by Sey, Susan
“Which was?”
“A superhero. One of Matty’s. He’s been drawing them since he could hold a pencil. And since Mom got on his case about painting — I mean seriously on his case? —he’s been burning them.”
Peter stared. “Fuck. Me.”
“I know, right?” Jax skidded to a halt behind Davis Place. He threw off his seatbelt, opened his door and dropped to the gravel. Peter did the same. He frowned at the pickup beside the Rover.
“Willa’s here?”
“Yeah,” Jax said. “Mom says she was the one who called Addy. Texted her. Whatever. Addy’s phone is hosed.”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Jax squinted into the darkness of the side yard. “I swear, Peter, the second I make sure everybody’s okay? I’m going to kill them all.”
“I’ll do Georgie for you.” Peter rubbed a palm over his heart. “Because she told me she was staying home. And keeping Addy with her.”
Jax stopped abruptly. “What’s that smell?”
Peter stopped. Sniffed. “Something burning?”
“No shit.” Jax lifted his nose to the night like a bloodhound. He knew what burning leaves smelled like. Knew what a forest fire smelled like. Could tell the difference between an electrical fire and a chemical fire at a dozen paces, and this smelled electrical to him. “But what?”
He didn’t wonder long.
He backed up to scan the house and found it. A pale tongue of fire licking slyly at the kitchen window overlooking the back porch. It played peek-a-boo with the sill for a moment, then leaped up to taste the curtains. Addy’s cheerful yellow curtains. Horror grabbed Jax by the throat
“Fuck me,” he breathed. He watched with helpless paralysis as a flame punched out the window and laid greedily into the siding. The roar was a physical tremor that rocked the air and slapped Jax into motion.
For the first time in his life, he didn’t think. He didn’t consider the consequences. He didn’t assess the situation, weigh options, invoke protocol.
Addy was in there.
Jax ran.
“Jax!” Peter watched in horrified dismay as his future brother-in-law, the most level-headed man he’d ever personally met, charged toward a burning building like a tackle with his eye on the quarterback. Fear clutched at his gut but he snatched with shaking hands at the latches and panels on the side of Jax’s mini-pumper.
This wasn’t supposed to be happening. The words ran through his head in a desperate chant as he groped for whatever the hell Jax usually ran into a fire with. A jacket, an extinguisher, an axe? Fuck, all of it. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Nobody was supposed to be here, not even Matty. The kid was supposed to just fray the cord on a random kitchen appliance, plug it in and go home so they could all collect their insurance payouts in safety.
As business plans went, insurance fraud wasn’t ideal. Peter understood that. But the Devil’s Tap Room — by far the most profitable business in his fast-crumbling empire — had barely survived the recession. His rental properties were barely covering their own mortgages at this point, let alone generating the income stream he’d assured the bank they did when he’d used them to secure a monstrous loan to renovate the Hideaway last summer. One more tourist season, and he’d have been fine. One more healthy infusion of vacation dollars from all those city-weary tourists who flocked to Devil’s Kettle to paint Lake Superior or stare at Diego’s Angel, and he’d have made it. What had he gotten instead? A national economic collapse and the winter that wouldn’t end.
But Peter had been too poor for too long and too hungry too often to be without a backup plan. Risk tolerance was one thing; stupidity was something else. No, he had an escape hatch. A golden ticket. A Plan B.
He had Georgie Davis.
Or so he’d thought. Turned out, he’d been had by Georgie Davis. Because her family was just as deep in the red as he was. And thank you, Matty, for cluing him in. And for being so cooperatively fucked-up.
Because Peter wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t have made an arsonist out of an innocent kid. But Matty had been burning shit down long before Peter had gotten involved. All Peter had done was suggest — strongly, and with some incentive — that Matty include a few of Peter’s well-insured money pits on his list of potential targets.
It wasn’t Peter’s first choice, no. It was, however, his last resort. And if everybody had just cooperated, they’d have been fine. Everything would’ve been fine.
