Line of Fire

by Jo Davis

  “Might as well take the plunge. You can’t stay holed up in here forever like an old hermit.”

  “Nope, we won’t let you,” Julian said. “I’ll help you wrap your wrist.”

  They wouldn’t allow him so much as a word of protest. In short order, his wrist was done in a fresh bandage, tennis shoes were shoved on his feet, and he was herded out the door.

  They’d arrived in two vehicles, so Tommy and Julian rode with Six-Pack in his big black Ford truck, and Eve climbed into Zack’s Mustang. Tommy looked around, the afternoon sunlight almost too bright after being cooped up for so long.

  “Where are we going?”

  Julian answered. “The diner on the square. It’s the best place for homemade Southern food.”

  “You guys had this all planned, didn’t you?”

  “Yep. Operation Kidnap Tommy, a success,” Six-Pack said, grinning.

  In spite of himself, he smiled. The awful pain in his chest eased, just a little.

  They arrived at the diner and got out of the vehicles, Tommy more slowly than the others. He was still a bit stiff, but he figured at this point it was mostly due to not getting enough exercise rather than from the building falling on him. He’d never been so lazy in his life as he had been in the past two weeks.

  Inside, they waited as the hostess grabbed laminated menus for everyone and then followed as she led them to a big booth. She handed out the menus with hardly a glance, and left. Tommy let out a pent-up breath, not realizing until she was gone that he’d been waiting for her to remark on his awful scar.

  The cute young waitress who came to take their drink orders, however, did a double take when she saw him. She recovered quickly and didn’t comment either, which was good, but neither did she flirt with him like women typically did. That bothered him more than he cared to admit, even if he wasn’t looking for anyone else.

  He wanted only Shea. Who was better off without him.

  What was she doing? Was she sitting alone in her apartment, with nobody for company but Miss Kitty?

  He recalled the last time they’d made love, by his parents’ pool. How she’d given herself to him without reservation.

  How it had all gone to hell.

  “Tommy?”

  “What?” He blinked and looked across the table at Six-Pack, who gestured at the waitress. While he’d been daydreaming, she’d returned with their drinks and was waiting for his order. “Uh, I’ll have the chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans.”

  “Rolls or corn bread?”

  “Corn bread.”

  “Okay. It’ll be out soon.” Sending them all a chipper smile, she flounced off.

  Studying each of them, he decided it was time to address the elephant in the room. He pinned Six-Pack with a calm stare. “So when are you going to replace me?”

  The lieutenant almost choked on his soda. “Jesus, kid. You’re still on leave, and you’re recovering. We’re not going to make any decisions until you do. You’re not being tossed out on your ear.”

  “I know that, but come on, man. I’ll be lucky if I ever hold a pencil again, much less an ax or a fire hose.” Or a football. The knowledge crushed him all over again. “We all know I won’t be going back.”

  “I was thinking,” Julian said tentatively. “Maybe you could work in Fire Prevention. They do training programs, teach classes, and they have arson investigators who get to catch bad guys. I’m not sure, but I don’t think your hand would be a problem.”

  Six-Pack nodded. “It’s not a lateral move, but it could be exciting. And I hear the fire marshall is a good guy.”

  “Actually, I have a confession.” He smiled, feeling good about this for the first time in days. “I’d already been thinking about making a change, maybe going over to Arson. I talked to Mark McAllister not long ago.”

  It was their turn to stare, wide-eyed. Six-Pack laughed, slapping his hand on the table. “Damn, you always surprise me. Good for you. If you want to pursue it, I know Dad will be happy to put in a good word for you. We all will.” The others were grinning in approval.

  “See?” Eve poked a finger at him. “All is not lost. You can have an interesting, productive career.”

  “I guess it just didn’t occur to me that I still could,” he confessed. “I wasn’t exactly thinking straight until my nosy buddies barged in and rescued me.”

  “Well, there you go,” Eve said. “So when are you going to fix things with Shea?”

