Page 55 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

I don’t even make it past the door to my room before I’m checking the notifications.

Text after text, missed call after missed call…

but there’s only one voicemail. It’s from two hours ago, and there aren’t any more texts or calls after it.

Like he left the voicemail, then turned his phone off.

It should make me cringe how many times he tried to reach me, but it doesn’t.

Instead, it feeds a part of my soul that longed for Cal to chase after me when we were teens.

With greedy—and likely misplaced—hope, I shut the door, sliding down until my ass hits the floor. My finger trembles as I press on the voicemail, holding a shaky breath as Cal’s voice floods my ear.

“Shut the fuck up,” he starts with a hiss, but when the background noise quiets, I quickly realize that he wasn’t talking to me—or, my voicemail, rather.

“Ren…Please come home. Let me explain.” His voice cracks, and I can tell the dam of emotion he usually keeps such a tight lid on threatens to explode.

“Everything I’ve done has been for you. Give me a chance to prove it to you.

I won’t let you down.” The vo icemail ends, and it’s just me in the silent guest room of my friend’s house. I replay the voicemail.

When the sun peeks over the horizon, my phone’s back to almost dead when I finally put it down.

Instead of sleeping, I spent the early hours of the morning listening to Cal’s voicemail over and over and analyzing his texts.

They ranged from frantic worrying to heartfelt apologies, but they all boiled down to the same thing: this Callahan Keane is not who he was at seventeen.

Hell, he’s not even the same Callahan Keane from Abstrakt last month. And it is time I trust my gut.

By the time I make it into the kitchen, it’s well past lunch. The house is empty, and a note on the fridge says Jenna and Jude took Mason to the gym. There’s a reminder about the fight tonight, which starts at eleven o’clock.

“ Don’t worry, I’ll be back way before then, and we’ll get ready together ,” I read the last line of Jenna’s perfect penmanship.

My head throbs, though not from a hangover like you might expect after so much tequila.

No, a tension headache seems to catch up with me after so many late nights.

It’s also still a little sore from slamming my forehead against Peter’s the other night.

I’m just as shocked as anyone I didn’t bruise.

I plug my phone back into the charger. I should probably just take it into my room, but something about that feels too permanent.

As the coffee brews, filling the kitchen with a rich roast, my fingers tap impatiently on the counter.

Then I rip my phone from the charger and dial a number I should’ve already called.

She has yet to answer my calls, so I haven’t been sure if she wanted to talk or not.

Guilt still sours my stomach, knowing she was another piece of collateral damage just by being my friend.

It rings three times, and disappointment swells. Just like all the times I’ve called before, I know she won’t answer. I want to be there for her, but it’s obvious she’s hiding from the world. I debate leaving a voicemail when silence greets me instead of her usual peppy voicemail recording.

“Hello?” My voice is shaky, and static crackles. “Alice?”

“Yeah?” Alice’s voice is raspy, like she also just woke up.

Emotion clogs my throat, and I swallow thickly. “Hi, babe. I just wanted to call and see how you’re doing.” I wince. Of course, she’s not doing well. Fuck, I’m an awful friend.

There’s a long pause. My mouth flops open as I try to think of something to say to cover up my blunder. The coffee machine hisses, the cup finished brewing, but I ignore it.

Finally, Alice laughs. It’s unsettling, a twisted and bitter laugh that makes me flinch.

“How am I doing?” Her tone is drenched in sardonic fury.

“How the fuck do you think I’m doing?” I’ve never heard her swear before, and I’m stunned speechless.

“I was held at gunpoint, raped, and beaten for days on end. I actually started praying for death. And now, when all I want is to sleep, you keep calling. So, leave me alone, Loren. You’ve done enough. ”

The phone clicks, and I’m frozen for several long seconds. I’m left dazed, fingers trembling as they press the phone to my ear. That’s not my friend. My friend has never raised her voice a day in her life. Not that she doesn’t have every reason in the world to do so.

That’s because she’s no longer the friend I once knew.

The realization is heady, striking me deep in the gut.

I flinch, hand flying to my belly in some semblance of comfort.

It doesn’t help. Despite her words, I can’t be angry with her.

She would’ve never been in my house if I hadn’t asked her for help.

It’s the worst possible case of wrong time, wrong place.

