Playing with Fire_Shen

by Shen, L. J.

  Copyright © 2020 by L.J. Shen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Resemblance to actual persons and things living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playing with Fire

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Playlist

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Contact me

  Other Books by L.J. Shen

  Sinners of Saint

  A broken boy on the path to destruction.

  A scarred girl without direction.

  A love story carved in secrets, inked with pain and sealed with a lie.

  Grace Shaw and West St. Claire are arctic opposites.

  She is the strange girl from the food truck.

  He is the mysterious underground fighter who stormed into her sleepy Texan college town on his motorcycle one day, and has been wreaking havoc since.

  She is invisible to the world.

  He is the town’s beloved bad boy.

  She is a reject.

  He is trouble.

  When West thrusts himself into Grace’s quiet life, she scrambles to figure out if he is her happily-ever-after or tragic ending.

  But the harder she pushes him away, the more he pulls her out of her shell.

  Grace doesn’t know much about anything beyond her town’s limits, but she does know this:

  She is falling in love with the hottest guy in Sheridan U.

  And when you play with fire—you ought to get burned.

  To Chele and Lulu.

  “It is never too late to be what you might have been”—George Eliot

  My Chemical Romance—“Helena”

  Bikini Kill—“Rebel Girl”

  Blondie—“Atomic”

  Sufjan Stevens—“Mystery of Love”

  Rag’n’Bone Man—“Human”

  Healy—“Reckless”

  Powfu—“Death Bed”

  Grace

  The only thing to remain completely untarnished after the fire was my late momma’s flame ring.

  It was a cheap-looking ring. The type you get in a plastic egg when you shove a dollar into a machine at the mall. Grandma Savvy said Momma always wanted me to have it.

  Fire symbolized beauty, fury, and rebirth, she explained. Too bad in my case, it symbolized nothing but my demise.

  Grams told me bedtime stories about phoenixes rising from their own ashes. She said that was what Momma wanted for herself—to rise above her circumstances and prevail.

  My momma wanted to die and start over.

  She only got one out of the two.

  But me? I got both.

  November 17th, 2015

  Sixteen years old.

  The first time I woke up in a hospital bed, I’d asked the nurse to help me put the ring back on my finger. I brought the ring to my lips and mouthed a wish, like Grandmomma had taught me.

  I didn’t wish for the insurance money to kick in quickly, or to end world poverty.

  I asked for my beauty back.

  I passed out shortly after, exhausted by my sheer existence. Asleep, I caught specks of conversations as visitors flooded my room.

  “…prettiest girl in Sheridan. Elegant little nose. Pert lips. Blonde, blue-eyed. Crying shame, Heather.”

  “Might as well been a model.”

  “Poor thing doesn’t know what she’s wakin’ up to.”

  “She ain’t in Kansas no more.”

  I treaded out of the induced coma slowly, not sure what was waiting for me on the other side. It felt like swimming against crushed glass. Even the slightest movement ached. Visitors—classmates, my best friend Karlie, and boyfriend Tucker—came and went, patting, cooing, and gasping while my eyes were closed.

  Oblivious to my consciousness, I heard them crying, shrieking, stuttering.

  My old life—school plays, cheer practice, and stealing hasty kisses with Tucker under the bleachers—felt untouchable, unreal. A sweetly cruel spell I’d been under that evaporated.

  I didn’t want to face reality, so I didn’t open my eyes, even when I could.

  Until the very last minute.

  Until Tucker walked into my hospital room and slipped a letter between my limp fingers resting on the sheet.

  “Sorry,” he croaked. It was the first time I’d heard him frazzled, insecure. “I can’t do this anymore, and I don’t know when you’ll wake up. It’s not fair to me. I’m too young for …” He trailed off, and his chair scraped the floor as he shot up to his feet. “I’m just sorry, okay?”

  I wanted to tell him to stop.

  To confess I was awake.

  Alive.

  Well.

  Sort of.

  That I was buying time, because I didn’t want to deal with the new me.

  In the end I kept my eyes closed and heard him leave.

  Minutes after the door clicked shut, I opened my eyes and let myself cry.

  The day after Tucker broke up with me in a letter, I decided to face the music.

  A nurse skulked into my room like a mouse, her movements hurried and efficient. She eyed me with a mixture of wariness and curiosity, like I was a monster shackled to the bedrails. By the promptness in which she appeared, I gathered they’d been waiting for me to open my eyes.

  “Good mornin’, Grace. We’ve been waitin’ for you. Sleep well?”

  I tried to nod, regretting the ambitious movement immediately. My head swam. It felt swollen and feverish. My face was fully wrapped and bandaged, something I’d noticed the first time I came to. There were tiny gaps in the bandages for my nostrils, eyes, and mouth. I probably looked like a mummy.

