Wild Fire: A Chaos Novella

by Kristen Ashley

  The first time Jagger saw her, it was eleven years ago.

  On his sixteenth birthday.

  His brother Dutch had let Jagger use his truck and Jag drove by himself for the first time.

  Where’d he go?

  He went to his father’s grave.

  That was another first.

  The first time he’d been there by himself.

  And it was the only time Jag could remember that he and his dad had been alone together.

  Well, kinda alone.

  She was there.

  Not with him and his dad.

  She was at a funeral that was happening across the way.

  When he first clapped eyes on her, she was in one of those chairs they set up, right at the front, staring at the casket.

  Jag sat, and he was supposed to be sharing part of his sixteenth birthday with his dad, but he couldn’t help himself.

  He kept glancing over at her, mostly because she was pretty.

  But he looked her way so often, he knew, eventually when he did it, she’d be looking at him.

  And eventually, she was.

  She was so pretty, he didn’t think about what she was doing there, he just thought about how pretty she was.

  But when they caught eyes over those thirty yards dotted with headstones, he felt the look on her face in the back of his throat.

  Only then did he take in her surroundings.

  There was a man sitting beside her, a guy maybe Jagger’s age sitting on the other side of the man.

  But there was no woman.

  So…

  Yeah.

  He wasn’t surprised.

  He knew that look on her face.

  He felt it.

  Still.

  Fuck.

  Even though it was his birthday, he was finally legal to drive, and there were a million other things he wanted to do, he didn’t do any of them.

  He hung there until the service was over.

  He didn’t get why. Maybe it had to do with the fact that, once she saw him there, she kept glancing at him. Maybe she knew what he knew, and they both just got it. So, if she was looking his way, he needed to be there for her.

  Or maybe it was that she was just that pretty.

  Jag had guessed it before, but he figured it out for sure when the service was over. The way people were with her, the guy who looked like her brother, and the man who was probably her dad.

  God, Jag had had that shit shoved down his throat for as long as he could remember.

  He was barely old enough to talk when his dad was murdered, and to that day, he got those looks. Especially when folks found out his father was murdered. And more especially when they learned Jag was barely able to talk when his old man got whacked.

  The looks she and her brother and her dad were getting right then.

  Looks that Jag knew the person intended to be nice, but they made you just want to punch them in the throat.

  Or shout in their face.

  Just be real! I’m not dead, he is!

  I barely knew him!

  I don’t even remember him!

  My real dad is alive. He’s always been there for me. So you can just chill!

  It was not the same for that girl.

  Nope.

  She was probably fourteen, fifteen, and Jag was guessing it was her mom who was gone.

  That was a lot of time to have in before you lost everything.

  He didn’t know what he’d do if his mom kicked it.

  Or Hound did.

  Or something happened to Dutch.

  No, he did know.

  He’d go off the rails. He didn’t even care. End up dead or in prison.

  But his birth dad? Graham Black?

  Jag didn’t know the man.

  So, yeah.

  When it came to Jag, people could just chill.

  Her though?

  That girl?

  For her, even on his birthday, able to drive by himself, he stayed at the cemetery.

  He wanted to go over there, take her aside, say to her, “Yeah, just look like you’re listening, nod and move on. It’ll be over soon. They’ll go away. And then it’s just your family. It’ll always be just your family.”

  He wanted to save her from that shit or at least shield her from it.

  But he couldn’t do that.

  Still, he stayed.

  He stayed while everyone came over and fucking touched her. Her arm, or shoulder, her hair, her hand.

  And it was tough to sit through that. It was tough not to haul his ass over there and stop that shit.

  Christ, why did they do that?

  Like, your mom was gone, and you wanted people pawing you?

  But he sat where he was and stayed through all that.

  He stayed, watching her walk with her dad and brother to their car.

  The dad held her hand.

  He had his other hand wrapped around the back of his boy’s neck.

  Jag couldn’t even look at the dad’s face.

  He knew what he’d see.

  Jag had been looking at that for as long as he could remember.

  But seeing it new? Fresh? Raw?

  Nope.

  He wasn’t looking at that dude.

  Jag also stayed after they drove away.

  After everyone was gone.

  And he stayed to hold vigil as the cemetery workers took care of things.

  Put her mom under dirt.

  Did right with the process. Laid the flowers on just so.

  Yeah, Jag stayed through all of that.

  Only when her mom was all good did Jag look at his father’s tombstone.

  “Later, Pops,” he said, getting up, brushing off the ass of his jeans, and making his way to Dutch’s truck.

  And it was fucked in the head.

  But to this day, he would swear it happened.

  Swear that he heard You’re a good kid, Jag, in a voice that was totally familiar.

  At the same time it was not.

  * * * *

  It was a couple of months after when he saw the tombstone go up.

  He was in Dutch’s truck again, alone, visiting his dad.

  And he was pissed because Hound and his mom were just not getting it on.