But it was obviously far too late for fine, so he threw the extinguisher and the jacket under his arm, shouldered the axe and sprinted for the front porch after Jax. Jesus, this stuff was heavier than it looked.
Jax had already rounded the house and was tearing open the front door with a lack of caution even Peter knew was foolhardy. “Addison!” Jax shouted. “Addy?” Then he disappeared into the gaping maw of the house.
As far as Peter could see, the great room was dark — as it should be if Matty had started a kitchen fire as per instructions. Assuming he had — a big fucking assumption — and assuming Peter remembered the layout of the house correctly, there was still only a single wall separating the flaming kitchen from the great room. Not much to protect a guy who was acting like he was made of Teflon.
Fucking cowboy. A welcome wash of anger flooded his chest and Peter encouraged it. It was a hell of a lot better than the horror and guilty fear it covered up.
“Damn it, Jax, stop!” he snarled and leapt up the porch steps. “You’re not going to help anybody if you’re—”
Dead. He was going to say dead but he got sidetracked when, bogged down by forty or so pounds of fire fighting gear, his leap fell somewhat short of the porch. He cracked his shin on the top step, his chin on the fire extinguisher in his arms, then his skull on the solid pine pillar holding up the roof. Stars exploded inside his head and he rolled like an armadillo until he met up with the siding. He kept his eyes closed while pain did its little happy dance around his nervous system.
“Peter?”
He opened his eyes. Addy. Where had she come from?
She dropped to her knees beside him, her sweet, soft face tight with something approaching panic. “Oh my goodness, Peter, what happened? Are you—” Her eyes flew to the open door. “Jax?”
“He went in.” Peter heaved himself to a sitting position and the world did that weird sideways slosh he remembered from his football days. Concussion. Nice.
“Why?” she wailed.
“Looking for you.” He squinted into the darkness at her. “But you’re out here.”
“No shit.”
But, wait, that wasn’t Addy. She hadn’t said anything, plus she didn’t swear. She never swore. No, Addy was still gazing at the open door in wide-eyed concern. Maybe outright panic. He looked past Addy’s shoulder and found his sister Willa there, her arms folded over her skinny body, gazing down at him with that self-possession he’d always hated. He’d been such an unruly kid, all want and ambition and wild desire. He’d endured their mutual childhood without anything approaching the quiet grace Willa seemed to wear like a mink coat. He hated her for that.
Had hated her for that, he told himself quickly. He didn’t hate her now. Of course not. That would be immature.
“Hey, Willa,” he said and spread his lips in a smile that was offensive even to him in its patent insincerity.
Addy leapt to her feet and eyed the door. Before Peter could even analyze that look and give it a name — intent — Willa had Addy by the elbow.
“Don’t you dare,” she snapped. “Jax is a professional firefighter. He’s trained, prepared and equipped to go into burning buildings. You’re not. And while I’d wait a decent interval after your fiery death before bringing him a hot dish, you should know I’d totally work that action. But all things being equal I’d rather you survived and spared me the polite rejection. So sit your ass down or I’ll put it down for you.”
Addy glared at Willa, and Peter wondered why his sister didn’t just spontaneously com
bust. Or at least pony up some sweaty girl-on-girl action because, damn. That glare with the dimples? Guys would stand in line for the evil eye Addy giving Willa.
“You’re so pretty, Addy,” his concussion said suddenly. A dim slice of his consciousness groaned in dismay but his mouth seemed to have developed independent steering. “Like a mean little Betty Crocker. Why didn’t I pick you? You’d have been so much easier than Georgie.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Willa said, glaring back at Addy. “She’d have been worse because she isn’t an idiot.”
“Neither is Georgie,” Addy snapped. “Now let go of my arm.”
“Why? So you can go burn yourself to ashes trying to save a guy who doesn’t need your help?”
Peter shifted. Man, something was just crunching his nuts. He frowned down at his crotch and realized he was still snuggling a lapful of fire fighting equipment. “Hey, Addy. If you do go inside, will you take these to Jax? He ran in without them.”
“What?”