  “Why, I’ll take that little nod as a yes! Are you hungry by any chance? We’d love to take the tube out and feed you. I can send someone over to get you some real food. I believe we’re servin’ beef patties with rice and banana cake. Would you like that, hon?”

  Determined to rise from my own ashes, I mustered all the physical and mental strength I possessed to answer, “That’d be real nice, ma’am.”

  “It’ll be here right quick. And I’ve got more good news for ya. Today is the day. Doctor Sheffield is finally gonna take them bandages off!” She tried to inject false enthusiasm into her words.

  I flipped the ring on my thumb absentmindedly. I wasn’t anywhere near ready to see the new me. Nonetheless, it was time. I was conscious, lucid, and had to face the music.

  The nurse filled out her chart and dashed out. An hour later, Dr. Sheffield and Grams came in. Grams looked like hell.
Gaunt, wrinkled, and sleep-deprived, even in her Sunday dress. I knew she’d been living in a hotel since the fire and was in a full-blown war with our insurance company. I hated that she’d been going through this alone. Normally, I was the one doing the talking whenever we needed to get things done.

  Grams took my hand in hers and pressed it to her chest. Her heart was beating wildly against her ribcage.

  “Whatever happens”—she wiped her tears with leathery, shaky fingers—“I’m here for you. You hear that, Gracie-Mae?”

  Her fingers froze on my ring.

  “You put it back.” Her mouth fell open.

  I nodded. I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I’d start crying.

  “Why?”

  “Rebirth,” I answered simply. I hadn’t died like Momma, but I did need to rise from my own ashes.

  Dr. Sheffield cleared his throat, standing between us.

  “Ready?” He flashed me an apologetic smile.

  I gave him a thumbs-up.

  Here’s to the beginning of the rest of my life …

  He removed the bandages slowly. Methodically. His breath fanned across my face, smelling of coffee and bacon and mint and that clinical, hospital scent of plastic gloves and sanitizers. His expression did not betray his feelings, though I doubted he had any. To him, I was just another patient.

  He didn’t offer me any words of encouragement as I watched the long, cream ribbon twirling before my eyes, becoming longer. Dr. Sheffield removed my hopes and dreams along with the fabric. I felt my breath fading with each twist of his hand.

  I tried to swallow down the lump of tears in my throat, my eyes drifting to Grandmomma, searching for comfort. She was by my side, holding my hand with her back ramrod straight, her chin up.

  I searched for clues in her expression.

  As the bandages curled into a pile on the floor, her face warped in horror, pain, and pity. By the time parts of my face were exposed, she looked like she wanted to shrivel into herself and vanish. I wanted to do the same. Tears prickled my eyes. I fought them out of instinct, telling myself it didn’t matter. Beauty was a seasonal friend; it always walked away from you eventually—and never returned when you truly needed it.

  “Say somethin’.” My voice was thick, low, unbearably raw. “Please, Grandmomma. Tell me.”

  I’d enjoyed the perks of my looks since I was born. Sheridan High was all about Grace Shaw. Modeling scouts stopped Grams and me when we visited Austin. I was the most prominent actress in school plays and a member of the cheer team. It had been obvious, if not expected, that the splendor of my looks would pave a path for me. With hair rich and gold as the Tuscan sun, a pert nose, and luscious lips, I knew my looks were my one-way ticket out of this town.

  “Her mother wasn’t worth spit, but luckily Grace inherited her beauty,” I once heard Mrs. Phillips telling Mrs. Contreras at the grocery store. “Let’s just hope she fares better than the little hussy.”

  Grams looked away. Was it really that bad? The bandages were completely gone now. Dr. Sheffield tilted his head back, inspecting my face.

  “I would like to preface this by saying you are a very lucky girl, Miss Shaw. What you went through two weeks ago … many people would have died. In fact, I am amazed you are still with us.”

  Two weeks? I’d been in this bed for fourteen days?

  I stared at him blankly, not knowing what he was looking at.

  “The infected areas are still raw. Keep in mind that as your skin heals, it will become less agitated, and there’s an array of possibilities we can explore down the line in terms of plastic surgery, so please do not be disheartened. Now, would you like to look at your face?”

  I gave him half a nod. I needed to get it over with. See what I was dealing with.

  He stood up and walked over to the other side of the room, plucking a small mirror from a cabinet, while my grandmomma collapsed on top of my chest, her shoulders quaking with a sob that ripped through her scrawny body. Her clammy hand gripped mine like a vise.

  “What am I to do, Gracie-Mae? Oh my lord.”

  For the first time since I was born, a rush of anger flooded me. It was my tragedy, my life. My face. I needed to be consoled. Not her.

  With each step Dr. Sheffield took, my heart sank a little lower. By the time he reached my bed, it was somewhere at my feet, pounding dully.

  He handed me the mirror.

  I put it up to my face, closed my eyes, counted to three, then let my eyelids flutter open.

  I didn’t gasp.

