by K. Bromberg
Silence settles between us, and I push out a deep breath. There is no reason for me to be upset with her because, like before, I know she’s right. “How did we get on this topic?”
“Because you’re trying to find a reason why you aren’t dating. You’ll always have an excuse. Quit closing yourself off. Look at your brothers. They both found happiness when they were least expecting it. Love will come to you, too.”
“I have to get going.”
“That was a subtle way to change the topic,” she says, and her smile is back and genuine.
“You caught that, did you?” I head toward the front door.
“Do the contest.”
And my only response is to shut the front door behind me.
The base smells like cinnamon when I walk in, and that means Cochran must be here. There’s a half-played game of chess on the table. A bowl of pistachio shells sits beside it, and two half-empty bottles of water next to that. Chairs are askew. The television is still on. The scanner and its constant chatter is a low hum of background noise from the corner.
Time has stood still.
Someone, somewhere needed the three-man crew to help save their life. Their injuries undoubtedly too serious to wait for an ambulance to take them to the hospital when our helicopters can do it in half the time.
I feel like a fish out of water—a bystander looking at my life that has been put on hold. I itch to get up in the air again. I’m antsy to do what I’ve spent years training for—to save people who need to be rescued.
And I can’t.
I’ve been handcuffed by politics and red tape and a simple risk I took that cost someone their life.
A risk that was needed.
Feeling out of place and almost like I’m snooping by just being here, I move over to the schedule board. Extra shifts and overtime, each person having to pick up a bit of the slack my absence has created.
“Spiderman!” Cochran’s raspy voice calls as he heads my way—the call sign Luke unknowingly made for me a few years back when he saw my red and black helmet during his Spiderman phase.
“How’s it going?”
“Same ol’, same ol’.” He shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest as he leans a shoulder against the doorjamb. He looks at the schedule and back to me as if he already knows what I’m going to say before the words clear my lips.
“Looks to me like you are paying a shit-ton on overtime here. Overworking your staff. Take me off desk duty over at dispatch and let me fly. It’ll help alleviate some of the pressure on them and give me back my sanity.”
His expression turns solemn. “You know I can’t do that, man.”
“How long are you going to keep my wings clipped?” Irritation creeps into my voice, and I clench a fist in silent protest.
“Until Internal Affairs concludes its findings.”
“Fucking Christ. I’m spinning my wheels sitting at a desk.”
“I know, but you broke the rules.”
“You’re goddamn right I did. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I had to.”
“And that’s exactly why you’re grounded. You take too many risks. First bucking protocol by flying. Then by switching hospitals en route. Someone died because of your decision.”
“She was going to die whether I switched destinations or not.”
“We have rules for a reason. That’s why you’re riding a desk at dispatch—so you understand the chaos on our end and why we need those rules and that protocol. That’s a five-million-dollar helicopter you’re taking chances with.”
“And my job is to save lives with it. What good does it do if I’m told I can’t do that?”
“The rules are there to keep everyone on the team alive, and you know it. If the team is compromised because one man can’t follow the rules, then people die.”
I rake a hand through my hair. Frustration and guilt and humility strobe inside me.
“Deep breath, Malone. It will all be over soon.”
“Not soon enough.” I blow out an exaggerated sigh as the scanner goes off and reminds me of the adrenaline rush I’ve been without for the past month. It’s the way Cochran’s brown eyes bore into mine that has me asking the question. “Do you believe I did the right thing?”
“We’ve been over this.” He sounds just as exasperated as I feel.
“And you’ve never answered.”
“Gray . . .”
“We’ve been over this with other people present. Now it’s just you and me. Do you think I fucked up?”
“It was risky.”
“I always take risks. I wouldn’t be good at my job if I didn’t. The question is whether we’d even be having this conversation if the patient had lived? Would the risk have been worth it? Ask yourself that one, and when you have an answer, you’ll know I did the right thing. End of goddamn story.”
“I have your back.” It’s all he says, but when our eyes meet, his are a silent mess of contradictions that I can’t read and don’t leave me any steadier than his words did.
“Then let me get back up in the air and do my job.” With a shake of my head and one last look at the schedule that doesn’t have my name on it, I walk away from everything that is comforting to me.
I drive aimlessly. I have a list a mile long of shit to do—groceries, new cleats for Luke, stop in to dispatch to get my schedule—but I don’t do any of it.
Right now, I just need a fucking breather. No son. No thoughts. No goddamn gray cloud looming over my head.
As I hit the highway, I look over toward Miner’s Airfield and see a helicopter lifting up. Fucking Christ. Why not throw what I’m missing right in my face? I jerk the wheel to the side of the road and just watch it.
My job saved me back then. After Claire left, when my mind was in the constant loop asking how she could walk away. And it was a curse. My twenty-four-hour shifts pulled me away from Luke and had me worried the whole time that he thought I’d abandoned him, too.
Of course, a five-month-old wouldn’t think that, but it fucked with my head during the downtime while I sat in that room I’d just left and waited for another call to come in. The next emergency.
Strangely enough, each life we saved, saved me a bit, too.
