Combust

by K. Bromberg

  Grayson chuckles as I swing the hammer, and I know what’s coming next. “He likes her.”

  Yep. Had that one right.

  “I do not like her.” I take my frustration with them out on the nail.

  “So she isn’t hot?” Grant asks, pushing my buttons when they’re already pressed after a few nights of restless sleep.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “So . . . are you getting any yet?” he eggs on.

  “Asks the man who probably isn’t getting any since he tied on the old ball and chain.” I chuckle and step back to grab the next piece of wood Grayson has cut for me on the table saw.

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Grant smirks a cat-ate-the-canary grin as if he’s remembering something I don’t want to imagine him remembering. “It’s only gotten better since the wedding, so no complaints here.”

  “Dude, she’s pregnant,” I add.

  “So? She’s still hot and everything still works the same. Duh.”

  “He’s still punch-drunk on love.” Grayson rolls his eyes and sticks a finger down his throat like he used to do when we were little, and I laugh. “Seriously . . . how is she?”

  I glance to Dylan’s bedroom window and think of the string of music that was coming from behind her closed door earlier. The guitar playing the same chords over and over, her muted voice barely making its way through the cracks. The oddly comforting rhythm of start, stop, repeat.

  “She keeps to herself mostly,” I say as I flip the top of a fresh beer off and let the taste cool me off.

  “She’s a songwriter?”

  “Yeah,” I say with a shake of my head, still trying to wrap my head around her lyrics. “For Jett Kroger.”

  “No shit,” Grayson says, but I don’t elaborate on their situation. “So?” He draws the word out.

  “No. God. No.” I say the words a little too quickly as if I’m trying to convince myself that’s how I feel.

  “She’s that bad?” Grant asks as he looks toward the house.

  I picture her standing with her hands holding her robe closed and that shy smile on her face. The woman has an amazing body but is so damn afraid to own it. Such a contrast from the others I’ve dated who use it to their every advantage.

  It’s refreshing. And kind of a turn-on since I finally got a peek of just how hot those curves are.

  “No. Not at all. She’s pretty. Sexy more than pretty. She’s just quiet and reserved. Not my type at all.”

  “As opposed to open and willing?” Grayson asks then chokes on his own laughter.

  “Fuck off. This coming from the serial dater.”

  “Like you’re one to talk. I heard Mallory stopped by your place on her way through town,” Grant says and smirks.

  “Jesus Christ. Do you guys have cameras watching me?” I flip my brothers off and shake my head but know I’ll talk anyway. “Yeah. You know Mal—”

  “A guaranteed good time so long as that time only lasts less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Those are her terms, not mine.” Glitter-dress girl. I hear Dylan say the words and smile.

  “Must be tough having someone want no strings, no rings, and just your ding,” Grayson says as we all start laughing.

  “What are you?” Grant asks throwing his bottle cap at him. “Twelve?”

  “Some days,” I mutter as I swing the hammer again and secure the crossbeam on the outdoor room I’m building. “Dylan’s cool. She doesn’t get in the way. She’s more than easy on the eyes. She grocery shops.”

  “Sexy and domestic. Damn.”

  “Yes. Happy? Now, can you stop being so damn annoying?”

  Grant smirks in victory. “Never. It’s my job as the oldest to keep you in check.”

  I mark the next board with my yellow chalk to show Grayson where to cut it. “Do you think Mom’s going to be pissed we bailed on Sunday dinner?” I ask to try and change the topic off Dylan. Last thing I need is for her to open her window and hear us talking about her and sex . . . especially when she knows damn well my dick hardened when she was on top of me.

  “Nah. She was cool with it. She said it was too hot to cook so she’s taking Luke to the movies for Nana time instead,” Grayson says referring to his son.

  “Maybe she’s the smart one and we’re the dumb ones sitting out here in this heat. It’s fucking hotter than hell. I thought it was supposed to be a mild summer,” I gripe as I pull at my shirt where it sticks to my skin.

