by K. Bromberg
“Just peachy,” Jett says and gives Grady a condescending smirk as their dislike for each other manifests in their expressions.
“You have a good time in . . . Napa, was it?”
Jett nods as he narrows his eyes and studies Grady, trying to figure out where he’s going with this line of questioning.
Grady part laughs, part says, “Good,” as he makes his way back toward me and wraps an arm around my waist, his hand possessive on my side. “Because we sure had a good time, didn’t we, babe?” He smirks at me with so much suggestion that my panties might possibly catch fire.
Grady’s being such a cocky bastard, and I’m enjoying every single moment of it.
“Dylan was telling me you’re up to speed on what you came here to accomplish. Should I assume you’ll be leaving us soon? Three’s a crowd and all.”
Jett chews the inside of his cheek as he glares at Grady. “My flight’s booked for tonight. Dylan and I have reservations for dinner at La Blanc’s, and I’ll have her drop me off at the airport on the way home.”
I snap my head to look at Jett. “I didn’t—”
“Nice try,” Grady says and shakes his head as he takes a few steps toward Jett, “but you’re going about it all wrong. It takes a lot more to impress a woman like Dylan than a high-dollar restaurant. In fact it’s way simpler than that. All it takes is a little respect, some undivided attention, and a whole lot of laughter to make a woman feel how she should. But then again, I wouldn’t expect you to know that since you think cheating is the way you treat a lady.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Jett says as he steps toward Grady.
“And you’re an ungrateful prick who thinks just because he can sing he has a ticket to do whatever he wants to whomever he wants. Not this time. Not this woman. Not my woman.” Grady chuckles, and it’s so loaded with derision and spite that it’s palpable. Jett bristles at the sound of it as the tension thickens between the two of them. “The door’s that way, Kroger, and the airport’s in the same place you found it. Dylan won’t be driving you anywhere.”
“We have to—”
“We have to head out because we have an appointment to get to so we’ll wait while you gather your things.”
“An appointment?” Jett and I both ask in unison. I don’t recall having any appointment with Grady. And he’s dressed and ready for work. What’s he up to now? And why is it I want to burst out laughing at his audacity to get one final dig in on Jett?
“Yep.” Grady’s grin could light up a room. “Time to say goodbye, Kroger.”
“Our appointment is at the fire station?” I ask when he parks his truck beside the building.
“Yep.”
“All you had to do was ask me to come with you.”
“And miss out on the satisfaction of messing with that fucker? No way,” he says with a grin.
“Enjoying playing the game a little too much?”
“Of course I am. I’ve got the girl, don’t I?” He hops out of the truck without another word and slams the door shut.
His words surprise me so much it takes me a few seconds to realize he probably didn’t mean them how I took them. I need to get a grip. On my heart, my thoughts, and my libido.
As we walk up the pathway, I stare at the brick building for a moment, so many memories rushing back. A stark reminder of the disdain I’ve been conditioned to have for this profession and all the baggage that comes with it. I’m reminded of how I used to get so excited when my mom took Damon and me to the station to pick our dad up from a three-day shift because we’d missed him so much. The car ride would be a flurry of cut-off sentences as we tried to fill him in on everything he’d missed.
Then goosebumps prickle my skin as I remember how fiercely we’d avoid that very same firehouse after he left us. How we’d drive the long way around the block so we didn’t have to pass the one thing my dad loved more than us. His job. His fire family. The attention from other women his uniform brought him.
“You okay?” Grady asks, pulling me from the memories and back to reality.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Ready to show me your fire pole, Malone?”
“I already pet your kitty, so I guess my pole is the next best place to start.”
“You’re sick.” I laugh.
“And you love it.”
Yes, I do. And that may be a problem.
“So that’s everything.” He shrugs as he enters the bay where two engines wait in limbo. There’s a smile on his face and an ease to him I haven’t seen before.
“You really love what you do, don’t you?”