I could still rescue people.
I could still be the best damn father I could be.
Her leaving us couldn’t rob me of that.
“Grayson Malone.”
His groan is louder than the chatter of the patrons as I slide into the open spot at the bar beside his stool. “Quit stalking me.” He keeps his head straight ahead and doesn’t glance my way.
“I’m not stalking you at all.” I glance around and smile. The place is large, dimly lit, and has a good-size crowd. A line of taps sits to my right, and a shelf full of half-filled glass bottles sits to my left. Three bartenders are behind the wooden top, joking with customers as they fill one order after another.
“Doesn’t seem that way.”
“Bars are popular places on Friday nights. It’s a Friday night, and lucky for me, I was sitting right over there, minding my own business, when you walked in the door.” More like saw him striding across the street and then heading into the bar when I was driving home and thought it might be the perfect opportunity to hit him up again about the contest.
“Lucky you.” He lifts his beer and takes a long drink of it. There’s something about the visual that pulls on me. His profile. His lips against the rim of the bottle. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
And makes me clench my thighs.
“Mr. Talkative, huh?”
“Not when it comes to you.”
“C’mon, I’m not that bad.” He lifts an eyebrow in question but still keeps his focus straight ahead. Silence stretches between us as the chatter of the after-work crowd buzzes around us.
“Ha. I find that hard to believe.” He turns and stares at me for a beat, his eyes glancing to where my hands are clasped on the bar and then back to me. “Wha
t? Is it too blue collar in here for your white-collar hands to touch? You think it will rub off on you?”
His comment throws me for a loop and leaves me sputtering to respond. “No. I’m kind of a freak about germs. I don’t like—I’m not—it doesn’t matter,” I correct and shake my head. “I’m here to talk about—”
“The goddamn contest.”
“Yes. It’s real. I promise. We’ve had over seven hundred thousand votes come in for the first two rounds alone, and we’re hoping to double that for the next one.”
He snorts. “Great. Stellar. I don’t need your magazine or its attention. It seems you ran the contest so far without my knowledge or participation, and it’s done just fine. Keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll both be happy.”
“You’re going to win, but only if I can get your help. All I need are a few photos of you and a short bio—anything about yourself, really. The next round of voting starts at the end of next week, and I need your help to save the magazine.” I prattle on even though he doesn’t react. “Your son is adorable. He can be in the photos, too.”
“Absolutely not.”
There’s a bite in his tone that makes the bartender glance our way and leaves me staring at him. “Then your wife. We can include her in the photos, too, if you want.”
He winces. “No wife.” Those two words come out like a curse.
“I’m sorry for assuming—”
He stands abruptly and faces me so that our bodies are inches apart. His eyes bore into mine, a combination of confusion and defiance.
“What is it you want from me, Thorton?” There’s anger in his voice I hadn’t been expecting.
It takes me a minute to find my voice, to remember I’m here to convince him to participate, when all I can concentrate on is the scent of his cologne—clean—and the heat of his body as he stands so very close to me.
Speak, Sid.
“To put water under the bridge.”
Of course, I say nothing about the contest. The reason I’m here. There’s something about him and the unfiltered intensity in his eyes amid the dim bar light that makes this quiet man seem a little edgy and a whole lot dangerous.
I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat as I wait for his response.
“Fine. The hatchet is buried.” He leans closer so that his lips are by my ear, and the warmth of his breath sends chills down my spine. “Hope it doesn’t hurt your reputation to be seen with me like it did back then. That would be a travesty.” And with that, he waltzes away from me without saying another word.
I stand there for the briefest of moments, slack-jawed and surprised by his animosity when I shouldn’t be. What I should be doing is trying to make amends, maybe say I’m sorry, secure him for the contest—and I scramble toward the exit after him.
The cool night air is welcome as it washes over me after the stuffy heat of the bar. I take a few steps into the darkened alley and look for Grayson, but I don’t see anyone.
Hugging my arms around myself, I head toward the edge of the building. There’s nothing there but a few dumpsters against a chain link fence.
It’s when I turn to head back into the bar that I startle.
“Hey, there.” The man’s hair is disheveled, his belt buckle shines off what little light is back here, and his eyes are laced with a suggestion that makes my skin crawl.
My hands grab the strap of my purse where it rests against my chest, but I stare him squarely in the eyes and nod a greeting I’d rather not give.
He takes a stumbling step toward me. “You’re a sweet little thang, you know that? I bet you’d feel real good.”
My first thought is that his grammar sucks. My second is, why in the hell am I focusing on his grammar when I’m alone in an alley with a drunk man?
Because I’m nervous.
I shouldn’t be. The door to the bar is right there, and there is probably at least one other person somewhere close. Yet, even knowing that, fear slowly coats my skin.
When I take a step to my right to put more distance between us, he mirrors the movement and emits a soft chuckle.
Get a grip, Sid. You’re fine.
“You’re looking mighty sexy. Love them heels with that skirt.” A deep, guttural groan suggests what he’s thinking about wanting to do to me.
