This chapter was fun to write, I had this picture in my head, and I really wanted to visualize it for you.
Hehe enjoy!
I don't say a word
But still, you take my breath and steal the things I know
There you go, saving me from out of the cold
Fire on fire would normally kill us
But this much desire, together, we're winners
They say that we're out of control and some say we're sinners
But don't let them ruin our beautiful rhythms
'Cause when you unfold me and tell me you love me
And look in my eyes
You are perfection, my only direction
It's fire on fire, mmm
It's fire on fire
Fire on Tire by Sam Smith
Chapter 12 - Fire on Fire
"The fuck your mean," Daryl snaps at you, jerking away from the open hood of the car, the pitch in his voice deep.
"I mean…" you stumble caught off guard by his sudden fury. "That's just what I heard." You stare at him confused; half eaten pizza still in your hand.
"So, you sayin' I'm a fuckin criminal? Is that what you think?" It's such a turn of event, one minute you're talking his ears off, the next he's lighting up like gasoline on fire.
"Don't get hot with me!" You huff, tossing your slice of pizza back in the box, "What are you even talking about?"
"Nah, go ahead and say it, I went to juvie, right? I went to jail?" He shoves his finger, still covered in car grease, in your face.
"You know I didn't mean anything by it, that's just what I heard." You reply, annoyed by his accusation. It is just a rumor you heard last year, even the teachers were talking about it.
"Of course, Ms. Perfect, Ms. I-fuckin-know-everything. You don't know shit!" His nostril flares, anger still hot on his tongue. He huffs, eyes narrowed, like the sight of you irritated him, before walking away from you. You don't even know where he is headed, but you chase after him.
"Are you fuckin serious right now?" You grab his hand to keep him at bay, but he yanks it from you, anger still blazing. You groan feeling desperate. The day was going so well, and you had to ruin it by opening your big mouth. Perhaps, this was a sensitive subject for him, like most things in his life. You let out a sigh, deciding to try a different approach.
"Daryl, come on, you know I don't mean to upset you," Your voice is soft, fingers grabbing on to the back of his black shirt, gently tagging him towards you. "I'm sorry, alright, I'm sorry," you whisper. He looks anywhere but at you, chin held up high. But you can tell he is much calmer by the way he lets out a sigh. You reach for his hand again, and he lets you this time, fingers enter-locking with his, your head leans on his arm.
"I'm sorry, just come back, ok." You tag him to the tree log you were using as a chair.
"Just for the record, I ain't never been to no juvie." He grants, "I knew the guy who accused me of stealing his car. He is from my old neighborhood. He left that shit running and told me to watch it. I just drove it around the neighborhood, and that fucker tried to square up to me, but he ain't had the balls, so he called the cops." As he sits on the log, his hand continued to remain in yours, and you bring it to your lap.
His fingers and nails were caked in oil and grease, and you can see the mark it leaves on your jeans, but you don't mind. "They sent me to some camp for troubled boys. The judge also made it mandatory that I must go to school until I turn 18." You hummed in response. This explained why he kept showing up to school, it's mandatory that he attends, although he barely puts any effort.
"I ain't no criminal." He informs you, voice honest. You nod at him.
"I know how the real world works Daryl. Even if that was the case, things like that doesn't matter to me," you tell him. After all, as the DA's daughter, your father made sure you knew the law, how easily the world could change based on your demographic and economic status. As you sit there staring at his hand, the warmth of his skin seeping into your body, you can't help but wonder when he started to allow you to touch him.
The day was going so well. You met up at the park, and he was for once on time. He brought his own tool bag, well, Merle's tool bag, he had said. You left his bike parked at the park near your house before you drove to the auto-shop. You followed him throughout the store as he picks up a new Alternator and some bolts.
With a shopping bag in hand and a box of cheese pizza and slurpees, he drives you to the cliff.