There’s a brief flash of something in his eyes that passes before I can catch it, but he nods. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be.” He says it with such conviction that I believe it. “A wise person once told me, it isn’t something you do, it’s something you are.”
I smile. “Whoever said that must be brilliant.” I reach for his arm on reflex and then pull back, uncertain of his status with the guys here and how my being here might reflect on him.
“And pretty.” Sigh. And now he turns on the charm. “The other day, you took the time to show me what you do. I thought I’d show you what I do before my shift starts.”
“Thank you.” The gesture touches me unexpectedly. Maybe it’s the fact he cares. Maybe it’s just because it’s the first time I’ve stepped into a station since my dad left, and it hasn’t been as traumatic as I expected. Actually, it’s been quite the opposite.
“Hey, Malone? You ready to pose for the camera, pretty boy?” a voice calls out from the other side of the bay, and Grady’s demeanor changes so swiftly it’s as if someone flipped a switch.
“I told you, Veego. I’m not doing it. Get off my case, will ya?”
“We can’t do it without you, man. Then why is she—oh, sorry. You’re not Marcy,” Veego says when I turn to face him as he walks into view and does a double take.
“Not Marcy,” I say with a chuckle, although I’m suddenly wondering who Marcy is and why she would be with Grady.
“She’s a photographer,” Grady mutters under his breath as if he already knew where my thoughts went.
Veego bears down on us. He’s short and broad and has a smile that would light up a room. “Sorry, Grady. I didn’t realize you had company.”
“Dylan McCoy.” I reach my hand out and shake his while he stares at me for a beat longer than normal.
“Ah, the roommate.”
“Yes, the roommate.”
“Are you going to convince him to do the calendar?” he asks, which earns him a glare from Grady.
“What calendar?” I glance from Veego to Grady and then back to Veego, ignoring Grady’s warning look.
“We’re doing a—”
“Drop it,” Grady says, but Veego keeps going.
“—Sunnyville fireman calendar shoot. The beefcake kind,” he says with a wink, and the flush to his cheeks makes me smile. Marcy’s relevance to the conversation suddenly makes sense. “It’s to raise money for the fireman’s widow fund. Pretty-boy Malone here refuses to be the month of August when he’s the best looking of the ugly lot of us. Too bad that shiner will be gone by the time we shoot the photos though or else I’m sure that would just add to his bad-boy vibe the ladies will get all wet over—”
“It’s a dead issue,” Grady says again, cutting me off when I begin to speak. “Is that what Bowie called me in early for? To have a meeting on this bullshit?”
I may be confused as to what he’s referring to, but I see the panic flicker through Veego’s eyes just as easily as Grady does. Whatever Grady is referring to has nothing to do with the calendar and everything to do with something that’s brought an unwelcome chill to the conversation.
“Fuck this,” Grady says as he shakes his head. “Not now. Of all times, not now.”
I’m in the dark as to what’s going on, but the emotion that flows in the look the two men share is overwhelming. One defiant, and the other res
olute.
“Grady . . .”
“C’mon, Dylan.”
“You can’t hide forever, Malone.” Veego’s voice is full of compassion, and a part of me feels like I should shrink into the shadows and give them privacy.
“I’m not hiding from shit. I’m walking Dylan to my truck. Figure out how not to make this happen or else I’m heading home with her.”
They glare at each other again.
“See you in a few,” Veego says, grief I don’t understand heavy in his voice. He turns to me. “Nice to meet you, Dylan.”
Grady is silent as we head out of the bay and toward the parking lot. I’m not sure what to say, I’m not even sure what just transpired, and yet, I feel on edge as I figure out how to handle this.
“I might be overstepping . . . but why are you so upset about the calendar?” I realize the answer the minute the question passes over my lips—his burns.
“There’s no way I’m going to stand there and let people stare at me. The calendar idea is crap.”
