by V. K. Powell
If a single glance unraveled Finley so quickly, she couldn’t imagine what having sex with Dylan would feel like. But damn it, she wanted to find out. She wouldn’t allow any woman to throw her off her game plan, so the sooner she doused this fire, the sooner she’d return to her normal carefree life.
* * *
“Why did you fall?” Kerstin demanded, brushing the dirt from her jeans. “We were at the front of the pack and then on the ground. Did I trip you or something?”
“I got distracted,” Dylan said. “Sorry.” Distracted didn’t cover what she’d felt when Finley Masters caught her gaze and grinned. Unhinged fit. Time had slowed and everything around her faded until nothing else existed but her and Finley. Dylan rolled sideways on the ground and tried to get up, but the added weight made her feel like a toddler learning to walk. What was the universe playing at with this impossible attraction? Whatever it was, she refused to submit.
“Anybody I know?” Kerstin looked around the fairgrounds. “Are you seeing someone?”
“What? Seeing? No. I don’t have time. I just ran into an annoying police officer I met yesterday. She doesn’t seem the type to volunteer at a community function, yet here she is. Guess I was just shocked.”
“I’d call going from a sprint to a face plant in seconds more than shocking. She definitely got your attention.” Kerstin nudged her as they scrambled to right themselves with a leg hobbled to the other. “A police officer, huh?”
Dylan jerked loose the rope tying them together. “Don’t you start too. I get enough grief from Bennett and Jazz about my aversion to dating their coworkers. They should do a happy dance that I steer clear of those whoremongers.”
“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”
“This one reminds me of Bennett—”
“Watch it. You’re talking about my wife,” Kerstin said, her tone serious and protective.
“I meant when she was younger, before you came back into her life. She went wild after Papa died, and I think work and sex dulled the pain.”
Kerstin guided Dylan away from the race area to a picnic table. “I know Ben had a life before me, and we’ve talked about it, but she’s not that person anymore.” She blew on her nails and brushed them against her T-shirt. “Took the right woman to help with the pain and show her how different life can be.”
“Everyone isn’t as patient as you, Kerstin, and not every savage beast can be calmed with love and kindness.” What would it take to tame an edgy, dangerous woman like Finley? Would Dylan even be attracted to her if she changed? Why was she having a conversation with Kerstin about Finley while searching the grounds for her? And why was she thinking these insane questions? Admitting any interest at all should send her running in the opposite direction. So, why wasn’t she?
“Dylan?”
“Huh?”
“I was just saying I think this officer might be more than annoying to you.” When Dylan started to object, Kerstin raised her hands. “Just saying, you might want to consider it. I’ve never seen you so worked up about anybody, irritant or otherwise.” She gave Dylan a hug and stood. “You want anything to eat or drink? I’m going to find my wife and give her a sloppy kiss.”
“No thanks, Kerstin. I’ll check in with G-ma and Mama at the Ma Rolls truck. Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime. We’re family.” Kerstin waved at Bennett and then pointed at the sky. “We got lucky with the weather. Looks like the rain passed us by.”
“Yeah, lucky.” Dylan watched her petite sister-in-law practically skip across the yard toward Bennett, her blond curls bouncing with each step. She wanted a love like that one day. She hopped off the picnic table and saw Finley headed toward her. “Not now.”
“Dylan, wait.” Finley grabbed her hand, and Dylan stared down at their joined hands, irritated at Finley’s invasion of her space—and her body’s involuntary response. Finley followed her gaze and released Dylan’s hand. “Sorry. I just wondered if we could talk.”
“I’m going to help out at the food truck.”
“Maybe later?” Finley asked.
“What do you want to talk about?”
Finley shuffled her feet and then looked at Dylan. “Maybe how we can’t keep our eyes off each other.”
Honesty. Unexpected, but Dylan appreciated that. “Yes, we do seem to track each other, don’t we? And what does that mean to you exactly? Should we strip off our clothes and fuck right here?” The shock in Finley’s eyes said Dylan had struck her mark. “You do prefer taboo settings, right? Or maybe you’d feel more comfortable in the station’s linen closet or conference room?” Finley’s expression shifted from shock to disbelief and then something akin to sadness. Dylan’s stomach tightened. She’d only intended to push Finley away, but she’d gone too far.
