Page 17 of Fire

“I gotta say, I really missed that sassy mouth. You’re always so quick with the comebacks, especially when you’re embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“No?”

“No.”

“So you weren’t thinking about inviting me over to your empty apartment tonight?” His voice is so smooth, I feel it all the way down to my toes.And so many other places too.

“Yes,” I respond before quickly correcting myself. “No. Wait—” I’m so confused.

He laughs, enjoying my flustered state. “How about this?” he offers. “I’ll give you a choice. I can either continue toward Malibu, and we can go to Creeds for a few drinks, and then I’ll drop you off at your place and say good night. Or?—”

“Or?” I swallow, waiting for him to finish.

“Or I can turn around and?—”

“Yes.” I don’t even wait for him to finish. My sister told me not to overthink things tonight, so that’s what I’m going to do. For once in my life, I’m going to be spontaneous and wild.

“Yes, what?” He sneaks a glance in my direction, and I shiver. “Be specific, Zara.”

“Yes, I want you to turn around and take me back to my apartment. And then I want you to do all those dirty things you promised you’d do back in college.”

The car practically swerves as he takes the next exit to get us back to LA.

No turning back now.

Chapter Seven

HENDRIX

Thud, thud, thud.

My skull is pounding.

Thud, thud, thud.

No, wait. That’s not my head. That’s the door. Or a door? Fuck, where am I? I crack an eyelid open and search my surroundings. Familiar dark gray walls. Vintage oak dresser. The boho rug I got on sale at Ikea.

Home. I am home. And alone.

But wasn’t I…

The pounding stops, and it’s replaced with the sound of the doorbell. Who the hell is that?

Before I have a chance to recount the events of the previous night, I throw on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt and jog down the hallway. I scrub a hand down my face as I try and fail to knock the residual brain fog from my mind. I’m not hungover, but fuck, I’m tired.

Walking through the living room, I flip the lock on the front door and am nearly clobbered the second I pull it open.

“What the hell?”

“Sorry, gotta pee,” my sister hollers over her shoulder, a streak of honey-blonde hair, as she barrels down the hall.

“Is that why you were pounding on my door at—” I check my watch. “How is it already ten in the morning?”

“I don’t know, dude,” Presley shouts from the bathroom. “But you texted me last night to say you were stopping by the bar and never showed. So I came over to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“Thanks, I guess? But can we continue this conversation when you’re not urinating?”