Page 17 of Burning Demons (Burning Torments #1)

Chapter 17

Tate

Believe it or not, Hickory Bend High had a strict zero tolerance policy against fighting. I was sure every school had something similar. I mean, come on, who would actually say it was allowed? But a policy was only as good as it was enforced. Anyway. Tuesday, when we went back to school, because gossip travels swiftly, we were marched into the auditorium for an hour-long speech on the perils and pitfalls of settling scores with fists over words. They didn’t mention the fight—off campus and outside of school hours, as it were—but it was heavily implied they knew about it.

After that, Wren and I were kind of like celebrities. Wren said he hated it, of course. My beautiful wallflower had been sat out in the middle of the room for all to see. No one breathed a whisper of the old nickname he’d been given. Not even the Wolf Pack dared to call him World War again. The students finally saw Wren wasn’t the big teddy bear, all muscle and heart. No, just because he didn’t run his mouth like most of the school didn’t mean Wren was a pushover.

This new side, a side I saw in him all along, gave him a confidence boost. Even if he didn’t want the attention, Wren latched on to the rumors and whispers. He walked the halls a little taller. He kept his chin raised when he would’ve ducked it otherwise. Even his cello practice became a spectacle, showing off this newfound boldness. He let loose, the way he did in his room at night, and everyone loved it.

Me, well, yes, I loved it too, but I had to wait my turn. I had to wait until the school day was long gone and the world was plunged into the nightly ritual of darkness. I had to wait until after our days had been discussed with the parents, our homework was finished, and the house was tucked in the blanket and ready for sleep. I had to wait until even our harsh breathing, our bodies skimming the walls we held each other against, or our whispered curses of pleasure had to be hushed in the shadows of the huge secret we kept.

When nothing but the light of the moon sparkled in our eyes, Wren admitted he was as nervous about sex as he was excited for it. In a foolish bit of desperation to make him happy, to keep him comfortable, I said there was no rush. And really, it wasn’t a race. We kissed and groped every night until our lungs were bursting with keeping it quiet and our balls were as blue as Smurfs.

In the light of day, it was easy to convince myself this wasn’t so bad, that keeping this thing between us a secret was the best way for now. What wasn’t great were the nightmares.

Each night, I crawled into bed warily like a kid eyeing the space under the bed or the crack in the closet door and stressed over wondering if this night would be another one. With time and distance and a new distraction, I figured they’d get better, not worse. They weren’t every night, thankfully, but when they struck, I’d awake soaked, out of breath, and unable to fall back asleep. Strange things, horrible things peeled my flesh, broke my bones, made me watch as others were hurt, chained me so I couldn’t do anything about it. Sometimes people I knew were featured. Wren would stand shoulder to shoulder with Franklin, laughing like old friends while they tortured me. Sometimes Mother would be there too.

I searched the internet for dream interpretations but found nothing of value. Ignoring them wasn’t helping, and trying to figure them out was driving me crazy. I’d expect Franklin and Mother to hurt me, but why was Wren in them? Why did his beautiful face turn cruel and disgusted when he stripped my layers off to expose the scars on my soul?

And because nightmares at night weren’t enough, they came to me during the day too. Only these were real. With all this new notoriety, girls were falling all over Wren. I was surprised he didn’t go home with panties falling out of his pockets every fucking day. I told myself it was all for show, that that was the plan to throw off anyone sniffing around the truth of us. For his part, Wren checked out girls at lunch and in the halls. I couldn’t tell if he was legitimately curious, truly interested, or winning the Oscar for best actor, and I was too insecure to ask.

What if he was into both? What if I had to fight not only every gay man but every female on the planet for him too? Stepbrothers weren’t supposed to be into each other, and if he didn’t want to be out, that was his call. But did he have to be so convincingly straight?

Needless to say, I wanted to jump him every night. I wanted him hooked on my dick until he needed it to breathe. I wanted him smelling of dirty sex so no one else would get near him.