You guessed it before, but Daryl is surprisingly good with his hands, this is where he excels. He doesn't just change the alternator but shows you how. You listen tentatively as he explains how to disconnect the battery, how to disconnect the wires from the back of the alternator, how to remove the belt from the tensioner pulley…and so on. He was very patient with you, even when you make him repeat his explanations, or when you pointed at unknown parts and called them 'thingies.'
Of course, during the chitchats, you casually bring up about how he went to juvie. You don't even remember exactly what you said, something in the lines of 'how with a skill like that, he can work in a shop and test-drive any car he wants.'
"So, once you turn 18, you gonna drop out of school?" You question, wondering what his plans were, but he shrugs his shoulders. You understand school is not for everyone, and Daryl's aptitude lies on something he can do with his hands.
"When is your birthday?" You know he is a year older than you because of the year he was held back.
"July." So, this summer is the deciding factor. No wonder he didn't care about the project. He doesn't even know if he's going to school next year. It all made sense now.
You can't help but smile though. This also means, Daryl showed up every day to the library to please Mr. Lanigan.
"Imma buy some smoke, you want anything?" Daryl asks, stepping out of the car. It was dark when you started driving back, and he had decided to pull at a gas station.
"Nah, I'm good." You tell him, stepping out as well, stretching your limbs, watching him head towards the convenient store. You walk towards the pump and decide to fill the tank while you're here.
Although you would like to think Daryl was over it, no longer annoyed with you, you can still feel the tension lingering. After he finished what he started with your car, you both set on the hood like the usual, sipping your slurpees. You sensed he was more pissed off at himself than you, the way he sat there biting his nails. Every now and again, he would look at you from the corner of his eyes, as if trying to read you or your body language. You tried to make it easy for him, so you smiled, and talked his ears off.
Your train of thought is cut short when you feel the hair on the back of your neck stand. You turn around to see three men standing at the next pump. They look young, late teens or early twenties.
"Damn, I told you she was fine." One of them says to the other. You quickly turn away, trying to look busy at your car. In your peripheral vision, you can see one of them walking toward you, and the two follow behind. The hair on your arms stands, all the warning bells going off.
"Hey cutie, what's your name?" He stands too close for comfort, with a smug look on his face. "I'm Mark by the way." He is the biggest out of the three, and you can tell he is obviously the leader, from the way the two stand behind him like his hype men. You don't give him an answer, just put the pump back and close your gas tank. Your ignorance irritates him, and he reaches for you, catching your chin.
"Look at that face, Shamus," he says, pinching your chin hard. The boy behind him, shamus, cat whistles.
You smack his hand away, taking a step back, "First of all, never touch a woman unless she gives you consent, secondly, I am not interested." You stare him down, voice firm.
He only laughs.
He ignores what you said, as if you're a child throwing a temper tantrum, "Ooh, she got some fire in her, just how I like em," Mark speaks to the boys, and they snicker behind him, looking at you up and down with a smirk on their face. "How about you come to my place, we got some booze, and we know how to have a good time."
"Aye yo!" you turn to see Daryl sprinting for you. You let out a sigh, when he slides right in front of you, stepping between you and Mark's face. "Ain't nothing here for you homie, so why don't you back off." The boys look at each other before busting out in laughter. Mark steps in Daryl's personal space towering over him with his size. Perhaps, an intimidation tactic.
"She you girl?" He questions, and smirk when he doesn't hear a respond from Daryl, "that's what I thought. So, it seems to me like, you're the one that needs to back off." He pokes Daryl's chest, pushing him with his index finger.
"I ain't tellin you again," Daryl says, fists clenched at his side, eyes traveling from the man's finger to the smirk on his lips. You grab gently on the back of Daryl's shirt, noticing how locked his body is, ready to swing
You don't know what triggered it, but it all happened so quick, the guy open his mouth to say something snarky, but Daryl doesn't give him the chance. He yanks him by his shirt, his head connecting with Mark's nose. You hear a crunch sound when the headbutt makes impact. When he releases his shirt, the boy drops like a sock of potatoes, blood sprinting from his nose.