“Crap?” I push, not caring that I have no right to. “It’s for the widows’ fund. I’d think you’d be willing to help. When is the last time a firefighter died in the line of duty before Drew?”
“Christ, I don’t know.”
“Then wouldn’t the majority of the proceeds go to Shelby and Brody? Why won’t you participate?”
If looks could kill, I’d be dead right now. “Stay out of it, Dylan.”
“What’s the big deal? You said it yourself. You’re vain. Let them take a picture of all your hard work. You have an incredible body. Sell some calendars. Help Shelby and Brody. I don’t know what your hang up is,” I say, knowing very well what it is but not caring as I shamelessly use his guilt to help him get over his own insecurities.
“No one wants to look at me, I can assure you of that.”
“I do.”
“Save it.”
“Save what?” I scoff. “Do you know how often I sit in the house when you’re out working on the playroom and stare at you?” I love the shocked look on his face and laugh. “What? A girl needs inspiration while she’s writing songs.”
“Don’t do this . . .” He shakes his head, confusion welling in his eyes.
“Do what? Tell you that the camera is going to love you? That it’s going to be looking at your front and not your back, so what’s the big deal? And if it were snapping a picture of your back, you know what it would show? A man who went to hell and back to try to save his friend. I don’t know a single person who would think otherwise.”
“First the guys, and now you? You were the one person I didn’t have to worry about piling on with the bullshit.”
I can see the bluster in his bravado and know he’s afraid to see himself as he looks now. He’s afraid to document it for everyone else to see.
“The guys just want what’s best for you, like I do.”
“Like you do?” His voice rises in pitch as he takes a step toward me, shoulders squared. “What do you think this is? We screwed so that gives you the right to tell me what to do?
His words are sharp, but the fear in his eyes is sharper. There’s something more here. There’s something he isn’t talking about.
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“That’s who I am, Dylan. An asshole. If you’ve got a problem, feel free to stay with someone else. I’m sure Jett’s ready to whisk you back home and start right where you left off.” The minute the words are out, he hangs his head and scrunches his face. He groans before looking up and meeting my eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. There’s just . . . there are other things going on here besides the calendar.”
The phone call from the other night when I was making the cannoli comes to mind. The one about a meeting on Thursday, which is apparently a lot more important than it sounded.
I scramble with what to say. With how to dissipate his anger, his fear, his irritation, all of which I helped cause.
Humor. Humor always works best.
“Is this our first fight as a couple?” I ask, a ghost of a smile on my lips and a plea for forgiveness in my eyes.
He struggles with the shift in gears before saying, “Yep. Jett’s leaving, and we’re already breaking up.” His smile is half-hearted, but his expression says he’s still upset.
I wish I knew about what.
“Well, shit.” I put my hands on my hips. “I think we’ve got this all backward.”
A little more sincerity edges his smile now. “Mmm. We had make-up sex before the fight.”
“We did.” Is it weird that he understands where I’m going with this conversation without any further explanation? Is it weird that it gives me hope?
We stare at each other, smiles soft and apologies unspoken but accepted.
“You should get going. My shift’s about to start.” I’m taken by surprise when he holds his keys out to me. A man and his truck are a sacred thing. “I’ll call you tomorrow to pick me up if that’s okay. If not, I’ll have one of the guys drop me home.”
“I’ll come get you. No biggie.” I open the driver’s side door, climb behind the wheel, and then look at him. He still seems unsettled, and I wish I could help with whatever is bothering him. “You know I’m here for you if you need me, right?”
“Yeah.” He nods ever so slightly and looks at his boots for a second before looking up to me. His aqua eyes a sea of discord. “I do. Thanks.”
And with that, Grady walks into the fire station with what looks like the weight of the world on his shoulders and a tiny piece of my heart in his pocket.
“What’s the deal?” I ask with major attitude the minute I walk into the common area.
Veego, Bowie, Dixon, and Mack are all sitting around the table with somber expressions on their faces. Their eyes all flicker to each other while they wait for Bowie, the highest in command, to speak first.
