by K. Bromberg
I feel the bed dip. The covers lift. The heat of his body as he slides up behind me. The feel of his hand on my abdomen pulling me against him.
“Good shift?” I ask, my mind trying to catch up to my body, which is already awake and alert to the feel of his.
“How come you’re in here?” he asks and the heat of his breath hits the back of my neck.
“This is my room.”
“But I have nightmares when you’re not in mine.” He says it so nonchalantly, I close my eyes and squeeze them tight as I try to control the emotion that swells into my voice.
“I don’t feel right sleeping in there when you’re not here.”
“Don’t be silly.” He rests his forehead against the back of my head and falls silent. Just as I’m about to fall back asleep he murmurs, “We lost a kid tonight. Traffic accident. He wasn’t buckled in his car seat properly. Grayson was called to the scene and they flew him to General but we lost him.”
My heart breaks. “Grady, I’m so sorry.”
“I can still hear his mom screaming when she saw us loading him in the chopper.” He sniffles, and I shift immediately to turn over, but he holds me in place where I am. “Uh-uh. Can I just—I need this right now. Need you right now. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“I could listen to you sing all day.” Grady’s sleep-drugged voice interrupts me from where he stands on the porch, hair a mess, and sweatpants hanging dangerously low on those strong hips of his. I blush at his compliment, and my cheeks heat with embarrassment. I can sing in a studio full of techs and musicians, but tell me Grady is listening, and I want to die of embarrassment. “It’s late.”
I look up from my guitar and over to the clock. “It’s eleven. In my world that’s early.” I laugh. “It isn’t late until you’re waking up after lunchtime.”
“Sounds similar to the station.” He stares at me for a beat. I can tell he wants to say something but is unsure, so I wait him out. “How are the songs coming?”
“Good.” That isn’t what he wanted to ask, but I let it slide. “I have most of them started. About eighty-five percent finished to the point that I’m happy with them for now. They’ll need some further tweaking once we hit the studio and I can hear them played back to me. And the other fifteen percent I’m hoping to wrap up in the next two weeks.” The last three words are hard to get out. They put an expiration date on this. On us. And I’m having a difficult time accepting that.
“We’ll have to celebrate when you finish.”
I nod but swallow over the sudden lump in my throat. Celebrate? Does that mean he’s happy I’m leaving?
“We should,” I lie and then change the topic because leaving here is the last thing I want to think about. “I turned the scanner down so I could work and you could sleep, but it sounds like there is a pretty big fire up north.”
“I heard. Bowie called and woke me up.” Concern fills his eyes.
“Are you guys going to be called out to help?”
“Not sure,” he says. “But I want to take you somewhere today. Do you have plans?”
“Let’s go hiking, he said. It will be fun, he promised.”
Grady laughs as he strides ahead of me, barely out of breath while I huff and puff like a little old lady who smokes a carton of cigarettes a day.
“If I wasn’t aware I was out of shape, I am now.”
“You aren’t out of shape,” he says, stopping and putting a hand on my back to help me up a slide of rocks. “It’s just the altitude that’s getting to you.”
“Is that all?” I laugh. “Didn’t you know I’m allergic to exercise? How long have we been doing this? And if you say ten minutes I’m going to push you off that ledge over there.”
“Nah. We’ve been going for well over an hour now.” He ducks as I swat at him.
“And we’re doing this, why?”
“Because I wanted to show you how beautiful wine country is.”
“Couldn’t we have done it while sitting in a winery drinking some of the libations that said wine country has produced?”
“We could have.”
“Then why aren’t we?” I ask and wheeze in a breath. This seriously is not what I thought we’d be doing when he said he wanted to take me somewhere.
But I have to admit the view isn’t too shabby. Watching Grady’s ass as he climbs the mountain is a sight I’m not complaining about in the least.
“How come I haven’t seen anyone else on the trail?” I ask, looking behind me and growing slightly dizzy at how high we’ve ascended. “Should I be worried that Mallory called and wants to have some fun, and you aren’t sure how to tell me so you’ve brought me up here to off me instead of hurting my feelings and telling me so?”
Grady’s feet falter, and he turns back to stare at me from beneath the brim of his Sunnyville Fire Department baseball hat. The sexy-as-hell smirk on his lips makes me want to kiss him. “Off you?”
“Yeah.” I shrug playfully, needing this banter to distract me from realizing how much exercise I’m actually getting. I bring both hands to my neck as if someone is choking me. “Off me.”
He takes a step toward me. “For the record, Mallory has called, and I’ve told her not to bother calling again because my bed is otherwise occupied.” He presses a chaste kiss to my lips, which have fallen lax from his comment, and then turns around and starts walking again.
I stare after him, the cavalier way he made that statement more striking than the confession itself. Almost as if he thinks I’m crazy for thinking otherwise.
My mind spins at breakneck speed as I wonder if this means Grady Malone has feelings for me like I do for him. Sure we’re having sex. Yes, he cuddles up to me at night after a long day at work. Admittedly he just said he turned down his in-the-meantime-in-between-time girl, but that doesn’t mean I can read into his words any more than I can let myself believe when my time is up here he might actually ask me to stay.
