Fearless

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Something that would make leaving the Texas hometown she’d loved almost as much as her family itself worth the heartache of uprooting.

  “You know he and Mama just want you to be happy,” Brad said, nudging her gently.

  At least this, Savannah could answer with ease. “I do know. But it’s different for me than it was for the three of you. I need to earn it, Brad. On my own.”

  For a minute that she measured in heartbeats, they sat there in silence, until finally, her brother let out a breath and a nod. “I get it, SB. I really do. But in the same way it was hard for you to make the decision to leave, it’s hard for Dad to live with it. Just remember there’s a flip side to every penny. Now go on and get some sleep.”

  * * *

  Cole lowered the duffel containing yesterday’s clothes to the same post-shift resting spot he’d used for the last eight years, his keys ringing out a metallic jangle as they found the kitchen counter. His condo wasn’t much to speak of, but it was neat, with plenty of space for him and his stuff—and most importantly, it was close to the firehouse. Station Eight was his real home anyway. Where he ate his meals and laid his head when he wasn’t there was really kind of secondary.

  Kind of pathetic, jackass. Donovan’s right. You need to get laid.

  Cole’s head snapped up, a bark of laughter barging out of his mouth. Okay, so he was having more of a dry spell than he’d realized. But Fairview wasn’t exactly a map dot, and while his job was his number one priority, he also wasn’t a fucking monk. He’d remedy his situation soon enough.

  But first, he needed a shower and some shut-eye. In that order.

  Making his way down the hall toward his bedroom, Cole yanked his shirt over his head and blearily kicked out of his cross-trainers. Usually he could at least sneak in a little sleep during a shift, even on the crazy nights. But every call they’d been hauled out of bed for last night had amounted to squat, and after five false alarms plus the fire he’d stood by on, Cole’s normally disciplined adrenaline was just plain strung out from the dicktease of it all.

  Of course, it hadn’t helped that Donovan had put Savannah in the bunk directly next to Cole’s, their beds separated by nothing more than half a wall’s worth of cinder blocks. How was he supposed to get any shut-eye with her sighing in her sleep barely six feet away?

  Sweet, breathy little sighs . . . soft pink lips on that smart, sexy mouth . . .

  Jesus. Cole cranked the shower handle to the On position, chiding himself the entire time the water warmed up. Ditching the rest of his clothes, he stepped into the spray, letting the nearly-too-hot-to-bear water rudely remind him that he had no business thinking of Savannah’s sighs, her mouth, or any other part of her.

  Too bad his cock had other ideas. Hot ideas. Hard ideas.

  Right now ideas.

  The ache in his balls grew more insistent, his dick stirring to life in the warm spray of the shower. He should turn the water all the way to cold and get on with getting clean, he knew. But between his pent-up frustrations over work and the wicked reminder of Savannah’s soft, sweet exhales, Cole was rock-hard in less than three seconds. Another two had his hand moving between his legs instead of toward the shower handle, and fuuuuuck, the thought of Savannah’s mouth made his cock jerk in his palm.

  The thought of her naked had him moaning before his fingers had even formed a fist.

  Cole closed his eyes, skipping the pleasantries of a slow glide in favor of a hard, steady rhythm. Want rippled up his spine with each pump of his hand, daring him further into forbidden territory. Images flashed—Savannah’s dark brown hair spilling over his pillow, her gorgeous face caught up in desire as she stroked his shaft from root to tip. Her naked body, all sexy, strong curves, under his. The sweet, hard beads of her nipples pointing up in invitation, begging for his mouth. The tight, slick heat between her thighs, gripping his cock as he sank into her again and again and again . . .

  The base of his spine tingled in warning, his balls drawing up tight to second it. But the thought of Savannah, the fresh-laundry smell of her skin and the sound of her voice curving over his name with that deep-honey drawl, worked his hand even faster. The muscles in his arm ached, his hips thrusting and his cock begging for release, until finally—God damn, yes, yes, yes—he came with a shout.

