Bossy asshole. “Oh ye of little faith. I said I’d take care of it, and I will,” I reply, maybe sounding just a touch bratty.
I get the laundry put away and head outside to tackle the grill. After giving the charred residue a couple of passes with a wire brush, I decide it would be smarter to try and burn off as much as I can, then tackle the remainder once it’s hot.
I fire it up and close the lid. I’m still not looking forward to the chore, but wandering around on the deck for a few minutes lifts my mood. If I manage to clean the grill to Jack’s satisfaction, maybe that will convince him that I’m capable of doing more of the cooking.
It’s notexactlya sore spot between us, but the fact that Jack still doesn’t really trust me in the kitchen makes me feel like a child. Although to be fair, I would probably be more pissed-off if I hadn’t scorched the bottoms of multiple pots.Andfucked up the finish on his favorite skillet.
I am learning things, though. Such as: Cast-iron is a pain in the ass to re-season.
OK, so maybe he kind of has a point.
I grin as my eyes fall on the now-repaired picnic bench. Jack and I got a little carried away a couple of nights ago. I walk over to the deck railing and collect my favorite plaid throw blanket that we’d brought out with us that night, and that I brought back out here to hang dry after I washed it. I check to make sure that the unholy mess of jizz, spit and lube came out of the fabric, a smile tugging at my lips as I fold it.
Hey, I’m multitasking. I’m feeling pretty good about it until I turn back towards the grill. I let out a squeak of fear when I see a little tendril of flame in the gap between the lid and the base.
Oh, fuck me. Fuck me hard. I dash over, my heart in my throat and an acrid, burnt-sugar smell in my nose. I have to get the gas turned off immediately.
I grab the first burner knob without thinking. The searing heat makes me yelp and jerk my hand back. In a panic, I use the blanket to protect my hand as I turn the rest of the burners off. Tears well in my eyes from the pain plus the awful thought that I fucked up Jack’s grill.
I realize my cry of pain must have been louder than I thought when I hear Jack shout my name. He runs across the yard and takes the deck stairs two at a time. “Are you hurt? Is the gas still on?”
When Jack’s gaze falls next to the grill, I feel like the world’s biggest idiot. I could’ve just turned off the propane tank sitting there without burning my hand. Or the blanket, which now has a couple of dark scorch marks and a jagged hole.
A lump builds in my throat. I’m crying before I realize it and I don’t entirely know why, which makes me feel even dumber and more pathetic. It’s not just the pain, although that’s also climbing now that my adrenaline is receding.
“I’m sorry about the blanket,” I mumble.
“Jesus Christ, Bunny! I don’t care about the damn blanket.” Jack takes me by the wrist so gently that I start crying harder. “Let me see that hand.”
Reluctantly, I uncurl my fingers, wincing at the pain. He lets out a low whistle. I make the mistake of looking down and find myself fighting a swell of nausea at the sight. When my vision blurs around the edges, I feel Jack’s arms around me, pulling me down onto the picnic bench before crouching down next to me.
“Sorry.” My voice is faint. “I’m just a wimp about this shit. I won’t pass out or anything. Promise.” When I stretch out my hand for Jack to examine more closely, though, I don’t look at it —just in case.
“Got a couple of nasty blisters there. You hurt anywhere else?” He gives me a once-over and I shake my head, trying to get ahold of myself. But when I look down at the blanket, my breathhitches again. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it,” I choke out.
Jack spares a half-second to throw a glance at the blanket. “Yeah, don’t think there’s any fixing that.” He doesn’t sound especially angry about it, but I can’t stop my lower lip from wobbling anyway.
“That was your favorite blanket, though. And mine, too.”
When he looks more carefully at the damage, a flicker of sadness crosses his face before he chases it off with a scowl. “I don’t give a shit,” he says gruffly as he stands up. “Better that than your hand.”
I know he’s lying, but between the pain in my hand and the sick feeling I get from looking at the scorched fabric, I’m grateful for it.
8
ADAIR
Jack uses the tongs hanging from the grill prep area to raise the lid, evaluating it with a sharp eye. “Did I break it?” I ask worriedly.
“Nah.” Relief surges through me as he shakes his head. After closing the lid, he pats his pockets. “Alright, I’ll deal with whatever caused that flare-up afterwards. My keys must be on the console table.”
Blinking through the tears that I’m embarrassed are still spilling from my eyes, I give Jack a puzzled look. “Where are you going?”
“Weare going to urgent care to get that checked out.” I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “It’s not up for debate. I don’t fuck around with burns. You don’t want to run the risk that it’s worse than it looks.”
“I’m sure I —”
He shakes his head. “Nope. You’re getting it looked at.” The attempt at a smile he gives me looks forced, but I appreciate the effort when he says, “Besides, that’s your drawing hand. What if I wanted to retire and just live off what you earn from your art?”
