by Snow, Nicole
Her brilliant smile of relief is contagious. I find myself smiling, too, as she lays her head against his arm.
“I’m glad, Gray.” She squeezes his arm then, looking up at him in concern. “But are you all right? Does this bring back...you know, the memories? The lab fire?”
Doc’s face creases, and he bows his head, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He leans in and mutters something I can’t hear.
I feel weird.
Like maybe I shouldn’t be watching something this intimate.
It’s too private. I’m just an outsider here, not privy to all their pains and histories. I’m just standing here awkwardly holding an upset, nervous dog, shut out on the fringes.
I look away, glancing over the rows of pet carriers lining the back of Doc’s truck, full of angry cats, dogs, birds, even one very upset-looking pot-bellied pig.
It’s the pig’s carrier that catches my attention.
Because I think there’s a black envelope tucked into the handle of it.
Frowning, I drift closer and take the opportunity to ease my aching arms by setting the lab down in a free space in the back of the truck, right on top of a tarp so the frigid metal won’t hurt his paws. While the dog spins around in agitated circles and I try to calm him with scratches behind the ears, I brace my other hand against the edge of the truck bed and peer in for a closer look.
It’s an envelope, all right.
“Blake?” I call, looking over my shoulder.
He takes a second to break from his trance, staring up at the building with his mouth set in a grim, forbidding line. Then he looks at me, dark-blue eyes questioning, and I toss my head a little, beckoning him.
He trudges over. “What’s up, Peace? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”
“Just a little dog spit frostbite,” I say with a tired smile, nodding my chin toward the pig’s carrier. “That envelope there...that’s not normal, is it?”
His face goes dark, almost wary. He leans in to tug it free from under the carrier’s handle. It’s stuck on surprisingly hard, and he has to yank a few times before it rips loose.
He flicks the flap with his thumb and spills a folded sheet of paper into his palm.
Blue.
Just like the last note he showed me.
Oh, no.
His face goes black with fury as he scans the handwriting I can just make out in dark slashes of ink, though I can’t tell what it says.
“Doc!” he barks. “Get your ass over here.”
Doc pulls away from Ember with a kiss on her forehead, glancing at us curiously, icing over with his usual stone-cold calm as he steps closer.
His expression barely twitches as he reads the note. But I swear, there’s something dark, something deadly in the gleam of his eyes.
“So now it’s my turn,” he says flatly. “I see.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, stepping closer. “What’s happening?”
I’m expecting them to ignore me. This isn’t my business.
But Blake turns the note so I can see. When I do, my blood runs colder than the winter wind battering us.
If only you’d kept your germs to yourself, Doctor. Heart’s Edge wouldn’t catch fever.
Fever.
Fire.
And I know this story, it’s the one that made headlines nationwide.
The corrupt company, Galentron, that used Heart’s Edge as this secret base to develop lethal weapons, and tried—twice—to cover up their tests with extreme force.
Doc was one of the scientists, I think, before he realized what it was really about and tried to shut it down.
Meanwhile, Leo—Nine—did shut it down. But at the cost of so many lives lost in the Paradise Hotel fire drama. His own huge, tattooed body was scarred wild, and he became a wanted man for years.
I feel dizzy.
Until a warm, wet, raspy tongue slides across my cheek.
I groan, pushing at the Labrador’s head.
“Stop that,” I mutter, which actually gets a smile out of Blake, however tired.
I wonder how much more he can take. All this pressure and stress before he snaps.
When the breaking point comes, it’s usually explosive, and it can hurt our bodies in ways we never recover from.
Part of me wants to drag Blake home right now. Get him on my table and do everything I can to relieve some of that stress.
But I know I can’t divert him from this.
“Stay here, try to keep them warm. Lots more blankets in the fire truck,” he tells me.
I can only listen, watching him walk away to disappear inside the ice cream shop.
At least that gives me and Ember something to do.
We grab the extra blankets and start using them to insulate the pet carriers. We know the sickest beasts crowding my car are warm with the heat going, but these poor things shouldn’t have to be shivering out here in the wind with just thin plastic walls to protect them. The blankets should help.
And my chocolate-furred friend gets a blanket of his own, wrapped snug around him, bundling him up. He finally calms down a bit, curling up in his spot in the back of the truck, resting his head on his paws. I settle on the tailgate, swinging my legs, scratching behind his ears and watching the few glimpses I can get of Blake through the shop’s boarded-up windows.
He emerges awhile later, his expression set in stone. Doc’s at his side, the two of them bowed over something held between them, talking in furious whispers.
I’m a little surprised when they beeline toward me.
The thing they’re holding...it’s some kind of metal contraption.
Looks almost like a cuff, but with a nozzle and some kind of lighter-like mechanism attached, and a little empty metal tank that’s been burnt and dented in. It’s small enough to fit on someone’s arm, maybe.
They stop in front of me, both of them glaring so grimly I wonder if I did something wrong.
Then Blake speaks. “Peace, you’re absolutely sure the person you saw setting fires wasn’t Clark Patten?”
