Tasting Fire

by Kelsey Browning

  Shouldn’t the expensive engagement ring Oliver was holding out to her now feel like the world?

  “Emerson?” Oliver prompted. “Did you hear me?”

  Emmy swallowed. “Let’s take this into the break room. We need to talk.”

  Oliver’s expression transformed from mild to stormy. “There’s nothing to discuss,” he said, tone even. Too even. “Take the ring.”

  “Don’t make me do this,” she tried to whisper so no one else would hear.

  “Take the goddamn ring.” He thrust the box closer to her, and it demanded all of Emmy’s self-control not to flinch away.

  Instead, she grabbed Oliver’s wrist and said to everyone clustered around them, “If y’all don’t mind, Oliver and I would like some privacy.” He actually let her tug him from behind the desk and into a small janitorial closet crammed with mops, brooms, and industrial-sized bottles of cleaner that were supposed to freshen even the most disgusting mess. But all Emmy could smell were bleach and vomit.

  Once the door was closed, Oliver snarled, “What was that?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” she demanded. “What kind of person does what you just did? You put me on the spot in front of my colleagues. It was completely inappropriate.” Not to mention completely unromantic. If she had to apply a description to the shit show just now, she’d call it a premeditated ambush.

  “You said y’all.” Oliver said in an accusatory tone.

  “What?”

  “You said, ‘If y’all don’t mind’ in front of everyone. You know how I feel about that backwoods talk.”

  This was what he wanted to fight about right now—her inability to rid her personal lexicon of all things Southern? The exhausted, petty part of Emmy wanted to shout out Southern phrases like over yonder, right smack, and might could, which always made Oliver launch into a lecture on grammar redundancy. “You cannot truly think that proposing—no, demanding—marriage in a public place is what any woman wants.”

  “People do it all the time at restaurants.”

  “Romantic restaurants with wine and candles.”

  “You’re more practical than that.” The finger he pointed at her reminded her of a pistol.

  Please, no more guns.

  “Which is exactly the reason we’re perfect together,” he went on. “I understand you. I understand your work. How many other men can you say that about?”

  Not many. But when he put it like that, Emmy realized how cold and pragmatic their arrangement was. And that was what it was—an arrangement. Not a relationship. Not a love match. Something with less spark and passion than a tub of lukewarm bathwater.

  “Now,” Oliver continued, “the plan is for a nine-month engagement, long enough for my mother to handle all the wedding details. We’ll get married in November. In Boston, of course. A weeklong honeymoon in Italy should suffice. And then we’ll be back here.”

  Because God forbid that he leave the hospital board and CEO alone for too long. They might actually think for themselves.

  Why hadn’t she ever realized he would want to manage his marriage the same way? They’d never even discussed children. In fact, they discussed very little. They talked about the hospital, had sex an average of once every two weeks, and when they were in the same bed, they slept back to back.

  Not long ago, Emmy would’ve said she was satisfied with that.

  Not long ago, she would’ve been lying.

  She wanted more than a man who functionally fit into her life. She wanted passion and surprise and fun.

  “Of course, you’ll need to stop your little sideline with the state police,” he droned on. “I’ve told you a hundred times it’s too dangerous, and it’s certainly not befitting the wife of an Amory.”

  Her medical role with the Maryland State Police Tactical Medical Unit and SWAT team was much more than a sideline. The desperate need for tactical medicine was her entire reason for becoming a doctor, the underpinning of her career. “Are you saying that if I married you, you wouldn’t allow me to be on the tactical medical team anymore?”

  “You wouldn’t have time. After all, we’d be expected to entertain more, and hostessing is an art form.”

  Hostessing? It might be a source of pride for some women, and more power to them. But Emmy would rather take a breaching ram to the chest than deal with caterers, floral arrangements, and decorators. “No.”

  “If you don’t want to handle it all, Mother would be willing to help from time—” he said.

  “I mean, no, I won’t marry you.”

  “—to time. She knows all the… What did you say?”

