Tasting Fire (Steele Ridge: The Kingstons Book 2)

by Kelsey Browning

  “Dammit, Cash, you aren’t ready.”

  He turned slowly, narrowing his gaze on his sister. “Excuse me?”

  Maggie shoved away from the desk and strode around it to lean against it with her arms crossed. “You’ve been a paramedic for less than two years.”

  Maybe so, but he’d been a firefighter and EMT since his early twenties, and then he’d spent over six months going through the UCLA Paramedic Program, one of the top programs in the country. He’d taken a sabbatical to do it, which meant he’d kept his benefits, but hadn’t drawn a salary. And LA was fucking expensive. He wouldn’t have been able to swing it if not for Grif’s generous offer of a bedroom in his slick Westwood apartment. “I’m the best medic this county has.”

  “I won’t argue with you there,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you’re ready to not only lead but train this team. Emmy did a fellowship in tactical medicine at Johns Hopkins and she served as a volunteer on the Maryland State Police Tactical Medical Unit for two years. Between that and her time in the ER, she’s seen more action there than some smaller SWAT teams see in a lifetime. Gang wars where kids with multiple GSWs are tossed out of cars at the ER doors, tweaked-out bastards sampling the spoils of their own meth labs, warrant serves on organized crime bosses. We would’ve been stupid not to recruit her.”

  “So Jonah was in on this somehow. That’s the last fucking time I share my beer with him.” And how the hell was he going to handle working with Emmy? Maybe not on a daily basis, but the TMT would be training at least once a week if Emmy was half as good as Maggie seemed to think she was. Could he stay purely professional? Knowing she was engaged should make it easier. Should was the critical word there.

  How realistic was that when his insides had seemed to develop a chronic case of acid reflux since he heard about her engagement?

  Get over it, Kingston. She’s moved on, and so should you.

  Hell, she’d moved on five minutes after he offered her his heart. His everything.

  But his everything hadn’t been enough for her, then or now.

  “She won’t stay,” he said.

  “What? Why would you say that? She just accepted not only the TMT position but also a staff job in St. Elizabeth’s emergency room.”

  Maybe so, but that didn’t mean she was really committed.

  Cash hadn’t been able to stop himself from doing a little digging on Emmy’s love life. Her fiancé was a big muckety-muck at Baltimore General. No guy like that would sacrifice his career path so Emmy could move back to her podunk hometown. “Oliver Amory.”

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  Shit. Now, he had to admit he knew the guy was Emmy’s fiancé. Cash swallowed his embarrassment and said, “He’s the chief of staff at Baltimore General and the guy Emmy is apparently marrying. No way in hell he’s moving to Steele Ridge, North Carolina, no matter how much money Jonah throws at our health care, law enforcement, and God only knows what else.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He tilted his head at her.

  “Fine, I get that gossip is its own industry in this town,” she snapped.

  “An upcoming wedding doesn’t give me any confidence Emmy has plans to hang around here.” And the first time she got a chance to go somewhere bigger, somewhere better, she would be out of here like a shot.

  He knew that from experience.

  4

  Emmy flopped down into a chair at the Triple B and took a few seconds to look around the combo coffee shop, restaurant, and bar. To appreciate the rustic barnwood tables and simple silver pendants hanging above them. A vintage Lance crackers sign on the wall promised just right…right now!

  Her cousin and adopted sister Kris slid into the seat across from her and pushed a cup of marshmallow-topped cocoa toward her. “Here. I thought you might need this.”

  “How did you know?” Emmy asked.

  “Word’s already spreading that Cash Kingston looked like he’d been lobotomized with a rusty pipe when Captain Styles made the announcement,” Kris said. “Add that to your reunion with him in the fire station parking lot and his subsequent visit to his sister’s office, and I just figured.” Kris gave Emmy a sympathetic smile and pushed her purple-striped dark hair over her shoulder. Oh, how Emmy had envied that hair when they were younger. Thick and black as original sin, it and Kris’s petite build turned men’s heads.

