April Embers_A Second Chance Single Daddy Firefighter Romance

by Chase Jackson

  Table of Contents

  April Embers

  Mr. Charming

  Mr. Beast

  Copyright Page

  April Embers

  A Firefighter Second Chance Single Dad Romance

  Chase Jackson

  PROLOGUE

  It was nearly midnight and the house was totally silent. The porch light was burnt out and the windows were dark. The only sign of life was the eerie blue glow of a TV screen, flickering through the drawn curtains in the front window.

  I figured they’d be passed out by now -- my mother and stepfather were creatures of habit, after all -- and I didn’t bother to hide the sound that my footsteps made as I crunched up the gravel driveway, then climbed the creaky wooden steps of the front porch.

  The front door was unlocked and I slipped silently into the house, where I was immediately greeted by the stench of home: rancid beer and stale cigarette smoke, with an undertone of rot and neglect.

  Late night infomercials were playing on the muted TV, and the glow from the screen bounced off the bare walls in the front room. Sure enough, I could see my stepfather’s lifeless body sprawled out on the couch. His stained wife beater was pushed up, revealing a half-moon of flabby white gut, and he was clutching an empty bottle of Colt 45 at his side.

  My mother was slumped next to him, draped unnaturally over the arm of the sofa with her hair covering her face. A forgotten cigarette was wedged between her fingers, still burning from the inch-long column of ash.

  “Jesus, Mom,” I sighed under my breath. “You’re going to burn the house down...”

  I padded softly across the room and nudged the cigarette out of her grasp, then extinguished it in the ceramic ashtray. The TV screen flickered, and in the dim light I could see a fresh bruise forming around my mother’s wrist. I reached down and felt the imprint that my stepfather’s hand had left on her pale skin--

  “What do you think you’re doing, boy?” a gravelly voice suddenly snarled. My back stiffened, and I saw the dark gleam of my stepfather’s eyes glaring up at me.

  Startled, my mother jolted awake on the couch.

  “Who’s there?” her voice slurred drunkenly. “Who is it?”

  “It’s your little shit of a son,” my stepfather told her. He raised the Colt 45 bottle to his lips but missed, and the last remnants of beer trickled down his chin.

  “Rory?” my mother murmured. “What are you doing here?”

  “I live here, Mom,” I reminded her.

  She pushed herself up on the couch and tried to brush away the messy curtain of hair that hung over her face. When she did, I saw another fresh bruise rimming her eye.

  The veins in my neck immediately tightened, and my blood went hot with rage.

  “What happened to your eye?”

  Confused, my mother brought her hand up to her face. When her fingers prodded the bruised skin around her eye, she winced in pain.

  “Did he do that to you?” I demanded, my voice shaking with anger. “Did he hit you?”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, young man,” she slurred, slumping back against the couch.

  “You heard the woman,” my stepfather grunted in agreement as he sat up on the couch and reached for the pack of Marlboros on the coffee table. “That’s no way for a boy to speak to his mother.”

  My entire body shook with fury and my hands balled into fists at my sides as I watched my stepfather flick open a Zippo and light the cigarette between his lips.

  “Besides,” he added, exhaling a plume of thick smoke, “Isn’t it about time you learned how to mind your own fucking business?”

  “You hit my mother,” I growled back. “That is my fucking business, you sick piece of shit.”

  For a drunk, my stepfather moved surprisingly fast. With one flick of his wrist, the empty Colt 45 bottle was hurtling towards me. I ducked my head down, narrowly dodging the bottle as it grazed my shoulder. It struck the wall behind me and shattered, scattering shards of brown glass across the carpet.

  Just as quickly as he had thrown the bottle, my stepfather lunged towards me. He grabbed me by the neck of my t-shirt and threw me backwards. My head cracked against the wall, and his elbow pressed into my chest to hold me down.

  “What did you call me?” he growled. His face was inches from mine; close enough that I could smell the sweat leaking from his pores and feel the heat from the lit cigarette clamped between his lips.