"Oh, shit!" Came from the boys, and there is a second of pause as you all watched Daryl in shock. He had hit him so hard; Mark was knocked out. Chaos erupts after that, as the two boys jump Daryl. You screamed stepping back from the danger zone, as they tumble to the ground. You watch adrenaline shooting through you, your heart pouncing in your chest.
Daryl fights like a bull.
As if he has been fighting all his life. They try wrestling him down, but he swings with no brake, with no gap. What are you supposed to do? You have never been in a physical fight. Your definition of fight is exchanging some strongly articulated words.
As hard as your heart is beating, there is a moment where it all comes to a dead stop, your heart completely skipping a beat. During the grappling on the ground, one of the guys grasp Daryl's shirt yanking it to have a better grip, exposing his skin.
Your body shakes watching the jagged scar that littered Daryl's back. It is long and thick to be anything but flogging marks, with a few cigarettes burn scattered across his skin like some abstract painting.
You only get a chance to look at it for a moment. Daryl's elbow connects with one of the boy's throats, and the boy backs off, dropping to his knees, gasping for air.
Now one on one, the last boy on the ground, Shamus, takes the beating, Daryl brings his fist down over and over on his face. You reach for his elbow, trying to pull him back, but he jerks from you, returning to the punch again.
"Daryl! That's enough!" you grasp for him again, "that's enough! you're going to kill him!" He lets you pull him, and you both stumble back, pushing him towards the passenger side of the car. "Get in the fucking car Daryl." You shove him, trying to get his attention. He looks at you, eyes red and lips bloody. Again, you have a holyshit moment. He has never looked more beautiful, like an untamed wild animal, passion burning in his eyes. You shove him towards the seat, with unsteady hand. The second he's in the car, you run back to the driver side. You spare a glance, hearing groans and moans, as the two men who are still conscious rolling on the ground, the big guy completely out.
You drive out of there like a manic, trying to put as much distance as possible. Your heart drums in your chest, fast and feverish. You glance toward Daryl in the passenger seat. He had a cut on his forehead, and his bottom lip is busted, streak of blood running down his chin. You watch him spellbound when he brings his bruised knuckles to his lips, wiping and licking the blood off.
You almost miss your exit, the car screeching when you jerk it back in place. You grip on the steering wheel tight, fingers turning white. There is this unbound excitement in your body. You physically feel hot, your blood flowing through you like lava. You feel this primal need, telling you to pull the car over and take what's yours.
Your throat bobs as you swallow the lump, fighting to keep your eyes on the road. You shift in your seat, feeling your panties getting wet. You squeeze your thighs, wondering what is wrong with you. Is this desire, is this excitement, like what you read in your dirty books? This could have turned into a real danger if they had weapons, yet with no regard to himself, he had thrown himself in front of you, protected you like you have never been before.
And now, you have this instinctive reaction towards it, like wanting to throw yourself at him like he did. Is this some sort of bad-boy syndrome, you wonder…
You don't know where you are headed, but somehow, you end up pulling your car in front of your house. The driveway is empty, signifying both your parents are out on this Saturday evening. The car is silent as you sit there trying to catch your breath. You look at him again, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, thighs squeezed, your body screaming for some sort of relief.
"Why don't you come inside?" you ask him, though you fear what you might do once you are alone with him. "We have a first aid kit," you tell him, opening the car door and walking out. He follows, but hesitates, looking up at what could be considered a small mansion in most people's eyes. You grab his hand, yours feeling sweaty in his, leading him towards the front door.
Inside, he looks around, from the high ceiling to the modern décor. Another obsession of your mother's.
"Come," you tell him, going up the stairs. He trails after you, only stopping to look at some of your baby pictures hanging on the wall leading up the stairs.