  I didn’t cry.

  In fact, I didn’t make a sound.

  I simply stared back at the person in front of me—a stranger I didn’t know and, frankly, would probably never befriend—watching as fate laughed in my face.

  Here was the ugly, uncomfortable truth: my mother died of an overdose when I was three.

  She didn’t have the rebirth she’d longed for. She never did rise from her own ashes.

  And, looking at my new face, I knew with certainty that neither would I.

  West

  November 17th, 2015.

  Seventeen years old.

  The best opportunity to kill myself presented itself on that dark road.

  It was pitch-black. A thin layer of ice coated the road. I was driving back from my Aunt Carrie’s, sucking on a green candy cane. Aunt Carrie sent my parents food, groceries, and prayers on a weekly basis. It felt crap to admit it, but both my folks couldn’t drag themselves out of bed—with or without her religious praying.

  Pine trees lined the winding road to our farm, rolling over a steep hill that made the engine groan with effort.

  I knew it would look like the perfect accident.

  No one would assume any differently.

  Just a terrible coincidence, so close to the other tragedy that had struck the St. Claire household.

  I could practically envision the headline tomorrow morning in the local newspaper.

  Boy, 17, hits deer on Willow Pass Road. Dies immediately.

  The deer was standing right there, in the middle of the road, idly staring at my vehicle as I approached at an escalating speed.

  I didn’t flash my headlights. I didn’t pump the brakes.

  The deer continued staring as I floored it, my knuckles white as I choked the steering wheel.

  The car zipped through the ice so fast it shook from the speed, skidding forward. I could no longer control it. The wheel was not in sync with the tires.

  Come on, come on, come on.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and let it happen, my teeth slamming together.

  The car began to cough, slowing down, even as I pressed my foot harder onto the gas pedal. I popped my eyes open.

  No.

  The car was decelerating, each inch it ate slower than the previous one.

  No, no, no, no, no.

  The pickup died three feet away from the deer, coming to a full stop.

  The dumb animal finally decided to blink and amble away from the road, its hooves snapping against the ice with gentle clicks.

  Stupid fucking deer.

  Stupid fucking car.

  Stupid fucking me, for not hurling myself out of the goddamn pickup when I still had the chance, right off the cliff.

  It was quiet for a few minutes. Just me and the deceased pickup and my beating heart, before a scream tore from my throat.

  “Fuckkkkkk!”

  I punched the steering wheel. Once, twice … three times before my knuckles started bleeding. I braced my foot over the console and ripped the steering wheel out of the pickup, dumping it on the passenger seat and raking my fingers down my face.

  My lungs burned and my blood dripped all over the seats as I tore everything inside the pickup. I ripped the radio from its hub, throwing it out the window. I smashed the windshield with my foot. Broke the glove compartment. I wrecked the pickup like the deer couldn’t.

  And yet, I was still alive.

  My heart was still beating.

 
My phone rang, its cheerful tune taunting me.

  It rang again and again and fucking again.

  I tore it from my pocket and checked who it was. A miracle? A heavenly intervention? An unlikely savior who actually gave a fuck? Who could it be?

  Scam Likely

  Of course.

  No one gave half a fuck, even when they said they did. I boomeranged my cell into the woods then got out of the vehicle and started my ten-mile walk back to my parents’ farm.

  Truly fucking hoping I’d bump into a bear and let it finish the goddamn job.

  Present.

  Grace

  “Best nineties invention: curtain bangs versus slap-bracelets. You have five seconds to decide. Five.”

  Karlie sucked on her margarita slushie, eyeballing her phone. Damp clouds of heat sailed over the food truck’s ceiling. Sweat soaked through my pink hoodie. We were in the midst of a Texan heatwave, even though we were a few months shy of summer.

  My heavy coat of makeup was dripping down my FILA shoes in orange spurts. Good thing we closed five minutes ago. I hated hanging outside the house with less than two thick layers of foundation caked on my face.

  I was planning on a cold shower, hot food, and setting the air-con on blast.

  “Four,” Karlie counted in the background as I scribbled a want ad. My body was angled to the window, in case late-night customers trickled in.

  Karlie was officially cutting back on her shifts, something her mom and owner of the food truck, Mrs. Contreras, wasn’t thrilled about. Obviously, I was sad I wouldn’t be working with her as often anymore. Karlie had been my best friend since we’d both wobbled about in diapers in each other’s backyards. There was even a picture of us somewhere—probably Mrs. Contreras’ living room—sitting on matching purple pots, butt naked, grinning at the camera like we’d just unfurled the great secrets of the universe.

  I was worried whoever was going to replace Karlie—Karl to me—wasn’t going to appreciate my sarcastic nature and surly approach to life. But I also completely understood why she had to cut back. Karl’s class load was insane. And that was without all the extra internships she’d picked up to decorate her CV with work experience in journalism.