  “Take your shirt off, then,” Grayson says right before the whir of the saw begins and then ends.

  I ignore his comment, hating that it still bugs me when it shouldn’t, and grab the beam a little more forcefully than he deserves. “Help me hold this, will ya?” I ask Grant, but he just stands there and stares at me like I’m about to get a big brotherly lecture I’m not in the mood to hear. “Don’t start this shit. It’s been a rough couple of days, okay?”

  “You having dreams again?” Grayson asks while Grant’s eyes remain locked on mine.

  “I’m good.” I shrug off his stare and walk to the farthest end of the concrete pad to ignore the shit he wants to address. I want to be left the fuck alone.

  “Then take your shirt off. Show the two of us up with your definition since I know you’ve been lifting like a son of a bitch at the gym at all hours of the night.”

  Goddamn small town.

  “So what? I can’t sleep, so I go and lift. Is there a problem with that? It’s better than going out and drinking like I desperately want to some nights.”

  “True. It might heal the scars in your head but—”

  “But what?” I snap at him, hands fisted, temper tested. “Not the ones on my back?”

  “Do you think I give a flying fuck about the ones on your back? I’ve seen your ugly ass more times than I care to count. Even parts of you I need a microscope to see,” he says for the laugh, but I don’t feel like smiling. “Do you think it bugs me what your scars look like? Do you think I’m going to look at you differently or love you any less? It’s the ones in your head I worry about, you stubborn asshole. Take your shirt off, keep it on, it doesn’t fucking matter. What does is that you know none of it’s going to get better until you realize the only thing we fucking care about is that you’re here and whole. Got it?”

  I stare at Grant, jaw clenched against the shit in my head I don’t want to think about. Drew. Shelby. Brody. The sleeping pills I’ve been taking again just to keep my head above the water. The exhaustion from trying to pretend like everything is normal. I nod my head ever so slightly, letting him know I’ve heard him but not wanting to talk about it right now.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.

  “Keep your shirt on, Grady. At least that way I’ll get a chance with the ladies,” Grayson says, always the one to play moderator.

  Fuck that.

  “You happy?” I yank my shirt off over my head, hating the immediate urge to turn my back from them so they can’t look, and swallow down the churning in my gut.

  “Not anything we haven’t seen before,” Grant says as he turns to grab his beer without a stutter in his stare.

  Christ. Why does it bug me so much? These are my goddamn brothers.

  And yet, it still does.

  “Are you guys going to help me, or are you going to stand there with your dicks in your hands all day?” Anything to shift the topic. To get the look on Shelby’s face and the request she made when I saw her at the station earlier this week out of my head.

  “Says the guy who strokes hoses all day long for a living,” Grant says with a laugh.

  “If firefighting was easy, cops would do it,” I reply and dodge the roll of duct tape he throws at me.

  “Fucker,” he mutters but sets down his beer and picks up a hammer.

  It’s about fucking time.

  This room isn’t going to build itself.

  Lord, have mercy.

  To think I’ve been in my room this whole time, strugg
ling with lyrics when all of this has been sitting outside my window.

  Three stunningly handsome men. All with brown hair. All with the same build. All with the same mannerisms. Grady mentioned he had a brother who was a cop, but he didn’t tell me there was a third.

  Who would turn down a Malone sandwich like that?

  I feel like I’ve just walked in on a Diet Coke commercial. Three shirtless men with carpenter belts on, a sheen of sweat on their skin, and grins on their faces.

  If that isn’t one of the best distractions from writer’s block, I’m not sure what is. Or to keep tucked away for a memory during ménage à moi time. But now the problem is how in the hell do I pull my eyes away from the visual and back to lyrics about anger and heartbreak?

  Get back to work, Dyl. Finish writing the song and strike one more off the list of twenty tracks. One more link broken in the chain tying me to Jett.

  Their laughter floats in the open window above the cadence of the hammer and pulls my eyes to admire the sight one more time.

