She tossed the crocodile in.
It went up like a torch.
“Whoa,” she mumbled.
“That fucking doll,” Stellan, not wasting any time, growled.
She glanced at his stern face and back to the flames.
She tossed the doll in and took a step back as the plastic hair curled into nothing nearly instantly and the plastic face started melting, both searing the air with an acrid scent, and the clothes went up like tinder, so fast, it was almost like they evaporated.
The doll oozed, dripping between the lava rock, the crocodile totally gone, disappeared. And she stood with Stellan at her side and watched as the doll continued to liquefy, vanishing drip by drip.
This morning it’s my famous French toast for my baby girl!
“I didn’t need French toast, Daddy,” she whispered to the blaze. “I didn’t need a doll. I needed you to be a father.”
Stellan moved closer.
Sixx and Simone, as one at last, stood and stared at the only thing she had that her father had given her as it trickled away.
“We needed you to be a father,” she repeated.
Stellan had all the patience in the world now, and the doll was long gone, not a speck of her in sight, before he spoke again.
“Are you ready for the pictures?” he asked gently.
She turned to him and nodded woodenly.
So lost in this bizarre, but powerful, ceremony, she hadn’t noticed he’d taken them from the frame.
He handed the paper to her.
So flimsy. Once she threw them in, they’d be gone in seconds.
How odd that something that captured a moment in time that should have been beautiful, emotional, precious—those pictures kept and treasured and handed down so the people in them would never be forgotten—could be so frail.
If there existed a picture of her and Stellan, she’d throw herself into any flame that threatened to erase it from existence.
She tossed the pictures of her parents in like they were completed grocery lists.
And she was right.
They were gone in seconds.
Stellan curled her into his arms, but even as he did, Sixx kept her eyes aimed at the blaze.
“He made you French toast?” he murmured.
“Not often. When he didn’t wake up strung out or hungover and was in a good mood.”
“I shall never make you French toast,” Stellan vowed.
She stared at the flames, then tipped her head back and stared up at him.
Her handsome savior.
Her beautiful healer.
She wasn’t the hero of her own story. She also wasn’t the villain.
What she was, was one half of a whole.
Just not the half she thought.
The half that fit the other half of him.
She could go on and fight again, stronger, smarter, more powerful, along the way giving him what he needed to do that in return.
They were the dynamic duo.
“I love French toast,” she said softly.
“Have you had anything to eat?” he asked.
Not a chance. The way she spent her morning, if something went down, it would have come right back up.
But suddenly, she was feeling seriously peckish.
“No,” she answered.
“Then we’re having French toast,” he decreed.
He also started to move, his hold on her sharing he was going to take her with him, but she locked her arms around him and he stilled.
“I thought you were going to fuck me,” she noted.
“I am. But I haven’t eaten either, and since the both of us will be naked for the rest of the day, and active, we need fuel.”
She smiled up at him. “Are you going to turn off the fire?”
He sighed, let her go, went to the silver key, turned it, and the fire slowly died.
Her parents and her past were wisps on the wind, ashes.
She felt no loss.
She felt reborn.
At that point, she could have made a joke about ending up in Phoenix.
Looking at Stellan’s face, though, she decided …
Later.
He came back to her, tossed his arm around her shoulders, and moved her to the steps.
She slid her arm around his waist and walked with him, their hips and legs brushing as they went.
She heard the relaxing fall of water from the feature as they made their way to the house.
“Can we do some of our nakedness and fucking in the pool?” she requested.
“Anything you want, darling,” he murmured.
Anything she wanted.
It was the first time he said that that it didn’t terrify her.
She felt nothing.
But light.
Clean.
And happy.
STELLAN
After breakfast, while Simone was upstairs getting sunscreen, Stellan moved out to the fire pit to retrieve the frame he’d left there.
He took it through the house, to the garage, and opened up the trash bin that sat next to the recycle bin just beside the back door.
He tossed the frame in.
Then he stared at it.
Reached in.
Retrieved it.
Lifting his arm, with all his strength, he pitched the frame into the bin and the cheap, flimsy wood cracked, the thin glass shattering.
He picked up what remained intact and repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Until there was nothing but bits of detritus.
Only then did he lean into the knuckles of his fists against the wall and look down at his trash, his breaths coming fast, expanding his rib cage, his chest, as he stared at nothing but waste.
But in his mind’s eye he saw block after block filled with Simone’s graphically depicted, in more ways than one scarred beauty doing terrifying things to survive a dangerous life and save the day again and again for a little girl who had a life of playing with exquisite dolls and miraculous wonders of fanciful tea sets in a room full of ruffles and lace and love.
He also saw Simone staring at him with fear and heartbreak standing on his deck and sitting in his library, thinking he’d set her free after she shared what beat down to the heart of her.
“You goddamned, fucking motherfuckers, creating that beauty and sentencing her to live that life. I hope you’re burning in hell,” he growled, took one hand, tossed the lid of the bin down and pushed from the wall.
He stared at the door like he wished he could pulverize it with his eyes.
“She’s mine now,” he told the door. “Nothing vile or putrid is touching her. Never again. Not ever fucking again.”
With that, he straightened his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and walked into his house, his home with Simone, to spend the day with the woman he loved, which would be just a day that would lead into the next, and the next, and the next, all of them where she’d be safe and happy and loved.
Until neither of them were breathing.
nineteen
Domestic Decadance
SIXX
Late the next morning, Sixx walked into Sip and right away spotted Sylvie Creed sitting at one of the tables.
She was very petite, had long, wild, honey-blonde hair, green eyes and a curvy body that Sixx didn’t know if it came naturally or from the fact it seemed she was constantly popping out offspring.
One look at her, you would never guess she was the badass spitfire she was.
But regardless of the fact she was an adoring wife and a devoted mother, her level of badassness made Sixx look like a cheerleader.
The second Sixx spotted her, Sylvie caught her eye and lifted her chin as well as her plastic cup of iced coffee, so Sixx knew to go direct to the counter to order her jolt without worrying about setting Sylvie up.
She did that, grabbed it, and walked to her friend, noting Sylvie watching her with growing intensity as she made the short trek through the kickass structure that served coffee and beer, with a limited but delicious menu of food, all of this in a repurposed garage.
From the minute Sylvie discovered it, that was the only place they met.
Not a surprise, it was so totally her vibe, not to mention it was awesome and had some of the best coffee in Phoenix.
“Hey,” Sixx greeted as she sat opposite the blonde.
Sylvie stared at her, then asked, “What?”
Sixx was confused. “What, what?”
Sylvie did not exactly elucidate with her, “What’s going on?”
“I told you. I have a job that I might—”
“No,” Sylvie cut her off. “What’s going on with that look on your face?”