Flare Up

by Shannon Stacey

  The first hour flew by because that’s when the most cancellations and requests for emergency appointments came in, from people who had to wait until they opened to call.

  Answering the phones was her least favorite part of her job, but she still put a smile on her face when it rang because rumor had it you could hear a person’s smile in their voice.

  “Good morning,” she said in a chipper voice, followed by the name of the salon and an upbeat “How can I help you today?”

  “Wren?”

  Her blood froze in her veins, and she couldn’t move. It was only one word. It could be anybody, really. But how many times over the years she’d been with him had she heard Ben Mitchell say her name?

  Most people would have said “hello?” again after a few seconds of silence, but he just waited. It felt deliberate. Creepy.

  Forcing herself to calm down, she did her best to mimic the accents around her without going too far. The names in the appointment book blurred in front of her, but she focused on one. “No, this is Kristen. Can I help you?”

  “Is Wren around?”

  It was him. She kept breathing. She wouldn’t let him hear her fear. “She quit yesterday. Just took off. Do you need an appointment?”

  There was a clicking sound and then dead air. She’d been clutching the phone so hard, she had to force her fingers to unclench to drop it in its cradle.

  “Kelli,” she called out as the stylist walked by.

  She detoured to the desk. “What’s up?”

  “Is there a way to find out what number just called here? I didn’t even look at the caller ID when I answered.”

  Kelli hit some buttons on the phone and then shook her head. “It was blocked. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She gave her a very tight smile that felt as fake as it probably looked. “Thanks. I forgot to get the woman’s number when I made her appointment.”

  “You’re sure? You don’t look so hot.”

  She wasn’t sure why she’d lied, since they knew about her ex and she’d have to tell them eventually, but she lied again. She just needed to process the fact this was actually happening.

  Ben had found her. And she didn’t know where he was.

  “I’m sure,” she lied again. “It’s just hot in here.”

  “Let me get my client under the dryer and then you take a few minutes. I’ll cover for you.”

  She nodded, her mind preoccupied with Ben.

  It didn’t mean he was in Boston. If all he had to go on was a Wren Everett working at a salon, it was far more likely he was sitting on his couch in Virginia, calling the salon’s number until he got her on the phone. Maybe Grant could have the police in Virginia check on him again and make sure he was still there.

  He didn’t know about the market or Mr. and Mrs. Belostotsky. He didn’t know she was living with Patty and Carter. There was no reason to believe he knew about Grant.

  But it meant he hadn’t forgotten her while he was in prison. It meant he’d thought about her enough so he’d typed her name into a search engine. And then he’d called the salon until she answered the phone. He hadn’t moved on.

  She’d have to tell Grant.

  He would tell her not to worry. He’d probably give her the same reasonable explanation she’d given herself. But that’s how Grant was wired. He didn’t worry about problems until they were definitive problems. And he didn’t want her to worry, so he’d downplay it.

  It was dangerous to underestimate Ben.

  Wren took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She’d let fear drive her once and it had been a disaster. She needed to stay calm and think about how to handle this.

  And she definitely had to tell Grant.

  * * *

  Even a dusting of snow seemed to send cars careening into each other nowadays, so Grant wasn’t surprised they’d just gone back online after the third MVA of the morning when the tone sounded.

  Commercial kitchen fire. Possible cardiac arrest. Then the address was read off and they all froze for a second, trying to process what had sounded like the address for Kincaid’s Pub.

  “Dad.”

  One word from Scotty was all it took to get them moving again. As they rolled out, Grant listened to the LT’s calm voice as he reminded them to stay focused and do their jobs. Left unsaid was the command to keep an eye on Scott. They all felt an emotional attachment to Tommy Kincaid and the pub, but Scotty was not only his son, but hotheaded as hell. There was a good chance if he got scared, he’d forget years of discipline and training and do something stupid.

  The scene was chaos when they neared the bar. It looked as if the ambulance had barely beaten them there because the paramedic and EMT were hustling to where Lydia and Fitzy were bent over Tommy.

  Grant allowed himself a brief moment of relief. At least they wouldn’t have to stop Scotty from running into a fire to drag his dad out. He knew that possibility had been on the mind of every member of both crews.

  He saw the cook come out the door, a kitchen fire extinguisher in one hand while he coughed into the crook of his other arm.

  “Jesus,” Scott said, over and over again, as they pulled to the curb.

  As the siren died and they lurched to a stop, they saw Tommy lift his arm and slowly form his hand into a thumbs-up gesture and it was as though everybody in the truck exhaled as one.

  It was enough reassurance so they piled out and got to work, letting EMS take care of Tommy. They charged the lines and made sure everybody was out and accounted for. There were no customers because they’d been prepping for the day, but hadn’t actually opened yet.

  The fire had been more than the cook could handle with the fire extinguisher, but they were able to knock it down quickly. And as soon as they did, they were back outside to check on Tommy.

  When Grant got out there, they had just loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. Scott had dumped his gear on the ground and it was obvious he was going to climb in after it.