I might have been a wee bit unhinged when it came to Wren Wilkerson.

Every minute became a roller coaster of emotions. From lust and obsession, the secrets we kept and the intoxicating moments when we gave in, to the doubts and niggling lies in my ears, to the hatred of the dreams that took longer and longer to shake off. At any given second, I was on the edge of one abyss or another. When I fell, what bottom would I break against?

Sure, I could tell myself all day that I had a backbone. That I deserved more than to be someone’s plaything. Hadn’t that been what I ran from? Franklin kept me like a prize, a possession. He treated me with restrained affection during the day and with unrestrained desire at night. Had I walked right into a similar relationship with Wren? The particulars were different, but drilled down, was it all the same?

Were the demons I thought I had successfully burned still there, only wearing a new mask?

I didn’t fucking know.

Could I ever find the strength to run from Wren if that were the case? No. Sadly, the answer to that was no. Running wasn’t in the cards for me this time.

The root of my frazzling mind might see this as the same, but it wasn’t. Franklin was a grown man, confident, settled, and very much in control of himself, who he was, and who he wanted to be. He intentionally set out with his goals in mind, and those goals were to own me. As hard as it was to see past the scattering of my thoughts sometimes, Wren was not Franklin.

Wren wasn’t the self-assured man but figuring shit out on the fly. He didn’t have all the answers, yet I couldn’t stop myself from reaching for him to find them. I stayed in this constant limbo of reaching, needing, hoping, all while drifting further into confusion.

And, fuck, fate decided that wasn’t enough to get buried under. To pile on even more shit to the last two shitty weeks, Sienna told Wren her cousin, who lived somewhere in North Carolina, saw the video of the fight at Cody’s. Not that that was a big deal, but it got my already struggling panic-attack-waiting-to-happen wrapped around another idea. What if that video made it even farther north? What if some of my old friends saw it? What if the parents of some of my old friends saw it? What if those parents told their friends and that friend chain got to Franklin’s friends and then he found out about it?

The text messages hadn’t stopped. He never said he was coming for me, but each held the unsaid words that he would. I was his. Franklin owned me. I couldn’t live without him. He was the only one who knew the real me. At least, that’s what he said. Some days, some weak moments, I believed him. I was one mindfuck away from literally going insane.

As we neared the end of September, the weather cooled, but my insides were on fire constantly. Kissing Wren made me burn, but standing in the shadows as every girl got to fawn all over him in public as I wanted to do had my blood boiling. No matter how much I begged the universe to make Spencer step a toe in Wren’s direction to give me one hint of a good reason to punch his fucking face, to let off some steam, he didn’t.

Dad tried to talk to me. I supposed it was a little obvious I wasn’t in a good place, but I brushed him off. How could I explain all this to him?

Not until I had put distance between Franklin and me did I start to understand exactly how fucked-up all that was. At fourteen, I didn’t consider myself an idiot, but now I sure did. How would I tell Dad that a man even older than him had dated me in secret? A man twenty-five years my senior had claimed me and convinced me I needed him to. That only he could give me the affection and the family I craved?

And, of course, that was only the tip of my issues. I could barely sort through the mess threatening to drown me, so there was no way I could say any of it out loud.

With the passing days, nothing got better. I was no closer to coming to terms with hiding this growing attachment to Wren, wondering how real it was, if he felt the same, brushing off the chains of my nightmares, dealing with the swarms of students around Wren, or sealing the cracks in the broken images of my past.

Then, it all came to a head spectacularly.

One night at dinner, I fought to keep myself from swaying as I stared at the food with absolutely no appetite. The smell of it made me want to puke, but I couldn’t remember the last time I ate, so there was nothing to purge.

I desperately wanted to leave the table but had nowhere to go. This house got smaller every day. There was no getting away from anyone or anything. This whole world closed in on me. Wren was oblivious to my discomfort, and I unrealistically resented him for not reading my mind, for not seeing how much his holding back made me hurt, even though I was the one who agreed to it.

