Page 6 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

I let out a groan that practically reverberates against the walls and slam my head back on the edge of the couch, squeezing my eyes shut.

Twinkling laughter sparks next to me, and I feel around for my decorative pillow to launch at Alice’s face.

It lands with a whoosh of air and an even harder laugh from my best friend. She cackles next to me.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Coulda fooled me.” Alice wipes a tear from her large blue eyes that sparkle with humor.

She’s twisted her mane of blonde hair into a topknot, leaving a few pieces to frame her fresh face.

She’s barely older than Mason, and even though I’m four years older, her maturity constantly makes me forget that she’s only twenty-three.

We met when Mase and I moved into this complex three years ago, and we’ve been friends ever since.

“I just told you I’m getting married to the man responsible for breaking my heart into a million pieces without so much as an apology. I hate him with every fiber of my being, and you’re laughing .”

She shrugs. “They always say there’s a fine line between love and hate.”

As if that’s the answer to everything. As if I could ever love him again.

As if I could ever love again, at all.

It’s a terrifying thought, one I don’t want to dissect. Instead, I deflect. “Says the woman who hasn’t been on a date in over six months. What happened to that Henry guy?”

Alice’s cheeks flame. Her eyes avert to her lap, and she adjusts the band of her grandmother’s watch.

I’ve never seen her without it. She’s quiet for several seconds, her hands playing with the hem of her bright blue sweater.

It’s vibrant, but Alice has always been a cheerful woman.

Her clothing choices might not be for everyone, but once I got to know her, I realized the eccentric look was an outward expression of her energetic personality.

She always sees the good in people, almost to a concerning fault.

Her cropped sweater falls to her slim waist, and she wears pink and yellow rose-print palazzo pants with her legs curled under her.

“Student teaching really took a lot out of me last year, and then the serving job in the summer was exhausting. Then the fall semester was harder than I expected.” Exhaustion shadows her voice, and I reach a hand over in comfort, stilling the fingers toying with a loose thread on her hem.

She accepts the gesture quickly, lacing our fingers together and squeezing tightly.

“I’m sorry. It was just supposed to be a joke,” I say.

Alice nods, and I know she’s forgiven me. She’s like that. Quick to forgive, easy to love. It baffles me how someone with such a rough start to life came out the other side with more empathy than I have in my pinky.

Raised by her grandparents because her mother didn’t want her and her dad was just a one-night stand, Alice had an unusual start to life.

Her father didn’t even know she existed, and her mother never cared enough to remember his name.

When Alice was fourteen, her grandparents died, and she went into the system, bouncing around from home to home.

On her eighteenth birthday, a lawyer showed up at her foster family’s home to hand her a check.

Her grandparents had left her a trust, something she hadn’t even known about until the lawyer told her.

Her foster family took one look at the number of zeros and kicked her out that same day, saying she could pay her own way from then on.

But she refused to touch the money, using only what she needed for necessities and school.

And somehow, despite all that, she graduated early with her teaching degree and was about to start her second semester as a first-grade teacher.

Pride swells in my chest whenever I think of how far she’s come.

When we first met, she had just started college, and over the course of the next three years, we became inseparable.

At first, it started more as a big sister-little sister relationship, and she’d ask me adulting advice and dating advice—which, admittedly, I probably shouldn’t have told her all men were trash.

Then, as the years passed, she blossomed into a beautiful young woman, and now we regularly hang out.

Usually half the week, she comes over for dinner, or just to watch a show and catch up.

Tonight is one of those nights. She showed up with a mocktail margarita mix and homemade guacamole while I cooked chicken fajitas.

The whole condo still smells like simmering spices and garlic, but my belly is too stuffed to start the cleanup.

The end credits of John Tucker Must Die roll in the background, and I reach for the remote to flick off the TV.

Alice doesn’t drink, but she sips from her mocktail, smacking her lips from the tart margarita.

Mine is empty on the round coffee table and due for a refill with actual tequila, but again—too full to move .

The room goes dark except for the few lamps scattered around the condo.

It’s not the most aesthetic home, but I’m proud of it.

I bought it with the first real paycheck from my novel and spent the next year filling it with furniture and decorations I’d thrifted and upcycled.

None of it really matches, but that’s what gives it its charm—or so I tell myself.

A television sits atop an antique standing cabinet, someone having replaced the cabinets with glass before I acquired it.

I store my collection of DVDs and backup candles inside, along with a few books and other miscellaneous items that don’t really have a home.

My couch is a brown leather sectional with mismatched decorative pillows and a circular white rug underneath.

