Page 10 of Burning Demons (Burning Torments #1)

Chapter 10

Wren

Momma mumbled something I didn’t hear as I waded to the stairs and got out. My racing heart settled quickly, and in place of the rushing blood were my swirling thoughts. I’d had my hands on him. I had touched his skin and felt his bones and muscles. More importantly, he’d had his hands on me, and I hadn’t hated it.

I stared at the scars across my shoulders as I dried off. I didn’t like being touched. Not even over clothes. But that prickling feeling like ants under my skin hadn’t come at all.

The same scene of us in the pool played out in my mind over and over for the rest of the day. With each turn, new ideas sprang to mind, new possibilities, new dreams, new awakenings inside my body. A person, a guy, had touched me, and I didn’t hate it.

I finished out the day doing chores and helping Momma. She apologized for filming me and assured me she did it innocently. I knew that. Well, hours later, when the shock wore off, I did. Momma knew more than anyone else how I felt about my scars.

The whole thing had put new thoughts in my head, though, and most of them made me think about Tate in an altered light. I paid more attention to him than I should after that, and it got me noticing shit. Like how his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was watching. Or how he lowered his eyes as if that self-confidence was all faked. Maybe Sam was right in thinking Tate had been through some stuff up in New York.

Tate gave Momma a polite thank-you when she sat down a tall glass of sweet tea in front of him at supper that night. His abrupt departure from the pool was water under the bridge now.

Little squares had been cut into the tray of lasagna. Everyone took one, but I took three and went back for more. Tate had called me pigheaded too. I just felt like a pig right now, but shit, I was always starving.

Something else I noticed: Tate didn’t each much. He might’ve finished half the square and pushed the rest around. I did that same trick with liver and onions, so he wasn’t fooling me. Was he really not hungry, or was he depressed? We’d had a health class in school, with a focus on mental shit for a few days, so it could be something weighing on his mind.

Whatever it was, from that night on, I slept with one ear open. He didn’t have nightmares every night, and there were no indicators when one would happen. After bitching at me for checking on him that first time, I just watched from his doorway, making sure he settled and slept on. It probably made me a creeper, but I didn’t know what else to do.

The first day of school moved ever closer, and although weeks ago I had wanted it to hurry up and get here, now it could take all the time it needed. Sam grilled out every night it didn’t rain. Momma made cookies and cakes, silently acknowledging the same thing I noticed. Tate had a sweet tooth, and at least he ate more when dessert was involved.

I kept up my routine of early workouts, chores, cello, and trying to catch Tate smoking just to tease him about it. Tate was given his own set of chores. I thought for sure he’d balk at having to do more than his fancy life in New York had required of him, but he hadn’t. In fact, he actually seemed happy about them.

We got in the pool a lot, mostly with Momma during the day or with all of us in the evening. Each time we found ourselves alone, I wondered if we’d pick back up where we’d left off. Would we wrastle? Talk about our futures?

About a week after that first time, I found myself alone with Tate on the patio. A swift breeze kept the evening cool. Momma and Sam had gone inside after we cleaned supper off the table. The floodlights at the corners of the deck and on the pole at the back of our property kicked on with the fallen night.

Tate sat across from me, checking his phone between cigarettes. Not that I was counting, but he was on his third since we ate. It had crossed my mind to ask where he was getting them from, but the question never made it out of my head.

I pulled out my phone and set it on the table. “I’ve been meaning to ask you for your number.”

Tate slowly lifted his head from staring at his phone, then blinked. “Huh?” he asked, as if he had to work himself out of a daze.

I pointed to his hands. “You’re on it a lot. Figured when school starts, we could …” We could what? Text like boyfriends? Fucking hell, I’d still see him every day. We didn’t need to exchange numbers. God, I was stupid.

To my shock, Tate rattled off his number, not saying anything about my dumb ass for asking, and I hurriedly saved it and texted him a thumbs-up so he’d have mine. He checked the message, didn’t say a word, still, and set his phone face down.

The silence tonight was under my skin in a bad way for a change, so I stood, stretched, then turned to him and jerked my head toward the pool. “Let’s swim.”

Tate darted his gaze between me and the water but said, “No.”

“Come on.”

