by K. Bromberg
“It is, a big one for him personally, but it’s the scars we can’t see that are worrying me. One of his crew, Bowie, called me a few weeks back. He said Grady isn’t engaging on the job. If there’s a fire, he can’t bring himself to breach the building.” My heart falls. “Bowie said he’s fine on medical calls but show up at a hot scene, and he freezes.”
“Which doesn’t instill any confidence in the guys,” I conclude and then think back to Grady’s rejection of whatever meeting was going on at the station yesterday. The exchange with Veego. I thought Grady’s unexpected request to take me to the station was to get back at Jett . . . and now I wonder if it was to prevent them from pulling him into a confrontation he didn’t want to have. It all makes sense now, and I grieve for Grady. “I was there the other day. I thought it was just about the calendar.”
“He’s too proud to let anyone know he’s having trouble.” Grant’s concern for his brother is so real. It’s almost as if he’s trying to wear the burden to carry it for his brother.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I wish I knew, but all I can think of is that he needs more time. I don’t know. None of us have been through this before. I wish there was a way to help ease the survivor’s guilt or else when he actually gets the nerve to walk back in the fire, I fear he’s going to be looking for punishment.”
“He’s punished himself enough.”
“He has. And he’ll always blame himself so there’s no use trying to tell him different. I know from experience.”
“Then what do we do?” I all but plead.
“We have patience. And we find a way to show him every day that if he doesn’t start to live again, he’s wasting his second chance at life.”
The front door shutting startles me awake. My guitar falls off my lap and onto the floor with a musical thud as I scramble up and look toward the kitchen.
Grady stands there, shoulders sagging, eyes wary, and every part of him on edge. Our eyes meet for the briefest of seconds, his more like a glare of contempt before he throws his keys on the counter and walks back out without a word.
It’s the first time I’ve ever felt uncomfortable in his home, and frankly, I’m not sure what I should do or what is going on.
And then I hear it.
The pound of the hammer. The deep, resonating thud, thud, thud of his aggression being taken out on wood and metal in what appears to be the only way he knows how to cope. I stand at the window and watch him, the scanner’s steady, controlled chaos the background to my thoughts.
I’m not sure how long I stand there and watch Grady move here and there beneath the spotlight illuminating the small part of the backyard where he works, but the tension in his movements never seems to diminish.
My feet move without thought, the need to comfort more important than the awkwardness of intruding on his private moment. Outside I wait, not saying anything but knowing he is aware I’m there.
And still he doesn’t say a word.
“Is everything okay?” I finally bite the bullet and ask.
He grunts in response.
“Do you want me to go to a hotel for the night so that you can have the house to yourself?”
“No. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Uh-huh. Like I believe that for a second.
So, I sit on the steps of the porch and watch him work. Time passes, measured by the number of mosquitos I swat away.
“There was a fire tonight,” he finally says, but he doesn’t stop marking a piece of wood and lining it up.
“Are all the guys okay?”
He grunts again, which I take as an affirmative.
“You want to talk about whatever is bugging you? Tonight’s fire? The guys?” I take a deep breath and go there. “Your fire?”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Again? Which one of them called you or stopped by and set you up to pretend you’re my goddamn shrink?”
I exhale an unsteady breath. “None of them. I figured something was bugging you. I’m a smart girl, Grady. Most of those around you who care about you are smart too. I assume they all want to help you with whatever it is you need help with.”
“I don’t need help with anything.” He spits the words out despite their untruth.
I don’t push further. The cadence of the hammer becomes a metronome to his anger until it slowly eases with each and every stroke.
And then there is silence. Nothing but the silhouette of a man in conflict against the blinding light. His head hangs down, his hands fall lax, his shoulders sag.
“Today is the anniversary. Of my fire.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. It was convenient timing for my parents to have a barbecue at the lake.” He chuckles but shakes his head. “There was a fire tonight in the same set of warehouses where our fire happened. When I heard the call, my first thought was arson. The point of origin in our fire was never determined, and it’s always been easier for me to blame someone for everything that happened instead of faulty wires or some shit like that. So, I heard dispatch on the scanner, and all I could think about was if it was arson, the son of a bitch wanted to come back and take a trip down memory lane. Get a thrill from watching firefighters run in that building and get off if one of them didn’t make it back out.”
“Was it?”
He pauses momentarily and then moves toward me, taking a seat beside me unexpectedly. “Nah. It was just one of those things. A perfect storm of mishaps in an old building.”
“Well, that’s good, right? Not the fire part, obviously.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Did you wish you were there?”
“I was there. I watched it from afar.” His voice is distant and cold, but his body is warm beside mine. It seems like such a weird dichotomy to me.
“No, I mean, did you wish you were fighting it?” I ask despite Grant’s comments earlier.
“Are you going to push me on this too, Dylan?” He doesn’t look my way, just stares at the hammer in his hand.
“I wasn’t aware I was pushing. I just wondered if being back there made you want to get your firefighting fix.”
