Page 8 of Burning Demons (Burning Torments #1)

Chapter 8

Tate

Franklin.

All the moisture fled from my eyes and throat. I tried to cough or cry or shit, die on the spot, but nothing happened. I stared. Dazed. Panicked. How the hell did he get this number? Had Dad gone back on his word? Had he talked to Mother?

I fucking know where you are? What did that mean? Was he coming for me?

I wasn’t about to text him back. Let him wonder if he had the right number or not, but I would not answer him. Not only did this scare the shit out of me because, Jesus fuck, maybe he was God and he really could reach me all the way down here. But also, if I answered, if he told me to come home, I couldn’t really say that I wouldn’t go.

No. I wouldn’t go. But if he asked, maybe I would want to a little bit.

I know where you are . Fuck, this was just like him. Miles away and he still got in my head, or had he ever left? Fuck him. Fuck him and all his shit! I needed to talk to Dad and make sure he hadn’t talked to Mother. Had Franklin made Mother call him? Did he tell her I was safe and sound? Did Franklin demand to know my new number for emergencies ?

The truck rocked as the doors on both sides opened. Dad and Wren were chatting about something as they hopped in. Neither seemed to notice the screaming inside my head, the hysteria, the chaos just under the surface of my skin. The discussion ended up being about football, something I couldn’t contribute to in the least. As Dad turned for home, they kept the conversation going, and I rolled on with my shattering thoughts.

A searing ache had set up shop in my throat. Had Dad betrayed me too? Had he thrown me back to Franklin? Had he done it knowingly as Mother had? Would I ever be rid of that fucking prick? I gripped my phone in my pocket. There was no getting away from that man, especially when everyone in my life kept me in his path. Franklin would find a way to fuck me, mentally or otherwise, until the day he died.

Everything passed outside the truck window in a green blur, and before I knew it, we were home. Wren took the food inside with him on his way to get the first shower. I followed Dad to the garage, where he planned on cleaning the fish. Maybe this was the right time to ask. We were alone, and he was busy, so his eyes wouldn’t be on me.

“Hey,” I forced past my twisted insides.

Dad glanced up, then returned his attention to the fish and knife in his hand. “Hey. I didn’t figure you’d want to be around for this part.”

I didn’t. “Second thoughts? Ready to ship me back for not liking football or fishing?” I joked with the truth of my fears.

He snorted, not taking the offered outor his eyes off his task. “Nah.”

His one-word answer reminded me of Wren, who had probably picked it up from this very man. My dad. The dad I should never have stopped spending school vacations with. True, I might not have had much say in it. Franklin wormed his way in and forced everyone else out, and he always got what he wanted.

He finished with one fish and grabbed another. “You and Wren seem to be gettin’ along.”

“Yes, sir.” Possibly too well. That was debatable. “He’s not like anyone I’ve known before.”

Dad chuckled. “Yeah. He’s a good kid.”

Kid , he was not. Wren might be seventeen, but he’d proved capable, thoughtful, respectful, lighthearted, and deep. Wait, shit. Okay, yeah, Wren really was all those things, and I—I liked him. Maybe I teased him so much because I liked him. But that wasn’t the point here.

“I like it down here, so far. I don’t want to go back.” That might have been out of nowhere, considering the direction of our conversation, but I blurted it out regardless. If Dad put me on a nonstop plane to New York, I would lose it.

As if he used those parental powers of hearing what was unsaid among the mumble of words, Dad sat down his fish and knife, wiped his hands on what looked like an already dirty rag, then crossed his arms over his chest. He leaned a hip into his workbench and pierced me with those all-seeing eyes.

“I don’t want you to go back either, Tate. You’re old enough now, an’ I ain’t gonna hide shit or beat around the bush. Things between me and your momma have never been great, not even good. I have no intention of contactin’ her about you stayin’ here.”

Them not being on good terms wasn’t surprising in the least. Mother wasn’t on good terms with anyone who didn’t benefit her in one way or another. Which was why she had tolerated me as long as Franklin tolerated me.

“You didn’t call her to let her know I was down here? You haven’t spoken with her?”

Dad narrowed his eyes, more in thought than anger, I figured. Finally, he shook his head. “Nope. I haven’t spoken to your momma in years. If she wants to talk, she can call me. My number hasn’t changed, but I don’t figure that’ll happen.”