My pushing had the desired effect.

Tate sat back, a lazy tug to one corner of his mouth. “I didn’t take you for the begging sort.”

I snorted. “I’m not even a little, but I’ll toss your ass in if you don’t go in willingly. Fair warning.”

Tate flung himself out of the chair with a huff, stepped to the pool, and tipped over the side. He twisted midair to shoot me the finger before hitting the water.

I chuckled, let out a war cry, and did a running cannonball to douse him with the tidal wave. I came up laughing and checking to see if he was impressed by my athleticism. He pegged me with a very unimpressed glare and spat water at me.

“Who are you texting all the time?” I asked. Had he left someone in New York? A girlfriend or …

“I’m not texting anyone.”

“Then why are you looking at it so much?”

Tate moved to his left, and our circling of each other like last time resumed. “Cat videos. Isn’t that why the internet was created?”

I rolled my eyes and splashed him. “I’d accept that, except you’re never laughing. I don’t even think a dead person could watch those reels without chuckling at least once.”

“Porn?”

“Try again.”

“Doomscrolling?”

“That I’d believe, but I doubt it. You never share any conspiracies.”

Tate cocked his head, an evil grin curling his lips. “Why are you watching me so closely, Big Country?”

Why, indeed. I couldn’t deny it, and obviously, he’d caught me, or I’d already told on myself. I shrugged and splashed him again, this time only enough to distract him in case he heard how hard my heart pounded.

“You’re funny-lookin’, that’s why.”

He chuckled, a dark sound that never left his chest. “Oh, really?”

“Yes?” I croaked and tried again. “Uh, yeah. Why, someone tell you you were hot?”

Tate dipped low enough the water line covered his twitching smile. Then he came up, mask back in place, and said, “Someone called me pretty once.”

Someone. Me . “Yeah, well, you are.”

Round and round, we moved in the water. The night around us sat quietly as if it, too, was interested in what he’d say next, where this would go. The owls were quiet. The crickets and frogs slept. The only sound was the soft lap of water against our shoulders.

Until the pool pump kicked on, and we both jumped.

“Shit,” I chuckled as he did too. “Stay close,” I said and paddled next to him. “I’ll save you from the scary noises.”

God, how I wished it were daylight. Wished I could tell if a blush hit his cheeks when he bit his lip just now. He kept his eyes glued to mine. Tate was brave like that. I’d caught him watching me a dozen times, and he never showed an ounce of remorse for it. He stared. He judged. He openly and honestly let me see him do it too. If only I could be so bold.

“My hero,” he whispered.

Pride surged in my chest, threatening to bust out of my ribs. I grinned like a loon and stood, bracing my fist on my hips, a real superhero pose. It broke the moment with our laughing, but my insides had been coiled so tightly I didn’t know how else to release them. It was either make a joke or kiss him. And though I wanted to, wanted to know if his lips were as soft as they looked, wanted to taste his skin and breath, wanted to be near enough his scent coated my lungs for days, I couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

Tate was my stepbrother. Tate was a fucking man. I couldn’t come out, and I certainly couldn’t do it with him. Not everyone would care that I was gay, Momma and Sienna for sure, but many more would rather hate me than accept me.

The trouble was, I didn’t know if I could keep it inside for much longer. For me, there might not be a choice in coming out.

Tate had noticed me watching him. This infatuation at first sight had grown without me realizing it, without my consent. What if it got worse? What if I did something in front of people and they all knew?

I shoved myself away from him and practically ran for the edge of the pool. Fuck the stairs—I needed the distance faster than that. I hopped onto the patio with a splash of water and embarrassment. Only seconds after being called a hero, I ran like a coward. Perfect. But if I couldn’t see his blush, then at least he wouldn’t be able to see mine.

Tate stayed in the water, eyes on me as I dried off. I couldn’t keep myself from glancing his way any more than I could stop myself from breathing. He didn’t seem pissed or confused. Either of those might have been better than what was on his face.

Acceptance.

Was I as transparent as that? Had he figured me out long before I had? Was he straight? Was he glad I’d taken my crush and run away?

Jesus, fuck. Was I seriously crushing on my stepbrother?

