by E M Lindsey
“I didn’t fuck up anything,” Antoine muttered. “The goat did.”
“There are no wild goats here,” the man repeated as he dug something out of his back seat. It was a penlight, and Antoine just barely managed not to flinch away when the guy took his chin between his fingers.
It was in that moment Antoine noticed his hand and his arm. And the side of his neck. The skin was thick, and shiny, and two shades lighter than the rest of him. If he had to guess, he’d say burn scars from the way they wrinkled under his jaw but laid flat over his hand. His fingers were stiff, Antoine noticed, and the grip was weak where he held him.
“What happened to your arm?” The question just slipped out, and he wanted to smack himself for it because it was so not his business.
The guy gave him a flat look. “You really are full of tact.” He didn’t warn Antoine before shining the light in his eyes, and his grip wasn’t as fragile as Antoine assumed, because he couldn’t pull away. “No concussion. Sit tight, Hollywood. I’m going to call for a tow.”
“My name is Antoine. And I’m not from…”
“Don’t care,” the guy muttered. He had his phone out and pressed it to his ear. “Hey, Max. It’s Fitz. I’m about two miles from your driveway. You should go check on Robert, then get a car towed for me. Driver said he swore he saw a goat in the road before he crashed his car into a tree,” the guy—Fitz, apparently—laughed for a second and Antoine bristled at the mockery. “Yeah. I’m assuming he’s staying at the Lodge, but I’ll get his contact info. Cool, thanks man.” Fitz hung up then turned to look over. “Hop in, Hollywood. I’ll get you into town.”
“I’ll wait for the tow, thanks,” Antoine said primly. He started toward his suitcase, but Fitz stopped him with a large hand.
“Not so fast. Max isn’t going into town. His garage is that way,” he pointed with two scarred fingers in the direction Antoine had come from. “So, unless you want to hoof it seven miles…”
Antoine honestly considered it before groaning and going for his bags. “Are all of you townies such assholes?”
“Just the best of us,” Fitz said without missing a beat. He climbed in and shut the door without offering Antoine a hand—which was just as well. He managed to get his things into the back, then climbed up beside Fitz and pressed himself against the door.
The inside smelled like coffee and fast food and cologne and just general musk from whoever was driving. Fitz had smelled nicer up close—when Antoine was paying attention, at least. Woodsy and soft and…
Stop, he ordered himself. That was such a terrible idea.
Luckily, Fitz didn’t seem in the mood to make conversation. He headed straight into Cherry Creek, taking the roads faster and with more ease around every curve and bend until the town came into view. It was surprisingly beautiful. None of the shops had done it justice on any of their websites, and he let out a small sigh as Fitz dove right to the heart of the city.
“What’s that look, Hollywood?”
Antoine rolled his eyes, but he didn’t bother to try and correct him again. It wasn’t like he and Fitz were going to rub elbows, even if the town was small. “This place is gorgeous. The mayor is right—this place has marketability. It just needs visibility.”
Fitz turned and gave him a calculating look. “Wait. You’re the one Rene hired?”
Antoine bristled. “I am.”
“You? The guy who thinks this is some podunk town wants to help us generate tourism?”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Antoine fought back a sigh. “I was angry when I said that, and anyway, I don’t have to like it here. Hell, I don’t ever have to come back here again. I just have to make it seem like I would. And I’m good at that.”
“Good at lying, you mean,” Fitz said. He turned a corner and the Lodge came into view. The sight of it was almost enough to distract Antoine from the fact that Fitz had called him a liar.
“Marketing is not lying,” he snapped.
Fitz laughed as he pulled to the front near the sign that read Lobby, and he put the SUV into park. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“It’s,” he started, then shook his head. “Thanks for the ride.”
Fitz tipped two fingers from the side of his head like a mockery of a boy scout salute. “Any time,” and oh, Antoine wanted to punch him for the tone. “By the way?” Antoine stopped halfway out of the SUV at the way Fitz’s tone had gone softer. “We have a decent urgent care if you need it. If you start noticing any symptoms of concussion.”
