Walk Through Fire (Chaos, #4)(8)

He’d asked me out within minutes of the first words we spoke to each other.

I’d slept with him on our first date.

Not because I was easy.

Because I knew he was everything.

And he was.

He was a dream come true. A fantasy come to life. Every clichéd hope of every girl on the planet walking, talking, touching, kissing.

Except, perhaps, rougher and owning his own bike.

He’d treated me like gold.

No, like a princess.

No, both.

I was precious. Beloved. Treasured.

He looked at me and every single time he did it, I knew he thought what he saw was so beautiful he couldn’t believe his luck.

The sex wasn’t great.

It was explosive.

And we slept entwined and woke the same way, like we needed to be connected to each other to recharge in the night so we could take on the day. Like without that, we wouldn’t be able to function.

To my parents’ dismay and his parents’ delight, we’d moved in with each other within six weeks of meeting.

We fought and every single time we did it, we ended it laughing like what we were fighting about was ridiculous because, mostly, it was.

We were together for three years that felt like fifty-three, all of them blissfully happy.

Then that time felt like three days the minute he walked away from me because I made him do it.

I looked around my kitchen with its marble countertops and butcher block island that had a vegetable sink. Its heavy, white ceramic farm sink under the window and white cupboards, the top ones with windows. Other cupboards specially designed for wine, cookbooks, spice racks. I took in the kitchen’s stainless steel appliances and six-burner, two-oven stove, the wine fridge.

Then I moved.

My boots struck against my hardwood floors that had been refinished four years ago and they still gleamed perfectly. I went to my living room with its multipaned windows at the front and on either side of the fireplace at the side.

I looked around the white walls and the brick of the fireplace (also painted white).

The sheers on the windows were white, too, and they were diaphanous. The furniture was slouchy and comfortable and all in soft taupe. The accents of toss pillows on couch, love seat, and cuddle chair as well as the vases spotted around surfaces were in muted pastels. The frames of pictures dotted on surfaces were all whitewashed or engraved mirror or intricate silver. And the pièce de résistance was a large circular peacock mirror over the fireplace.

The effect was cool and stylish, but not cold. Pretty and welcoming.

I walked down the hall with its walls filled with perfectly placed frames, all black with cream matting, holding black-and-white pictures of Dottie and her family. My parents. Grandparents. Cousins. Aunts and uncles. Friends.

I moved past the guestroom and guest bath into the extra bedroom that was a junk room. I flipped on the light, which set the ceiling fan to giving the room a gentle breeze it did not need in September.

I went right to the closet, slid the door open, and struggled through the wrapping paper, luggage, boxes, then hefted out the plastic crates that were stacked in the corner.

Four of them.

I wanted the bottom one.

I got to it and pulled it into the room. I fell to my behind on the floor and flipped down the latches on the sides of the crate, lifting the top away.

In there were albums, three of which I’d happily, but painstakingly, filled with photos.

One album for each year.

The rest of the crate was filled with those envelopes pictures came in with the front holding the film.

And last, there were loose photos tossed in in a frenzy to hide painful memories.

In the beginning, I’d pulled that crate out often.

But it had been years since I’d opened that box.

I grabbed an album, put it on my lap and opened it randomly.

My throat closed against the burn consuming my insides as I stared down at a photo of me standing by Logan, who was sitting on his bike.

We were outside Ride, the auto supply store with attached custom build garage that Chaos owned.

Logan was off to do something, I didn’t remember what. I was saying good-bye to the man I loved, who I would see again within hours. He had one of his hands on the bike grip, the other on my hip. I was facing him but looking over my shoulder at Naomi, the wife of one of Logan’s Chaos brothers.

My hair was long, down to my waist and unencumbered, like Logan liked it. Unrestrained and wild. A way I hadn’t worn it in years.

Logan had on sunglasses that made him look cool and badass, jeans, a tee, and his Chaos cut.

We were close, like we were always close whenever we were together, touching, like we were always touching, and smiling.

Like we were always smiling.

The picture below that was of us stretched out on a couch in the common room of the Chaos Compound. I was mostly on top of Logan, partly tucked into the back of the couch. I had a hand on his chest and my head thrown back, the picture captured my profile and I was laughing.

Logan was on his back, head to the armrest, arm wrapped around my waist, holding me to him even though he didn’t need to since I was lying on top of him. He was looking right at the camera, also laughing.

On the opposite page there was a picture of us at Scruff’s. I had my booty up on the edge of the pool table (something I did a lot to be goofy because being goofy made Logan smile, but something that annoyed the hell out of Reb). Logan was leaning over the table with cue in hand, lined up ready to take a shot.