Page 10 of Burn With Me

“You want your jacket, no problem.” Turning around so my back faced the asshat, I flicked the heavy jacket off so it fell on the ground at his feet. Childish, maybe, but it made me feel better. Looking over my shoulder, I smirked at him and then didn’t give him any more of my time as I made my way back to the annoyed-looking paramedic. The guy reached into the ambulance and handed over a silver blanket that I quickly wrapped around my body to cover up my lace bra.

As I sat down and held out my hand again, I couldn’t help but notice that unknown guy giving me a look I couldn’t quite decipher, but it made me want to squirm. The corner of his mouth curved ever so slightly upward, which should’ve made me want to punch him and ruin that all-too-sexy face, but instead, it did the complete opposite. I bit the inside of my cheek, wondering how his lips would taste and if his body were as cut as it seemed under his clothes.

Bending over, he picked up the jacket and flung it around his broad shoulders, stuffing his arms inside the sleeves. Even that simple act made him look like he was in a slow-action strip tease.

Without another word, he walked away. I made sure to take note of the name on the back. It said West. There was no way I’d ever be interested in an arrogant ass like him. That would’ve been stupid. Yet, I found my eyes tracking his movements and making sure I paid attention to what fire station number he joined—station 126.

I had no intentions of seeing the jerk again. It was simply useful information to have.

“You’re going to need stitches,” the paramedic said, forcing me to pull my eyes away from the sexy asshole.

“Okay, then do it,” I said, and he shook his head.

“Not by me. You have to go to the hospital.”

“No way.” I stood. “Either you fix my hand now or wrap it, and I’ll take my chances.”

“Unbelievable, you’re just like them,” the paramedic said and pointed a thumb at the group of firefighters.

“No, I’m not,” I complained, annoyed to be lumped in with those heathens.

“Oh yeah? You think any of them would go to the hospital like they should? It’s like all of you think I don’t know how to do my job and that I don’t know what’s best. It’s actually a little hurtful,” he said as he zipped up his large medical bag.

Great, now I was being manipulated to get into an ambulance, but as West looked over his shoulder at me and gave me a condescending look, I decided I never wanted to be lumped in with anything he would do.

“Fine, let’s go,” I mumbled.

Yay, hours of sitting at a hospital, here I come.

Derek

The screaming was louder tonight.

I stared at Asher, who was cowering in bed, the blankets balled up like a shield. I was so sick of this. I hated that Asher was always terrified, that any of us were terrified. How many years were we going to have to endure this? Why couldn’t this piece of shit of a man just die or run off with some other woman? I’d fantasized about killing my father so many times that the scenarios had become a never-ending carousel in my mind.

Tossing the comforter off, I didn’t know what the fuck I planned on doing, but I needed to stop this. Either I’d kill him, or he’d kill me, but someone needed to step in. Slamming my always-booted feet onto my bedroom floor, I charged out of the room and stomped down the hallway. I learned way too young that it was safter to keep my boots on when I slept because I never knew when I might need to run. However, tonight, I was not running away. I was moving toward…him. My boots were so loud on the wood that the floor rumbled as if I were making miniature earthquakes with every stomping stride.

I found my father standing over my mother, his meaty fist holding her by the front of her sweater. His other fist was cocked back as he yelled about something in his drunken haze.

“Leave her alone!” I didn’t think about it. I simply ran at the man who had broken my bones and bruised my body until I didn’t recognize my reflection. I ran at a monster that no one would do anything to stop. But I would.

A brief moment of satisfaction washed through my fourteen-year-old body as I watched my father slam into the kitchen counter. The odd bend of his body sent all the dishes in arm’s reach, scattering and clattering to the floor. I was breathing heavily, my gaze fixed on the object of my rage and fear.

After a long moment, I knelt and tried to inspect my mother’s bruised face, but she slapped my hands away like I was the one that was trying to hurt her.

“What have you done?” Her angry, disgusted tone matched the way her brows knit together. “You’ve only made it worse. Stupid. Why couldn’t you just stay in your room?”

“You think you’re tough now, Kid?” my father slurred.

I yelled out as he grabbed me by the hair and gave my side a sharp jab that was still sore from the last round of abuse. All the air rushed from my lungs, and tears sprang to my eyes with the force of the second blow. I screamed like I was possessed.

No more would I be quiet and take his punches.

“Shut up, or I’ll give you something to scream about,” he snarled like a rabid dog.

I continued to scream and thrash in his hold, my elbow finding the soft squishy part of his belly, and I loved that he groaned at the impact of my blow.

“I said shut up, you fucking piece of shit!” My father dragged me across the small kitchen.