“I’m sorry I’ve offended you. I realize my behavior at the hospital was reckless and irresponsible, not to mention unprofessional, but I’d hoped we could get past it. And since we’re being totally honest, the idea of having sex with you works for me, or it did until about ten seconds ago. Now I’m having second thoughts.”
“Too much?” Dylan infused the question with a hint of levity, trying to make up for her harsh outburst.
Finley held her thumb and forefinger slightly apart. “Little bit, yeah. I was going to add, sex with you appeals to me quite a lot, but I’m pretty sure you’re not a one-and-done kind of woman. So, I’d be happy to start with a chat and see where it leads. How about you?”
“Actions speak louder than words, Finley, so no offense, but I’m going to decline your generous offer.”
“They certainly do. And no offense taken. Don’t worry, I won’t bother you again.”
When Finley walked away, Dylan felt the energy that had swelled between them lessen with every step Finley took. She blended into the crowd, and Dylan grabbed the picnic table for support.
Why had she been so brutally honest and cruel? She wasn’t normally unkind, but she’d felt emotionally shaken, her defensive impulse to distance had kicked in, and she’d spoken without censoring. She should apologize, but Finley was nowhere in sight. What was it about Finley that made her question things she believed and thought she knew about herself?
Chapter Four
The crowd behind Fairview Station thinned as the afternoon air cooled, and Bennett called the festival to a close. A few police officers, most of the Carlyle family, the Robinsons, and ten-year-olds Shea and Robin pitched in, breaking down tents and clearing the grounds. Everyone agreed the event was a huge success, and Bennett promised a repeat next year. Dylan, G-ma, and Mama organized the food truck and ordered pizza for the remaining helpers.
Dylan glanced across the yard at Finley playing cornhole with Hank and Robin. The wholesome scene, contrasted to last night’s erotic display, made Dylan smile. Throughout the day, she’d caught Finley staring, but Finley had been playing games with kids or talking with citizens and had kept her distance, for which Dylan was relieved. Mostly.
“Something you like, darling?” Mama asked from behind, placing her hand lightly on Dylan’s shoulder.
“Occasionally, people surprise me, that’s all.”
“We should always give them room to do that, honey,” G-ma said.
“I guess.” While Dylan secured the upper cabinet doors in the food truck, she noticed a black SUV pull onto the lot. It was late for newcomers, but no one was turned away at these community gatherings.
Two men in dark hooded sweatshirts jumped out of the vehicle and ran toward the officers and civilians remaining on the fairgrounds, and one of them yelled, “Nobody takes my fucking daughter away from me. Shea, where are you?”
Adrenaline flooded Dylan’s system, but she didn’t feel the familiar hurry-and-save-a-life call to action. Instead, her gut tightened, she grew cold and sweaty simultaneously, and fought the urge to run. The fight-or-flight response. This was what her father and grandfather, and now her siblings, faced regularly. Fear momentarily paralyzed Dylan when one
of the men pointed a sawed-off shotgun at Jazz and Emory. “Gun,” she screamed, and then everything slowed.
Bennett and Kerstin were directly in the gunmen’s line of fire, and Dylan yelled, “Run, Ben, run.” Instead, Bennett shoved Kerstin to the ground, pulled her weapon as they fell, and draped herself over her. This couldn’t be happening.
Jazz reached for her gun while shielding Emory and Shea behind her. Poor Shea. What kind of father brings a weapon to claim his child. Random thoughts raced through Dylan’s mind while officers pulled their weapons and shouted for the gunmen to stop. Shots exploded like mini bombs. Bullets pinged off cars and blasted chunks of red brick from the side of the building. People dove for cover behind anything close or cowered on the ground and screamed for help and mercy.
Finley lunged toward Hank and Robin. More shots sounded and a spray of arterial blood arched through the air from one of them. The three of them struck the ground hard, and the grass under them turned crimson. Which one was hit?
Cops—her sisters—threw themselves in front of bullets to save loved ones and strangers. She had to do something. “Stay here,” Dylan shouted to G-ma and Mama.