Wren and Dad kept the conversation boisterous, and I managed to get by without being included in the discussions. The shaking I had hidden overwhelmed me, and I finally laid down my fork and sat quietly as they talked. By this point, the roaring in my ears garbled the voices around me.

I shut my eyes tightly and fought the urge to throw up. What was this? Seizure? Stroke? The pain in my chest escalated until I wanted to curl in on myself and hold it, squeeze it until I couldn’t breathe. If I passed out, I wouldn’t feel .

“Tate?”

I blinked around at the shadowy porch. When had I moved outside?

“You okay?”

Winnie rubbed up and down my arm as her brown eyes filled with concern. Eyes so much like Wren’s.

“You said you needed some air, but when you didn’t come back, I got worried.”

I glanced at the back door. “Wren?” The one word wasn’t an answer to her but an answer to everything. I needed him, even if I couldn’t ask, wouldn’t ask him to be my savior. No, not my savior. Franklin had been that to me. He’d filled that role, and look where that got me.

But I needed Wren. I needed him to be my constant, my rock, my wall, my guide while I picked up my fallen pieces. And I needed to let Wren make the choice to be that for me.

Her expression softened as if the mere mention of her son made the world a better place. “He’s clearin’ the table with your daddy.”

I nodded as a shaky smile tugged at my lips.

“Honey, what’s wrong?”

God, where to start? Well, you see, I was born, and then shit hit the fan. “Tired. I guess.” A flimsy excuse even to my ears, but Winnie didn’t call me on my bullshit.

Her smile was more genuine, though. After a stretching silence, she said, “Did you know Alabama is one of the few places that has two tornado seasons?”

I shook my head.

“Yep. Most places get ’em in the spring, but we’re lucky enough to get ’em in fall too.” She took a deep breath and scanned the backyard, even though it was now full night, and there wasn’t much to see. “Ever been in a tornado?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Oh, you’d know it. They say they sound like a freight train, and they do.”

“You’ve been in one?”

“Oh shoot, yeah. I grew up here. When I was a kid, Momma used to decorate the smaller trees in our front yard with these little plastic eggs for Easter. It seemed like every year, a twister sent those tiny eggs flying all over the place.”

She giggled, and the tightness in my chest eased a bit.

“I remember this one year I was at school. Now, tell me, what sense does this make? Our school was small, but they managed to rub a few pennies together and built a new gym with classrooms around it. Not brick like the one you boys have. This one was made of metal. They said it was earthquake-proof.” She stared at me for a moment, then scoffed. “I can’t even tell you when the last time we had an earthquake in these parts.”

“You get earthquakes here too?”

“Probably about as often as New York City gets tornadoes.”

I smiled as she huffed and went on.

“Anyway. There we were, in our sparkly new earthquake-proof buildin’, and a bad storm came up.” She shook her head. “I’m not one to be afraid of a little lightnin’, but this one had me scared. We all were.”

I leaned my forearms on the porch banister, riveted already. The accent had a lot to do with it, but Winnie was animated when she talked. A lot like Wren when he let his guard down.

“The sky turned as dark as night. Black clouds that churned worse than a stomachache. Then it started to rain.” Winnie whistled. “Loud, I tell you what. Rain pelted the windows as if it were throwin’ stones. The teacher yelled for us all to grab a book, and we huddled underneath tables at the back of the room. Thinking back on it, I’m not sure those silly books would’ve done anything if we had needed them to, but that was always the drill. ‘Grab a book and hold it over your head.’” Winnie made a gesture as if she were hunkering down for the storm.

“What happened?”

“Well. Hmm, I think I was ten or so. Yeah, I was in fifth grade. We had a basement at home, and many a night, my daddy had come chargin’ in my room, wrapped me up in a blanket, and we’d all head down there until it was over. Underground like that, you don’t hear the tornadoes as much. But here we were, my whole class terribly exposed in this earthquake-proof buildin’. Books over our heads, rocklike rain knocking against the windows, and the power goes out.

