Page 5 of Burning Demons (Burning Torments #1)

Chapter 5

Tate

Not even a full day here, and I was already deeply invested in knowing everything about Wren. The pictures from the halls and randomly placed all over the house were sneak peeks into a life full of more than summer nights in the pool and bike rides in the street. Wren had history, depth, and he had more to his personality than what he’d shown me so far.

I liked watching him flounder and fall all over himself before realizing what he was doing and getting pissed about it. His frozen stance when we met, his fumbling conversation at dinner last night, and then his pissy attitude before he stomped to his room were trying to get under my skin in ways I kind of liked.

After breakfast, with more of his awkward side-eye and getting chastised by his mother, he went to get dressed, while I enjoyed a cigarette as I leaned against his truck and waited for him. This sort of unwilling or unable-to-help-himself attention from him was new to me and fascinating.

The people I had known in my life were nothing like him. I couldn’t place Wren in a category with the others yet, and that was something I enjoyed a bit too much.

Wren wasn’t like my grandmother, who had raised me until I was seven, or Franklin or Dad. He didn’t feel like a stepbrother or family, someone who loved me from the moment we met. Wren wasn’t like Mother either, or the house staff I saw more of than anyone else, or even my school friends, people who were around me but kept me at a distance.

No, Wren liked to play this game of poke and retreat. He played both good cop and bad cop. He played the nice guy and the grump. Entertaining as hell, really, and now I would get to spend hours with him? Alone?

The morning sun was hot but not too sticky yet. This humidity was no joke. Last night, Dad told me he would be working today and left earlier than I deemed worthy of rolling over for. My new room was comfortable but on the east side of the house, which sucked come sunrise. I glared at the sun and flipped it off just as the front door banged open.

Wren scaled the steps in a single jump, wearing baggy shorts and flip-flops. His wide gait stuttered only a second when he saw me, and I held in a chuckle while his neutral expression darkened. So predictable already.

“Don’t smoke in my truck,” he growled.

“Yeah, I figured.” I raised the cigarette a little higher. “Why I’m getting it done now.”

The antique he called transportation—and seemed extremely protective over—probably had a lot worse going on inside than smoke. Though the thing fit Wren in a way: obnoxiously larger than it needed to be and rough around the edges.

“What?” he snapped when I chuckled to myself.

“Nothing.” I sucked in the last breath of nicotine and stubbed it out on the ground.

Wren stood near the back of his truck, hands on his hips as if me putting out the cigarette offended him too. “Sam know you smoke?”

“I dunno.”

When I stood, we locked eyes for too long to be friendly. A good six feet separated us, but the distance meant nothing. Beyond his initial hey and the mumbled happy birthday , Wren hadn’t said anything particularly nice to me, yet I liked him. A like at first sight, I guessed. It reminded me of Franklin, yet entirely different too. Wren wasn’t sure of himself, and he wasn’t forceful or pushy. He actually seemed as if he were fighting some instinct, something to make him draw near and pull away at the same time. I was just the innocent bystander who got to witness it.

“Shit,” he bit out. “I’m sorry, man.”

Uh … “For what?” I squinted into the sun, completely confused.

“Forget it,” he mumbled and rounded the tail end of his truck. “You know how to drive a stick?”

I snorted, then stared at the door handle. Did I even know how to open the door? Sure, it was easy to figure out, but I’d had my doors opened for me for so long I wouldn’t lie and say I didn’t stare at the shiny metal with a thick push button on top for a second. I shut the door after I got in, then had to do it all over with what seemed an unnecessary use of strength to get it to close properly.

Wren was already in and cranking the monster. It roared to life, like, literally roared, shaking the entire thing.

“This old truck has three on the column.” He pointed to the shaft sticking out from the side of the steering wheel. “Bet you’ve never driven one of these.” It wasn’t a question, and I would’ve loved to wipe that smirk off his face, but the fact was I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to drive.

Franklin had tried to teach me one weekend after I turned sixteen. It hadn’t gone well. In fact, it had gone horribly. I thought for sure Franklin would be angry at me for scraping the side of his car, but he only laughed and said it was a good thing I would be wealthy all my life and could afford a driver.

“No power steering either, so you gotta pull hard at the wheel in lower speeds,” he went on.