He wasn’t sure which woman said that. Maybe both. Probably just one, though. His vision was doubling. No reason his hearing shouldn’t double, too.
“Don’t go into the kitchen, though. I had Matty start the fire in there so it’s all…on fire and stuff. The rest of the house is probably okay.” He blinked owlishly into their staring faces. “For now.”
Addy executed a perfect elbow-lift-and-drop that broke Willa’s grip on her arm. She snatched the jacket and the extinguisher from his lap and raced into the house. Peter watched her go with a mournful sigh.
“Shit!” Willa snatched up her cell phone and stabbed at the screen. “Shit, shit, shit!” She grabbed her ponytail, twisted it hard around her free hand and listened. “Yeah, I need to report a house fire.” She stalked off the porch to pace the front lawn while giving the details to the 911 dispatcher or whoever she was talking to.
Peter said, “I love Betty Crocker.”
Then he closed his eyes and passed out.
Addison shoved her arms into the jacket as she ran into her budding great room. The heat made the air into a solid thing, a thick press of smoke and scorch. The jacket was way too big but she was grateful for it. Her throat stung and her eyes watered as she croaked, “Jax! Damn it, Jax, where are you?”
She spun in a tight circle in the middle of the space. Where would he go? Where would he think she’d gone? She dropped to her knees, where the air was noticeably cooler and clearer, to suck in a deep breath and get her bearings.
The kitchen door was there to her left — she could see the dancing, pulsing lick of fire under the door — which meant the new picture window was at about three o’clock and the stairs were at about ten. She crawled toward them, pushing the fire extinguisher in front of her across the semi-sanded floor that had had so much potential.
She shoved the thought out of her mind. Ripped that small ache right out of her heart. The floor was nothing. She could build a new house, have a new floor, dream a new dream. What she couldn’t replace, what she couldn’t live without, ever?
Jax.
And he was in here, someplace, looking for her.
She pulled her head inside the huge jacket. It was somewhat cooler in there, though not much. She started crawling up the steps, dragging the heavy extinguisher up behind her. Because she knew her Jackson. Knew how he thought. And regardless of how ridiculously, dangerously thoughtless he’d been racing into a burning building without gear, she knew that orderly brain of his wouldn’t desert him entirely. He’d think to himself, now what was Addy after the last time she ran into a burning building? Maybe I’ll save us all some time and trouble and start there.
Which meant he’d be in her room, going after that stupid folio. Terror clutched in her chest.
“Jax!” she shouted but ended with a coughing spasm that would have done Nan proud. “Jackson!”
Then suddenly he was there, his boots anyway, right in front of her face. She shoved them aside before he could put one through her jaw and he exploded into a flurry of motion that ended with the folio bouncing off her back and him beside her on the steps, his hands latched onto her shoulders, his grimy face inches from hers.
“Addy, oh thank God!” He dragged her into his arms and Addy felt something click into place inside her. It was as if something afraid and needy cracked off and that soft, vulnerable bit of her heart she’d been saving, keeping for herself alone, just fell into him. He’d gone into a burning building after her, and when he’d failed to find her, he’d dragged out the one thing he thought she’d want to have: the folio where she kept all the damage his brother had done her. The tangible proof of Diego’s claim on her. The past she’d held onto even while refusing the future Jax offered her.
The one thing any other man would have cheerfully let burn.
She whipped off her jacket, spread it over them both. Jax snatched up the folio and Addy snatched it away from him. He didn’t fight her for it, just grabbed the fire extinguisher — he was Jax, after all — and nearly carried her down the stairs.
When Jax would have hauled her straight to the front door, Addy veered away. She flung off the protection of the jacket and bolted for the swinging kitchen door and the flames licking all around it.
“Addison!” Jax shouted but Addy lifted her foot and booted open the door. It swung into the flames with a blast of heat that reached out and sucker punched her, stripping the air from her lungs. It was a hell-scape that met her eyes, her beautiful kitchen made over into a flaming tribute to eternal damnation.