Only when he steps in does he realize he's actually in your room, because he stands there awkwardly, like he's never been inside a girl's bedroom. "That's a lot of pink," he comments, looking from your pink bed to your pink chandelier. Your room is quite grand for a teenager, your father having it remodeled a few years back as a second master bedroom, with its own bathroom and a walk in closet.
"That's my mom for you," you tell him, rolling your eyes. Everything in your room was picked by your mother, and she had decided to pick pink, as if you're a five-year-old and that's the only color you adore.
You head to your bathroom and pull out the first aid kit from the cabinet underneath the sink, preparing the peroxide, creams, and cleaning tools. When you walk out, you find him standing in the corner of your bedroom where the golden birdcage hanged from the ceiling. "That's scarlet," you introduce your pet bird. "She's a scarlet tanager."
"You name your scarlet tanager, Scarlet?" You can see the smirk on his face, voice mocking, "very original."
"Yea, yea, very funny," you roll your eyes at him, "come on now, let's take a look at your pretty face," he huffs at you in embarrassment, but nevertheless, he follows you into the bathroom.
He washes his hands and clean his knuckles with the peroxide. When you touch his face to do the same for the cuts, he freezes. There isn't a lot of room to move, but you can feel him shying away from you. You dab the blood away to see the cut on his forehead, perhaps from a ring one of the boys were wearing. You are standing too close to feel his breath, and you are having a hard time focusing as you feel his eyes roaming over your face. Your body tingles, the sensation from earlier returning, feeling a tightness low in the pit of your stomach. When you bring your eyes to his, making eye contact, he looks away, bringing his nail to his bloody lips, biting nervously.
You don't know why but you take another step toward him, like there's a room for that. He stumbles back right into the bathroom sink, nowhere to go. Your heart is running a marathon in your chest, and you bring your hand to his, pushing it away from his bloody lips. At the back of your mind, you can hear part of you screaming to pull back, that you are going to scare him off.
When you bring the cotton ball to the cut, his body tense, his tongue moistening his lips. Your eyes flutter, looking at his glossy lips, that little action taking your breath away like there isn't enough oxygen in the room. "I want to continue to see you," you whisper, voice barely audible even to you.
"Why?" He questions, his voice just as soft as yours. You take another step, and your breast presses to his chest. He jerks, his body trembling, chest moving up and down with each breath. When you press your hand to his chest, you can feel how hard his heart is beating, like it's trying to fly right into the palm of your hand.
"I like you; I like hanging out with you," you confessed. He just stares, his cheeks pink and you think you broke him for a second. "I was thinking, maybe you can take me to the beach. How does that sound?" You are making a move on him, and he doesn't know what to do. You dab on his lip with the cotton, and you can see his Adam's apple move, like he's swallowing a lump.
"Or we can just hang out like we normally do? I start my SAT prep course on Monday. It's 9am to 1pm, but I'm available after 2pm?" He looks at you through his lashes, eyes half opened, jaw moving like he wants to say something, but he's having trouble catching his breath.
You don't get to hear his reply. You can see a light shining through the bay window, as if a car is pulling in your driveway. "Shit!" you cuss backing away from him, "you got to go! My parents can't see you here!" You flounder out of your bathroom. It takes him a few second to move, as if he was frozen on the spot.
You giggle as you run down the stairs, Daryl right behind you. you take him through the kitchen, towards the back, heading out through the back door.
"Go around the front," you tell him, standing bare foot on the grass. He nods, but before he can get ahead of you, you grab his arm, pulling him towards you. He does not expect it at all when you press your lips to his cheek. He almost stumbles into you, his face turning red. "Thank you for today, for all of it, for the car, for…you know." You let his hand go. You hope you have not scared him off.
"I hope to see you Monday," you say softly. He looks dazed, but nods. You smile, taking a step back, hearing your mother call your name. With a small wave of goodbye, you step back inside. Once the door is closed, you lean your head back on it, giggling, and you can't help but do a little dance, your face hurting from the smile, your stomach filled with butterflies.
That night in bed, for the first time you touch yourself with Daryl in thought.