  Trying to show compassion to the man who’d suddenly reminded her she wanted—no, deserved—more than this, Emmy took the box from his hand and slid it back into the pocket of his lab coat. “You don’t really want to marry me any more than I want to marry you. You think we’re a match because I’m convenient.”

  “Untrue. You’re too strong-willed to be convenient. But I abide that because it’s also what makes you a good doctor.”

  Maybe she should’ve been flattered that he considered her a good doctor, but it was clear he didn’t consider her an equal. “Then let’s accept the truth. We’re both already married to our work.”

  “I selected you, Emerson.”

  Okay, that was a little heavy-handed, even for Oliver, but Emmy tried to stay calm. “I choose. My life. My career. My relationships.”

  Oliver’s lips flatlined and his nostrils flared. Just once. “You say you’re married to your work? Fine. Then as of now, consider yourself divorced.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dr. McKay, the hospital and I no longer need your services. Pack up your personal items because as of”—he lifted his Girard-Perregaux and studied the watch face—“2259, your contract with Baltimore General is terminated.”

  Emmy didn’t say a word as Oliver stalked out of the room, but she thought plenty. Many of them four-letter. At least until she took a breath and realized what this meant she was now free to do.

  Go home.

  2

  Shitfaced.

  That was a mild word for what Cash Kingston wanted to get when he heard Emmy McKay had become engaged to some hotshot doctor up in Baltimore. So he took himself over to the Sack & Snack and bought a suitcase of Bud Light.

  When he slid it onto the counter at the register, Bobby Jack Carter gave him the up-and-down and said, “You want some beef jerky to go with that?”

  “Don’t need it.”

  The clerk gave a tongue cluck, but he still rang up the beer with the discount given to firefighters and other first responders. “What would your mama say?”

  Honestly, she’d probably pop one open with him. And before her second sip, she’d have mapped out a plan to attack and defeat Cash’s shitty mood. As an environmental engineer, that woman had literally moved mountains.

  But Cash didn’t have any interest in sharing today. He just handed Bobby Jack two twenties, took his change, and shoved the box under his arm. Outside in his truck, he eyeballed the beer. Maybe he could…

  Nah, they had to stay inside that cardboard. If Sheriff Maggie caught him with an open container, she’d bust his ass so fast, he wouldn’t know up from down. His older sister definitely wouldn’t give him a break because of family affiliation. In fact, she’d probably toss him in jail without bail.

  Cash smiled. He loved that Maggie was a hard-ass. Didn’t always work to his advantage, but everyone—male and female—in his family could hold his or her own. Some folks expected there to be a weak link in the five Kingston kids, but his mama and daddy hadn’t raised any sissies. When Cash had been in third grade and some kid made a crack about Ross Kingston wearing an apron and being a housewife, Cash and Maggie had lured the little turd behind the elementary school gym and put the fear of Jesus into him.

  To this day, Harrison Clinewater looked away whenever any of the Kingstons happened to cross his path.

  Cash’s phone buzzed with Riley�
�s text tone. As much as he appreciated that his baby sister was reaching out, he wasn’t ready to talk, so he just flipped the phone facedown and cranked his truck. She was on one of her rare visits home from her plant research in Costa Rica and had probably heard about Emmy’s engagement the same way he had—through the Steele Ridge Gossip Express. Mrs. Trambly and Mr. Greene were co-engineers of that bullet train. Somehow, those two found out things going on hundreds, even thousands, of miles away.

  Didn’t take too long to weave his way out of town and toward the Steele Ridge Training Academy, his cousin Reid’s world-class law enforcement center. Cash happened to know nothing was doing at the center today since there was a break between training sessions.

  And that suited his purposes just fine.

  At the center, he grabbed the beer in one hand and fished beneath the driver’s seat with his other. Once he had the small gray carrying case, he made for Reid’s outdoor gun range bordered by a grassy area and Callery pear trees that were just starting to show the white and green of spring. It took a little ingenuity to set up the targets the way he wanted them, each can balanced on the head of one of Reid’s cut-out terrorist targets. Once they were stable, Cash opened up the gun case and pulled out his Springfield pistol. As always, he checked it over before sliding in a magazine.