With a broken cry, she heaved the folio into the gaping maw. Jax’s arm came around her waist, dragged her back. She wrestled free and lunged toward the fire again.
“Addy, goddamn it, stop fighting!” He seized her arm. “We have to get out of here.”
“No,” she panted as she jerked away from his hold. She twisted frantically at her wedding ring. “Not yet. I need to—”
With a final, knuckle-peeling yank, Diego’s ring popped off her finger. She held it up between them and Jax froze, wary, as the diamond glittered and danced like something possessed.
“Addy, what are you—”
She turned away and threw it into the hell beyond the door. Jax’s jaw dropped.
“Holy shit, Addison, you just—”
She turned back and seized him by the shirt front, boosted herself up on her toes and fused her lips to his. She put it all into that kiss — the pain of her past, the promise of their future, the bloody necessity of letting go of one to reach for the other. It was hope and hurt, joy and loss, risk and reward. It was love.
“I choose you,” she yelled over the roar of the flames. “You. You got that?”
“You—” He stopped. “You just threw, like, ten thousand dollars worth of diamonds into a burning kitchen.”
“You.” She narrowed her eyes and gave him a little shake. “Do I need to repeat myself?”
He blinked. Focused. Then a smile dawned, slowly, transforming his dear, familiar face into something of breathtaking beauty. “Would you? Repeat yourself? I wouldn’t mind hearing that again.”
An answering smile started in her heart and moved toward the surface. “Maybe later. When we’re not about to die.”
“It’s a date.”
He opened the jacket again and she ducked under his arm. Then they ran.
Chapter 35
WILLA GRABBED PETER by the ankles and pulled. He was no light-weight but Willa had heaved around bigger sacks of shit. His head thudded down each of the three porch steps as she tugged, and the hollow-melon noise of it gave her a thrill of fierce satisfaction. Bastard. When she’d dragged him as far as the rock wall, she dropped his Italian loafer-ed feet and headed for the woods where she’d left Georgie guarding her zip-lipped little brother.
Whom she now, she had to admit, felt a little sorry for.
Okay, a lot sorry for. The Davises were one fucked up family, and between Bianca and — for reasons she couldn’t begin to imagine — Peter ganging u
p on him, the kid didn’t stand a chance.
She hadn’t even cleared the side yard when she heard the shouting.
“God, Georgie, will you just admit it?”
“Admit what?” Georgie yelled back.
Willa stopped. Georgia Davis didn’t yell. She didn’t need to. Willa eased into the brambly forest, careful not to crack so much as a branch, her heart banging wildly inside her chest.
Matty was still tangled in the net, but curled on his side like he was nursing an appendix situation. Tears were thick in his voice, and still he shouted. It was a broken, hoarse sound, jagged with pain and resignation. “For God’s sake, Georgie, I know she’s not my mother!”
Willa’s heart just went ahead and stopped. He knew. He knew Bianca wasn’t his mother. He knew he wasn’t Bianca’s son. But he also looked in the mirror every day and saw Diego’s face, which meant he wasn’t entirely in the wrong nest. He’d followed that train of thought right to Georgie, the only other Davis in Italy at the time of his miraculous birth.
Georgie sighed. “I hate this goddamn town. I hate this town and every last idiot in it. Don’t you believe a word those bastards say.”
“I found my birth certificate, Georgie.” His voice dropped to something so tired, so devoid of hope that Willa’s heart came back to life just so it could bleed some more. “I was adopted. It’s hard to tell but I knew what to look for. Thank you, Google.” He laughed but Willa’s heart only squeezed out a few more drops of blood. “It lists my real birthday but wasn’t registered anywhere close to that date. I should have an Italian birth certificate, too, but I don’t. Because they get rid of that and everything else when you’re officially adopted and they issue an updated birth certificate to your new parents.”
Georgie’s silence was damning.
“You lied to me, Georgie. You, Mom, everybody. You lied to me my whole life, made me believe I was somebody I wasn’t just on the off chance that I might grow up to be another Diego.”
