Set The Dark On Fire

His seventeen-year-old libido, ever frisky, revved up at her words.

“Sure,” he said, stepping aside. Trying to walk as though he hadn’t been kneed in the crotch earlier, he led her toward the living room. He sat on one side of the couch and she took the other. Both of them stared at the soggy ice pack resting on the worn carpet.

He didn’t offer any explanation for it. “My sister’s not home,” he said when her eyes returned to his.

“Oh.” After fiddling with some white threads at the knee of her worn jeans, she picked up one of the couch pillows and hugged it to her chest. Why did girls do that? “I just wanted to say I was sorry about the way things turned out. I should never have led you on.”

Her apology made him feel like a real jerk. He’d stormed over to her house and accused her of having no standards. He should be apologizing to her. “You didn’t-”

“Let me finish,” she said. “Please.”

He shrugged one shoulder, uncomfortable.

“One of the reasons I didn’t want to… get involved with you… is because of what happened with Chad. I knew you’d be mad if you found out.”

She was right, and he was ashamed of himself, not just for being predictable, but for disrespecting her. “I acted like a total jackass, and I’m sorry.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “It’s none of my business who you go out with.”

“Chad and I didn’t even go out,” she admitted, misery brimming in her dark eyes. “It was just… one of those things. A mistake I don’t want to make again.”

Dylan knew what she meant. She regretted what she’d done with Chad, and she regretted what she’d done with him. The foolish hope he’d been entertaining since she walked through the door died a swift, painful death. Angel hadn’t come to tell him she was wrong, or that she’d changed her mind. She didn’t want a boyfriend. She didn’t want him.

No one ever had.

Her eyes softened with sympathy as she read his disappointment, and he hated her for that. She nibbled on her lower lip, drawing his attention to it, and he hated himself, too, because he still wanted her.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you for helping me fight off Travis.”

His gaze lingered on her mouth. “You thanked me enough. Although I wouldn’t mind getting thanked a little more.”

It was meant to be an insult, but his delivery was off. Maybe because he was more eager than angry. Her lips looked glossy and ripe, as if she’d put some shiny girl-stuff on them, and her chest rose and fell in agitation. Or anticipation.

The ache in his groin returned with a vengeance, reminding him not to risk his heart. Too many of his important parts had been crushed lately. Besides, she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested in being his girl, no matter how many fuck-me looks she gave him.

No meant no.

He pulled his attention from her lips and stared down at the melting ice at his feet, trying to channel cool energy.

“Did you hurt yourself?” she asked.

“I ran into Deputy Snell. He hurt me.”

“Where?”

“Same place you hurt Travis.”

She frowned at his lap. “Are you all right?”

“I will be,” he said, his stomach muscles tightening. If she kept staring, his blue nylon basketball shorts wouldn’t be able to conceal the proof of how well he was recovering. Everything seemed normal down there, if a bit tender, so he figured he was in better shape than Travis. His overzealous friend had screamed like a little girl when Angel kicked him. He’d also vomited, but that might have been from the beer.

“Come on,” he said, standing. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to.”

Ignoring that, he picked up the bag of ice water and took it to the sink, wishing it didn’t seem like a metaphor for the cool-off between them. Why did he inspire lukewarm emotions? Everyone he’d ever been close to had disappeared too soon; every feeling of affection had melted away.

Angel couldn’t think of anything to say as they walked down Calle Remolino, side by side, the gulf between them as wide as the Anza-Borrego Desert.

Since discovering that he liked girls in general, and her in particular, Dylan had been nervous around her. She’d always thought it was cute. Now it was she who felt tongue-tied when they were together, she who blushed every time he looked at her a certain way, and she who kept stealing furtive glances at his whipcord physique.

Que loca!

This was Dylan Phillips, not Brad Pitt. He wasn’t built. He wasn’t suave. He wasn’t even gorgeous.

Okay, so he was kind of hot, if you liked quirky white boys, and he had some muscles here and there. He’d be a real heartbreaker when he filled out, but right now he was just a trouble-seeking teenager, all angst and hormones.

She wasn’t sure why she came to apologize. He’d acted like a jerk earlier and she’d given him a proper put- down. She supposed she felt guilty for encouraging him in his bedroom, and responsible for the rift between him and his lame friends.

He had fought with both of them to protect her.

She’d also known him her entire life and considered him a friend. The least she could do, before she left, was clear the air between them.

“Do you want to come in my room?” she asked when they arrived at her doorstep.

That eager, almost desperate expression flickered across his face, then his eyes became shuttered and it was gone. “Sure,” he said anyway, probably just to be polite.

Feeling unsettled, she opened her door and turned on the lamp, bathing the room in a pale yellow light. With its small desk, large bed, and single armoire, the space was cozy, but cramped. And although it was clean, she was embarrassed by her Spartan quarters. Why had she invited him in?

“Do you play?” he asked, nodding toward the guitar case on the bed.

Maldiciones. She’d forgotten to put it away. “Um. Yeah. A little.”

“Cool,” he said, sitting down next to it. The bed had once belonged to her parents, and it dominated the tiny room. His long, rangy body seemed well suited to the space, and her mind manufactured several inventive ways they could put it to good use. “Play something.”

Angel looked everywhere but the bed. Which was hard to do, with him sitting on it. “Oh, no. I’m not that good and I haven’t been practicing enough and you wouldn’t like any of the songs I know…” She snuck another glance at him. He arched a brow.

Her choices were to stare at the wall or play her guitar, so she stopped stammering and picked up her acoustic. Like the armoire in the opposite corner, the guitar was an art piece, one of a kind, and hand-carved. Both were from Paracho, Mexico, famous for woodwork. Her mother’s hometown.

She pulled the ladder-back chair away from her desk and sat facing him. The style of music she played differed greatly from the kind he preferred. She liked to listen to a wide range of genres, from punk to pop, and although she was especially fond of some of the furious noise Dylan favored, what she played was more forlorn than angry.

Too self-conscious to break into one of her originals, she decided on an older ballad by Shakira. The song was pensive and soulful, with a folksy sound she often tried to emulate. If the lyrics hit a little too close to home for comfort, at least they were in Spanish, so that felt safer.

Mis dias sin ti son tan oscuros, tan largos, tan grises…

She stumbled through the first few verses, in which the speaker describes how dark her days are without the one she loves. Her voice was pitchy and her fingers fumbled for the right chords, and then she just sort of… found her rhythm. Found herself.

It was always like this with music. She got lost in the melody, and the rest of the world faded away.

When she was finished, she let the last chord ring out and slowly came back down to earth. By the way Dylan was staring at her, she knew the song had been a poor choice. Foreign language aside, the emotion of the piece must have been written all over her face.