“Don’t go out there, Dylan,” Mama yelled, “They’re still shooting.”
“I have to. Don’t come out until Ben or Jazz gives the all clear. And call ambulances, at least two.” Dylan’s insides jangled and her palms sweated while gunmen fired on her loved ones again. As she ran toward the wounded, Dylan searched for her family. Thank God Simon, Stephanie, and the twins had already left for Simon’s shift at the fire department. Dylan glanced behind her. G-ma and Mama hurried from the van to help others. Stubborn Carlyle women. It wasn’t their nature to remain idle in a crisis.
Dylan crouched low to the ground, moving cautiously toward the huddled group of people. The shooter who’d shouted for Shea fell near her, and blood oozed from his head and shoulder. He dropped the shotgun by his side. The other man kept firing and tried to drag his accomplice back to the SUV but finally gave up and jumped in the SUV alone.
The suspect’s vehicle spun out of the lot, and Bennett rose, holstered her weapon, and helped Kerstin to her feet, pausing briefly to give her a grateful hug. She nodded to Dylan that they were okay and started shouting orders. “Check for wounded.” As other officers ran from the station to assist, Bennett assigned duties. “If you fired your weapon, you’re relieved. Form up by the picnic table.”
Jazz sandwiched Shea between Emory and the Robinsons, knelt in front of her, and said, “You’re going to be okay.”
“My dad is hit,” Shea said, her eyes wide with fear. “Don’t let him die.”
“We have a doctor and nurses on site. They’ll take care of him.” She turned to Louis and Denise Robinson. “Would you please take her inside?” She kissed Emory on the lips and said, “Do what you can to help. I have to go. Love you.”
Then Jazz took charge of the scene, waving to the closest officers. “You two, secure the area.” Her tone was calm and authoritative like a shooting at the station happened routinely, but she was trained for these things. Jazz pointed to two other officers. “Go after the suspect and put out an alert on the vehicle. His name is Jeremy Spencer from Atlanta. I met him when Shea went missing last year. The injured shooter,” she nodded to her right, “is his younger brother, Joshua.” The officers hurried to their vehicles, and Jazz called to Ben, “Get CSI rolling.”
With the police in charge of the scene, chaos quickly shifted to a semblance of order, and people stood, found friends and family, and made sure they were okay. Dylan did a final scan to confirm her relatives were safe. G-ma and Mama comforted people and escorted them into the substation where they’d be interviewed. Her sisters assumed their professional roles—Ben administrative, Jazz operational—as if they’d practiced often. Time for her to do the same.
Dylan choked down the bitter taste of fear and shifted into work mode. She stopped at the first victim she encountered, Shea’s father. Gunshot wound to the head and shoulder, unconscious but breathing. Before she could assess his injuries further, someone shouted for her.
“Dylan, over here.” Finley crouched over Hank, her hands over a spurting injury to his thigh, and Robin sobbing beside her.
She glanced back and forth between the victims. Triage required that she determine the priority of patient treatment based on the severity of their condition. This one was unresponsive, and the officer was bleeding out. Two nurses who’d been working the event ran toward Dylan. She spoke to the first to arrive. “Check his vitals,” and then to the other, “Come with me.”
She rushed to Finley’s side and knelt. “We’ve got this.” Finley stared at her, but didn’t move, and Dylan recognized the look in her eyes. She needed to be useful. “Give me his belt and keep his head down.” Finley’s hands and shirt dripped blood. Then Dylan asked the question that wouldn’t wait. “Are you hurt?”
Finley shook her head.
She released a long breath and addressed the nurse. “Elevate his legs, use the belt as a tourniquet, and hold pressure over the wound.” She gave her orders aloud, more as a checklist than because the nurse needed instructions. “I’ve done a primary sweep, and he doesn’t appear to be injured anywhere else.” She glanced at Robin, bloodied too, his eyes red from crying. “You okay, Robin?”
“Y…yes.” His voice quivered as another round of sobs took over.
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
Robin shook his head and pointed at the officer on the ground. “My dad.”