  And that’s when I see them. The angry red lines marring Grady’s back. He’s too far away for me to make out how bad they are, but they’re enough to give me pause, to make me wonder if they have anything to do with the nightmares I heard him fighting off.

  I stare longer than I should, curious and jealous of the ease between the three of them. Even when they seem like they are razzing each other, there is a light-hearted nature that bespeaks of affection.

  Back to work.

  After one more look.

  It’s when I pull my guitar onto my lap that I realize I was so blinded by the sexiness outside, I forgot the one reason I had gotten up, to get sustenance. A soda. Licorice. And some grapes to add to my other two essential food groups: carbonation and sugar.

  Preoccupied with a text on my phone from my agent, I walk into the kitchen and suck in a breath when I come face to back with Grady. He’s standing with his hand on the refrigerator door, head leaned inside, and his back fully exposed to me. It’s broad and strong and scarred immeasurably.

  I stare.

  I can’t help it. The marks are a dizzying array of dark and light and ridged and smooth. Horrific burns. Goosebumps chase over my skin as I imagine the pain he must have endured when he got those. I think of his habit of wearing unbuttoned shirts but never going shirtless and the hint of scars just visible above his collar that I never could have imagined led to this roadmap to hell on his back.

  A part of me instinctively wants to reach out to touch them, bring some kind of comfort. It sounds ridiculous, even to me, but that doesn’t abate the urge.

  “Not pretty, huh? Get a good look while you can.” His voice is gruff as his spine stiffens and body stills, emotion woven through the words.

  “Thank God not all of you is pretty. I was beginning to feel majorly insecure having to live with perfection like you,” I say off the cuff, trying to make this situation less awkward. My attempt to settle the sudden tension sparking in the air around us.

  “Perfection?” he asks as he turns to face me with a smile that masks the emotion swirling in his eyes.

  “Yeah. You have scars. I have mermaid thighs.”

  “Mermaid thighs?” He laughs. “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Thighs that touch from the top all the way to my knees.” I shrug as if it doesn’t bug me, as if I’m not highlighting one of the insults Tara threw at me. It’s a whole lot easier to make fun of myself so long as it puts him at ease.

  “Do you ever give yourself a break?”

  “Do you?” I ask the question, sparking a silent battle of wills as we stare at each other and wonder what to say next about the other’s insecurities. Coming up empty, I shift gears. “I think there is some type of rule about how many abs are fair for a guy to have when the rest of us are just struggling to find one of them.”

  His smile rings more genuine as he steps toward me, and I step back, my hips leaning against the counter now.

  “Is that so?” His voice lowers as his eyes flick to my lips and then back up. “I’m sure you have some under your shirt there.”

  Why does the simple action make it seem so hard to swallow?

  He takes another step.

  “What are you building outside?”

  “A playroom.”

  A nervous chuckle falls from my lips as I think of all of the versions of playrooms I’ve read about in my romance books. My cheeks stain red as I imagine Grady with a flogger in one hand standing beside a St. Andrew’s Cross.

  “A playroom?”

  “Yeah.” He takes a step closer so we’re breathing the same air, his voice husky enough to cause every part of my body to grow alert. “A playroom. You know . . . a pool table. Foosball. A real man cave.”

  I exhale a shaky sigh, suddenly more than aware that he’s so close, shirtless, sweaty, and smelling like sun and soap mixed together. But it’s his eyes that make my thoughts falter. There’s an intensity to them I don’t expect from the perpetually cheerful Grady Malone.

  “Ah, that kind of playroom . . .” But my words trail off as he steps even closer and braces his hands on the counter on either side of my hips. I can hear his intake of breath. The music floating in from outside. The pound of my pulse in my ears.

  “Hey, Dyl?”

  “Yes?” Our eyes hold, my lips fall lax.

  “I need you to open up.”

  “What?” I question as his hand brushes against my hip and his fingers pull on the drawer handle I’m standing in front of.