  In his palm, the polymer felt warm and right. Felt as if he had some fucking control over his world. Over his feelings.

  Cash took an easy stance and sighted the first target. Breathed and pressed the trigger. CRACK.

  Crack. Crack. Crack. The sound echoed off the mountains before dissipating like audible smoke.

  “A little high and to the right,” he muttered to himself. He could do better.

  So he took his time lining up on target two and willed his hands to steady for the first time since he’d heard the news. Thunk. Excellent. Right through the U.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Cash eased off, setting the grip safety. Then he lowered his gun and glanced over his shoulder to find his cousin Jonah ambling toward him. “Target practice. What’s it look like?”

  “The completely cold-blooded murder of perfectly drinkable beer.”

  “I wanted to drink it.” Cash couldn’t help the thread of surliness in his tone. He was more than surly. He was sick with the knowledge that Emmy was gone for good. “But I’m on shift first thing in the morning.”

  Jonah drew even with him and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. Today, he was wearing a lime-green T-shirt that said MATH: The only subject that counts. Totally on target since Jonah was a brilliant computer geek and gaming mogul. “That never keeps any other firefighter from having a beer or two.”

  “I wouldn’t stop with just two.”

  “Oookay, but don’t you normally do your Zen-bliss meditation when something’s eating at you?”

  “Not this time.”

  With a nod that made him look like some kind of mystical sage, Jonah said, “Then it’s gotta be a woman problem.”

  “She’s getting married.” Cash lifted his gun, lined up on another beer can, and took the son of a bitch out.

  “Chelsea?” Jonah asked with a disbelieving chuckle.

  Cash’s laugh was rough and directed toward himself. Truth was, he hadn’t given her—a woman he saw on a casual and nonexclusive basis—a single thought since he’d heard the news about Emmy. “No. Emmy McKay.”

  “Ah. The one who got away. Far, far away.” Jonah hitched his chin toward the line of remaining beer cans. “Maybe you should’ve bought more beer.”

  “Fuck.” Cash sighed and ejected the magazine from his gun. This wasn’t doing him a damn bit of good. “I’m an idiot.” Because he still wanted the one woman who’d once made him look like a horse’s ass in front of everyone in this town. For shit’s sake, it had been thirteen years. A normal guy would’ve gotten over it.

  Apparently, Cash wasn’t normal.

  Jonah made a gimme motion, and Cash handed over the gun and remaining ammo. With a lazy smile, his cousin secured the magazine and took aim at can number four. It flew off the target and landed on the ground, but Jonah continued to press the trigger, shot after deliberate shot. Seven times.

  Cash strode out to pick up what should’ve been a mess of metal fragments, but Jonah had somehow shot up the can to look like some kind of aluminum emoji. And the fucking thing was winking.

  Cash walked back toward his cousin. “Anyone ever told you that you’re an arrogant asshole?”

  “All the time, man. All the time.” Jonah’s smile was wide. It was the smile of a man who knew his place in the world and knew he was secure in the love of a good woman. Tessa Martin had done that for him. “So what are you going to do about the situation?”

  Cash didn’t pretend he didn’t understand the question, but what could he do about Emmy getting married? She’d moved on a long time ago, and it was time for him to do the same. “She deserves someone smart and ambitious.”

  “Dude, in case you haven’t noticed, you are smart and ambitious. But she also deserves someone who loves her.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not that long ago if you’re here shooting the shit outta beer cans.” With efficient and practiced movements, Jonah ejected the magazine and squatted to put it and the gun back in the case. He might look like a quintessential gamer, but Cash’s cousin was a Carolina boy, born and raised.

  When he looked up at Cash, there was a glint in his eyes. “But I’m betting Reid will thank you kindly for stocking his fridge with all that beer.”

  * * *

  “Cash, we need to talk.”

  He woke up with his sister Maggie shaking his shoulder and leaning over his bunk in the fire station quarters he shared with the other two shifts. His sight was still bleary. Not surprising since he hadn’t rolled into bed until four this morning, all of two hours ago, after a five-car interstate pileup that had required multiple ambulances and engines.