This just got better and better. He seemed a bit pissed when Winnie said we had to share this beloved heap of metal, but Wren had nothing to fear. I wasn’t about to attempt this.

“What?” he asked with a big smile mirroring my own.

“Nothing, just enjoying this country life.” Not exactly a lie. Letting the uniqueness wash over the anxiety shivering in my bones was preferable. It would be too easy to dwell on the things I had left. The money, the convenience, the familiarity … This place might not be a good fit for me, long term, but for now, the differences between here and New York, of Dad and his family to Franklin and Mother, were shocking and distracting.

Wren backed down the driveway, and then we got on our way. I didn’t know where he was headed—he hadn’t bothered to share that—but a short note sat on the bench seat between us with what I assumed was a list from Winnie. For a while, we retraced the turns Dad had taken yesterday on the way to his house.

Alabama was night and day compared to New York City. There were so many trees and thick grass lining the road. Patches of wildflowers grew right there on the side of the streets. There were trees and parks where I had lived, but this was different. This was untamed and overrun.

The cars and trucks we passed were used in ways I wasn’t accustomed to. Half-shredded bumper stickers about old elections, hardened mud on fenders, and collections of stuff in back windows made everything a bit worn and tired-looking. And a significant void of taxis and for-hire vehicles made the road less crowded.

Would Franklin turn his nose up at this place? I had never thought of him as being a snob, yet I had never seen him in any surroundings other than the expensive tastes I had grown accustomed to when he came into my life.

Fast-food chains lined both sides of the road, along with Walmart and Home Depot. With only three traffic lights that stayed green, the grand tour of my new city center ended as quickly as it started. Outside the comically small downtown , we passed a trailer park, several neighborhoods, and then the high school.

The brick buildings of the school had a classic ’80s movie vibe about them, opposite of the sleek lines of steel and glass from my previous school.

Even in this heat and humidity, kids in white football uniforms and pads ran around the field surrounded by metal bleachers. A track circled it with runners sweating it out. All that exercise and activity made me want a cigarette. To keep my fingers busy, I picked at the seams on my jeans.

Yes, this place was a far cry from what I was used to, but maybe that was exactly what I needed. Eighteen, I reminded myself yet again. I could start fresh, as an adult, as my own person, and claim my identity. Without anything remotely close to Franklin’s influence, I could figure out me . Who I was. What kind of person I could be.

Wren hadn’t said anything since we left the driveway. The fact was, even if he low-key hated me, I already liked being in his space, so it didn’t matter if we talked. It had been a while since I had been around anyone my own age like this. Years, really. I had forgotten how uncomplicated it could be. No demands or expectations, just existing, just breathing without the suffocation of being on all the time. How long had I missed that simple act without realizing it?

I took a deep breath, enjoying it, until we slowed to a stop. Moving in this heap was one thing, but stopping …

“Fucking A . Why do they even make cars down here without A/C?” We had the windows down. The same sweat that cooled me when the breeze blew became disgusting and sticky when it didn’t.

Wren laughed. “Give it a few more weeks, and it won’t be so bad.”

“Weeks? I’ll have melted by then.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Don’t call me baby , Country Boy.”

Wren jerked a glare in my direction, mouth opening and closing, then said, “I didn’t call you—I said you are a—”

“You don’t have a radio in this thing?” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Day two of this place was shaping up to be the same as day one: bright, hot, and slow. I wanted my mind off what I ran from and gave in to the best alternative. Wren. Taunting Wren. Wren’s biceps bulging as he pulled on that wheel.

I should really stop thinking about my stepbrother like that.

He tapped the radio in the center of the dash. “That’s what this is, Tate .”

“Does it w-work?” I stuttered out, trying like hell to get back to messing with him and off that line of thought.

Wren snorted without answering. I supposed not. The engine in this thing worked, and that seemed to be asking a lot already. This truck was probably older than Franklin.

Shit. No. Stop thinking about him too. No more thoughts about any men.

We passed the Welcome to Hickory Bend sign that greeted me yesterday, and then the big nothing of the South fanned out. Trees lined the four-lane road that narrowed into two lanes shortly after we left town.

The sky sat blue and cloudless above us. I leaned my head on the doorframe and closed my eyes. The breeze was nice again, and the sun turned everything red behind my eyelids.