Breath rushed out of my lungs so swiftly I swayed. This meant Franklin and his spy powers had gotten my number on his own, but it also meant Dad could be trusted.

“You and her don’t make any sense,” I said, ensuring my tone was casual and not shaking with relief.

Dad smiled. He did that so easily. “I knew your momma for a weekend.” He snorted. “Not even that long, really. There wasn’t much, uh, time to get to know her well then.”

Yep. To top off my stellar childhood and skipped adolescence, I was the product of a one-night stand between teenagers. I knew that much about my origin story. Mother had called me accident and mistake regularly.

“I was sixteen when I met your momma. I wasn’t even supposed to be in Florida that weekend. But like any kid, I blew off responsibility and headed to the beach.”

“She never told me how you two met.” Only that I was unplanned and unwanted.

“Welp.” Dad sighed, and his grin turned a bit rakish. “It was Panama City, almost nineteen years ago. I’d gone down there with some friends for a bit of Halloween fun. Shit you not, we drove down Saturday morning and came back Sunday afternoon. A split second of my life that changed so much. Your momma and some friends were on a long weekend break from college.” He snorted. “God, I was stoked. Could’ve knocked me over with a feather when she looked my way.”

The lasting grin and dazed gleam in his eyes could’ve convinced me he was talking about some other woman. Unfortunately, I wasn’t switched at birth. I looked too much like her to dispute it.

“She was beautiful, all classy and shit, with this attitude like she knew it too,” he said before turning to me. He scanned over my hair and face. “You’ve got her eyes, you know? As dark green as I remember them and that thick, wavy hair.” He smiled wider. “She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from yelling out how ugly she really was. How hateful and spiteful and abhorrent she was under those pretty features. How stained I was, too, because of her.

Dad cleared his throat and waved a hand. “Anyway, you get the idea. Ten years later, she tracked me down. I have no idea why. She seemed to be doin’ well. In one phone call, she flaunted her life, her wealth, her connections, then dropped a bomb on me.”

“Did—did you wonder if she was lying? That I wasn’t yours?” If I wasn’t his, I never wanted to know it. I needed one good parent. I had to know I wasn’t immaculately conceived out of sheer evil.

He took a deep breath and nodded slowly. “Sure I did. I was twenty-six, still a kid in a lot of ways.”

“You didn’t have a family then? Kids you knew were yours?”

Dad laughed and shook his head. “Not that I knew of. Not that I know of. Good Lord, can you imagine?” He laughed again. “I was an idiot at sixteen. I smartened up afterward. At least in that regard, I’m as sure as the percent on a box of condoms that I don’t have any other kids.”

I chuckled with him this time before he groaned and wiped a hand over his jaw.

“Oh, shit,” he said, his groan and laughter fading out. “Anyway. She sent me pictures of you as a baby. You might have her eyes and that pale skin, but kid, you are all me. Even my momma said so. I couldn’t deny it. Once the idea of you sunk in, I didn’t wanna deny it.”

Memories of meeting him for the first time weren’t as clear as I would’ve liked them to be. Mostly, I recalled how Mother pushed me off on this stranger and told me he was my dad. We had had fun for the few weeks I had spent with him over the summers and one Christmas vacation.

Dad stared at me for a minute with a range of emotions flickering over his features. “Tate, I should’ve asked for custody, demanded it, fought for it. One of those things I’ll always regret.”

I lowered my gaze to the ground, rubbing my fingers over the edge of his workbench, and shook my head. Before I could say, “Don’t worry about it,” a flippant reply I wasn’t feeling at all, he went on.

“Your momma was pretty agreeable at first. She told me I could see you often, and I did for a while. She had a good life going for you, rich and cultured. I wanted you to have the best opportunities.” Dad glanced around the garage. “I love it down here, I do, but I know there’s not much to the South. Not like there is in New York. I didn’t want you to feel stuck or held back. And maybe I didn’t want you growin’ up comparin’ what I could offer you to what she could. So to keep it simple, I just agreed with everything. I mean, she’d raised you for nine years, and you were a good kid. I didn’t wanna mess you up.”