  “We’ve got him,” the paramedic said as the EMT walked around to the driver’s door. “We’re going to take care of him.”

  “I’m riding with you.”

  “Scotty, I’ll ride with Dad.” Lydia put her hand on her brother’s arm as he shook his head. “You know he’d want you to stay and make sure his bar’s okay. I want to be able to tell him you and Aidan are taking care of things here because as long as he knows you two are on the job, he won’t stress about it and maybe I can keep him calm.”

  “Come on,” Grant said. “Let’s check on the bar. We can make sure the fire stays out and that nobody wrecks the place overhauling.”

  After Lydia climbed into the ambulance, the paramedic stuck his head out before closing the door. “He said to get Bobby Orr off the wall before you break him. I’m just going to assume he’s talking about a picture. I hope.”

  The door slammed shut and the ambulance pulled away from the curb. Aidan hadn’t managed more than a squeeze of his wife’s hand before she got in with her dad, but he put his arm around Scott’s shoulders.

  “Everything’s under control. Let’s get Bobby Orr off the wall and we’ll bring him back to the house with us. He can hang out with Engine 59 until this mess is cleaned up.”

  Since Aidan was going to keep an eye on Scott and take care of the picture, Grant and the others went back inside. The bar area itself wasn’t too bad, but the kitchen and the storeroom were wrecked.

  They poked and prodded everywhere, checking walls and the ceiling to make sure the fire wasn’t hiding out, waiting to flare to life in some unexpected place. They always felt a little bad about doing additional damage to a property, but it was better than losing everything and maybe the neighbors’, too, because they’d missed something. But this one hurt more, because it was theirs.

  Location aside, it was pretty mindless work, so Grant wasn’t rea
lly paying attention as he pulled bulk packages of paper products off the shelves to make sure none in the back were smoldering.

  He caught the movement in the corner of his eye—is that a pipe falling?—and ducked his head, but it was too late. He felt his helmet shift and his head and shoulder exploded with pain.

  Then everything went black.

  “What the fuck, Cutter?” Hands grabbed his coat, rolling him to his back. “Cutter!”

  He groaned, desperately wishing Rick Gullotti would stop yelling at him. Holy shit, his head hurt.

  “LT, what’s going—oh shit.” That was Chris, who had a booming voice even when he wasn’t yelling.

  “Shh.” He forced himself to open his eyes. If they knew he wasn’t dead, maybe they’d stop shouting. “Quiet. Be quiet.”

  “What happened?”

  “A pipe fell and hit me in the head.”

  When Rick looked around and then frowned at him, Grant looked at the ceiling. There was no piping run through the room that he could see.

  “Maybe shelving. I don’t know.” Something had hit him in the head. Hard.

  “Well, whatever it was, you earned yourself a trip to the ER. You need a medic?”

  “No.” He had no interest in an ambulance ride.

  While Rick talked on the radio, Grant looked around as much as he could without moving his head, trying to figure out what had fallen on him. There was nothing.

  “Cobb’s going to take you in.”

  “Oh, lucky me.” He pushed himself to a sitting position, very gingerly rolling his head from side to side. Nothing was too damaged. But when he put his hand to the spot on the side of his head, he winced. His helmet hadn’t been secured and it must have slipped when he ducked, allowing the pipe or whatever it was to deal him a glancing blow.

  They helped him to his feet and then Rick and Gavin supported him for the walk to Cobb’s SUV. After loading him into the backseat, they decided to send Gavin along, too. They’d swing by and get his truck and then he’d meet them at the hospital so he could get Grant home when he was cleared.

  By the time he’d been seen and poked and scanned, they’d gotten word Tommy would be okay. As heart attacks went, it could have been a lot worse, but he was going to have to clean up his dietary habits in a big way. And maybe develop some fitness habits. And lucky him, he had Lydia and Ashley to make sure he did.

  “He’ll be in better shape than us in six months,” Gavin said, once he’d gotten the call from Aidan.

  “If I don’t have a concussion, why can’t I go home?” Grant grumbled.

  “You do have a concussion. It’s just a mild one. And the nurse went to get you some meds. Just lay there and shut up.”

  “There was no piping. No shelving.”

  Gavin shook his head. “There was nothing on the floor, either. Nothing that resembled a pipe at all.”

  “Somebody hit me and took off?”

  “I don’t know, man. I hate to think that, but I don’t know what else could have happened.” He glanced at his phone, probably checking the time, and then shoved it in his pocket. “Maybe it was somebody taking advantage of the chaos to grab what he could get out of the cash register, but then he had to hide in the storage room when we went back in.”

  “That’s pretty unlikely. There were a lot of people there.”

  “A lot of people not paying attention to the register. Or the tip jar under the counter.”

  Grant had to admit it was possible, but far from probable. “It doesn’t feel like that to me.”

  “No, me either,” Gavin said reluctantly. “Even if somebody did want to grab the cash, there was no reason to hit you because you weren’t paying any more attention to it than anybody else.”