  Seriously with that, what the fuck?

  Hound was, like, wasting his whole damned life waiting for his mother to snap out of it.

  But did she?

  No.

  Hell, everything she needed was right there.

  In her boys.

  And in Hound.

  Jesus.

  But yeah, Jag saw the new headstone, which was good. Seeing that, he could think of her, the pretty girl, and not think about why he kept coming to his dad’s grave, especially when he was frustrated that his father’s wife wasn’t hooking up with a man his father considered a brother.

  And Jag didn’t know why, but when he saw that new gravestone, he turned right around, drove to the store, bought some paper, envelopes and Ziplocs, as well as duct tape. He found a pen in Dutch’s glove box and drove back to the cemetery.

  He sat on his father’s grave and wrote her a note because he knew, that headstone was up, they’d come back for certain to check it out.

  The note read:

  Hey,

  I’m the guy from across the way. Just to say, it sucks now and people are gonna be weird about it for a long time. Just ignore them and do your thing. You got her in your head, you know? That’s not going anywhere. Ever.

  And you got your dad and your brother. That’s big.

  I got my mom and my brother. And they’re like, everything, you know? We look out for each other. We’re a family. Totally.

  I can’t say it’s all good, because it’s not.

  I can just say you get on with it.

  So just let people do their thing, you do yours, and stick tight with your dad and brother.

  You’ll be OK.

  Hang loose,

  -J

  He�
��d then folded it up, put it in an envelope and wrote For the Girl Across the Way on it.

  When he was done with that, he’d taped it to the base of her mom’s headstone.

  Her mom’s name had been Bryn.

  Pretty.

  He wondered what the girl’s name was.

  At the time, he figured that he’d probably never find out.

  * * * *

  It was a week or so later when Hound caught up with him.

  “Reckon this is for you,” his stepdad-not-stepdad had grunted, handing him an envelope in a Ziploc.

  Hound said nothing more.

  That was just like Hound. He always knew what to do, say, how to be.

  So he took off and left Jagger to it.

  Jag never asked him when he was there, or why. It wasn’t a surprise Hound visited his father’s grave.

  They were brothers, after all.

  Jagger pulled the envelope out of the baggie and saw it said For the Guy Across the Way.

  The writing wasn’t girlie. Each letter was straight up and down, deep impressions in the strokes, taking space. It had personality but it was so perfect, it was a little eerie. Like it wasn’t handwritten, but instead some font pretending to be handwriting, printed out on a printer.

  It said:

  J-

  Thanks for the advice.

  Dad says you’re right.

  And you’re wise.

  You hang loose too.

  -A

  Jag really wanted to know what “A” stood for.

  But he’d have to wait a while to find out.

  * * * *

  The next time Jag saw her, it was two, three months later, outside an Arby’s.

  She was with her family.

  Or what was left of it.

  Jag was going in.

  She was coming out.

  He stopped dead the second he saw her.

  She did the same.

  Her father and brother didn’t notice and kept walking to their car.

  Jag moved to her where she was standing on the sidewalk, waiting for him.

  “Hey,” he greeted.

  “Hey,” she replied.

  “How’s things? You hangin’ in there?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Cool,” he said, feeling something he’d never felt before.

  Uncomfortable.

  Unsure.

  Like a dork.

  Man, she was pretty.

  And man, he was a dick, when all he could think was how pretty she was, and her mom hadn’t been under dirt for a full year.

  “Thanks for the note,” she said.

  “I get it,” he told her.

  “Yeah, I saw your dad’s stone. I get that you do,” she replied.

  “Honey!”

  They both looked in the direction of the call.

  The dad was looking impatient and not too hip on his daughter chatting with Jag.

  The brother had the same exact look.

  “Be right there,” she yelled back.

  “I’ll let you go, but you know how to get me, you need me, yeah?” Jag asked.

  He was talking about exchanging notes.

  What he wanted to do was get her number.

  “Yeah,” she answered. “Thanks,” she said, tucking her black hair behind her ear.

  And he wondered about her mom. The dad was tall and blond.

  She was not either.

  Nor was her brother.

  She stepped off the curb and said, “Later?”

  This was the time he should ask for her number or give her his.

  But how did he do that when her brother and father were right there?

  “Later,” he said, though he didn’t know how that would happen, unless she left him a note, which could be intercepted by someone other than Hound, like Dutch or his mom, and they wouldn’t be as cool about it.

  He watched her walk to her dad and brother, thinking he shouldn’t.

  But he just couldn’t stop.

  She said something to her pops when she skirted him to get in the backseat, and after she did, the man looked right to Jag.

  He then dipped his chin Jag’s way.

  Well, shit.

  She’d told him that Jag was Note Guy.

  And the dude was cool.

  Jag gave him the salute he’d seen Hound give every once in a while, finger to temple and out.