With white walls covered in random pieces of art and dark hardwood floors, the room gives off an eclectic, cozy vibe that I adore.

The rest of my house follows suit, all pieces I’ve picked up along the way because they spoke to me.

The only thing missing—Mason.

My heart sinks, and I can’t help the emotion from twisting my expression. Alice notices immediately—she always does—and she throws herself over the couch to squish me with her love. I can’t even blink before her surprisingly fierce grip coils around me like a snake.

“He’ll come home. He always does.”

I nod into her shoulder, but she doesn’t let go. That night, I break in her arms, and she just holds me tightly until the sun rises.

My feet pound against the sidewalk as I push myself further.

Sweat pools against my nape, curling the hairs and dripping down my back.

It only spurns me further. My revenge era, female rage playlist blasts in my ears, and the lyrics to “Which Witch” by Florence + the Machine feels more and more relatable with each stride.

The sun is bright, warming me just enough as I make my way to Strikers, but the coastal breeze is picking up speed.

Typically, Roswell is overcast and wet, but days like today offer the perfect balance for the northeast coast in January.

I don’t always run to the gym—most days I know I won’t want to make the trip back—but today, I need the distraction.

The massive warehouse comes into view just as a stitch cramps my side.

My sneakers slap against the concrete, and I barely slow to let myself into the building.

Jenna waves from her spot at the desk, but I duck past her with an air kiss, then point to my headphones.

She’ll understand. On my way toward the left side of the gym, I borrow a pair of gloves from the bin and slip them on.

I’m not scheduled to train today, but I needed to punch something, so I choose a quiet corner and warm up with a few combos. I make it my mission to beat up the worn sandbag hanging from the ceiling.

When sweat stings my eyes and my muscles burn from overuse, I finally pause, sucking in a breath that doesn’t quite fill my lungs. My vision tunnels, and black spots dot my periphery, making my head dizzy and light.

“Fuck.” I rub a gloved hand against my temple and pop my headphones over my neck. The music still blares, reverberating against my collarbone, but I don’t have the energy to grab my phone and pause it yet.

“You good, kid?”

Jude’s voice startles me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Shit, warn a girl, would ya?”

Jude’s brow furrows, and he looks around the gym expectantly. “This is my gym. And I did warn you. I said, You good, kid? ” An incredulous look passes over his face, and I can’t help a snort of laughter.

“Of course that makes sense to you.”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

I wave him off, the rip of the Velcro audible even against my music.

I toss them to the floor and fish my phone out of my pocket to pause the music.

There’s an unread text from Hudson that I haven’t been able to bring myself to open.

I know he wants the wristband back, but I have a feeling it will come in handy.

“Why are you here today? You’re not scheduled until Thursday.”

I’ve been coming to Strikers two to three times a month for the last eight years, and Jude has trained me almost the entire time. Sometimes, I’ll come in and pound on the bags or spar with someone else, but only if I’m really going through something.

And clearly, I’m going through it.

“I needed to work out some aggression.”

Jude raises a singular brow, but otherwise doesn’t pry.

That’s what I love about him. He takes you at your word but doesn’t get upset if you break it.

The only person I’ve seen him show a modicum of emotion toward is his wife, Jenna.

I met her a few years back when he’d already been dating her for over six months, apparently.

Then, within the month, they were married.

He hadn’t even told me. I found out because suddenly, he was wearing a gold band on his finger.

When I badgered him for details, his dark complexion had warmed, and the tips of his cheekbones and ears burned crimson.

It was actually sort of sweet, so I didn’t mention it again for fear he’d never tell me anything else.

I honestly never expected him to be the type to settle down, but I like who he’s become after Jenna.

He actually asks how I’m doing now instead of just grunting whenever I try for conversation.

Still, his bulky stature would intimidate anyone, grunting aside.

He’s got to be taller than six feet, and each of his arms is thicker than my head.

Jude keeps his head shaved, but a well-groomed dark beard covers the expanse of his chiseled jaw.

Several breaks have left his wide nose crooked, and scars mark his torso and knuckles.

When asked how he got so many, all he said was people .

He left it at that, but it was enough for me to draw my own conclusions.

He crosses his tree trunk arms over his chest. “Want to talk about it?”

A smile threatens to break, so I pinch my lips together. I know that was like swallowing glass having to say that out loud. But the offer is sweet, and I appreciate it more than he can know. I shake my head.

Jude pauses, then says with reluctance, “Want to get drunk?”

This time, I don’t contain the smile that splits my face in two. “Fuck yes.”