  Blinking and rubbing his eyes, he scooted up to rest his back against the wall, the cinderblock scratchy and cold through his T-shirt. “You know what time it is?”

  “The sun is out, so it’s daytime.”

  “Maybe if you actually slept last night.”

  “If you’ll remember, I was at the crash site, too.”

  He grunted, but she was right. Maggie and a good portion of her deputies had managed traffic and interviewed witnesses. It sucked when a guy couldn’t get any sympathy because his sister worked as hard as or harder than he did. “Then what are you doing here, waking me up at the asscrack of dawn?”

  Maggie’s gaze cut right, and she wandered over to the window overlooking the rear of the fire station, the same grassy area where Jonah had once unpacked a box sent to him by a wack-job playing a dangerous alternate reality game. “I wanted to talk with you about the tactical medical team before Captain Styles makes the leadership announcement.”

  Cash’s drowsiness left the building and he swung his legs off the bed. “Today’s the day. We get more new TMT members and a team lead. The fact that Steele Ridge has its own friggin’ SWAT team is epic enough, but Jonah contributing toward this tactical medical team? As much as he makes me want to coldcock him sometimes, he’s done incredible things for this town.”

  “And for some of our careers,” she said, almost to herself. Then she turned and took the stance he liked to think of as Maggie-the-Handler—hands on her hips, feet spread, and chin up, up, up. “Before the official announcement is made today, I wanted to—”

  Braaaaah, braaaah, braaaaah!

  The tones cut her off with an eardrum-busting bray, and dispatch came over the radio. “Structure fire reported at 1200 Beulah Rucker Road. Dispatching engine one and engine two.”

  Cash was already off the bed and on his feet. Another thirty seconds and he’d have his gear on and be inside the engine. “We’ll have to finish up this tea party later, Sis. It’s time to go kick some ass.”

  “Emergencies h
ave the most inconvenient timing.”

  He had to laugh at her disgruntled tone. Again, it wasn’t like she worked some nine-to-five desk job. People interrupted her life all the time. He especially enjoyed it when Maggie was dragged out of bed because ElmaSue Smith couldn’t find her cane and called 911 or someone got sideways when the Mad Batter ran out of hazelnut cream cheese puffs. With one arm, he pulled Maggie in for a quick, hard hug. “It’s what we do.”

  Hours later, the fire had turned out to be less emergency and more clusterfuck. Apparently Thomas Felder had developed a keen hankering for fried catfish at breakfast time. And instead of using peanut oil, which could be heated to nuclear temperatures, he’d chosen bacon grease. The cornmeal from the batter had settled in the grease and the whole damn thing flared up. Then, in his panic, Mr. Felder tossed water on a grease fire.

  Fire Management 101: Oily shit and water did not play nice together.

  Luckily, they’d been able to use small foam canisters and had contained the blaze to Mr. Felder’s kitchen. Now, Sully Smith, the driver on shift, stood next to Cash and studied the aftermath. Sully was a good guy who looked like a jacked Bruno Mars, but the dude couldn’t sing for dick. He did have some pretty spectacular dance moves, however. “What would we do for a living if people didn’t act like damn idiots half the time?” he asked.

  The one remaining strip of rooster-printed curtains above the sink gave up the fight and landed in the stainless steel bowl. The cabinets were charred messes and the ceiling was streaked with what looked like demon’s fingers. The linoleum flooring curled at the corners, and the whole place stunk of a sort of bacon-cornmeal-fish-guts flambé.

  But even the disgusting smell couldn’t get Cash down right now. Because the head of the tactical medical team—TMT—would be announced in an hour. “Considering the amount of bad decisions made on a consistent basis, I’m pretty sure our careers are a lock.”

  Mr. Felder shuffled up behind them wearing greasy coveralls and his slippers. He held a grocery sack in one hand and shook it. The cornmeal inside scratched against the brown paper and plopped back to the bottom. “You boys hungry? I cranked up the deep fryer in the backyard.”