No, she hadn’t raised me at all, but I wasn’t about to get into that. I wasn’t sure how Dad would react if he knew the truth, and I was very certain he didn’t know the truth. He was a good man, honest and decent. It was in every action and tone of his words.

“I suppose you were about thirteen when she started dodging my calls. She eventually fed me some bullshit about you not wanting to come visit.”

“That wasn’t true.” Only that was a lie. It had been true at the time. Thirteen-year-old me was wrapped up in Franklin so quickly all else had faded out of focus. The dad I only knew for a few weeks paled in comparison to the man who was always around and always wanted me around. On one hand, I didn’t blame my ill-prepared mind for Franklin’s influence, but on another, I did. How weak was I to give up my own dad so easily? We had talked on the phone, but it was never the same relationship after Franklin got his hands on me.

Dad cleared his throat, and I stayed silent in hopes the painful knot in my own would dissolve quickly.

“So there it is, all the dirty details. I never not wanted you down here, and I have no inclination to turn you back to her or away at all. I’m not reachin’ out to her, Tate. I really, really don’t wanna speak bad about your momma, but that woman is fuckin’ crazy.”

My lips tugged up on one side. Not that it was anything funny, but … “She is fucking crazy,” I whispered. And he knew less than half of the reasons why.

Dad grinned, then sobered. “Watch your language around Winnie.”

I nodded but smiled through the pain. I missed this. Though I didn’t remember much of the times I had spent with Dad, what I did remember was this ease. Just being around him was comfortable, and maybe with time, it would feel safe too.

God, how different would my life be if he had raised me? No crazy mother forcing me into being her little darling for the men she tried to impress. No stepfather pushing himself on me when I was too young to understand it all and messing with my head.

All of it, all my failings, came crashing on my shoulders. I was a fuckup in every way that made me human. Mother had spat her hate toward me for years, and somewhere along the way, I started believing it. A mistake since birth. A disappointment I wasn’t someone else’s son. The only thing I was good for was keeping Franklin happy so that he would keep Mother happy. Why hadn’t I questioned it when I stopped talking to Dad? Why didn’t I fight back more when Franklin came to me that first time and each time thereafter?

The dam broke, and tears started falling. I wasn’t crying—well, not bawling—but they wouldn’t stop.

Why couldn’t I decipher my own feelings? Every word, every gesture, every passing thought was held with a question. Would Franklin give me permission to feel this? To say this? To be this? Would he ever let me go? Or was it me that was hanging on, afraid to find out who I was without him to tell me?

“Aw, hell,” Dad muttered, then hugged me. “Come on now. This about what I said or somethin’ else? Talk to me, son.”

It felt good being supported by his strong arms. But I shook my head and gritted my teeth. “Sorry.”

I pulled back from him and wiped my cheeks. Who knew what the future held, but right now wasn’t confession time. With the way my thoughts piled on top of each other, I probably wouldn’t even make sense.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m here, okay? When you’re ready.”

Ready? I would never be ready. I had secrets that should go with me to my grave. Those secrets made it hard to trust anything and anyone, and most especially my thoughts and feelings. They weren’t on the outside like Wren’s, but my scars had cut me into ragged pieces that barely resembled human.

Dad patted the side of my sweaty neck. “Go on inside and take a shower. I’m sure Wren’s done by now.”

I nodded, taking the offer to compose myself in private.

My feet must have taken me the long way around to smoke on the far side of the house because my brain was much too soggy to think it through. My hand shook so badly I hit the inside of my palm with the flame. The sting woke me up with a slew of hissing and cursing that felt much better than all that emotional pain. Shoulders against the house, I tipped my head to the sky and sucked down one, then another, before I pushed off and headed inside.

The second floor was quiet. Wren’s door was shut, and the bathroom was slightly ajar, letting out the Irish Spring-scented steam of a recent shower. I flattened my hand on the door and pushed it open enough to know it wasn’t empty.

Wren.

Holy fucking unbelievable Wren stood at the sink, back to me, and hot as sin.

My cells were vibrating from too many emotions already, and the sight of him amplified everything. Like bees in a hive, my insides buzzed so loudly, disorienting me. Every pound of my heart had my chest lurching and stepping closer from the force of it.