  It wasn’t until Cole had finished his shower and let his head hit the pillow that he realized he hadn’t just called out in release.

  He’d come screaming Savannah’s name.

  Chapter Eight

  Savannah did a triple scan of the parking lot next to Station Eight before heading toward the side entrance with her duffel on her shoulder. The sun had barely edged itself toward the horizon, sending just enough smoky purple daylight over Church Street to illuminate the twin rows of stone-and-brick buildings and the quiet ribbon of asphalt dividing them down the middle. The firehouse stood like a silent sentry to her right, the small patch of grass in front neatly kept, the row of windows set into the top of the garage bays dimly lit by the emergency fluorescents beyond.

  This time, she saw Everett from thirty paces away.

  “You’ve been early for a whole week now,” he said, popping the cuff of his FFD hoodie to glance at the thick black watch circling his wrist. “Four shifts in a row.”

  “So have you.” Okay, so she’d deflected rather than admit that she’d been up since quarter to five with every last one of her nerves doing the up-and-at-’em in her belly. There were a lot worse things she could be than ambitious. “Guess we’re both just early risers.”

  “Or overachievers. I saw you checking out your surroundings just now.” His expression betrayed no emotion, but Savannah made up for it with a laugh.

  “Careful, Everett. That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

  “More like an observation,” he corrected, although the corners of his mouth lifted just slightly. “So how are you feeling after Sunday’s shift?”

  “Fine.” Of course, it had taken both days between then and now to get her that way. All those damned drills he’d been putting her through had been murder on her body, and Donovan had been spot-freaking-on about her sleep cycles taking a massive hit. Not that she’d admit it out loud. “It’s amazing what sixteen hours of sleep and a bag of frozen peas will do.”

  Everett nodded, taking a long draw off the coffee mug in his palm. “I usually go for mixed veggies myself.”

  Savannah’s chin jacked up in surprise. “Seriously?”

  As if he’d be anything but serious. “Yeah. Just do yourself a favor and don’t try to cook with them afterward. Although with your track record in the kitchen, I probably shouldn’t be giving you any bright ideas.”

  The mention of her house assignment and the likelihood of a repeat appointment yet again today squeezed her gut, but she refused to show her irritation, delivering a saucy smile instead. “Still hilarious, I see.”

  “And you’re still determined to be insubordinate.”

  Savannah paused, heat creeping up the back of her neck. While she’d never claimed to be a yes-girl, she wasn’t going to get very far by landing herself in Everett’s bad graces before roll call. Again.

  “Sorry I’m not all sunshine and roses. Not that I’m ever going to be perky.” She paused to grimace, because really, the thought made her teeth hurt. “I guess I’m still a little edgy about being on shift.”

  By the time she registered the surprise flickering in Everett’s stare, it had already disappeared.

  “You’re really going to need to learn how to leave your emotions at the door,” he said, and Savannah coughed out a laugh that was both humor and irony. She didn’t mind the blunt response. After all, the easiest path between two points was a straight line. But with her personality, making that theory play nicely with practice was going to be a bitch and a half.

  “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Everett looked out at Church Street, his face showing glimmers of an expression she couldn’t quite pin d
own. “I know asking you to check your emotions sounds callous, but the faster you learn to compartmentalize, the easier it’ll be for you to adjust.”

  “I’m not a robot,” she said, keeping her tone simple instead of sarcastic, and funny, Everett did the same as he answered her.

  “I’m not suggesting you stop having emotions in order to become a good firefighter. Hell, Nelson. Your gut is the most important tool you’ve got, and I meant it when I said every last one of us is human.”

  Her mind snagged on last week’s breakfast conversation. “I don’t know. Crews and Donovan and Jones seemed awfully nonchalant talking about all those car wrecks during my first shift.”

  “And you think that’s because they’re desensitized? Or they don’t care?” Everett asked.