  “There was no reason to hit me at all. Unless it was personal.” And if it was personal... “I don’t want anybody outside the brass to know what happened.”

  Gavin gave him a look. “That’s a mistake.”

  “I don’t want Wren to find out.” It would spook her and God only knew what she’d do.

  “Remember that time you wanted to follow them to their girls’ night out and I told you it was a bad idea and you said it wasn’t and then it was?” He shook his head. “This is way worse.”

  “I’m fine. No harm done.”

  “Harm was done. And if there’s even the slightest possibility this was related to her situation, not telling her is going to piss her off in a big way.”

  Grant couldn’t take even imagining the look on Wren’s face if he told her about this. “Do you tell Cait about every bump and bruise you get on the job?”

  “Now you’re just being an asshole.” Gavin leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “If you won’t listen to reason on that score, try this one. Right now, Wren’s just out there living her life today, with no idea this guy might be nearby. Watching.”

  Grant’s stomach rolled. “He never hit her. He was an asshole, but she said he never laid a hand on her. Just her brother.”

  “He never went to prison and then followed her five hundred or so miles, either.”

  “If he did. I don’t want to scare her until I know what’s actually going on.”

  “You mean you don’t want her to take off again.”

  “She won’t run.” He was almost sure of it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wren practically ran up the stairs to Grant’s apartment. She’d been a wreck since he called to tell her he’d taken a knock to the head and he was okay, but he couldn’t be alone overnight. His options were sleeping on Gavin’s couch or Wren spending the night at his place.

  “No offense to Cait’s training, but if I have to have a private nurse, I’m choosing you over them every time,” he’d said, not that he’d had to twist her arm.

  There were worse phone calls to get, she knew, but this was the first time she’d ever gotten the call he’d been hurt on the job. And hearing his voice had helped, but she also knew Grant would do his best to downplay being injured so she wouldn’t worry. She wasn’t going to relax until she saw him with her own eyes.

  She let herself in and called for him as she dropped her overnight bag inside the door. “Grant?”

  “I’m right here on the couch. Nurse Gavin told me I wasn’t allowed to get up until you got here.”

  The relief when she saw him was so intense, her knees felt weak. He looked okay. The pillows from his bed propped him up, and the throw blanket was over his legs. But other than the glass of water and package of crackers within reach on the coffee table, he looked as if he could have been hanging out, watching a movie.

  “What happened?” She sat on the edge of the couch and rested her hand on his chest because she didn’t know if he’d been hurt anywhere else, but she needed to touch him.

  “Like I said, I took a knock to the head. It happens, but I’m okay.” He covered her hand with his. “Maybe a mild concussion, if anything, but because it knocked me out, the doc wanted somebody to keep an eye on me overnight.”

  “It scared me when you called, so I might not even blink.”

  He chuckled, but only for a second because it obviously pained him. “I said keep an eye on me, not stare at me.”

  “Crackers and water? Are you sick?”

  “I had a pretty intense headache and the stuff they gave me for it upset my stomach a little. Not a big deal.”

  It was a very big deal. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  What looked like guilt flashed across his face. “What do you mean?”

  “If you were vomiting after a head injury, that’s really bad. Everybody knows that.”

  He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Head injury is overstating it a bit, and I wasn’t vomiting. I swear. The painkillers made me a little nauseated and the crackers helped.”

  “So how is this supposed to work? Do I w
ake you up every hour and make you tell me your middle name and what year it is?”

  The quick bark of laugher made him scowl. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh and, no, absolutely do not wake me up every hour to ask my middle name. You don’t have to wake me up every hour at all.”

  “Are you lying?” It wouldn’t surprise her at all if he ignored that paragraph on his discharge papers so he could sleep in peace. “I can text Cait and ask her what I should be doing for you.”

  “They just want somebody with me in case I need help. If I stand up and get dizzy or something. Mostly your job is to cuddle on the couch and watch a movie with me.”

  “Tough work. Maybe a nice, quiet romantic drama?”

  “I didn’t get hit that hard.”

  “What did you get hit with, anyway?” He hadn’t actually said on the phone.

  He looked at her for so long without speaking, she was afraid maybe he’d hit his head harder than he’d admitted. Then he gave her a tight, very un-Grant-like smile. “I don’t actually know. Just one of those things, I guess.”

  Considering how dangerous his job was, she should be thankful he wasn’t hurt worse, but it still turned her stomach to imagine how much worse that phone call could have been. “Sometimes I hate your job.”

  “Then we should stop talking about it and watch a movie. Preferably one with a car chase or a building imploding or something.”

  Once they’d settled on an action movie and she was stretched out next to him on the couch, Wren started to relax. Not too much, since she was precariously close to falling on the floor, but her mind relaxed and her anxiety eased.

  About halfway through the movie, Grant nodded off. The arm he’d draped along her hip got heavy and he was snoring softly into her hair. At one point, he muttered something, but she couldn’t make it out. He didn’t normally talk in his sleep at all, so either something was really bothering him or it was the painkillers.

  She was almost asleep herself when Ben’s voice echoed through her mind. Wren?