Page 23 of Fire
Evan sniffs the air, and his forehead crinkles. “You smell like smoke.”
“There’s been a change of plans.”
He goes still. “What kind of change?”
I clear my throat. “Grave’s brother, Cyrus, is going to take over guarding you.”
He doesn’t speak, but his smile goes flat.
“They need my help with security at Freedom Fest.”
“But I’m going to be there too,” he insists. “Can’t we just go there together like we’d planned?”
“That won’t work. I have to go up there early to meet with Cash and Johnny.”
“But, afterward, you’ll be coming back, right? I mean, until the threat with the Reivers is gone?”
The word “yes” almost tumbles out of my mouth. I want to tell him I’ll never leave him, but the last image from my dream of Evan’s cold amber eyes staring up at me fills my head and sets my decision in stone.
“No.”
“Is this about last night?”
I hesitate.
“Hand me my clothes,” he demands. When I just stare at him, he screams at me. “Hand me my clothes!”
I collect his t-shirt and sleep pants from the floor while trying not to remember how hot it was while taking them off ofhim. He snatches them from me, quickly shimmies into them, stands up, and heads to the door.
I block him. “It’s not about last night. It’s me. It’s my fault.”
That look of fragile vulnerability I’ve seen before is there for a second, but then anger replaces it. “Perfect. You said I was perfect.” Evan shakes his head in frustration. “How could I have thought any of last night was real?” His hands come up, and he starts beating himself on the head.
“Stop that.” I start to grab his fists when he drops them to cradle himself.
“I’m so fucking stupid.” His lips twist into an ironic half-smile. “The old ‘it’s not you; it’s me’ speech. I used to get a lot of those before I wised up and realized nobody wants me for their friend, let alone their?—”
He stops speaking, and it seems suddenly really important that he finishes his sentence. “Their what?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he says with a bitter twist to his lips. “I already know the answer.”
He sits up straight. “When are you leaving?”
“Tonight. Cyrus will be here at seven.”
He nods slowly and stands up. I barely recognize the man staring at me blankly. There’s none of the fiery anger I experienced in my first week of guarding him, or the nervous, shy energy he has when he gets self-conscious and too in his head, or the lover I spent last night with.
I hate this. I want to smash this wall I put between us.
His voice is careful and measured when he speaks. “I’m sure you’d like to get your things together, and I need to try to track some leads on that church in Tennessee, so it’s best to say our goodbyes now.”
No, we still have a few hours before Cyrus gets here.
I start to protest.
“Please,” he says, with enough desperation in his voice that I can do nothing but agree.
I nod, and he puts his hand out for me to shake. “I appreciate everything you’ve done to keep me safe.”