  My stepfather had a two-hundred-pound advantage on me, and I knew that my scrawny fifteen-year old frame was no match for him. He could have snapped me in half if he wanted to, but I wasn’t afraid of him.

  “I called you a sick piece of shit,” I hissed back defiantly.

  His eyes went totally dark. He plucked the lit cigarette from between his lips and shoved the cherry into my bare forearm. The ash burned red and hissed as it scorched through my flesh. I bit down on the inside of my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain.

  “I’m gonna knock every last one of those teeth out of your mouth, you hear me?” he spat furiously.

  He wound his fist back, ready to deliver on that promise, but he froze when he heard a cackling sound coming from behind him.

  He glanced over his shoulder, and we both saw my mother rolling around on the couch in a fit of drunken laughter.

  “You think this is fucking funny?!” my stepfather barked.

  Incapable of responding, she just rolled onto her back and laughed even harder, until she was practically convulsing.

  My stepfather glanced back at me, and his face filled with disgust.

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” he demanded. “NOW!”

  When I failed to move, he gripped me by the ear and dragged me through the room. He flung open the front door, then he threw me over the threshold.

  I fell through the doorway and rolled down the porch steps, landing face-first on the gravel driveway. The sharp rocks tore through my jeans and dug at the palms of my hands as I scrambled to get up.

  My stepfather towered over me, kicking me in the ribs.

  “GET OUT!” he screamed. “AND DON’T FUCKING COME BACK.”

  He delivered another swift kick to my ribs and my mouth filled with the bitter twang of blood as I crawled towards the street.

  “DO YOU HEAR ME?” he spat down at me. “DON’T COME BACK!”

  I managed to pull myself up onto my feet, and then I started running. My stepfather huffed behind me, and his voice echoed down the quiet street:

  “IF I EVER SEE YOUR SORRY ASS AROUND HERE AGAIN, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

  Lights flicked on in the neighbor’s house. I heard a door crack open and voices murmuring, but I didn’t look back; I didn’t stop running until I reached the neighborhood park.

  The rusty swings swayed in the night breeze. Silver moonlight poured over the tired old playground, illuminating the gang tags and graffiti that marked the structure. The rubber mulch was littered with garbage, and I kicked a plastic vodka bottle as I trudged towards the wooden picnic table at the edge of the park; my bed for the night.

  I climbed up onto the table and slowly eased myself down onto my back, ignoring the stabbing pain that shot through my ribcage.

  This wasn’t the first time my stepfather had thrown me out of the house, and it wasn’t the first time I had spent the night in the neighborhood park. I knew that, come morning, it would all be a distant, drunken memory. I would go home and pick up the broken glass, and nobody would mention the fresh bruises on my ribs or the torn skin on my stepfather’s knuckles. We would all pretend it never
happened… until, inevitably, it all happened again.

  I pulled the Walkman out of my pocket and slipped the headphones over my ears, blocking out the hum of crickets chirping in the distance. I was about to hit ‘play,’ when I was startled by a soft voice breaking through the silence:

  “Is that you, McAlister?”

  I jolted up on the table and bit back a groan as pain shot through my ribs. When I recognized the familiar face approaching me from across the park, I felt my shoulders instantly relax.

  Her.

  She was like a warm ray of sunshine in the middle of a cold, dark night.

  “Little late to be visiting the park, isn’t it?” she teased.

  “Shouldn’t I be saying the same thing to you?” I grinned back.

  “You were here first,” she reminded me. “I saw you from my bedroom window.”

  She pointed over her shoulder at a house directly across from the park, and my eyes spotted the dim light coming from her bedroom window.

  “I couldn’t sleep anyways, so I figured I’d join you,” she added as she climbed onto the tabletop and took a seat beside me.

  “It’s late,” I told her. “I don’t think your old man would be too happy about you hanging out at the park at night…”

  “It’s not like I’m alone,” she shrugged. “You’re here.”