Antoine sighed. “Thanks. I’m fine, though. Have a good night, Smokey.”
He half expected Fitz to get angry—but maybe the name was too fitting. He was definitely a bear. However he felt, he treated Antoine to a booming laugh as he gathered his suitcase close and tried to hurry out. He was eager to forget his roadside rescue. He didn’t want to think about Fitz was, and how infuriating he was, ever again. But, he had a bad feeling this was just the start to a tragically long three months, and his gut was rarely wrong.
Chapter Five
Fitz strolled into his sister’s house without knocking, flopping onto the sofa next to his nephew who had big headphones on. His eyes didn’t leave his phone, and Fitz could hear music blaring, but Owen acknowledged him with a head nod, so it was enough. Closing his eyes, Fitz sighed up at the ceiling and tried to shake off the last vestiges of his…whatever he was feeling.
Annoyed mostly, but something else.
When he arrived at the scene of the accident, he was already irritated because it wasn’t the first time he’d reached a scene to find some uppity little city boy on their phone—the damn devices at the heart whatever damage the city would end up having to pay for.
At least this was nothing more than a tree. No fuel leakage, no need for the truck. Just Max’s tow truck and a little bit of his time, but he’d make the pretty boy with his fancy haircut responsible. And he was pretty. Fitz had been annoyed by that too, because it had been years since he reacted like that to anyone. He had no trouble hooking up, heading into Colorado Springs and even Denver on long weekends when he wanted to unwind.
He never had issues with finding someone his dick was interested in, but he hadn’t ever been captivated the way he had with this California boy. Or man, really. He looked young, but the flecks of grey in his hair and the lines near his eyes betrayed his age. Fitz guessed he was well-manicured and over-styled, and he reeked of spoiled wealth and lack of accountability.
He hated those types. Normally, though, he was good at keeping the peace. He had a great public face which was what made him such a good Fire Chief—but something about the guy dragged the worst out in him. His mouth had fallen open and it been sarcasm after insult, and the guy had taken it all with very little grace.
But Fitz didn’t hate it—and that annoyed him even more.
“Why are you here?”
Fitz looked up to see his sister looming over him, hands on her hips. Gwen’s hair was tied in a neat bun at the back of her neck and she was in her track pants and tank-top—sweating like she’d been on a run.
He fixed her with puppy-dog eyes. “I’m hungry. Feed me.”
“God, either learn to cook or get married to a man who does,” she complained, but she jerked her head and he pushed up, following her into the kitchen where he spotted leftovers on the stove. In truth, he wasn’t that hungry, but for some reason, the goodbye with Antoine had left him feeling strange and vulnerable. It wasn’t often he sought out his big sister, but it felt like one of those nights. “Do you want to talk about it? Is it Chance?”
He took the bowl of soup—something with beef and noodles—and he wandered over to the table as she uncorked a bottle of merlot. “God no, not him. It was just a weird evening. Had to rescue some out-of-towner after he almost hit Robert.”
Gwen dropped the cork and stared wide-eyed. “Is Robert okay?”
Fitz loved her even more for her concern for the goat over the stranger. “I had Spencer ta
ke a look around while Max got the car on his truck, but there was no sign of him.”
“He’s probably over at Levi’s truck eating out of the trash,” she said, because that was where the goat liked to hang out. Levi usually parked his food truck near the library, and he never hesitated to treat the little beast every time Robert got out.
“Spencer didn’t seem worried once we confirmed he wasn’t hit.” Fitz decided not to tell her he’d fucked with the stranger’s head a bit and implied there was no goat, but it served Antoine right for his podunk town comment. “Anyway, he was kind of a dick.”
“Texting and driving?” she asked.
Antoine had been adamant he wasn’t, but Fitz didn’t have it in him to believe the guy, even if he had seemed offended at the implication. “Probably. I couldn’t prove it though, and he didn’t hurt anyone.”