  The man quirked a grin, lifted his chin this time, and angled into his car.

  The brother glared at him.

  Jag ignored that, tried to catch sight of her in the car, but couldn’t.

  So he walked into Arby’s, hoping like hell there was a “later.”

  * * * *

  Later turned out to be later.

  The next time Jag saw her, it was at a party, and well over a year had passed.

  She hadn’t left him a note.

  Since she hadn’t, he hadn’t left her one either.

  And he hadn’t because he didn’t want to be that jerk, creeping on some girl who’d lost her mom, doing it by leaving notes on her mom’s tombstone.

  The party where he saw her was a party she shouldn’t have been at.

  He knew her the instant he saw her, even though she’d grown up—a lot—in the time in between.

  He’d never forget her, though.

  Never.

  And the second she locked eyes on him, he knew she hadn’t forgotten him either.

  The minute she saw him, she immediately looked guilty.

  As she should.

  He was eighteen. He was the son of a biker (actually two, but only one was blood). It was a rough crowd, and a big one, everyone (that he knew) was of age (or at least, not a minor). There was definitely booze, some drugs, some folk who he knew could get rowdy, and not in a good way.

  Jag could be there.

  She was maybe sixteen, at most, seventeen.

  She had no business anywhere near there.

  He went right to her, fighting his way through the crowd to get where she was.

  And when he got close, he saw she’d already started tatting up.

  Shit.

  Not huge tattoos, little ones here and there on her arms, her fingers.

  He had no problem with tats. He had some of his own.

  But at sixteen?

  Nope.

  The first thing he wanted to talk about when he saw her again was to ask her name. It seemed like forever since that birthday, their note exchange, running into each other at Arby’s, and he’d thought about it a lot.

  Was she an Ann? Or Amy? Andrea? Amanda? Abby? Audrey?

  He didn’t ask her name or say hi.

  He said, “You got a lift home?”

  “Yeah,” she’d muttered.

  Mm-hmm.

  She knew she had no business being there.

  “Then get them and get outta here,” he ordered.

  He saw right away some attitude start surfacing.

  “I’m just havin’ fun.”

  “You can have fun. Just not here.”

  “I’m all right here.”

  Jag shook his head decisively. “No, you’re not. You’re too fuckin’ young to be here. Can you even drive yet?”

  Chin tilt and, “Yeah. And by the way, I’m my own lift. I don’t need anyone to drive me around. I can take care of myself.”

  Oh yeah.

  The attitude was surfacing, and he sensed she was digging in.

  So it was time to blow past this and get her safe.

  “Your dad is probably worried like fuck about you.”

  That did it.

  She looked away.

  Hung her head.

  Caught herself doing that and looked back to him, trying to keep her chin high.

  “A, go home,” he urged.

  “J, you’re a pain,” she retorted.

  She remembered his initial.

  That felt good.

  It also spoke to their connection.

  So, it wasn’t al
l in his head. It wasn’t only on his side.

  It was on hers too.

  He put his hand out toward her. “Let’s go.”

  It didn’t take real long before she put her hand in his.

  He led them through the crowd like he was her bodyguard.

  He took some shit along the way from friends and acquaintances about showing and then immediately nabbing the prettiest girl there.

  Jag stopped once through this, when some asshole called her “talent.”

  He was in staredown with the asshole when A put her hand on his back and said, “He’s a douche. Let it go. I don’t care. I am talent and he’s never gonna get that lucky.”

  She was right.

  Still, Jag gave it a couple more seconds to make his point before he broke contact and kept moving.

  Her car was parked at the curb and it was nice. A solid Honda a dad would think his girl was safe in.

  She beeped it and he opened the door for her.

  “So, you’re, like, a gentleman?” she teased.

  “My dad is dead, I was raised by my mom, so yeah. A woman raises you, you got no choice but to learn to treat women right, unless you’re a moron or born a dickhead.”

  She kept eye contact with him all the time he said this, but when he was done, she looked away.

  “A—” he started.

  “You know it hasn’t gotten better,” she told the road.

  He felt like an imposter.

  Because, yeah, he knew that.

  But she’d been fourteen (fifteen?) when her mom died.

  He’d been three when his dad was gone.

  He still said, “It doesn’t get better. You just get used to it.”

  She looked back to him and she looked pissed.

  Or hurt.

  He’d get it when she said, “My dad’s dating someone.”

  For her, it was a betrayal.

  For him, if his mom got her shit together and started moving on, it’d be a relief.

  Which was why he said, “That’s good.”

  And now she was definitely pissed. “No, it isn’t. She died, like, yesterday.”

  “It wasn’t yesterday, A,” he said softly.

  She got that stubborn expression on her face before she turned her attention to her toes.

  He got closer to her.

  Not too close, but close.

  She looked up at him.

  Perfect height, even if she had on heels.

  He was tall, he wasn’t into short women.

  But he wasn’t into tall women either.