Flower in the Flame (The Scattered Series - Book #1)

Chapter Three

3 | Nadia Spencer 

"You need to know how to defend yourself, baby." My mother's vocals were hush, hoarse. I wanted to reach out and touch that purple bruise that had blossomed on her face, but mom never liked being touched where Dan had left a mark. It made her cry. So, I clasped my hands tight together and tapped my foot against the leg of the chair I sat at. I couldn't touch the floor yet. Mother said I still have years of growing left, that one day I'll be able to plant my feet when sat at the table.

"You must always be prepared for someone to turn against you." Somehow, her voice got quieter, but no less firm. She needed me to remember this. "Everyone has demons. Some people," She grabbed both my hands in hers and held them tight. "can't hold them back. And you, Nadia Ortiz, will never let someone's demons get you." Spencer was Dan's surname, and she never called me Nadia Spencer. I was always Nadia Ortiz, Mariana Ortiz's daughter.

You, Nadia Ortiz, will never let someone's demons get you.

I tip back my head to admire the chandelier. How much damn money have they spent on this place? No matter how the light pools in and catches the crystals, it still sparkles and casts tiny rainbows on the floor and walls. Always illuminating the kitchen in pretty colours. Always unnoticed. 

Slowly, I drag my fingertips along the kitchen wall as I make my way to the kitchen table. Billie's chair is still pulled out and against the wall, but he's upstairs, changing. Sitting, I purse my lips, look around. It's so beautiful, all of this house. Shame it's wasted on people like Billie Joe and Madeline. I bet they hardly bat an eye at their gorgeous living space. And there's this sudden urge to want to see the pair with all this stripped from them, to see how they'd cope living in a home like the one I grew up in.

"Nadia," Billie Joe clears his throat and tugs me from my day-dream. I look in his direction and he catches my attention immediately. His hair is hung in an inky mess, his eyes like worn sea-glass, his head is tilted downwards and he's tying a black tie. His pants are black without a single crease, and it's as if the button-up shirt he's wearing is made for him, it hugs each of his contours. "You wouldn't mind pouring me another drink?" He motions to the empty glass on the table.

I'm acutely aware of the woven black bracelet at his wrist, the rings on his fingers and the chain hanging from his neck. 

I blow out a long breath and nod, "sure." He's awfully good at making barked demands sound like gentle requests, like a chilli coated in sugar. I'd love to tell him to shove his glass right up his ass, but I'm the guest, Carter's polite girlfriend who would never spit a bad word at anyone. Carter's girlfriend smiles, observes, bats her eyelashes, and tells Carter's mother that she is an angel for letting them stay.

Carter's girlfriend takes everything Nadia Spencer is and steps on it with steel-cap boots.

As I get up with Billie's glass in hand, he grabs the suit jacket which is slung over the back the chair nearest to him. He slips into it, and it's tight to his body, silhouetting him. He ruffles a hand through the thick black hair, which looks soft as dove feathers, then he traces his fingertips along his stubble ridden jaw. "Who are you all dolled up for?" My efforts to make conversation are poor as I tip some of his brandy into his glass.

"I have an online interview in half an hour," I'm handing him his glass, but when he says that, I draw back. "You what?"

His brows pinch. "You heard me." Everything about his demeanour has changed, the space between his eyebrows is creased with a frown. 

Billie reaches for the glass, but I step back. "You can't drink like this before an interview." I place the glass down on the counter as he laughs bitterly. "I do what I want, Spencer. I'm a grown man and a rockstar." 

"And you'll die a tragedy if you don't keep off the drink." What the hell am I doing? Do I just want an excuse to argue? Armstrong regards me for a moment, his lips drawn and pursed together, like he's actually considering my words. He leans in, pressing a hand to the counter behind me while his other hand rests at his side. "Why do you care?"

I scoff. I can smell his cologne, the brandy on his breath. I wonder if he tastes of the liquor. "I don't. Frankly, I think you're a dick." He doesn't reply, but his eyes have widened. I carry on, fuelling this anger with every time the mention of his name has annoyed me, every time he's coaxed Carter into having a drink.

"You," I prod a finger at his chest. He looks down at it. "You are the worst influence. You somehow make sure Carter has a bottle of beer in hand whenever we come over. You only want to 'have a word with him' to put him in a foul mood. You want his downfall, Billie Joe, your own damn son."

He lifts his head, his upper lip pulled in a sneer, his nose scrunched. "You think that's me? Open your eyes, Nadia, you stupid girl. You're a fool if you think he doesn't drink back at home with you." He spits the words with so much venom that I barely recognise the husk of his voice.

Armstrong straightens, grabs his glass and pivots away from me. My heart is pounding so hard, the rush of blood to my head is so overwhelming. He's lying, he's just trying to get under my skin, and I let him. And still, I can't keep my mouth shut. "Don't you dare have a word with him tonight. It's my problem to deal with."

The slamming of his glass on the table makes me jump and suddenly he's close again, so close. His cheeks are flush. He watches me, staring hard, his tongue wets his lower lip, and he says nothing for so long. I'm enchanted by his stare, unable to look away.

"You don't love him." He's not asking me, he's telling me. I drop my head, my features arranged into a frown. How dare he prod at my love life? "Nadia," His fingers grip my chin and he tilts my head up. "You don't love him. He doesn't deserve you."

He's right, Carter doesn't deserve even a second of my time and certainly not an ounce of my love.

"I could show you what it's like. To be loved. To be worshipped." His voice is like stone on stone and it's making my stomach churn. He draws his face close to mine, his lips so close to be ear that I can feel his soft, even breaths. "You deserve so much more than him."

I breathe in the smell of him, the freshness of his cologne. He pulls from the side of my face and if I stepped just a little bit closer, our lips would meet. I want to shove him away. I want to test his lips against mine. "You're married." I whisper, and the words dig themselves into my gut with sharp claws.

As if I've reminded him he has a wife, he steps away from me and lifts his drink. "I have an interview. Keep the noise down please, Spencer."

And he's gone, leaving me in a sea of thrashing confusion. Why is a married man offering to give me everything Carter can't? And why do I want him to show me what it's like to be worshipped?