He’d wrapped a gray towel around his hips, and the curve of his ass beneath it drew my attention first. One corded arm hung by his side, but the other flexed and ballooned with just the small movement of brushing his hair. His sculpted back, carved from stone and marked with scars, tapered from wide to narrow over his ass, which drew my attention yet again.

Outside of professional athletes, I had never seen anyone so perfectly built. I definitely shouldn’t be staring like this but could hardly help it. I swallowed hard, but it did nothing for the shimmering heat over a hard-packed desert that was the inside of my throat.

The skin of his torso wasn’t as dark as his arms. I scanned the multitude of scars, probably from the same thing that caused the one on his face. Several big ones stood out on his shoulders, still raised and pink when this had to have happened years ago. For him, my heart ached. But for me, I only saw a raw sort of beauty. I saw someone who had lived, who had been hurt, and who had survived. I saw power.

“What the fuck!”

Time snapped back in place like a slap across my cheek. Wren twisted away from the sink and lunged straight for me, pushing me back with one hand and slamming the door in my face with the other.

“Jesus, fuck,” he yelled from the other side.

Good God, how long had I stood there gawking?

The next second, the door swung open, and an angry, red-faced Wren was up in my space. I had to arch my back because otherwise, we would have bumped chests, and I was not about to act like I could fight him. No way.

“They don’t have privacy where you come from, City Boy?” He didn’t give me time to answer. “Don’t ever do that again.”

I must have been standing there in a daze for longer than a second because he had had time to put on a shirt and shorts. His bark sure as hell knocked me out of my own head, though.

“How about you shut and lock the fucking door if you don’t want me to open it,” I yelled back.

We both knew he had nothing to say to that. It was a simple concept.

Wren’s lips pulled back, and he actually snarled. Then he was gone. With his long steps, he made it to his own door in two and slammed it closed. Picture frames rattled, and a gust of wind hit me in the face.

Not to be outdone, I stepped inside the bathroom and slammed it closed.

Fuck. I should’ve grabbed a change of clothes first. No hope for it now. I wasn’t about to go back out there without a shower as if I hadn’t been so mad I did it all backward. Which was what happened, but I wasn’t letting him think that. I flipped the lock on the door, then seethed as I took a lukewarm shower.

“Damn hot water hog,” I grumbled.

Even without the heat, the pressure was good as it beat down on my stiff shoulders.

Ahh. Wren. As if I could really be mad at the picture he made. All kinds of naked and glistening in the steam. Dark blond hair in the center of his chest, tan flat nipples, and a blush blooming under it all. Holy hell, he was hot. I didn’t need to be thinking about him this way and truly had no idea what to do about it.

These tumultuous wonderings weren’t volatile and disturbing enough on their own. No, in this moment of weakness and stress piled upon stress, my worthless mind had the audacity to whisper a pathetic suggestion: I should ask Franklin his thoughts on it. I should ask the man who once showed me kindness when Mother couldn’t look at me without curling her lip. I should ask the man who taught me how to shave and tie a full Windsor, who cared if I ate dinner, and who, despite the particulars, educated me on how to have sex with another man, how to make it fun and pleasurable. I should ask the man who I once trusted and who abused that trust when he took my virginity if it was okay to fall for my stepbrother.

Great fucking idea, Tate .

In the five years I’d known guys did it for me, I had never been attracted to anyone like this. And it had to be Wren who did this to me, my stepbrother. It had to be now when my head was so fucked-up and nowhere remotely close to being able to handle it.

Cursing Wren for his rudeness to fault me for seeing him and for all the added confusion I didn’t need messing with my brain, I grumbled my way through a quick shower. When I stepped out, I reached for a fresh towel and spotted his hanging on the back of the door. His toothbrush was in the little holder near the sink, and his hairbrush was lying next to it. I was surrounded by him. Exactly how I wanted to be and hated that I did.

I dried off in jerky movements, bitching at him the entire time. “Pigheaded, shallow, backwoods, unsophisticated, bristly, ill-tempered, brainless, fucking country boy!”

His door was still closed when I sauntered out with a green towel around my hips. I told myself to just go to my room, ignore him, and not glance at his door again, but I didn’t listen. With the sun slanted in the sky, the shadow of his feet standing right on the other side of the barrier that separated us had me grinning like the Cheshire cat. I closed my door with a soft click.

No matter the reason, I was on his mind the same as he was on mine.