  “I need the bottle opener. You’re standing in front of the drawer it’s in.” His lips spread into a full-fledged grin as I scramble away from the counter and, of course, run smack dab into the hardness, all six foot plus of him.

  And then I rebound off him again in a flustered state that has him laughing and me stuttering. “Sorry. I wasn’t—I didn’t . . .” His arms hold on to my biceps to steady me, which prompts me to look up and meet his eyes.

  “We need to stop meeting like this,” he murmurs, the heat of his breath hitting my lips.

  “We do.” Brilliant, Dylan. Freaking brilliant response. “I’ve gotta . . . I’ve gotta get back to . . . to writing.”

  “Okay,” he says, that lopsided grin deepening and forcing his dimples to spark to life. Still, his hands remain where they are just as my feet do.

  “What’s the holdup, Grady?” The words come seconds before feet clomp on the hardwood floor and then fall silent.

  We shock apart as if burned by lightning. “I was just leaving.” I’m met with an expression so similar to Grady’s that the two may as well be twins.

  “Not so fast.” He walks into the kitchen as Grady opens the drawer behind me and grabs the bottle opener. “Grant Malone. Nice to meet you.”

  He extends a hand, which I shake. “Dylan McCoy.”

  “You look like your brother,” he says.

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Well . . .”

  “Not like that.” He laughs when he realizes telling me I look like a guy isn’t exactly flattering. “I just meant coloring, expressions, and . . . okay, I’ll stick my foot in my mouth now.”

  “No, it’s okay. I know what you mean. How do you know him?”

  “We had a boys’ trip a few years back.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, it’s nice to meet you.” Grant looks at Grady and then back to me as awkwardness settles into the room.

  My cell rings.

  It’s loud and echoes off the granite countertops of the kitchen and from the ring alone I know who it is.

  Jett.

  My eyes flash to Grady’s as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be when there’s no reason to feel that way at all.

  He lifts his eyebrows as the ring sounds again, but I make no attempt to answer it.

  “Don’t you need to get that?” he asks with a casual glance to the illuminated phone screen where I’m certain Jett’s name is plastered across the front of it. He looks back to m
e and lifts his eyebrows. “It might be important.”

  I’m not sure why I feel like I’m being challenged to see if I’ll answer or not, so I stare at Grady, my own eyebrows raised to match his as my cell rings one more time before it goes to voicemail.

  “Huh,” he murmurs.

  “Huh,” I reply.

  “Sure is a lot of huh’ing going on around here,” Grant says from where he stands in the doorway causing me to laugh nervously.

  “I’ve gotta get back to writing songs about love gone wrong,” I finally say.

  “Don’t forget to call Jett back,” Grady says as he grabs my cell off the counter and holds it out to me.

  A part of me doesn’t want to take it. I want him to think I’m stronger than I am and that I’m not the least bit curious why Jett is calling me. I want him to think better of me than I do myself right now.

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply and grab my phone from him. “You guys go have fun pounding your wood or something.”

  “Or something,” Grady murmurs as his eyes meet mine one last time before I leave the room.

  My mind’s still on him.

  On how that’s twice in the past couple days he’s deferred to his sexuality to avoid talking about whatever plagues him.

  The bad dream and his nakedness the other night.

  His scars and the flirting today.

  There’s definitely something beneath the sexiness of Grady Malone.

  Question is, do I want to get invested enough to find out what?

  I’m reminded of the feel of his body against mine, which tells me I’m already invested. I think that happened the first morning I met him.

  Grant and Grady laugh at something in the kitchen before the door slams and their voices carry outside.

  And I’m left contemplating the contradiction that is Grady Malone.

  The knock on the door comes moments before the handle pushes open, and Grady stands on the threshold staring at me.

  “How’s it going?” His voice is quiet as if he’s afraid he’s intruding.

  I look up from where I’m sitting on the floor, my guitar resting on my lap and several pads of paper in front of me. He looks fresh from the shower and is wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a blue Sunnyville Fire Department shirt, which makes his eyes look like they are translucent.