“Don’t fall asleep.”

I jerked upright. Had I? “Why? I don’t think your precious truck would notice.”

“You’ll burn your face. You’re kinda pale.”

I cocked my head to one side. By his tone, I figured he meant it to be an insult, but it somehow came out as a veiled nice gesture.

“Worried about my skin? Want to keep me pretty?”

He shook his head and glanced out his window, then back at me long enough to blink and grin. “You are pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh, I think it was. Can I put my head in your lap?”

His glare snapped to me. “What? No.” No , he barked but adjusted in his seat. God, he was too easy. And that was all this was, just riling him up. Yep.

“All nice and shady there. I won’t burn if I fall asleep again.”

“Then just stay awake. What are you, five?”

“Eighteen.” After a pause, I added, “Are we there yet?”

He chuckled for all of two seconds, then sobered and stared straight ahead. Okay, maybe he liked me but was trying so hard not to. I shouldn’t care, but I did. Something nagged in my chest. Not exactly painful but annoying and growing. I needed Wren to like me.

Or I needed therapy. Maybe both.

The trees slowly moved off the road, and farms dotted the landscape. Rows of crops were mixed between fields of grazing cows.

“You ever tip one?” I nodded my chin at the sea of black-and-white bovines, not checking to see if Wren knew what I was asking.

“Dude, that’s not a real thing. Just somethin’ a Yankee made up to show his own ignorance and to insinuate we had nothin’ better to do down here.”

“Insinuate? Big word for a country boy.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tate. Why do I even bother answering you?”

“Why indeed.”

I stared at the passing fields, a little disappointed about the cow tipping. Large homes topped rolling pastures backed by walls of solid green with barns twice their size out beside them. Here and there, we passed a crossroad. One had a gas station at the corner.

“Are we ever going to make a turn, or does this road go from one side of the state to the other?” Everything was so fucking different down here. Why would they pave this long stretch with nothing beside it?

Wren didn’t answer. Most likely figuring I would make fun of whatever he said. Admittedly, I probably would have, but I craved his reactions. This ignoring me shit wasn’t going to cut it for long.

Very slowly at first, civilization popped up around us. A church. A tiny strip of shops. More gas stations. A restaurant named Fran’s that probably wasn’t a chain. Wren’s truck rumbled over several rough railroad tracks that led into a huge industrial refinery-looking place.

“What’s that?” I asked. The place was awash in white. The ground, most of the buildings, even the vehicles were bleached from the ground up.

“Lime plant,” he answered to my surprise. “They mine for limestone. It’s all over out here.” Wren took a turn, finally, and the civilized world was left behind once again.

“Where are we going?” It didn’t really matter, but my lungs could use some fresh nicotine air. I tapped the pack in my pocket, hoping like hell we stopped soon. He didn’t answer, of course, so I went in a different direction to distract myself. “How long have you been playing the cello?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and just as I was trying to figure out how that question managed to piss him off, he relaxed with a sigh. He almost smiled too.

“Since I was a kid.” He shrugged one shoulder and stared ahead. “My daddy got me into it. For a while, it was just this thing, wouldn’t call it a hobby. I messed around, and sometimes it didn’t sound so terrible.”

“None of it sounds terrible now. What changed?” I had little hope he would answer that, and he didn’t.

“I’m a band geek now,” he said, but that wasn’t what changed. As with most everything about him, he held back. He had walls. Wren gave and retreated before I could touch something too personal. Yes, we had only just met, but Wren was an open book with redacted pages.

“Hard to march with a cello.” Although with his size, he probably played it like a violin.

His face brightened as if me picking on him was our unofficial love language. Well, not love, but our like language. Maybe this would be how we tolerated each other.

“I’m not in the marching band, dipshit. Orchestra. We put on concerts and shit.”

“How does that small-ass town have an orchestra band?”

“We get what we get. The band director moved here a few years back. He’s the sound director at the Baptist church on First too. He asked the school, and they said sure.” Wren shrugged again. “Here we are.”

“Why cello?”

“The violin was too small.”

I snickered, then started laughing in earnest. Of course it was too small for this big country boy.

Wren took several glances at me, then smiled and even chuckled.

Okay. Yeah, okay, maybe we could be friends after all.