I bite my lip.
“Mostly,” I say. “The guy wasn’t skinny enough, and he was maybe a little taller than Clark? It’s hard to tell when Clark slouches so much. Why?”
“Because,” Blake grinds out. “This is Clark’s gear. The shit he borrows from his Uncle Rog for his little fire shows. I’d like to know why the hell it’s here.”
* * *
I’m left with Ember, soothing the animals, while Blake, Justin, and Rich do walk-throughs to check for any more incendiaries or buried embers that could rekindle the fire.
Doc’s taking photos for assessments already.
He’s not the only one.
Justin’s got his phone out, his brows set in a fierce line as he snaps shots of different burnt areas of brick and wood.
I’d watched Blake show him the note, and his expression settled into a deep, worried scowl while they whispered to each other.
Something’s terribly wrong.
I’m usually a pretty good judge of character. I can’t believe I misjudged Clark.
It just doesn’t add up.
I don’t think Clark would do this.
But considering how highly specialized the pyrotechnic equipment is...
God, I don’t know what to think.
Ember leans in next to me, the two of us keeping each other warm at the shoulders. She watches her husband storm around with her easygoing face drawn tight with worry.
“When does it stop?” she asks softly. “When do we finally get to just...live?”
“I wish I knew, honey,” I answer. “Wish I had some kind of answer for you.”
* * *
It’s hours before we can finally leave.
There’ll be no show at the radio station tonight.
Warren and Haley are next on the scene, because apparently, for now, all the animals are being relocated to Ms. Wilma’s place and the central atrium at the Charming Inn. It’s not a bad plan, bu
t it’s a lot of work getting half of them transferred to Warren’s truck for more space—and I give my Labrador buddy one last scratch behind the ears before he disappears.
Doc and Ember are next, hauling the other beasts. They’ll swing by to pick up her car before heading home to take solace in each other after taking the other pets off my hands.
Then Justin and Rich and Blake. They get on the fire truck.
I barely catch up with Blake, resting my hand on his arm just as he’s getting in.
He looks downright broken.
This massive statue of a man that’s been struck by a metal fist, and cracks are radiating through his soul. Maybe others can’t see them, but me?
I see everything.
And how he’s leaning hard on his right leg, meaning the left one is acting up.
He stops at my touch, looking down at me with his brows drawn together.
I offer a faint smile.
“Hey,” I say. “Drive home with me. Let the guys take the truck back.”
He frowns. “Why?”
I glance past him, at Rich and Justin, lowering my voice. “Do you really want to drive on that leg?”
He bristles instantly. I wait for him to shut down, to thrust me away.
Instead, he groans, looking away and closing his eyes.
I hear the driver’s door slam. He lifts a hand to signal the guys, then looks down at me.
“Don’t know how the fuck I’m gonna fit in that tiny car of yours,” he says, and I grin. “But fine, Miss Broccoli.”
14
Deep Tempo (Blake)
Somehow, I fit into that tiny ass huckleberry car of hers.
It’s close. Tight. Cramped.
I can’t really say it’s much better for this bum leg of mine when I’m all tensed up in the passenger seat, my thigh already throbbing. Still, it’d be worse if I had to wrangle that fire truck back to the station and then drive myself home.
It’s hard to focus on the pain during the drive home.
Hard to think about anything but the fact that this town’s in danger again, and I feel like it’s my fault.
Yeah, so the arsonist has gone after Warren, Leo, Doc.
Not me.
Not yet.
But the fact that the scum are using fire?
Maybe it’s to hurt Leo and Doc and kick up chaos, sure.
It feels like they’re baiting me.
Trying to draw me out, one messy combustion blaze at a time.
It’s like in all the little messages to my friends, there’s a deeper message:
You’re next.
Like hell.
Because if anyone hurts me, that’s gonna hurt Andrea.
And it might just hurt Peace, too.
I won’t fucking let it happen.
Something stinks rotten.
I know where that equipment came from. There’s nobody in town who has that shit but Clark and his Uncle Rog.
But Peace said she was sure it wasn’t Clark.
So would it be Roger?
What the hell would Roger Patten be doing setting fires like this?
I mean, he’s always been a bit of an old weirdo, this drifter type making his life in show biz.
Maybe he’s starting to go a little soft in the head, and his lifelong obsession with pyrotechnics is turning dangerous.
Trouble is, I don’t even think Rog is in town right now, unless he’s laying low. That’s the main reason Clark’s been taking over the prep for the carnival shows, with Roger off doing stuff in other states for winter, flitting in and out of town.
I still can’t stop thinking about my brother.
He’s no firebug, not that I’ve known.
But that’s the problem.
We’ve been estranged for so long. I don’t know Holt anymore.
And he’s not stupid. He works construction. Even if he’s more on the business side now, I’ve seen him bust his balls before his stint in the Air Force—and he can work some pretty complicated shit.
He’d be able to rig up something easy if he set his mind to it.
Hell, he’s been skulking around town, talking to people.