He takes a step toward me.
I take one back.
My pulse thunders in my ears when it shouldn’t. I’ve dealt with plenty of assholes like this in San Francisco. Drunk guys who’ve had a few too many beers and let their buzz exacerbate their machismo. Only, we aren’t in San Francisco where people are constantly milling around. We’re in Sunnyville in the back alleyway of a bar where the music is so loud inside that even if I scream, I don’t think anyone would be able to hear me.
Another step.
Another one in retreat.
“My friend just ran to his car. He’ll be right back.” The lie comes out effortlessly, but the lopsided smile he gives me and the way his eyes run up and down every inch of my body tells me he doesn’t believe a word of it.
“C’mon, sweetheart, just a little dance in the moonlight with me won’t do you any harm.”
“No thanks. I have other plans,” I say. The only way out of here is to pass him, but I won’t be able to do that without him grabbing me.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
With my head up, I keep my eyes on his, hoping my direct eye contact might deter him from escalating this situation.
My palms are sweaty.
“Can you please step out of my way?”
My throat is dry.
“Now why would I shy away from a pretty little thang like you?” He slurs a few words, and his gait is unsteady as he sways side to side.
I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or worried that he’s drunk. It’s when I try to skirt past him—just when I think I’m free and clear—that he lunges and has a hold of my bicep.
A laugh falls from his mouth at the same time a shriek escapes mine.
“I don’t mean no harm . . . just want a little kiss.” He fumbles over the words as the stench of alcohol on his breath assaults me.
I yank my arm away, but he holds tight. “Get off me.” I grit out between clenched teeth.
He only pulls me closer. The undertone of cologne. The scrape of his denim against my bare legs. The sting of his fingernails digging into my skin.
Panic. Fear. Anger. All three riot around inside me.
“I just wanna dance. Let’s dance.” He tries to sway to some kind of rhythm as he hums.
My stomach roils, and I freeze when every part of me screams to fight him. Kick him in the nuts. Gouge his eyes out.
Seconds pass. My synapses fire.
“Get away from me!” I shout and shove him off me as hard as I can at the same time I hear, “Get your hands off her.”
Grayson?
Grayson.
It’s a split second between the man letting go of my arm and Grayson pinning him to the wall, using his forearm to crush the guy’s windpipe.
“Sorry, man, I was just trying to have a little fun,” the drunk guy slurs.
“Yeah, and she didn’t want any.” Grayson fists his hand in the guy’s shirt and yanks him off the wall.
“I didn’t—I wasn’t . . .” The guy stumbles, almost falling before he rights himself. “God, I’m fucking drunk.”
“Get the hell out of here, before I call the cops so they can help you sober up.” Grayson shoves the man toward the other side of the alleyway. The man looks back, almost as if he’s been shocked sober and isn’t sure what’s going on. “Keep walking.”
I stare at Grayson’s back, my adrenaline fading. My panic shifting to shame. My fear morphing into embarrassment that I couldn’t handle myself.
I was handling myself.
I think.
Then why do my knees feel like rubber and my eyes burn with tears?
Right when I feel like I’m going to give in to my moment of weakne
ss, Grayson turns around and faces me.
For one short moment, I allow myself to feel relief, to feel safe. Then the shock of what just happened—of Grayson being the one to render help—has me straightening my spine.
There’s a look in his eye—controlled rage warring with complete concern—that pins me motionless, allowing me to feel every thump of my heartbeat as the adrenaline races through my body. A small part of me wonders if it’s because of the man who just ran away or because of the man who’s standing before me, looking just as dangerous to me but in a completely different way.
Vulnerability is not something that suits me, and yet I feel exposed when the threat is no longer near.
Or is it?
“Christ, Sidney.” His eyes flicker over every part of me. Checking for bruises. Looking for tears. Waiting for a meltdown. “I forgot to pay my tab. I was coming back to—how stupid can you be?”
“Excuse me?” If he wanted to give my emotions whiplash, then he just accomplished it.
“What woman walks into a dark alley behind a bar by herself?”
“You’re blaming this on me?”
“Damn straight, I am. Are you too coddled to have common sense?”
Asshole. “I was looking for you,” I say between clenched teeth as I glare at him.
Our eyes hold for the briefest of moments before he turns and paces from one side of the alley to the other. His hands are on the back of his head when he blows out an exaggerated breath as if he’s trying to rein in his temper. When he stops in front of me and holds his hands out to his sides, it’s obvious his attempt is unsuccessful.
“Looking for me? Why? To save your magazine? Save it your goddamn self.” There must be something in my expression—call it blanket confusion—that has a smirk coming to his lips. “Ah . . . you didn’t realize you said that, did you? A little slip of the tongue while you were fumbling through your sales pitch inside?”
Did I really say that? Crap. Crap. Crap.
“You know, a real gentleman would ask if I’m okay.”
“No,” he says and takes a step closer. “A real gentleman would step in to save you like I did, and a real lady would say thank you for doing so . . . but it’s you, right? You want something from everyone but refuse to give anything to anyone, so a thank you is off the table.”