Because I know that isn’t a possibility. He’s made that more than clear.
“Wait up!” I shake my head and scramble after him, not wanting to get too far behind because that means I’ll just have that much farther to walk in an accelerated speed.
“You have quite the imagination,” Grady says when I catch up to him.
“It’s an occupational hazard to make up stories.”
“Well, lucky for you, Grant’s a detective so if I did have some elaborate plan to off you, I’m sure he’d sniff out my lies and throw the book at me.”
“So you aren’t going to off me then?” I pant, needing the levity and our reflexive banter to prevent me from overthinking what Grady said moments ago.
“Nah. I’ll at least let you enjoy the view first.” He chuckles as I step beside him. My breath catches at the sight before us. The valley is laid out in greens, and the hillside is an array of row after row of lush vines. It’s mesmerizing and utterly peaceful all at the same time.
“Oh, wow.”
“Exactly,” he murmurs.
“I feel like we’re on top of the world.”
“Not hardly, but it’s close.”
I take in the scenery as Grady removes his backpack and takes a seat on a large, pancake-shaped rock. When I look back at him, I’m startled to see him with a bottle of wine in one hand and a paper cup extended to me in his other.
“We have reached the wine portion of our program.”
“Are you serious?” I laugh.
“Deadly.”
“I knew I lov—“ I loved you. My mind staggers over why the words falter. Normally, I’d say them because wine equals love and the person who provides it deserves my adoration, and yet for some reason, my saying the words to him seems like they will mean so much more. Either that or I want it to mean more. But Grady’s sitting there, looking at me and probably wondering why I stopped midsentence, so I scramble to think of something to say. “I knew you’d reward me.”
“Pain and suffering deserves some pleasure.” A coy smil
e plays at the corner of his lips as he leans back on his hand and watches me.
I take a sip and meet his gaze over the lip of the cup. “So . . . you aren’t trying to off me. You’re not trying to get me drunk and push me off the edge of the cliff to shut up my complaining . . . then what exactly are you trying to do here, Grady?”
“Who says there has to be an ulterior motive besides needing fresh air?”
“You’re a guy. Aren’t ulterior motives part of your MO?”
“Ouch.” He fakes a dagger to the heart and then grins as he takes a drink of his own wine. Then sighs. “Sometimes I just need to clear my head. This is where I come to do that.”
“The accident last night?”
“Mostly.” He nods, his voice softening. “It’s been a long week. The photo shoot. Some shit at the station. Drew . . . but mostly last night.”
And it always comes back to Drew. Full circle every time. Every trigger, every emotion is rooted in that one event for him.
I take a seat beside him but keep my eyes on the Northern California valley below. “Want to talk about it?”
Grady stares at the view and doesn’t answer.
“It has to be hard. I often wondered how a first responder deals with the emotions and fallout of the things they see on a daily basis.”
“Some days are easier than others. Some like last night, not so much. The upside for me is that I have my brothers to talk to about it. They see it all too, and they understand. And then there’s my dad. I have a support network most others don’t have, so I’m lucky. But I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t stick with me. The sights. The smells. It makes me react to things in my everyday life a little differently.”
“Like how?” I ask, wanting him to maybe see the contradiction in his words and his actions since his accident.
He shrugs and takes a sip of his wine. “I appreciate every day. I realize I get to come home when others don’t.” His voice is soft, reflective with a hint of sorrow.
“Do you feel like you’re doing that?” I’m not sure how he’s going to respond, but I feel the need to ask the question.
He sighs and twists his lips as he thinks. “I know where you’re going with this, and I’d rather not, okay? After the accident, I should want to live life to the fullest and all that jazz. Never miss another moment to make memories. I get it. I do. But you know what? I lived, and he didn’t. I walked away, and he has a wife and son he never went home to.” There is no anger in his voice, just solemnity.
“Do you think that by punishing yourself the rest of your life it’s going to make his death count for something? Because the way I see it, it makes it count for less.” Grady starts to stand, and I grab on to his hand and make him stay put. “No, hear me out then I’ll drop it.” He sits back down, but his muscles beneath my fingers don’t relax. “You were given a second chance, Grady. You were given something most people don’t get. Think about how you lived before the accident. Think about how you’ve lived since. Sometimes, life gives us a second chance at things. At realizing we should test ourselves and question ourselves . . . maybe you got a second chance because the first go round you weren’t ready.”
In my periphery, I can see him close his eyes briefly and try to rein in the emotion my words have conjured. “I tell myself every day I’m going to do better. I’m going to be better. I’m going to face everything and rise.”
“Face everything and rise. I like that.”
“It’s one of my dad’s favorite sayings.” I get a tight smile from him and then he continues. “And then I feel the stretch of my scars. I see something that reminds me of Drew. I hear someone in town whisper as I walk by. And then I’m back to square one.”
“You feel the stretch of your scars because you’re alive, Grady. You see something that reminds you of Drew because he was like your third brother. I’d worry if you weren’t reminded of him. And the townspeople whisper for several reasons. First, they point you out because you’re the hero who tried to save your fallen brother. Second, they point you out because they think you’re sexy and wonder how to approach you, and third, they whisper because I’ve staked my claim on you and they wonder why Grady Malone, son of Sunnyville, would dare be with an outsider of the town instead of with one of their own.”