Probably sneaking talks with my daughter whenever he gets a chance. He knows damn well I won’t let him back in the house to see her, but I can’t watch her every minute.
All she’d have to do is drop hints that I’m trying to beat up her boy over fires he didn’t set, and she’d give Holt his scapegoat.
Is that it?
Is Holt setting Clark up?
I wouldn’t put it past him.
Still...it doesn’t totally jive. I feel like one of the UFO guys who call my show, ranting and raving about the sketchiest rumors.
Like I’m twisting things around to suit wild theories because I don’t want to doubt Peace’s judgment with Clark. Or Andrea’s.
Don’t want to doubt my own good sense, either.
Even if I think Clark’s a smarmy, proud little asshole...
The kid had an alibi. Langley told me so himself.
And he’s not old enough to know who Jenna Ford was other than a name dropped here and there, let alone worship her like some kind of hero we’ve failed to honor.
None of it makes sense.
I’m missing something.
I feel like it’s right in front of my face.
I’m still stuck on what by the time Peace pulls into the driveway, the empty spot where my Jeep should be. I’ll have to go back to where I left it parked at the station in the morning.
I’m almost hoping to see Clark’s ratty Pinto there, too, but there’s no sign of it. Andrea’s window upstairs is dark.
Probably out screwing around in the woods with her friends again.
The only reason I haven’t put more of a stop to it is because it’ll just make her go overboard.
Girl doesn’t even like the taste of moonshine after she spent a night puking it up. She still insists she wasn’t drunk that night she came home way back last year, puking her guts out and weaving.
Besides, she’s never let teenage shenanigans come between her and school.
I leave her to be smart. If she drinks that crap again, she’ll take one or two sips for show, just to fit in with her friends and then pass it on.
“Hey,” Peace says gently. “Earth to Blake.”
Then her hand is on my thigh—just below the scar.
It should hurt.
Should hurt like hell, but all I get is warmth.
Like it just drifts off her, this gorgeous candlelight of a girl who soaks her heat into me and soothes storms with the lightest touch.
“Blake?” she whispers again.
“Sorry. I zoned out.” I jerk away from glaring out the window and look down at her.
“I could tell.” She smiles playfully. “I’ve been waiting for you to get out so I can lock the car for over a minute.”
“Uh. Oops.” Clearing my throat, I pry myself out of the little purple car, stepping into the snow—and hissing, clutching at the car roof to hold myself up as I try to put my weight on my bum leg, and it says fuck you, nope.
Pain like chainsaw teeth ratchets through me, and I growl, closing my eyes. “Fuck.”
“Hey—you’ll be okay. C’mon.”
I feel the car door slam, rocking it, and then she’s there, pressed against my side. Her arm winds around my waist as she eases me away from the car, into her warmth.
“It’s okay, Blake,” she whispers. “I’m here.”
“I...fuck. I’m too heavy,” I manage to grit out, and she laughs softly.
“I’m stronger than I look. It’s okay. Let’s just get you inside. It’s not far.”
My pride wants to rebel, turning into this mangled, helpless thing in front of this beautiful woman.
But there’s no room for ego. If I try to be stubborn and stagger my way back, I’m gonna tumble us both into the snow.
So, reluctantly, I lean away from the car, clumsily shoving the door closed, and l
et my weight lean on her carefully.
She dips a little, but she’s right—girl’s stronger than she looks.
Then one hobbling, fire-burning step at a time, we make our way up the drive.
It’s the porch steps that are the worst. My leg’s turned into a brick with every step, and suddenly I can’t fucking bend it without feeling like someone’s shoving a molten steel rod right through the muscle.
Snarling, I stomp up, then slump against the wall next to the door.
I go stiff as a mummy while her hand slips into my open coat, burrowing down into the pocket of my jeans.
Pain or no pain, I can’t really ignore it.
That warmth sliding down my hip, my thigh, way too close to my cock.
Hell, maybe I’m some kind of freak because suddenly it’s like the pain just makes my cock throb harder as she twirls her fingers around down there.
Shitfire.
She can’t know what she’s doing to me.
Not when she looks so focused, so distracted.
And so triumphant, emerging with my keys—then giving me a sheepish look.
“I’ve been kind of timing leaving and coming home around Andrea,” she says, pushing the key to the lock and opening the door. “It feels presumptuous to ask you for a spare.”
I’ll make you one, I want to say. You can stay as long as you want.
You can be home.
But the words are locked up behind my teeth.
I don’t know if it’s the pain that keeps me silent, or just knowing the truth.
She’s gonna leave.
Sooner or later, she’ll go back to her cabin when I figure out who’s setting these damn fires and she’s not in danger anymore. Or spring will come, and she’ll leave Heart’s Edge for good.
She’ll leave me.
You don’t chain a girl like her down.
That’s another bitter crushing pain, keeping me trapped inside my own head, as I drag in behind her and march myself to the couch.
Forget being graceful.
I just flop down on my back, closing my eyes, letting my bum-ass leg stretch out and easing some of the weight on it.