BONFIRE
Sara
Cash is back.
I’m barely managing to live with one killer.
Having another one casually show up complicates everything even more.
He hasn’t exactly been a threat. Except for the part where he dragged me back here.
He was nice about it, though, assuring me I’d be safe, and so far, he’s been right.
The way Cash looks at me, the way he talks, I’m not sure what to make of it.
I tell myself I’ll play nice, or as close to nice as I get. Until now, it’s been effective.
I towel my hair off but don’t bother drying it all the way.
It's damp and sticking to the back of my neck when I go downstairs, my feet careful on the steps.
I expect to find them in the kitchen or lounging on the couch, but the place is empty.
A deep, repetitive thwack comes from outside.
I follow the sound to the front window and peer through the glass.
I immediately forget how to breathe.
Chris is outside, chopping wood. Shirtless.
He’s standing near the fire pit they must’ve built, a stack of logs beside him, an axe in his hands. Each swing makes his shoulders bunch, slick with sweat in the fading daylight. His jeans hang low enough to make my eyes linger.
Eventually, I turn away, flustered with myself.
Jesus.
My eyes dart back to that perfect V disappearing into his pants. This might actually be the sexiest thing ever.
“Like what you see?”
The voice snaps me upright, adrenaline kicking in fast and unforgiving.
Cash stands right behind me, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
I blink at him, caught red-handed. My mouth opens, but I have no idea what I’m even trying to say. Nothing coherent comes out, just a noise that might be a syllable or a sound from a dying animal.
He snorts. “Relax, stalker. I’m not judging.” He ambles off, chuckling, leaving me alone with my flaming cheeks and the urge to crawl into a hole.
Great start to the evening.
When I finally gather the courage to join them outside, the fire’s going strong.
Cash is tending to it with the devotion of someone performing a sacred ritual.
Chris is back in a shirt, thank God, but I’m very aware of what’s under it.
He’s at the grill now, flipping burger patties.
It’s weirdly homey, considering the two men beside me could take down a building with their bare hands, but I’m comfortable with this.
We sit around the fire, legs stretched out, plates in our laps. Cash starts talking about some job in Morocco, and Chris adds dry commentary, making me nearly spit out my food. They have this rhythm together, bouncing stories back and forth. They must have done it a hundred times before.
It’s surprisingly fun listening to them. I’ve stumbled into some secret campfire club with inside jokes and bad accents and exaggerated war stories. I sink into the space between.
Cash gets up to grab beers and I glance toward him. “Can I have one too?”
He pauses, eyebrows raised. “Did your dad ever let you?”
I shake my head.
“Then you should definitely have one,” he says, and tosses me a cold bottle from the cooler on his massive truck.
I catch it, slightly clumsily. Chris is following our conversation but doesn’t object. On the way back to his seat, Cash casually drapes a blanket around my shoulders. I look at him, momentarily thrown, but he’s already refocusing on his beer and the flames.
It’s dark now with the kind of ambiance only a bonfire in the forest can provide. It sizzles and spits little sparks into the sky. If I squint, I can pretend this is summer camp.
Not that I’ve ever actually been to one.
I roast a marshmallow on a stick Chris trimmed for me, watching it slowly puff up and blister over the heat.
“How did you two meet, anyway?” I ask, more curious than I intend to sound.
They both chuckle.
Then Cash says, “Beating the crap out of each other on the schoolyard.”
“What?” I stare at them, wide-eyed.
Chris nods, completely straight-faced. “Over a girl.”
They’re both laughing now. I can’t tell if they’re messing with me or not.
“Then what?” I ask, extremely interested.
“We both dated her,” Chris says like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“Yep,” Cash says. “At the same time.”
My mouth falls open. “You mean, you took turns?”
Chris shrugs. “Sometimes.”
Cash leans in, eyes twinkling. “Sometimes not.”
My brain stutters, trying to catch up. “So, you shared her? Like... actually shared?”
Chris doesn’t answer. He takes a sip of beer and watches the fire. Cash’s grin stretches wider, soaking up every second of my scrambled reaction.
“Jealousy wasn’t a thing?” I ask, because I have to know.
“Never,” they say, almost in unison.
Cash stretches out an arm and taps his bottle against mine. “Sharing is caring.”
I don’t even know what to do with that information. I sit there, wrapped in a blanket and half a beer deep, with a roasted marshmallow on my stick and about a thousand questions in my head. I shift the soft white blob, letting it darken more before I ask, “So, are you still doing that?”
They glance at each other, looking amused.
“Hasn’t really come up,” Cash says, putting another log on the fire. More sparks drift upward, chasing each other into the night. His voice is almost casual, the question not rattling him in the slightest.
“Our line of work doesn’t exactly make room for girlfriends,” Chris adds. “Too messy. Too risky. We stick to acquaintances when we’re in the mood.”
Acquaintances? That’s a weird word for a booty call. There go the mind movies, high-definition and terrifyingly detailed.
Nope. Puppies. Think about puppies. Not four hands working in tandem and—
“What about you, Nosy Rosie? Is there a boyfriend waiting for you to come home?” Cash cuts the scene off before it can unfold.
I hesitate, watching the flames snap and pop, forcing my thoughts elsewhere. Maybe I should say something vague and change the subject. But this level of cozy loosens your tongue, so I spill. Fair’s fair, I guess.
“No. My dad never allowed dating, or a boyfriend. Ever.”
Cash raises a brow, but I go on.
“So of course I pissed him off and went out with a guy once. Big mistake.”
They both watch me now.
“The guy got handsy, tried to kiss me. I panicked and almost bit his tongue off.”
Cash chokes on his beer.
“It had to be reattached microsurgically,” I say with a shrug, my casual storytelling matching my unhurried movements as I remove the toasted ball from the end of the stick.
“I got a restraining order. Word got around fast. No one’s ever asked me out since.
” I relish my perfectly browned marshmallow.
Cash can’t stop coughing, but Chris sets his bottle down, the corner of his mouth tugging slightly. It looks nothing like mockery, more like respect.
“My dad lost his mind,” I add, poking at the fire. “Because I defied him. Because I assaulted a guy. Then the boys avoided me like the plague. Honestly, it wasn’t worth the trouble trying again.”
They’re quiet then, processing it seems. I’ve never told this story to anyone before. No one has ever been close enough to hear it. Letting it out is freeing in a way I didn’t expect.
After the tongue incident, I changed my style.
I was sick of how men constantly scanned my body, as if deciding which part to touch or comment on first. It didn’t click until I went out with Ethan.
Then, I couldn’t unsee it. It left me feeling dirty like I needed to scrub off someone else’s thoughts sticking to my skin.
Even without bright colors and dresses, the harassment didn’t stop.
It just shifted. I lost count of how many times I was asked if the carpet matched the drapes.
Pigs. All of them. Except Chris and Cash. They never do any of that.
We sit by the fire long into the night, and I don’t want it to end. Everything is right, this version of them, and this version of me.