“As you can imagine, the twenty or so ten-year-olds screamed as if the devil himself had popped right in the classroom with us. Even the teacher squealed but had enough presence of mind to get us all calmed down. With the power out the sounds of the raging storm got even worse. Nonstop thunder that shook the walls. Lightnin’ strikes that lit up the dark room. And the worst part was this buildin’ tension. Even as a kid, I could feel it.”

A shiver caught me by surprise. Winnie rubbed my arm again as she went on.

“Now, I dunno about up north, but down here, kids learn about tornadoes at an early age. We all knew as long as it kept rainin’, as bad as it was, it was only a thunderstorm.” She turned her wide eyes to mine and whispered, “But it stopped rainin’.”

“No.”

“Yep.” Winnie nodded. “As if God turned off the spigot, one minute, it was comin’ a toad strangler, and the next, nothin’. And that’s when we heard it. Exactly as they said. I’d have sworn I was standin’ right next to a set of tracks with a train out o’ control and barrelin’ down on us. And mangled in with the roarin’ was the slow screech of metal. No one screamed. No one cried. I think we were all in shock and afraid to even breathe. Then it was gone. The rain started up again, not as rough as the first time, and that was it.”

“No one got hurt?”

Winnie shrugged. “Not at the school. That earthquake-proof buildin’ had a few tricks up its sleeve, I guess. Metal had peeled back from a few corners, but that was it.”

My heartbeat, which had been steadily increasing with the story, sighed with me, and we both calmed down. I waited for her to continue or tell me some moral or connection to the present world, but when nothing came, she just stood there smiling at me.

Finally, I asked, “Not to be a dick—err, sorry, jerk, but was there a point to that story?”

Winnie laughed softly and waved a dismissive hand. “Didn’t really have a point, Tate. I just wanted to get you outta your head. You were buried in there deep all night.”

“You noticed?”

“We all did, sugar. You know, you haven’t been with us long, but you’re family. Sometimes it doesn’t take long for these things to fall into place, they just do. So if you need to get anythin’ off your chest”—Winnie gestured at the house—“you got the three of us to choose from.”

I stared at the back door. The glow from the kitchen light was muted through the curtain Winnie had hanging over the panes. I could barely make out Wren’s large form as he rinsed plates and put them in the dishwasher. Could I find the words to get things off my chest? Would it be fair to burden anyone else with my own non-earthquake-proof train wreck of a storm?

Winnie stayed outside and told more stories that had me fighting off laughter. Like when she was learning how to drive and tried to take a curve at top speed because it never looked like they slowed down in NASCAR or when her cat brought her a baby squirrel, and she took it to school with her because she didn’t know what else to do with it. I didn’t have any fun stories to share, at least not any I thought Winnie would appreciate, so I simply listened as the tension in my shoulders released.

“Okay, son,” she said through a yawn. “I gotta hit the sack.”

“Good night, Winnie, and thank you for the stories.”

Her smile wasn’t quite so wide now, but she squeezed my hand, patted it twice, then left me on the porch. With her left half of my good mood. This place, the house, the town, Wren, Dad, and Winnie were pieces of a life I could’ve had.

Had Mother shipped me off to live with Sam Patterson when I was nine instead of only letting me glimpse this other half of myself, I might have, what, developed a fondness for country music and gone muddin’ , which was apparently a fun thing to do? I had my doubts, but one thing was for sure: I wouldn’t be standing here staring at a house, wondering where Wren was within it, what he was doing, and if I could ever give him the kind of love he deserved.

The deep hum of Wren’s cello reached out of the house and closed around my hand, pulling me inside and up the stairs. His door was open. Wren sat behind his instrument, eyes closed, and moved through the music. It was something I had heard before. Something he never seemed to finish. He moved the bow, gliding it in complicated paths, fingers shifting and contorting to make each note resonate in my chest.

I leaned a shoulder onto his doorframe and closed my eyes.

Beautiful.

Healing.