I fought the answer to that by hiding from the world, hiding from this new self-awareness, and played cello all the next day. No matter what I did, it didn’t make the answer any less apparent or true. No matter how much I ran from facing him again by getting lost in the music, the answer was still the same.

Yes. Fuck me, but yes, I was crushing. Hard.

I didn’t go for a run, didn’t set up a workout with Mr. Stevens. I didn’t even go down for breakfast. Momma didn’t ask why when she brought me food later in the morning. She made it a habit not to interrupt my playing unless there was a true emergency. For that, I was never more grateful.

Hours into my mental submergence, when I frantically pushed out anything that wasn’t sheet music, strings, bow, or bars, I hit a new plane of practice. One that trapped me. One that allowed my body to continue the motions, but my thoughts drifted. I hated it. I wanted out. I wanted to be lost in the nothing with my subconscious, but no. Imprisoned within my mind, I was forced to meet my issues head-on.

Despite my size and the scars, I’d managed to skate through school without drawing too much notice. I was a good enough student, never got in any trouble. Everyone knew everyone here, but I wasn’t the center of attention by a long shot.

This scar had been a part of me for eight years. At one point, I’d found the damned thing cool. Now, I hated it. Life wasn’t all about how we looked. Momma raised me better than that. Just once, though, I had wished someone would look at me and see me . I had wished someone’s eyes would never dip that tiny bit.

And now that it’d happened, I wasn’t sure what to do with it. The way he saw me made my chin lift and my shoulders ready to take on the world for him. But that was crazy.

His hero? Did Tate not see the weaknesses in me? The doubts?

I’d been a coward when it came to my sexuality, but I had justified staying in the closet, figuring I’d come out when I was ready to do something about it. Then there was all this random small shit that kept accumulating. Coach guilting me about not playing football. Alex saying stuff about queers and me never telling him to shut up. Teachers and parents questioning why I didn’t put my strength toward the team instead of playing in the band. They’d never once commented on how well I played, only that it was the wrong activity. Why did everyone have to push shit on me?

Being interested in guys, not interested in playing sports, playing in the band, big enough to stop traffic, and this fucking scar? I didn’t fit into anyone’s mold, and I’d hated it for so long. I hated not fitting in.

What would Daddy have said right about now? I knew in my heart I’d loved him, but at ten, I barely knew him. Not like I knew Sam anyway, not as a young man to his father. What would he tell me to do? Would he understand? Would he tell me to follow my heart?

Hot tears slipped from my chin and dropped to the neck of my cello, breaking through my mind like ripples over a once calm pond.

My hand was cramped and aching, causing the music to drift through the room in warped tones. An apt actualization of my thoughts. Pained. Twisted. Disoriented.

I ripped my bow from the string, stopping the ugly noise and smothering my ears in a roaring silence. Breaths cut through my lungs like a knife, scraping and whisking away pieces of the tight bands I’d restricted them with.

All those obstacles, all those worries, those barriers weren’t mine. I couldn’t control the world. I couldn’t control someone else’s opinions or views, just as they couldn’t control mine. Their issues or notions about me were their problem.

I heaved in deeply, filling my lungs until they hurt, until my body tingled with too much oxygen, then let it out with the last of the despair.

Clarity, as bright as Tate’s eyes and as melodious as his laugh, shined in my mind. The wet tracks dried on my cheeks. My heart rate calmed until I no longer heard it in my ears. I wasn’t sure what it looked like or how it would feel, but I was determined to stop lying to myself. To stop allowing these ties to limit me. To stop looking to others to define who I was.

I propped my cello on its stand and stood in front of my mirror. My T-shirt held splotches of drying sweat. My cheeks and eyes were red. I flexed my hands, then curled them into tight fists over and over, focusing on the muscles constricting in my forearms.

“I’m gay.”

The words trailed through the quiet of my room somewhere between a whisper and my normal decibel. It didn’t matter that only my ears heard them. Mine were the ones that counted. I grinned at myself in the mirror and leaned closer.

“I’m hot for Tate.” That did come out a whisper, but I chuckled all the same and bit my lower lip. “Oh, God,” I groaned, knowing I was in for a world of shit because of that truth.

I couldn’t wait.