  Emmy, on the other hand, had plain old medium brown hair and the only thing she ever did with it was truss it up in some kind of braid. She patted the fishtail she was wearing now. At least she’d have some waves when she took it down later.

  She took a big swallow from the cup and discovered that Kris had laced the hot chocolate with a healthy shot of alcohol. “H…h…holy crap.”

  “Didn’t think the chocolate alone would be enough.”

  God, she’d missed Kris over the years she’d been away from North Carolina. Somehow, weekend visits with her and Emmy’s mom had never been enough to satisfy Emmy emotionally. But those, and other close relationships, were things she’d given up in order to succeed professionally.

  Now, she wanted to have both a good career and a fulfilling life.

  “Why didn’t you—or anyone else—tell me Cash Kingston wanted this position?” Emmy smiled at Kris to let her know she wasn’t placing blame, just asking.

  Kris angled her chair and kicked her feet up in the one catty-cornered from her. “Because I didn’t know. Maybe no one else really did, either.”

  Maggie obviously had, but she hadn’t been the ultimate decision maker. And if others didn’t know, that meant Cash hadn’t made his case. Was he still the same old guy, surfing through life without lofty goals and big dreams? Or did he have a goal and she’d shot it all to hell? “Do you think I made a mistake, coming home?”

  “For cripe’s sake, you’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, and you’re already questioning your decision? I thought you were happy about this move. Besides, the more miles you put between you and Oliver, the better.”

  “Why do you say that?” This time, Emmy was careful to sip the cocoa, but the alcohol still burned her nose. On the upside, it was warming the hollow place inside her.

  “Because even with the little I’ve been around him, it’s easy to see he’s a self-involved narcissist.”

  “He’s a good doctor.”

  “Really?” Kris snorted. “That’s all you’ve got? That’s just sad. Mom and I tried not to say anything while the two of you were together, but I never understood what attracted you to him.”

  Professional compatibility. Convenience.

  That was why she hadn’t thought twice about moving back to Steele Ridge. Although she’d been friendly with the ER staff and the SWAT team in Baltimore, the transition hadn’t cost her anything in the way of meaningful relationships. Sad.

  “It’s not enough anymore.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “The cardboard life I built for myself there.”

  Kris clapped her hands. “Finally! All work and no play makes Emmy—”

  From inside her bag, Emmy’s phone rang to the tune of “More Than a Feeling” by Boston. Shoot, she’d forgotten to change Oliver’s ring tone. “Don’t Look Back” sounded like a good option.

  “Speak of the narcissist,” Kris drawled.

  “I should probably take this.”

  Kris waved toward a doorway that led to Triple B’s office and storage area. Phone in hand, Emmy propped her back against the wall and tried to stay out of the way of anyone who might pass through. “Hello.”

  “Emerson, the phone rang four times.”

  She should’ve let the damn thing ring five times and go to voice mail. “Yes, it did.”

  Oliver hated it when people stated the obvious.

  “Where are you?”

  It was becoming abundantly clear to Emmy why her family had never warmed to Oliver the couple of times they met him. She should’ve seen it earlier, like whe
n he’d never had time to come to North Carolina for visits and booked back-to-back hospital meetings when her mom and Kris traveled up to Baltimore. “Where are you?”

  “At the hospital, of course.” His impatience was made clear by the passive-aggressive sigh on the other end of the line. “I need you to come in and cover for Dr. Seviers.”

  Emmy pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it. If it wasn’t new, she might consider dropping it on the floor and grinding it with her heel. “Oliver, I don’t work there anymore, remember? In fact, I haven’t walked through the hospital’s doors in two weeks. Because you fired me.”

  “Two weeks means you’ve had time to cool down from your little tantrum.”

  Her little tantrum? She’d always known Oliver saw things his own way, but she hadn’t realized he was a delusional dickhead. She hadn’t lost her temper or, as her mom would say, thrown a hissy fit. She’d simply said no to a passionless marriage proposal. “I’m no longer under contract with Baltimore General. Besides, I’m not even in the city.”