He slides a look to me as his smile widens on his lips and his eyes alight with humor. “Staked your claim on me, have you?”
“Damn straight,” I say with a smile. “You know people are saying, ‘She could have Jett Kroger and she’s picking Grady Malone. His dick must be huge.’”
His laughter echoes around us, and I love the sound of it. “Is that so?”
“There’s no complaints from me in that department.” I lift an eyebrow and smile.
“There better not be.” He part tackles, part hugs me until I lie back on the rock, my wine sloshing over the edge of the cup in the process. “I’d be happy to make you not complain again . . . right here, right now.” He presses a kiss to my lips that stifles my laughter.
“I knew you had an ulterior motive for bringing me up here.”
“Sex al fresco.” His lips are on mine again in a languorous kiss that draws sensations from my toes all the way to my hair.
“Can’t say I’ve had sex on a mountaintop before.”
“You sure you want me to make you go weak in the knees before you have to walk back down?”
“Oh God.” I laugh. Then sigh the words again as his lips find the underside of my neck and cause chills to chase over my skin. “So, you are trying to off me,” I finally say when I can find words again.
“Mmm. Death due to being orgasmicly sexed,” he whispers in my ear before running the tip of his tongue around the edge of my lobe. “I can think of worse ways to go.”
“You watching this?”
I stare at the news on television and watch the destruction unfold. “Yeah,” I say to my dad, who sits patiently on the other end of the phone. “We’ve already been given notice. If they can’t contain it, we’ll be called up.”
The fire rages on the screen. It marches up the hill and eats the dry vegetation as if it’s starving. Black clouds of smoke billow. Lines of yellow jackets from the strike team edge the top part of the screen as they try to cut a fire line into the hill to slow down its progress.
“It’s already doubled in size in less than four hours.”
“I’m aware,” I murmur.
This used to be what I lived for. The thrill of the fire. The unexpected pull. That tingle in my belly, telling me I get to be a part of it.
“You gonna be able to handle it?”
And for the first time in almost two years, I feel the hum in my veins. It’s welcome. It’s scary. It may very well disappear if we get called up, but for now, I’ll take what I can get.
“Yeah. I’ll be able to handle it.”
“It’s the season. Long, dry summer. Santa Ana winds. If it isn’t this one, it will be another one.”
I nod even though he can’t see it. He’s planting the seed I need to prepare for facing the fire as if I haven’t been already. “I know.”
“I have faith in you, Grady. Face everything and rise.”
“I know, Dad. I’m trying.”
“You call me when you know.”
“I will.”
I end the call and watch the fire rage on. Petunia roots around, her grunts become background noise. The chords from Dylan’s guitar as she works through one of her final songs push through her closed door.
The world keeps moving as the fire rages on and destroys someone else’s property.
House.
Life.
World.
“I hope you don’t mind that I stopped over without calling first.” Emerson stands in the doorway and smiles, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and her little baby paunch finally showing.
“No. Please. Come in.” I open the door wider and do a mental rundown of if I look presentable or not. Too many
late nights working and a lot of Grady covering the station for the crews called up north to cover the wildfire slowly being contained means makeup and hair have been left by the wayside. “I could use the break. It feels like I’ve been working on the same lyrics for days without any progress.”
“How’s it going?”
“I’m down to finishing my final three songs.”
“And then you’ll be leaving us?” I notice her pursed lips and hate what my response has to be.
“Yes.” I clear the emotion in my throat that the knowing look in her eyes causes.
“I’m sure you’re excited to get back to your everyday life. The hustle and bustle of Los Angeles. Hell, now that Jett’s out of the picture, I’m sure you’ll have a blast living it up, playing the field, and meeting someone new.”
“Hmm.”
“He is out of the picture, right?” she asks with wide eyes and raised brows.
“Yes. He is. It’s definitely over.” This time my response has more resonance to it.
“Then yay, you get to go back home with a fresh start.”
“Sure.” There is nothing convincing in how I say the word. In fact, the thought of leaving here and playing the field is the farthest thing on my mind because there’s one problem with each one of those suppositions. None of them include Grady.
Or the comfort of the scanner that convinces me he’s okay and near, even though he isn’t. Like now.
Emerson angles her head and studies me for a beat, but when she finally speaks, she leaves the topic alone and moves on. “I don’t know how you do it,” she murmurs as she sits in the chair across from me. “If I had to be that creative all the time, I think my brain would fry.”
“And if I had to jump out of airplanes for a living, mine would fry.” I laugh and then shrug. “There are many days the creativity isn’t there. But when I feel a song and I’m on, I can write it in less than an hour. Other times, like now, it takes days.”
“What’s the song called you’re working on now?”
“‘Hard to Say Goodbye.’” Our eyes meet briefly, and I know she can see the truth in mine. That I’m writing a song about my imminent departure, but she just smiles softly and nods as I stand and move nervously into the kitchen. “Would you like some water? A soda?”