His laugh is long and low with a hint of self-deprecation. “My firefighting fix? I think I got plenty of that. I think the question you’re asking is why I’m being such a pussy and not grabbing my turnouts and laying down pipe like a probie running into his first fire. Am I right?”
Proceed with caution, Dylan.
“That isn’t what I said.”
“It may not be what you said, but it’s what you meant.”
I start to skirt around the issue but figure it isn’t going to do either of us any good if I do. So, I dive right in. “You’re right. It is what I meant.”
His body jars beside me. “At least you’re honest when everyone else tries to beat around the fucking bush.”
“So?”
“I wanted to go in. Fires are few and far between in Sunnyville, so it isn’t like there’s a fire every week to test me . . . but when there is, it screws with my head. Every part of me wants to run in and do my job, and then I hear Drew screaming, feel the flames as they try to eat me alive, and I have a full-blown panic attack.”
I’m shocked by his honesty, so I give him some right back. “Having a panic attack would seem like a completely logical reaction, Grady.”
He hangs his head for a beat. “My dad used to say that bravery was being scared to death and suiting up anyway.”
The correlation he’s drawing is instantaneous to me. He doesn’t feel like he’s brave anymore. And yet, I will not refute him. Such a thing will fall on deaf ears, so I try another angle.
“Does this have anything to do with why you insisted I go to the station the other day?”
He crosses his arms on his knees and rests his forehead on them. I give him the time he needs and stare at the many moths flying through the light while I wait. “It was a company meeting. A we’re-not-sure-if-you’d-have-our-backs-in-a-fire meeting.” There’s h
urt in his voice, but more importantly, there’s fight left too.
“They don’t blame you, you know,” I say when every part of me knows he thinks they do.
“I know they don’t,” he lies.
“No one does, Grady.”
He grunts as his shoulders heave up and down, but he doesn’t look up, and he doesn’t speak.
“Is there anything anyone can do to make the transition easier for you? This is what you love, it has to be crippling you not to participate in what you live for.”
“Stop talking about it. There’s a start. Stop whispering behind my back. Stop staring at me like I’m going to fucking break. I’m already broken, Dylan. That’s what they don’t get.”
“Grady . . . there has to be something—”
“How about this? I’ll step into the fire when you decide you’re going to sing your own songs yourself instead of wasting all your talent and ability on people who take you for granted like Jett does.”
It’s my turn to have my feathers ruffled, and they definitely are.
“What’s wrong, Dylan?” he asks. “You don’t like having ultimatums thrown at you? Aren’t you the one who told me you’d take off your cover-up if I took off my shirt? Well, guess what? I took off my shirt. Now, I’ve upped the ante.”
I stare at him through the dim light and hate that we are both letting our fear get in the way but have no idea how to get past it. Neither of us do.
“Don’t turn this on me, Grady.”
“It’s a complicated fucking mess, isn’t it?” he says as he finally turns his head to face me.
“It is.” My voice is barely a whisper because in the split second of time, we’re face to face, our lips inches apart.
My breath hitches as the air around us shifts and changes, charges with the instantaneous chemistry between us. His eyes flicker to my lips and then back to my eyes as he leans forward.
And then he kisses me.
It’s a tender brush of lips, but it’s one of those kisses I can feel so deep in my bones that my body wants to sigh with satisfaction. And when it ends, he leans his forehead against mine and we sit like that, neither of us moving away nor denying the connection we share.
“What are we doing here, Grady?” It isn’t exactly the best time to ask the question, and yet, I can’t help but ask it. Because when his lips are on mine, it feels like whatever this is, is real. Then, when they’re not and he’s acting like we’re roomies, it’s confusing as hell. I’ve had enough confusion.
“We’re sitting in the dark on the porch,” he says.
Another brush of his lips to mine. A lift of his hand to cup my neck and deepen the kiss, his tongue licking against mine and then gently retreating. Our foreheads resting against each other’s, his hand still on my neck.
“I mean what is this? What are we doing here?”
“We’re kissing.” He chuckles and then kisses me again.
“Funny,” I murmur as my body sags against his in contentment. “But . . .”
“We’re enjoying each other.”
A brush of his lips against mine, and then he pulls my bottom lip gently with his teeth, kissing me fully again. His free hand drops the hammer—which lands with a soft thud—and then slowly slides up my thigh.
“But . . .”
“I’m getting lost in you, Dylan. It’s so damn easy. When I’m with you, I forget the bad. I forget the fire. I forget the bad dreams. The three nights you were in my bed were the first nights in forever I didn’t have nightmares. So, I’m kissing you because when I’m with you, my mind stops, and the world starts turning again.”
His name is a sigh on my lips, and my heart stops and then starts again at words more seductive than have ever been spoken to me before.
“But what about when I have to leave—”
“We’re enjoying each other. We’re getting lost in each other. And that’s enough for right now. That’s what both of us need. You’re getting over someone, and I’ll never be in a position to commit . . . and that’s okay.”