  “No.” The answer crossed her lips automatically. While her fellow firefighters on engine were certainly tough, none of them had tripped her jackass meter. But still, the detached vibe of the conversation she’d listened in on stuck out in her mind. “I don’t know. Maybe you guys have seen enough to be a little desensitized.”

  “Or maybe we’ve learned to manage the emotions that go with the gig.” He pushed off the expanse of bricks dividing the first two engine bays, his shoulders tightening to full attention. “Two of the three accidents those guys were talking about last week involved DOAs.”

  Sweat formed just beneath Savannah’s ponytail even though the early-morning temperature was still far from toasty, and her palms began to shake. Nope. Don’t go there. Do. Not. Go there. The three calls for car wrecks that they’d been on this week had all been fairly minor. She was going to be fine.

  “That’s awful,” she managed, forcing her chin to stay on the level.

  His gaze tapered by just a fraction before he slipped into an unreadable nod. “The truth is, this job will show you all sorts of things that should never be seen. But it’s part of the territory, so you’ve got to choose. You can either let the emotions that go with those things fuck with your head, or you can learn how to put them in a box. I highly recommend the latter if you value your sanity.”

  Savannah dragged a deep breath past the knot in her windpipe, realization gluing her boots to the concrete. “So all that ‘no big deal’ treatment is essentially just a defense mechanism?”

  “That’s a bit of a nutshell, but yeah. I suppose it’s a pretty good way to explain it.”

  They stood there for a minute, just taking in the shush of the occasional passing car and the perfectly timed flash of the amber caution light in front of the station.

  Finally, she said, “I shouldn’t have assumed that Crews and Donovan and Jones were just blowing off the seriousness of those calls.”

  “I guess that’s today’s first lesson,” Everett said, and even though he could’ve used the opportunity to take her to task for the whole assumptions-are-dangerous thing or make her feel like an idiot jumping to the wrong conclusion, to Savannah’s surprise, he gentled his voice instead.

  “You never quite get used to the truly horrible stuff. But you do get used to how to react to it.”

  “Really?” she asked, her doubt guiding the question right out.

  But Everett just lifted one corner of his mouth, tossing back the last of his coffee as he turned toward Station Eight’s side entrance.

  “Sure. How do you think we’ve all been making it through your breakfasts this week, rookie?”

  * * *

  Cole checked, then double-checked the regulator attached to his mask, carefully storing both in one of Engine Eight’s compartments right next to the rest of his gear. Savannah had gotten the hang of going through gear check after only a couple of walk-throughs, although Christ, he wished he could say the same for her ability to pick up some kitchen skills. True, today’s breakfast hadn’t been nearly as frightening as last week’s debacle—seriously, they could’ve used those grits to spackle drywall—but it had still drawn arched brows and muttered curses from half the guys on squad, including Oz. Cole had to admit, once he’d gotten past the ugly factor of the freakishly lopsided omelet Savannah had slapped over his plate this morning, the damn thing hadn’t tasted half-bad.

  Oz hadn’t even tried a bite before dumping his in the trash.

  “Okay,” Savannah said, jumping down from the back of the engine and brushing her hands together with a no-nonsense rasp. “My gear is ready, set, and good to go. So what’s first on the list of drills today?”

  Her Southern accent curled around the words, sending an involuntary bolt of heat through his blood. Why couldn’t he have a thing for British chicks? Her girl-next-door vibe was seriously going to kill him . . . if her confidence and the curves beneath her turnout gear didn’t do the trick first.

  Check that. His dark and devious imagination had already gotten a head start on both of those things the other day in the shower.

  Cole straightened, clearing his throat. “Sledgehammer.”

  He popped the door on the storage compartment in front of him, dragging two yellow-handled sledgehammers from the steel tray. Passing one over to Savannah, he shouldered the second and headed through the open garage door to Station Eight’s tiny front yard.

  “We use Halligan bars way more than sledgehammers, don’t we?” Savannah tipped her head at the sledge in her hand. Judging by her grip on the thing and the words that had just gone with it, he’d picked a winner with this drill.