  “That’s even worse,” I grinned. “He hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you. He just…” her voice trailed off.

  “Thinks I’m a bad influence?” I finished for her. She smiled and bit her lip, nodding slowly.

  “Something like that,” she admitted. Then she nodded towards my Walkman. “What are you listening to?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” I said. I peeled the headphones over my head, then offered them to her. “I just burned this CD today. It’s a new playlist I’ve been working on for a while now…”

  “Oh really?” she took the headphones and placed them over her ears. Even though the music hadn’t started yet, her voice automatically became a few octaves louder: “What’s the playlist for?”

  “For you,” I said simply.

  She frowned, sliding the headphones back down.

  “For me?”

  “Just listen,” I told her. I tapped the ‘play’ button, and the Walkman made an electronic hum as the disc began spinning around. I heard the intro to The Cure’s ‘Lovesong’ start to play through the headphones, and she pressed them back over her ears to listen.

  Her shoulders swayed back and forth to the beat, bumping gently into me. I didn’t move away. I stared at the toes of my beat-up Doc Martens, silently mouthing the lyrics.

  When the song ended, she pulled the headphones down.

  “I like it,” she told me. “But… why did you make me a playlist?”

  “I can’t tell you that yet,” I smiled cryptically as I popped open the Walkman. “You have to listen to the rest of it, first.”

  The disc was still spinning around inside; an abstract swirl of white and red, like a peppermint. As it spun to a stop, the peppermint swirl slowly separated into the blank white CD label and the red Sharpie heart that I had drawn around the hole in the center of the disc.

  “Here,” I said, popping out the disc and handing it to her. “Maybe you’ll figure it out once you listen to the whole thing.”

  I was worried that the red heart would immediately give it away, but as she reached for the CD, her eyes landed on my forearm instead.

  “Holy shit, Rory!” she gasped, seeing the burn mark that my stepfather had left. “What happened?!”

  “Oh, that’s… nothing,” I tried to roll down my shirt sleeve, but she stopped me.

  “That doesn’t look like nothing!” She held my arm in her lap, inspecting the burn. Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, she asked: “Did he do this to you?”

  I didn’t answer, and she didn’t let go. Her fingers crawled along my arm, gently tracing the veins towards my wrist. I felt the tension fade away, and my fist unclenched and fell open. Then she wove her fingers through mine and pressed our palms together, holding my hand in hers.

  “Rory…” her voice was so soft that it almost got lost in the night air, and her lips were inches from mine. She was holding the CD in her other hand; her palm resting over my red Sharpie heart.

  Before I could say anything, the silent night was pierced by the high-pitched squeal of police sirens.

  “What the--”

  We both jerked up from the table and watched as a pair of Hartford Police cars flew down the road, passing the park in a bright strobe of flashing red and blue light.

  “I wonder what’s going on?” she pushed herself off the table and jogged towards the edge of the park, watching as the squad cars sped down the darkened neighborhood street.

  I stayed glued to my spot on the table, glaring down at the rubber mulch as my stomach sunk and my hands balled back into fists. I didn’t need to look; I already knew where the cops were headed.

  “Oh my God,” she said, turning back to me slowly. “Rory… I think the cops just pulled up to your house.”

  CHAPTER ONE | RORY

  Eleven Years Later

  I flicked off my black Wayfarer sunglasses and squinted up at the firehouse through the glare of the white-hot afternoon sun.

  Without the black tint of my sunglasses, everything looked vibrant and bright. The square firehouse was constructed out of rusty red brick, and the front driveway was pristine white concrete. The vehicle bay doors were rolled up and a candy-apple red fire truck was pulled out in front of the station, gleaming immaculately in the sunlight.

  An American flag rippled in the summer breeze, and a flat field of lush green grass surrounded the firehouse in all directions, dotted with yellow wildflowers.