“I know, sweetie. I know and I’m going to take good care of him.” Dylan’s heart twisted in sympathy, and she glanced from Robin to Shea and shivered. No child should see a parent injured and bleeding or shooting into a crowd of people. She caught sight of Emory’s auburn hair in a small group, made eye contact with her, and nodded toward Robin. She rushed over, dropped the station’s first aid kit at Dylan’s feet, and reached for the boy’s hand, but he clung to Finley.
“It’s okay, Robin,” Finley said. “Both of us have to be brave. Go with the lady while I ride with your dad to the hospital. I’ll call your mom, okay? You’re going to be fine, buddy. I promise.” Robin nodded, and Finley hugged him before guiding him toward Emory.
“Thank you,” Dylan said to Finley, taking a second to make eye contact and stress her sincerity.
Mama ran toward Dylan gesturing toward her cell. “EMT.”
Everything was happening at once, just like in the ER, and Dylan fell into the familiar rhythm. This was her scene now. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder. “This is Dr. Carlyle. I have a forty-ish male, GSW to right thigh, femoral bleed, controlled with pressure and tourniquet. Significant blood loss, semiconscious, unobstructed breathing, pulse thin and thready.”
She started to get up but looked at Finley and stopped. Her face was twisted in a mask of uncertainty and fear, and Dylan wanted to reassure her. “You did a good job protecting Robin. I’m sure Hank is grateful.”
Finley shook her head. “I just wasn’t quick enough to help Hank.”
The scornful tone of Finley’s voice and anguished look in her eyes made Dylan’s heart ache. She’d seen that look from survivors before but had no time to further console Finley. “You did your best. Are you sure you’re not hurt?” Dylan stood.
“Yeah. Where are you going?”
“There’s another victim.”
“I don’t care about that fucking guy. This is my friend, a fellow officer, and in case you didn’t notice, a father.”
“I’ve done all I can for him. The nurse will hold pressure until EMS arrives.” Dylan tried to be reassuring because Finley needed it, but her response sounded curt and she didn’t have time to check her bedside manner.
“What the hell does that mean? You’re just going to leave him to—”
“Easy, Fin.” Bennett said in her commander’s voice as she squatted beside Finley. “Dylan needs to take care of everyone.” She nodded for Dylan to attend to the dow
ned shooter, and Dylan had never been prouder of her big sister. “Did you fire your weapon, Fin?”
“No, ma’am,” Finley replied.
“Good. Would you go with Hank to the hospital and keep us posted on his condition?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Finley said.
Dylan returned to the injured shooter and leaned over him, rubbed her knuckles in the center of his chest to check for pain response, and relayed to the EMTs. “I also have a thirty-ish male, GSW to the head, pupils reactive but unresponsive to pain. Possible drugs on board based on erratic behavior prior to incident. Second GSW to shoulder, appears to be a through and through.” She packed a bandage over the shoulder wound and directed the nurse to secure it. “Controlled with pressure.”
“Thanks, Dr. Carlyle. ETA one minute.”
Dylan handed the phone back to Mama as the ambulance screamed onto the lot. Nothing more she could do now. No one else appeared injured, but they would all certainly be traumatized. As the EMTs got to work, the Carlyles briefly huddled together.
“Is everyone okay?” Mama asked, her brown eyes visually checking each of them as only a mother could. They all nodded and clung to one another for a few seconds, needing the comfort and reassurance that their family was still intact.
“P.S. Dr. Carlyle should not be rushing into a bullet storm,” Bennett said.
“Right,” Jazz agreed, scrubbing her fingers through her close-cropped hair. “Your job starts when the bullets stop.”
“No idea where to start unpacking everything those comments bring up,” Dylan said.
Mama squeezed her arm. “Later, honey. Love you all. I know you have jobs to do, so just be careful. Brunch tomorrow, no matter what.”
Dylan met the gazes of every family member relaying how much she loved and appreciated them before waving over the two nurses who’d assisted her. “Are you both good to help out a little longer?” They nodded, and Dylan pointed toward the station. “Clear it with the officer in charge of witnesses and then check that everyone is okay, no shock or minor injuries. Ask only medically necessary questions, nothing about the incident.” She’d learned in her first year of internship to keep her medicine separate from her family’s police work. The practice prevented legal entanglements on both sides and kept the peace at home.