The desperation in his kiss and the conviction in his words drown out the questions and concerns I know I should be thinking to guard my heart.
It’s my turn to lean forward and initiate. And while my lips kiss his to tell him his words are enough, my hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. I need to feel his skin. I need to give him the same unspoken reassurances he’s given me in the only way I know how to.
“I thought you didn’t like firefighters.” He laughs, his lips moving against mine, and his hand coming up to cup my breast and ignite the frenzy of nerves in my hardened nipple.
My mouth spreads into a smile I know he can feel. “I’m making an exception this one time.”
“One time?” He leans forward and steals another kiss. “Baby, I plan on making it a hell of a lot more than one time.”
“Promise?” I chuckle.
“You say I need to get used to firefighting again, you know what the first step in training is?”
“What’s that?” My breath hitches as he rolls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, sending a lightning rod of sensation straight down to the apex of my thighs.
“Knowing how to use my hose.”
My laugh turns into a moan as his hand slides down my torso and dips beneath the waistband of my shorts. “Mm, I don’t think you can put this fire out, Malone.”
“You bet your ass I’m going to try.”
With that, our lips crash against each other’s as his hands go to both of my hips and shift me so I sit astride his lap. I can feel him hard and ready against his board shorts, and as I deepen the kiss, I slide my hands ever so gently over his flank and onto the ridged skin of his lower back.
I swallow his gasp, refusing to let him pull away. Not allowing him to think about his back or his scars or be self-conscious. If he’s getting lost in me, I want all of him to be able to. His doubts. His insecurities. His everything.
And so I let my lips and my hands do the talking as they continue to slide over his scarred skin until they hook under his arms and pull him against me. Just like any normal couple would.
Without thinking about our pasts.
Without thinking about our future.
And I ride him under the glow of moonlight, on the steps of the back porch, and we get lost in each other once again.
“Everything going good for you?” my agent asks.
“Yeah. Sure,” I reply, distracted as I hold the phone to my ear, balance the box the delivery man just handed me in the other, and close the door with my hip.
“Are you sure?”
“Besides the fact I’m still pissed at you for telling Jett where I was? Other than that, yes, everything is fine.”
“You know I meant no harm by it.”
“Uh-huh.” I set the box down and grab a scissors to cut the tape on its edges.
“Callum was antsy. Jett was freaking because of it. I tried to fix the situation.”
“And picking up the phone was not an option, why?”
I lift the top of the box up and hold back a cry of surprise to find what looks like two dozen pale pink roses. I stare at them for a beat as memories flood back—memories I don’t want—before picking up the card resting atop them and turn it over in my hands.
“Dylan? Are you there?”
“Yes? What? Sorry. I was distracted.”
“Apparently.”
“I’m still mad at you.” I stare at the flowers and feel . . . unsettled.
“You’ll forgive me.”
“Ha.” I shake my head and turn my back to the flowers so I can concentrate for a moment. “Is there a reason you called or is this a social call?”
“How are the songs coming along?”
“Over half are completed, but you already know this because I’m sure you spoke to Jett already, right? So what’s going on?”
“Callum is getting a little nervous that you’re not around.”
�
�I’m sending him songs, about one a week. He can’t be unhappy with that.” I’m irritated and frustrated. I’m ahead of schedule and still being questioned.
“Yeah, but—”
“Christ. What did he do this time?” The hesitation has dread dropping into the pit of my stomach.
“Would anything surprise you at this point?”
“No.”
“He had some time with Kai in the studio. He wanted to work on some tracks and there was a bit of a tantrum and some storming out.”
Fuck.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh audibly. “So what are you telling me?”
“Kai and Callum want you present at the next scheduled studio time.”
“When?” She can hear my anger, but she knows it’s not directed at her.
“I don’t know but I’ll get an answer and let you know.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“I know, Dylan. I know.”
I end the call, toss my cell on the counter, and then stare at the card for a minute before tearing it open.
I miss you.
Do you miss me yet?
Come back home and let’s start over.
I love you.
—Jett
I look at the roses over the top of the card and shake my head. He‘s clueless. And to further prove the fact, he sent me roses. How, after being together for two years, does he not know I hate roses?
When I look at them again, all I see is the last gift my dad gave me on my tenth birthday. I remember the empty words and watching his back as he retreated down the steps through my tear-blurred vision.
As if on cue, the scanner goes off, reinforcing the tinged memories of my dad and the feeling of abandonment.
After dropping the card into the trash, I pick up the bouquet and head to the front door. I may as well take them to the sweet widow who lives a few houses down. I’d rather them brighten her day than let them go to waste.
It’s like scoring the perfect Michael Kors bag on sale.
At least that’s the best way to describe the feeling when I complete a song and know it has the it factor that will make it a hit.
When I walk out of my room, Petunia is staring at me as if she isn’t too impressed with the cheer I sent up when I saved the finalized lyrics on my Mac.