  A white sign was staked in the lawn in front of the station, marked with proud brass letters that spelled out:

  HARTFORD FIRE DEPARTMENT

  And beneath that, in even larger letters:

  FIREHOUSE 56

  It’s... perfect, I thought skeptically as I slid my sunglasses back over my eyes, blinking a few times until my sight readjusted to dimness of the black lenses.

  Too perfect…

  The version of Hartford, Connecticut that existed in my memory was plagued by cracked asphalt, shattered glass and the constant wailing sound of police sirens in the distance. Green grass and squeaky-clean concrete didn’t belong in that world.

  From where I stood on the curb, Firehouse 56 looked like something straight out of a postcard or a movie set. The only thing missing was a white picket fence and a purebred dalmatian--

  WOOF! WOOF!

  As if on cue, something furry and brown scampered out through the open vehicle bay doors and sprinted across the white concrete driveway.

  Ok, so he wasn’t a purebred dalmatian. In fact, he wasn’t a purebred anything. He was a scrappy little brown mutt that looked like he hadn’t grown into his own legs yet.

  The dog skidded to a stop when he spotted me standing by the curb. His bright pink tongue flopped out of the side of his snout as he panted, and he looked up at me with a dopey grin on his face.

  “COOPER!” a voice shouted from inside the vehicle bay. The dog cocked his head, then immediately took off running again… this time, making a beeline straight towards me.

  I squatted down and stretched open my arms, letting the rambunctious brown mutt hurdle straight into my grasp. Before he could dart away, I looped a finger through his collar.

  “COOPER!” the voice called again from the vehicle bay. “Come on, dude! Where did you go?!”

  I glanced up at the firehouse and saw a member of the crew sprinting out. He shielded his eyes and glanced around the field, frantically searching for the mutt…

  “Over here!” I called out.

  His eyes shot in my direction, and his face lit up with relief when he spotted the dog corralled between my arms. Then he saw me, and that look of relief immediately dar
kened.

  I watched as his eyes scanned me up and down, pinballing from one red flag to the next: arms covered in tattoos, muscles bulging out of a black Bauhaus t-shirt, cigarette tucked behind one ear, black denim jeans torn at the knee, scars on my knuckles, black hair slicked back, grizzly beard covering half of my face...

  You didn’t need a calculator to add up the sum of all my parts: I was bad fucking news, plain and simple.

  But I guess basic addition wasn’t Meathead’s strong suit, because he was still trying to run the numbers in his head when another member of the crew sauntered out of the garage and spotted me.

  “Well howdy, partner!” he crooned in a smooth southern drawl. “You must be the new guy! We’ve been expecting you!”

  I released my grip on the dog’s collar and stood up. The mutt immediately scampered out towards the field, and Meathead dumbly started chasing after him. The cowboy just shook his head and laughed.

  “Don’t pay him no nevermind,” he said to me. “We’re still trying to train Duke on how to interact with humans, but I promise he doesn’t bite. And the dog doesn’t, either!”

  I chuckled dryly. I like this guy already...

  The cowboy didn’t seem to give my tattoos or goth rock t-shirt a second glance. Instead of a scrutinizing once-over, he just looked me straight in the eye as he wiped the engine grease off of his palms, then offered me his hand.

  “Name’s Walker Wright.”

  “Rory McAlister,” I shook his hand. Then I added, “I know that’s not a Hartford accent I’m hearing?”

  “Texas, born and raised!” he declared proudly. “Is my twang that obvious?"

  I just shrugged.

  “What about you, New Guy?” Walker asked. “The chief mentioned that you were transferring to Hartford from out-of-state. Massachusetts, was it?”

  “Boston,” I confirmed with a nod. “I was with the Boston Fire Department for six years.”

  “So this ain’t your first rodeo,” Walker grinned. “Are you a Boston native?”

  “Not exactly.” I hesitated, then I admitted reluctantly, “Actually, I’m from Hartford originally.”

  “Shut the front door!” Walker exclaimed loudly. “Where in Hartford? Anywhere nearby?”