I grabbed him by the throat and held him there. For a moment, he struggled, and then I dropped down onto him, pinning him with my weight.
“I want to know what the hell is going on with you,” I said, my voice scratchy and wild. “I want to know what the hell is going on.”
We struggled for another minute, although there wasn’t much to see: he kept trying to get free, but I had him pretty well trapped. After the minute was up, Emmett was panting, his eyes huge, and he kept turning into the pillow to wipe tears from his face.
Then, as his breathing slowed, he looked up at me and said, cool and clear, “You’re hurting me.”
“I’m being very careful not to hurt you, actually, although you’ve been making it pretty hard.”
“I’m in withdrawal,” he said like he was explaining something to a child. “I didn’t get my fix yesterday. I hurt all over, and you’re making it worse.”
I released him and sat back. He slid away from me, rubbing his throat, then rubbing his wrist, his chest. I looked for burns; I didn’t see anything new, but I noticed that his wrist was bandaged. I assumed he had bought bandages, maybe a burn cream, when he’d gone out for my medicine the night before.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Is that why you’re acting like this?”
“Sure,” he said, wiping his face as though suddenly exhausted. “Why not?”
“We need to get you back to the hospital.”
“No. Fuck no; I hate that place. I hate that place, and I’m never going back.”
“Emmett, you have to go back. You need—”
“I just told you: you don’t know what I need.” He stood and headed for the door. “I’m going to check on Chloe.”
“Can you just talk to me for a minute?” I touched his shoulder, and he flinched. “Why didn’t you tell me you hated San Elredo? I could have called your parents, told them—”
“If Chloe’s up, we should probably get going.”
I wanted to grab him. I wanted to shake him. I wanted answers, and I wanted him to tell me he forgave me. But I’d learned when I was a kid, locked in a room, being tortured by monsters, that what I wanted mattered fuck all in this universe. I tried one of the old faithfuls, the way I handled difficult students: be quiet, wait, let them think, let them speak.
“Well?” Emmett finally said. “Don’t just fucking look at me. If you have something to say, say it.”
I folded the sheet across my legs, lined up the seams, pictured the Bighorn River, the way the waters ran slow and smooth in late summer.
“Are you coming?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding out from under the sheets, grabbing my clothes from the floor. “I’ll get dressed—”
“No, go ahead and shower,” he said, “and get a change of clothes. You’re not exactly fresh, Jimbo.”
I waited until he left, and then my control slipped. I punched a pillow. A growl built in my throat. I kept punching, and then my hands burst into flames.
Swearing, I shook out my hands, and the flames went out. I smothered the burning pillow under the coverlet. When the flames were extinguished, I held it in my lap, staring down at the singed cotton. Where I touched the burned fabric, my fingers came away black.
The electronic lock activated, and I shoved the pillow under the bed. Emmett pushed into the room, and I knew something was wrong. He looked at me. Took a breath.
“What happened in here?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“It smells like something’s burning.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“If you can put on a pair of pants, come take a look.”
I dressed in my clothes from the day before and followed him outside, down the external staircase, and stopped. I didn’t need him to tell which room had been Chloe’s. I could figure that out by myself.
It was pretty easy; the door had been ripped from the hinges.
17 | EMMETT
When I tried to go into Chloe’s room, Jim caught my arm.
“Hold on, let me—”
“I already went inside,” I said, shaking him off. “It’s sweet that you think I need you, though.”
I used to like Jim’s moments of self-control: anger trying to breach the surface, and then Jim doing what he always did, shutting himself down, turning out the lights. I used to like pressing the buttons, trying to figure out every combination, trying to crack the Jim-fucking-Spencer secret code. Today, though, the fun had gone out of it. Today, I just wanted to take back everything I’d done, roll back everything to the minute I’d woken up and felt him watching me. Today, I just wanted not to be me, because I couldn’t seem to stop being an asshole.
Jim grabbed my arm again at the ruined door, and I twisted free and stepped inside.
I’d been telling the truth; I’d already been in the room. The full truth, though, was that I hadn’t done more than step through the doorway. Once I’d seen the inside, which was completely destroyed, I’d freaked out and run back to Jim.
The layout of the unit was basic: immediately on the left was the bathroom and a closet, and then after a few more steps, the room opened up. It was obvious that Chloe hadn’t made it easy for them to take her. A chest of drawers slanted across the narrow passageway from the door , blocking the path into the room proper; beyond the chest of drawers, both beds were flipped over. Something had hit the drywall hard enough to open a hole almost a yard long; brittle gypsum teeth opened over the exposed studs. The air held a hot, electric stink, although I couldn’t locate the source.