  His burgeoning happy mood deflated. “I don’t know if I can. I made it pretty clear that we were done.”

  “Undo it, then.”

  Could he?

  Their food arrived, the waitress setting plates of steaming food in front of them. Tommy faltered, picked up his fork and tried to figure out how best to proceed. And he actually felt the blood drain from his face.

  The chicken-fried steak. He stared at his plate, devastated.

  He’d completely forgotten he couldn’t cut it by himself.

  This was what Shea would be getting if she took him back. A man who needed his food cut into squares like a small child.

  He couldn’t think of anything more demoralizing.

  Except glancing away from his food to see Shea sitting at another booth across the diner. Smiling, laughing.

  With Forrest Prescott, the motherfucker.

  The breath left his lungs. If he’d been bleeding before, he was hemorrhaging to death now, run through the chest with a bayonet. No fire, no building falling and crushing him, could ever compete with the agony of watching her touch Forrest’s hand, face turned up, obviously amused by whatever he’d said.

  Had they been going out the whole time since Tommy broke things off? Had she kissed him?

  Would she invite him home?

  “Tommy, do you need help with—shit.” Julian obviously found what held his attention. “What do you want to do? Go over there and deck him? I’ll bail you out.”

  He tore his gaze away from the couple and looked around at the worried group. “And what would I deck him with, Jules? My incredibly powerful left hook?” He could barely manage a fork. What a joke.

  “Nobody’s doing any decking,” Six-Pack said firmly. “We’re going to eat. Dig in.”

  The food on his plate might as well be sawdust. But he’d be damned if he’d let this level him—at least on the outside. Picking up his fork again, he angled it and began to saw at the meat awkwardly. His friends knew better than to offer assistance with Shea and her date nearby, and he was grateful.

  He struggled with a few bites of everything, but truthfully? He just wanted to go to the restroom and throw up. He’d forced down about half his meal, glad as hell Shea hadn’t noticed him, and was almost ready to toss down some money for his dinner and take off on a nice long walk. And he would have, too.

  If a man hadn’t stopped by Shea’s table, apparently to say hello to Forrest.

  A brown-haired man in his late twenties or so, wearing jeans and a red ball cap.

  It couldn’t be.

  The man stood with his slight weight on one foot, thumb hitched in one pocket. He fingered the cap, readjusted it as he spoke. His mannerisms, his clothing, his build, were identical to the man he’d seen in the crowd after the gas explosion.

  And, he realized, at the scaffold collapse.

  Tommy had just been lowered to the ground, someone asking if he was all right. He’d taken a couple of steps, his gaze lighting on the crowd across the street. He’d seen a man in a red ball cap before he’d passed out.

  This man, he was almost positive. Every nerve in his body sang, telling him he was right. So what if he was? What could that mean? Sugarland wasn’t a huge city, and the guy could have been passing by, gawking like the other people. On two separate occasions.

  Tommy noted how Prescott’s smile seemed forced, his lips thin. Prescott looked away from the man in the cap for a few seconds, fiddling with his napkin. No, Prescott wasn’t pleased to see this other guy. Wanted
him gone. Interesting.

  Tommy might’ve been inclined to chalk it up to Prescott just being jealous of his time with Shea, but for some reason that didn’t strike him as being quite right. Maybe he was imagining the weird undercurrent between the two men, the barely concealed anger on Prescott’s face, mixed with some other emotion.

  When Shea asked the waitress for a refill of her soda, and Prescott took advantage of her brief distraction to shake his head at the other man and make a slashing motion across his neck, Tommy knew he was on base. If the man in the hat was just some casual acquaintance, Prescott would have to be nice and do the friendly city manager bullshit. Obviously, these two knew each other pretty well.

  And they were up to no good. Tommy’s grandmother would’ve said there was a fox in the henhouse.

  Tommy couldn’t eat any more, and was hardly aware of the conversation around him. He kept coming back to the men, one of whom he’d seen at two of the area’s suspicious disasters. And was acquainted with a man who wanted Shea for himself. That bore thinking about. And perhaps something more.