“Even himself?”
Fitz wasn’t entirely sure, but even in his bare-bones assessment, he was confident there was nothing ER worthy about Antoine’s injuries. “Probably some whiplash, maybe a migraine tomorrow. He said he’s here to work on some marketing thing with Rene.”
At that, Gwen’s brows rose, and she finally brought the glass of wine over to Fitz. “I have a meeting with that guy. Some French name.”
“Antoine,” he supplied, then flushed at how readily it tripped off his tongue. “And I guess, yeah. Rene sent some email to the station about it—but I usually ignore those.”
“Birdie should take care of this one anyway,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Rene wants to boost tourism, so he’s setting up consultations with this guy to improve websites and other stuff. He says he’s got some ideas to help me expand my market reach out of Cherry Creek.”
Gwen was one of two real estate agents in the area—mostly handling the rentals, but he knew things were getting tight, and being a single mom of a teenager wasn’t easy. He’d always admired his sister for it, how she’d just decided to go for it. She was never one for love in any case, but her son—even when he was an epic asshole—was the apple of her eye.
He knew that this was going to be good for Gwen. Hell, it was going to be good for a lot of people, but he didn’t want that credit to fall on Antoine’s shoulders. His attitude about their town, his belief that small towns were less worthy? Why should he take credit for doing nothing more than showing everyone what a good place Cherry Creek already was?
“I hate the thought of strangers here,” Fitz admitted. He sipped his wine, then let out a heavy sigh. “I know it’ll be good. I mean shit, if this happened a couple years ago, Simon might not have sold.”
Gwen gave him a look. She was a few years older than him, but she remembered Simon from school. Then again, everyone remembered the quiet, strange kid who barely spoke English and used to run at the slightest hint of conflict. And everyone knew him now that he had run off with a famous, unbelievably attractive porn star who breezed into town to do nothing, it seemed, but to seduce the shy baker.
“I think he would have closed up anyway,” she answered. “Kid was miserable.”
Fitz smiled to himself that she still called them all “kid.” Careening toward forty and never having much in the way of personal life was weighing on him. He felt old, and a little used up, but Gwen had a way of making that all a bit softer. “He seems happy now.”
Simon had gone back to UCLA to finish the semester he’d abandoned when his grandmother died, but he and Rocco were traveling now. Fitz knew they’d be back since Simon’s brother wasn’t going anywhere. He was dating one of the guys who owned the Lodge, and they seemed permanent. The Motel brothers had been forced to live in and run the Lodge for a year, and when that time passed, only the youngest and his older boyfriend abandoned ship. The rest had integrated themselves into Cherry Creek like they’d been there from the start.
They were nothing like their father—the absentee owner who had sent his sons to this small town. Fitz had met Charles Motel a handful of times over the years. He always showed up during the Fourth of July Festival—all smiles and friendly handshakes and warm pats on the back. He was a stranger, but he never acted like it, and everyone had loved him. Fitz had been called out to the hotel once for a kitchen fire, and Charles had bought them all a round of drinks at the Tavern when everything was over.
He liked the guy.
Well, he had liked the guy. After his Tuesday night rituals at the Cherry Creek Tavern with James, Fitz liked the old man less and less. He’d put his sons through a lot of bad parenting, and he’d abandoned his youngest to raise himself. It infuriated Fitz. He was closest to James, but he knew them all—he liked them all, and each one of them deserved better.
His thoughts came back around to Antoine, knowing that he could probably help the brothers stay on their feet, help the Lodge from failing the same way as Bette’s Chametz. He’d accept Antoine’s help, begrudgingly. And at least he was decent eye-candy.
Turning his thoughts away, he took another drink of the wine. “How’s Owen’s job going?” He hadn’t been around much lately, but Gwen had pulled all the strings she could and had gotten Owen an intern position at the Gazette. Archie had been a newbie for a while, but worked his way to a senior editor position, and Fitz thought he was friendly enough. He wasn’t sure he trusted the guy, but he’d taken Owen under his wing and that meant something.