  “Then exactly where are you?”

  Something about the chill—approximately January in Vermont—in Oliver’s voice made the hair on Emmy’s arms stand up. Hadn’t he noticed that he’d fired her? That she’d moved all her belongings out of their apartment?

  Suddenly, she didn’t want him to know she was in Steele Ridge.

  “You’ll have to find someone else to cover for Dr. Seviers because I don’t live in Baltimore anymore.”

  Emmy thought she couldn’t get any colder, but Oliver’s laugh from the other end shot icicles straight into her heart. “Oh, Emerson, you didn’t think I was actually going to let you leave me, did you?”

  This time, when the call came through from dispatch, Cash was in his bed at home having a particularly hot dream about a woman he hadn’t touched in over a decade. Soft skin, hot kisses, and even hotter pillow talk.

  His heart still banging against his ribs like a wrongfully jailed prisoner, he used the bedsheet to wipe the sweat from his skin as he reached for his clothes. But there wasn’t a damn thing to be done about his dick except stuff it in his pants and remind it that the dream about Emmy wasn’t real.

  He rolled over and grabbed his radio and phone from the bedside table.

  The text read: Hostage situation at 4182 Hemphill Road.

  4182 Hemphill Road.

  What the hell?

  That was the address for the land Jonah owned and where several of the Steele family members lived and worked.

  He loved his Steele cousins, admired the crap out of every one of them, and he adored his aunt Joan, but he couldn’t afford to let any personal feelings come into play here. He had to do his job regardless of who might be in danger because he knew everyone in this county in one way or another.

  Next text: Two reported hostages. No known injuries. Staging area on property in wooded area near bunkhouse.

  On instinct, Cash’s mind went clear and cool. He turned on his radio and dialed in to the encrypted channel. “Kingston on SWAT One.”

  Based on the staging area, so close to where the hostages were being held, there was a good chance this was an unscheduled training exercise.

  As other team members continued to check in via radio, he quickly pulled on his clothes and was out the front door. Outside, he double-checked the tactical equipment he kept stowed in a go-bag under his truck’s backseat. Body armor, check. Radio and earpiece, check. Helmet, check. Med bag, check.

  Within ten minutes, he turned in at Tupelo Hill. A dirt road wound around from the main house to where the bunkhouse sat in a secluded area with woods on one side and open land on the other. Cash pulled up behind a cluster of personal vehicles within sight of the bunkhouse where Reid used to live. The little cabin was closed up tight and even the metal roof looked as if it was hiding something.

  The BearCat and an ambulance arrived right on Cash’s tail. Per protocol, he geared up immediately and jogged toward the meeting point, where the SWAT and TMT members were already gathered. Although he tried not to notice, Emmy’s presence was clear since she was at least five inches shorter than anyone else in the group.

  She should’ve looked small or silly geared up the same way everyone else was, but truth was, in her own body armor, she looked like she belonged. Like she knew her shit. Like a warrior.

  A sexy warrior.

  Unfortunately, even with that scowl on her pretty face, she did it for him in a way she shouldn’t. Displeasure clear, she pulled out her phone and said, “Response time was too slow. I know this is a semi-rural area, but I expect my team to do better than this.” She shot a cutting glance toward Stan Jackson. “And we wear protective equipment for a reason, Jackson. Either put your helmet on correctly or you’ll be asked to pass it on to someone else.”

  Jackson adjusted his helmet so it didn’t look as if he was starring in some spaghetti western. But he clearly didn’t appreciate being dressed down publicly because when Emmy looked away, he silently mouthed the word bitch.

  He and Cash were going to have a little chat later. Jackson needed to shelve the attitude. No, Cash wasn’t happy about Emmy either, but once you were on a call-out, all that bullshit had to be forgotten.

  The most important thing was saving lives, not waging a big-dick war.

  “As you’ve probably figured out,” Emmy continued, “this is a training exercise. Don’t assume you’ll always be notified beforehand because as we all know, active shooters and hostage takers rarely call us up to let us know what’s on their agendas for the day.”