  The man in the ball cap left, and Prescott paid their check. He and Shea departed soon after. The love of his life never once glanced in his direction.

  Watching her leave with him tore out his soul.

  Appetite lost, he attempted to join in his friends’ discussion. His mind, however, was trusting his bad gut feeling. Maybe a little Dick Tracy action would get him some answers.

  Tommy might not be good enough for Shea, but he’d be goddamned if he’d stand by and let her be charmed by a snake.

  16

  Shea poured Forrest a glass of wine and did her best to focus on his company instead of her aching heart.

  At the diner, she’d felt Tommy’s eyes on her, had known the instant he noticed her, as though they had some sort of invisible bond that glowed when they were near each other. When he hadn’t approached, she’d been crushed.

  How must he have felt, though, to see her with Forrest again? She had no intention of being anything more than a friend to the city manager, but Tommy didn’t know that. Had he been jealous? Hurt?

  He had no reason to be, if he’d only take a chance on them.

  “Sebastiani?” Forrest whispered, close to her ear. “A nice Sonoma wine, though not rare. Unlike you.”

  Oh, my. That wasn’t exactly ambiguous.

  Sidestepping him, she held out his glass. “Cheers.”

  “To us. Friendship.”

  “Yes.” She led him into the living room and sipped her Chardonnay, her brain already working on how to get him out of here soon. She did have to get up at seven in the morning to go to work, so that would have to suffice.

  He sat on the sofa next to her, too close for her comfort. “Tell me something. I heard that you and your brother own a piece of property on the Cumberland River not far from the dam.”

  She blinked at him. She’d mentioned it to Tommy, but never Forrest. “That’s true. Our parents left it to us, but how would you know about that?”

  “I make it my business to know who owns what in Sugarland, keep track of property values and such. It’s just part of what I do. Have you and your brother ever thought about selling?”

  “Not really, I guess.” She amended that with a wave of her hand. “We did sell a tract after our parents were killed, enough to help us survive until we were set in our careers. Since then, selling the rest hasn’t come up as a serious topic because Shane would like to build on his half someday. Why? Are you interested in buying?”

  “I might be,” he said pleasantly. “It’s a prime piece of real estate. Great location with gorgeous scenery.”

  She considered that for a few moments. “True. Which is probably why I’ve never really considered selling. And I doubt I ever would, sorry.”

  Disappointment flashed in his eyes. “Don’t blame you a bit. Anyway, I had a nice time at dinner. I eat at the diner quite a bit since it’s so close to the city offices, and they have great food.”

  The tension in her shoulders eased. She was glad he didn’t push on the land issue. She thought about dinner and decided to do some probing of her own.

  “Nice of that man to stop by and speak with you. What was his name? Will?”

  He took a healthy gulp of his wine. “Oh, yes. Will. He’s a building inspector for the city. Run into him from time to time.”

  “That’s nice. How long have you known each other?”

  “Couple of years. Why?”

  “No reason. Just making small talk.” Why did he suddenly seem nervous? In the next moment, however, his jitters seemed to be gone, vanished behind a seductive smile.

  “Well, the last thing I want to do is talk,” he said, placing his glass on the coffee table. He took hers from her hand and put it beside his. “Shea, you drive me insane. I thought I could do this ‘friends’ thing, but the truth is, I want more.”

  Uh-oh. “Forrest—”

  “Kiss me, Shea.” He cupped her cheek. “A real kiss to see if there’s anything between us. If there isn’t, I’ll be just your friend if it kills me.”

  “I—I don’t think so.”

  “What do you have to lose? Are you saving yourself for a man who doesn’t want you? I saw him sitting across the diner, and he didn’t even approach and try to be civil to you,” he said, moving so that their lips nearly touched. “The man who wants you is right here. Has been all along.”

  His lids closed and he moved in, planting his lips on hers. She thought of Tommy as his mouth claimed hers, and felt disloyal. As though she’d betrayed him. But Tommy had broken things off.