Gwen didn’t look happy, though. “It was fine for the first couple of weeks, but he’s been…” She looked over her shoulder like maybe Owen was in the doorway, but Fitz could see him through the opening, still lounging on the sofa. “He’s been so fucking angry lately, Fitz. I don’t know what the hell’s gotten into him. He’s just…” She trailed off and shook her head. “I called Archie the other day after I got an email from his chem teacher about his behavior in class being disruptive, but Archie swears he’s an exemplary employee.” She curled her hand around the stem of her wine glass, then tipped most of it back. “Maybe I just got off too easy. He was such a good kid when he started high school. Now he’s this person I don’t recognize.”
Fitz shook his head. “Do you want me to try to talk to him?”
Gwen bit her lip, then sighed. “No. I feel like that’ll just make it worse. He’s almost an adult. At some point, he’s just going to have to work through this shit on his own.”
Fitz couldn’t argue. He’d seen good kids turn into strangers. Hell, Ronan had become an entirely different person after the fire, and it took years to get to where they were now—and that was hardly anything at all. Owen was hardly the first kid to go off the rails a bit right before rushing into adulthood, but he knew it hurt worse because Owen was her world. “Just let me know, okay?”
She nodded. “Maybe you can do a weekend with him soon.”
Fitz grinned. “That’s a good idea.” He stood up, then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Tell Owen to call me when he gets his shit together. We can steal one of Ronan’s cabins for the weekend. Unless he’s too cool for fishing.”
Gwen snorted. “He’ll say he is, but you know he lives for it.” She gave his hand a pat, but she didn’t bother to get up as he made his way toward the door.
“Later, kid,” he called.
Owen’s headphones were still on loud enough for Fitz to hear them, but he lifted his hand without looking up, and it made Fitz smile.
The sun was a late summer riser in Cherry Creek thanks to the mountains, but there was nothing better than a jog around the small lake as the sky gently eased from rich violet into a soft periwinkle. The lake was where Fitz had spent a lot of his time doing his own personal rehab, determined to do better than his therapists predicted. Most of them were patronizing—a sort of pat on the head, you tell yourself whatever you need to hear, sweetie, when he insisted that he wasn’t going to let his injury take the best of his future.
Only one had really had faith in him. A woman with a prosthetic hand and bad hips. They were birth injuries, she told him, though she never went into detail and he never pre
ssed her about it. “Everyone laughed when I said I wanted to get into physical therapy, and it is hard some days. I mean, my professors weren’t wrong about everything. They were just wrong about most things.”
She told him swimming was one of the best ways to ease flexibility into muscles that had been burned taut and stiff, so he did it. Every morning, for three long years, he got up at the crack of dawn during fall, spring, and summer. He got strong enough and fast enough to cross the lake and back without drowning himself in the middle.
That strength helped him when he set foot in the station lobby and told the former chief that he wanted his job someday. And maybe he would have been laughed at, but he liked to think the old man had seen actual fire in Fitz’s eyes. His brush with death at the lick of those flames meant something. And his determination proved it.
It had come in handy all over again when Chance skipped town. And though it wasn’t his body that needed recovery, the motions were the same. The freezing water numbed him to his core the first time he took a dive in, and he was half worried about hypothermia as he made his first pass across the lake. But he warmed up, and his body was fine, and eventually the pain in his heart eased a little. He was alone, yes, but it was better that way. Chance had never lied to him —he’d done nothing but prove he was a man of his word. And that was fine. It just reminded Fitz he wasn’t the kind of man worth sticking around for. He could live with it, even if it left him with a gaping wound somewhere to the left of his sternum.
That summer morning was chilly, a faint breeze off the water making goosebumps rise along his arms, but they wouldn’t last. He gave his laces a quick tug, thanking both his occupational therapy and Parker for teaching him to tie them one handed because in the morning, his right hand just didn’t have the dexterity to manage it. He stretched his back, then took off down the path at a slow jog.