  She stepped back so Captain Styles could take center stage. Today, she was dressed like the rest of them and her get-down-to-business expression reminded Cash that she was excellent at what she did. Had to be as one of the few female SWAT commanders in the country. “What we’ve got here is a hostage situation. This’ll give my team an opportunity to work on negotiation tactics and extraction.”

  Clearly those negotiations would go sideways to Sunday if the TMT would also get a chance to practice their skills.

  “So rather than using dummies, we’ve asked some folks to role-play for us.”

  The team’s negotiator turned to the captain for intel. “What do we know?”

  “Single male hostage taker with two female hostages. All he’s said is that someone stole his trail bike and climbing shoes. He won’t let the hostages go until he has his gear back.”

  “Jonah Steele has a houseful of toys,” Jackson said with a nasty edge. “Surely we can find something to satisfy this guy.”

  Why was Jackson being such a shithead today? Jealousy and disrespect wouldn’t get him anywhere with anyone.

  The captain said, “Won’t be that easy, Jackson. Let’s roll, people.” The word barely left her lips and the SWAT members were on the move. The sniper scouted a position that would give him a clear view into the small bunkhouse’s window. While other team members took cover behind the barricade of vehicles near the tree line, the negotiator established his position slightly out in the open and called out, “Hey, there. I’m John Butler. I hear you’re missing some items. I’d like to find out what I can do for you.”

  Several minutes passed before a voice rang out from the bunkhouse. “No closer.”

  Aw, shit. Cash knew that voice. Had known it his whole damn life.

  They’d recruited Shep to play the hostage taker. That would mean an even more challenging negotiation because Cash’s younger brother was a very linear guy, so it was unlikely normal techniques would work. And trying to do a bait-and-switch on him with any of Jonah’s equipment wouldn’t work.

  He cut a look at Emmy that clearly said, Really? You had to use Shep? And she responded with a shoulder lift that answered, We don’t get to handpick our perps.

  “Can you tell me a little about how I can help you today?” Butler called out again.

  Another protracted silence. Shep liked to think things over. Finally, he yelled. “You can’t help me unless you brought
a Sterling 10.1mm Marathon Pro.”

  Cash chuckled under his breath. His brother might’ve been diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome when he was a kid, but no one could ever accuse him of being a dummy. Well, a few people had tried when he was younger, but the other Kingston kids had made it very clear that they would protect Shep at any cost. Ultimately, he’d left public school to be homeschooled by their dad.

  Proof that Ross Kingston had done an excellent job educating his son, because Shep had just asked for one of the best climbing ropes on the market. One Cash knew he’d been pining after for a while.

  By the befuddled expression on the negotiator’s sweaty face, he could tell the guy had no idea.

  “It’s a climbing rope,” Cash said to Butler via radio.

  “Okay,” Butler said, “so you want a climbing rope. Totally get it, man. I’ll see what we can do. Is anything else bothering you?”

  “She took my bike and shoes. I told her to give them back.”

  A female voice called out, “I don’t know what he’s talking about. I didn’t steal anything!”

  “She’s telling the truth,” another woman yelled from inside the bunkhouse. “We have no idea what happened to his stuff.”

  Well, shit. If that wasn’t the perfect storm. Evie and Riley—cousins and the babies of the Steele and Kingston families. Yeah, this scenario was going to go downhill, and fast. Those two were known for saying what they thought and getting what they wanted.

  “I saw her in my storage room,” Shep insisted. “She took them.”

  The negotiator used all the right words and techniques, but Shep’s responses became more and more agitated until he said, “If she doesn’t shut up, I’m going to shoot her.”

  Cash heard Riley say, “I can’t give you your crap back if I never had it in the first place.” His baby sister was an excellent shit-stirrer. They didn’t call her the Kingston Terror for nothing.

  Then came the uncomfortably realistic sound of a bullet being racked.

  “Don’t worry,” Emmy whispered to him. “You know it’s not real. Just paintball.”