  Forrest smelled good. Manly. He was a handsome man, and an expert kisser. Any woman would be happy to take him to bed.

  Almost any woman. For Shea, there was no spark. He wasn’t Tommy.

  She broke the kiss, worked a hand between them, and pushed him back. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

  “You’re a fool to wait for him,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Maybe so, but I can’t change the way I feel. I hope we can still be friends.”

  Abruptly, he stood. The flash of anger on his face touched a cold finger inside her, but it was gone so quickly she thought she must have imagined it.

  “I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’ll call you this week and perhaps we’ll do lunch.”

  “I . . . okay.”

  Why had she never noticed how Forrest made that sound like a foregone conclusion instead of a heartfelt invite? Something was wrong here and she didn’t have a clue what, besides the obvious. She knew Forrest wanted to be more than friends, but this feeling was something almost . . . bad. Sinister?

  No, that was ridiculous.

  He gave her a peck on the cheek and was gone, leaving her alone with a freshly opened bottle of wine.

  And nothing to do but drink it.

  Tommy sat in his truck in Shea’s parking lot and leaned against the steering wheel, the pain so bad he wanted to die. And not pain from trying to shift gears and then drive one-handed, as difficult as the task might be.

  Shea was in Prescott’s arms. Accepting his kiss.

  At first he was glad she hadn’t closed the blinds so he could keep an eye on Prescott. Now he regretted his stupidity.

  How can you want him? How?

  He tried to reason with himself. If she could fall into the other man’s arms so easily, maybe what he and Shea had in the past wasn’t special after all. Yes, Tommy had pushed her away, but she sure hadn’t let grass grow in the time between lovers.

  Then something miraculous happened. She shoved him away. Tommy sat up straight, taking in her stiff body language, her obvious refusal to take things further. Prescott’s reaction, his defensive posture, manhood obviously wounded.

  “Yeah,” Tommy hissed in triumph, thumping the steering wheel. “Take that, asshole. Whatever you’re selling, she ain’t buying.”

  Moments later, Prescott exited Shea’s apartment, wearing a sour expression and sporting a very
unsatisfied hard-on in his neatly pressed pants.

  Tommy smiled.

  The man jerked open his car door and flung himself inside, revved the engine, and squealed away. Tommy started his truck and followed, wary of keeping a distance. He didn’t want to be up in the man’s tailpipe, but he didn’t want to lose him.

  Prescott ran a couple of errands. Drove to a liquor store near Nashville, bought some hard stuff. Stopped at a convenience store. Drove to the river and got out of his car, walking around a nice piece of property and running a hand through his hair in agitation, talking on his cell phone. At just past ten, when Tommy was about to call off his amateur sleuthing adventure, Prescott’s next destination proved to be more intriguing.

  His quarry drove to Sugarland’s city offices and parked. Instead of taking the main entrance, Prescott used a key on his ring to unlock a side entrance, and went inside. Tommy was about to follow when a white city truck pulled up—and the man in the red ball cap got out.

  Tommy scrunched low in his seat, hoping the guy didn’t notice him there. But the dude seemed oblivious as he entered through the same door as Prescott, without using a key.

  Hot damn! It wasn’t locked. Which meant they’d arranged to meet. Probably why Prescott had been on his cell phone. More and more interesting.

  Once the second guy was inside, Tommy got out of his truck and tried to look casual as he took the same path as the other two. He kept his head up, shoulders back, walking with confidence so that anyone who might see would believe he had business there.

  Right. After ten o’clock at night.

  Inside, however, he paused and listened to the boot steps fade down the corridor. He followed, keeping close to the wall, knowing that if they saw him there, he was screwed. There was no story to explain his presence that anyone would believe.

  He made his way deeper into the office building, anxious. Which way had they gone? He paused and strained to hear, and was just able to make out voices. Moving silently, he rounded a corner and saw a light at the end of the hallway, glowing from under a closed door.