  “You pretty comfortable with your irons?” Cole asked. She wasn’t wrong about the Halligan bar being the usual go-to for most firefighters, and knowing Brennan, Savannah had probably drilled the hell out of both her Halligan bar and her ax at the academy.

  She squinted hard against the already blazing sunlight beating down from above. “I can hold my own.”

  “That would be why we’re working with the sledgehammer instead.”

  “So you picked something you knew I wouldn’t be good at on purpose?” Savannah slid her free hand to her hip in a gesture that read seriously? At least he wouldn’t have any trouble getting her to rise to the challenge.

  “Yeah.” Cole stopped just shy of the old tractor tire he and Donovan had dragged out to the double-wide cement walkway just before breakfast, turning to lift a brow at her. “Starting with the hard stuff makes everything else easier as you go. Plus, how else are you going to get good if you don’t practice?”

  Her silence was answer enough, so he jumped right in to explain the drill. “We’ll start out with some basic overhand swings.” He gestured to the tire, which was already broken in and battle scarred from all the drills that had come before this one. “Go ahead and give it a shot.”

  “Okay.” Savannah jammed her feet into the concrete, her body strung tight enough to snap as she white-knuckled her sledgehammer and used the momentum of her arms to hurl herself into the swing. The dull thwack of the sledgehammer hitting the tire was immediately followed by a pained grunt-and-grimace combination that Cole had been expecting, but winced at nonetheless.

  “The reverb hurts like a sonofabitch, especially when you go at it with just your upper body.”

  Savannah’s grimace became a glare. “You couldn’t have told me that before I took the swing?”

  “Not if I wanted to give you a really good incentive not to swing the wrong way.” Cole angled his frame toward the tire, keeping his own sledgehammer nice and fluid in his grip. “The sledge isn’t so much about brute force as it is control. You want to stay loose and put yourself into the swing from the ground up. Like this.”

  Planting his boots, he firmed up his muscles from shoulders to hips, sliding a deep breath into his lungs before releasing his energy and his air on a tight swing.

  Savannah blinked, her face already flushed from the heat that promised to turn today into a scorcher. “Oh,” she murmured, a strange expression crossing her face as she blinked twice more, then nodded. “Right. Control. Got it.”

  Her next handful of swings backed up her affirmation, and Cole had to admit, despite her pen
chant for acting on pure impulse, he could’ve been stuck with a lot worse in the motivation department. They worked through drills on both sides—you never knew when logistics would screw you into not being able to use your dominant hand—then switched to low swings and a few other grips and methods before even Cole was silently screaming for a break.

  “That’ll wake you up in the morning, huh?” Savannah asked, but the way her breath sawed in and out made the words a gigantic understatement. Lowering the head of her sledgehammer to the concrete, Savannah slid a palm over her opposite shoulder, a streak of pain crossing her face and sending a pang of something odd through Cole’s gut.

  “You okay?”

  “Oh.” She paused in a moment of clear indecision before saying, “Yeah, I’m good. My shoulder is just a little sore. I must’ve slept funny.”

  Ah. In hindsight, that made sense. “Donovan mentioned that you’re crashing on your brother’s couch. I don’t guess that’s too comfortable.”

  “Donovan told you that?”

  Cole registered the shock parting her lips and lifting her dark brown brows a beat too late, and damn it. Damn it. His brain-to-mouth filter was normally right up there with death and taxes as far as reliability went, but somehow, Savannah kept blowing his composure. “Sorry. I should’ve told you nothing’s sacred around here once you say it out loud. Especially if you say it to Donovan.”

  He hadn’t meant to let his knowledge of her personal details slip. Sure, everyone at Eight was more like family than just a bunch of coworkers, but still. Her relationship status—or lack thereof—was none of Cole’s business.

  What kind of moron would break up with a woman like Savannah and leave her stranded on her brother’s couch?

  Her surprise coalesced into a shrug. “It’s not really that big a deal. The couch is more painful than the breakup. I don’t think my back will ever be the same.”