She deserves to light the world on fire, should she choose, and I’m happy to take whatever punishment she deems necessary.

All I can do is hope she’ll realize I’m not going anywhere.

No matter the vitriol she throws, I won’t give up on her.

She’s so young, just a year older than Mason, and an orphan herself.

I’ll be damned if she goes through this alone.

After pouring a concerning amount of creamer into my coffee, I head out to the backyard and soak in the sunshine. It’s been a rainy few days, and god knows I could use the warmth.

An unknown number texts me, and from the preview, the sender says they’re Rose. How did she get my number? The text is simple, with only two words.

It’s done. - Rose

Peter must be dead then. Good . I only feel relief that he’s gone from this word.

I shoot her a quick text back.

Fight night at Strikers tonight. I think we should talk.

Then I close the thread out, not wanting to think about her or the sequence of events she threw into motion with the bombs she dropped last night just yet.

Mia Bianchi’s daughter. Andy Thorne’s daughter.

God, how did it get so complicated? That makes her one of their two daughters, the ones he was grooming to take over his tech empire.

Thorne Enterprises provides IT and cybersecurity services to some of the largest corporations on the east coast. Their systems are impenetrable.

And Rose is the heir to the entire company. That must be how she got my number.

Something tugs in the back of my mind, half-formed connections swirling around, but I don’t have the brainpower to work them to completion.

Instead, I move on with my day, keeping my hands busy and my mind empty.

I spend a few hours cleaning the house—my way of thanking Jenna and Jude for letting us stay.

When it’s dinnertime, I rifle through their fridge and set out to make the easiest dish I know: pan-seared chicken with fluffy rice and sautéed veggies.

Just as the rice finishes, Jenna, Jude, and Mason walk into the kitchen.

“I’m gonna grab a shower real fast.” Mason darts to the other guest room, leaving Jenna and Jude to amble in by themselves.

“Thanks for cooking.” It sounds like it pains Jude to thank me, but I don’t take it personally. The only person who he ever sounds happy to talk to is his wife.

Jenna playfully swats him and moves to wash her hands and set the table. When we’re all seated, a comfortable silence settles over the meal. Mason crashes in a moment later, grabbing his plate with apologies muttered under his breath, wet hair dripping onto his gray tee.

“So, are you ready for tonight?” Jenna asks as she takes a bite of chicken. “Mm, this is good.” Her words are mumbled around her chewing.

“Physically?” I gesture to the same pair of sweats and shirt she gave me yesterday.

“No. Mentally? Fuck yes.” I’ve always read about fight nights in other romance books, and it’s always sounded so dangerous and mysterious.

I’m practically foaming at the mouth. “I need to figure out something to wear, though.” The clothes I was wearing when I showed up like a crispy rat got thrown away first thing that morning—there was no saving them.

Jenna smiles brightly. “I got you covered.”

Music blares, and I fight the instinct to cover my ears. I’ve never seen Strikers like this before. I never even knew it had a basement .

“You’ve been holding out on me.”

A rare blush stains the ridge of Jude’s crooked nose, and he grumbles some sort of dismissive answer.

Jenna slides her arm through mine, and we head down the stairs together.

She had a vision alright. Wearing a faded band tee of Jude’s, I belted the waist and slipped into a pair of black fishnets.

I borrowed a pair of black combat boots from Jenna and a leather jacket from Jude.

Basically, I was wearing both their closets.

Jenna offered a fresh pair of underwear, but that’s where I drew the line.

Besides, the T-shirt-turned-dress falls to the middle of my thighs, so as long as I don’t bend over, I’ll be fine.

Jenna wears a black corset top tucked into black cargo pants, giving off a cyberpunk vibe that I love on her.

It’s so different from her usual look. After we smoked out our eyes and curled our hair, she said that she and Jude sometimes like to play.

My cheeks had flushed with heat, and I had to look away, unsure if I was flustered or just jealous.

Then she made a comment about my ring, saying I had no room to talk, but I just brushed her off and swiped a red lipstick on.

Right before we left, I changed my mind about my hair, and threw the curled strands into a high pony, pulling a few pieces out to frame my face. Despite the chill to the air, I knew it would be blistering in Strikers’ packed basement. I felt sexy as fuck, and I was determined to have fun.