“Take a seat,” Bowie says and kicks a chair out for me. I grit my teeth and refuse to sit when he motions to it. I’m pretty sure I need to remain standing for this one.
“Please tell me this isn’t about the goddamn calendar.” Dylan’s words outside resonate in my head. Make me feel even guiltier that I’m not willing to strip my shirt off to help Brody and Shelby.
Shit.
I don’t have a choice, do I?
“Because if it is, I’ll do the fucking thing. You happy?” I throw my hands up. “Can I go now? Class dismissed?”
I know I’m being an asshole, but a confrontation is the last thing I need right now. I have the memory of Dylan in my bed and the reality of Shelby’s request in my head. The one she called me about earlier that I can’t quite wrap my head around how I’m going to be able to do it and not lose it myself. Talk about the highest high to a heartbreaking low.
“The calendar’s a good start, but it’s the least important of what we need to talk about,” Veego says and looks toward Bowie to continue.
“We’re worried about you, Malone,” Bowie says matter-of-factly.
“What? Am I not pulling my weight around here? The rig’s clean. The grocery shopping is done. The—”
“When’s the last time you were active on a call?” Mack speaks up and gets to the heart of the matter.
“I’m active on all calls.”
“Let me rephrase, when was the last time you were engaged on a call, Malone?” It’s Dixon’s calm voice that grates on my nerves and ignites my temper. “You know, walked into the fire beside us instead of stood there and watched us go at it alone.”
“Fucking Christ.”
“You were out six months. On desk duty for what? A year?” Bowie asks.
“Uh-huh,” I say void of all emotion and recall how miserable it was being a desk jockey while I waited for the medical doctors and the department psychologist to deem me physically and mentally fit to return. “And on active duty for six months. Your point is what exactly?”
“How many fires have you been engaged on?”
“There haven’t been many fires in Sunnyville since I’ve been off desk duty, so I couldn’t tell you.”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“Okay then, I’ll be a dumbass and ask the question you all seem to know but aren’t letting me in on. What the fuck is going on?”
“Can we trust you to be there?” Mack asks, and I can tell that having to ask that question makes all the guys uncomfortable.
“Can you trust me?” I blink as if it’s going to help me understand what they’re asking.
Trust is knowing your brother is there even when you can’t see him. Two-in. Two-out. No matter the cost.
I think of Drew saying those words to me. Of the two of us reciting them as we sat at a beach bonfire and polished off a six-pack. The tap of our beer bottles against one another’s. The promise made to always look out for each other.
And with the memory comes the anger at the rest of the guys looking at me. The disbelief that they’re questioning me.
“Oh, I get it. This isn’t you worrying about my well being. This is you worrying about me having your back on a call. This is you worrying if my head’s straight enough to save you if you get in trouble . . . or if I’m going to let you die like I did Drew? Right? That’s what this is?” Mack tries to talk, and I cut him off. “Well, fuck you. Fuck all of you.” My fists clench, and it’s hard to draw in air as I turn my back to them and pace the room. Fury and hurt and distrust eat at every part of me . . . just like the guilt does.
“Grady.”
“Stop Grady-ing me! Just stop! You don’t know what it was like. You don’t live with what happened in your head. His voice asking for help. His screams begging. Having to hear his PASS alarm going off and not knowing how to save him. You don’t close your eyes every goddamn night and worry about how bad the nightmare is going to be this time, do you? You don’t get called to a scene where a fire is hot and worry about whether it’s going to happen again. So you’re fucking right, I’m messed up. But you can bet your ass that when I walk into a fire, it’ll be because I’m ready and know without a shadow of a doubt I’d do it again to save one of your sorry asses. If you don’t like that, or don’t believe I’m capable of doing my job, take it up with command. Kick me out of the department. But don’t you ever”—I slam my hand down on the kitchen counter so hard it stings—“tell me you worry about me having your back.”
