Down Deep_A Station Seventeen Engine Novel

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Down Deep

  Kimberly Kincaid

  Kimberly Kincaid Romance

  DOWN DEEP

  © 2018 Kimberly Kincaid

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Cat Parisi,

  without whom I would be a scattered mess.

  XO

  Acknowledgments

  So many people offer help, support, and all-out love (by way of everything from hugs to writing advice to wine) when it comes to putting together a book. I knew going in to DOWN DEEP that I was going to need all three when it came to getting Gamble and Kennedy just right on the page. This book simply wouldn’t exist without the following people.

  Reggie Deanching of R Plus M Photography, BT Urruela, Cara Gadero, and Jaycee DeLorenzo, you were all instrumental in getting the cover perfect (*perfect*!) for this book. I am so grateful. Nicole Bailey, as always, you keep me and my dropped commas and wonky hyphens in line. KP Simmon and the “team of awesome” at Ink Slinger, you are the very best dream team a girl could ask for.

  Rachel Hamilton and Cat Parisi, I would not get through half a day without you on either side of me, holding my hands! I cannot even describe in words how much I adore you both.

  Amanda E. Fletcher, my avid Facebook reader, who came up with Chaz McCory’s name for this book. Thank you for following and being so darned smart!

  To the lovely Geoff Symon, who tells me things like whether or not fire destroys fingerprints, and the equally lovely Dana Carroll, who uses her super-nurse skills to tell me where to wound my characters, you both keep my facts straight, and I am so very grateful for your giant brains and good hearts.

  Avery Flynn and Robin Covington, I simply don’t have enough words to say what I feel for our friendship and how much it fuels my writing, my heart, and my sanity. I love you both.

  And oh, the girls and Mr. K. After twenty-five books, you still put up with me and all my writerly quirks. Your belief in my journey humbles me, and I am able to write true, deep love, because I know it every day. You are my everything.

  1

  Ian Gamble was going to get good and fucking drunk. A solid bender wasn’t usually in his repertoire, what with the whole twenty-four hours on, forty-eight hours off thing he did at the fire house. By the time he caught up on his sleep and his workouts, there wasn’t usually much time to get shit-faced and recover, especially if he was going to abide by Remington Fire Department’s eight-hours-from-bottle-to-throttle rule. Being Station Seventeen’s engine lieutenant and a former Marine, Gamble was big on regs. Order. Control.

  But tonight was an exception. One he made every August. One he’d continue to make until the day he went into the ground.

  Because he was the only person left from his recon unit who could.

  “Hey, boss! Who died?”

  The words, spoken by Gamble’s engine-mate and resident smartass, Shae McCullough, ripped into the old scars he kept hidden, turning them fresh and raw. “What?”

  She traded a tiny bit of the sparkle in her stare for concern, sliding into the space next to him at The Crooked Angel’s bar. There was no way McCullough could know how spot-on her words had been, namely because Gamble had never told another living soul all the gory details (okay, fine…or any details) of his past as a Marine, aside from his CO and the headshrinker they’d made him see after he’d come home from Afghanistan. But he had to give his friend credit. She wasn’t an idiot. In fact, right now, she was looking at him shrewdly enough to make his heart pump out a potent cocktail of defenses and dread.

  “That’s a mighty serious look you’re wearing,” McCullough said, and yeah, it was time to lock this shit up, no matter how tight the two of them were.

  “All good. Just having a drink since we’re not on shift tomorrow.” Gamble picked up his beer for a nice, long draw as proof, rolling his shoulders beneath his T-shirt and leather jacket combo. “What about you?”

  The gruff redirect worked, just as he’d known it would. “I’m watching DC lose her shirt to Faurier,” McCullough said brightly.

  Shit. “Please tell me that’s not literal.”

  Without waiting for a response, he turned from his spot at the bar to laser a stare at the pool table by The Crooked Angel’s side door. Lucy de Costa, who had been nicknamed “DC” by both McCullough and their other engine-mate, Kellan Walker, on her first day in-house a couple of months ago, was standing among the other firefighters from Seventeen and a few cops from the Thirty-Third district, wearing an epic frown and—thankfully—her damned shirt.

  McCullough threw her head back and laughed. “Please. Girlfriend might be a rookie, but she’s not making that rookie mistake. Especially not with a horndog like Faurier.”

  Gamble exhaled in relief. Not that it was technically any of his business who de Costa got down and dirty with. But she was brand-spanking-new to the RFD, and it was his job to look out for her. Plus, if she decided to ride the bone train with their rescue squad’s second-in-command—or any other firefighter at Seventeen, for that matter—it would likely make Gamble’s universe a fuck-ton more complicated in terms of getting her and her bed-buddy to focus. Especially when shit started burning down.

  “I assume you’re talking about Lucy,” said McCullough’s live-in boyfriend and tech brainiac for the police department’s elite intelligence unit, James Capelli, as he walked up to stand beside her. Gamble wasn’t shocked to see the guy, mostly because he and McCullough were far enough gone for each other to be attached at the hip most of the time, but also because Gamble’s head was on a permanent swivel. He’d seen Capelli approaching from fifteen paces out. Not to mention where he, and nearly everyone else in the bar, had been in the room for the last fifteen minutes on top of that. Score one for the highest state of awareness. Not that Gamble could turn that shit off even if he wanted to.

  Which he didn’t.

  “Oh, hey, babe!” McCullough’s run-of-the-mill smile became something altogether deeper in less than the span of a heartbeat at the sight of Capelli. “Yeah. She’s scrappy, and she talks a good game, but Faurier’s kicking her ass pretty good at eight-ball.”

  “That’s definitely accurate on all counts,” Capelli agreed. “But as far as her getting too personal with him, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I just overheard he
r telling Quinn she’d rather be skinned alive with kitchen shears than date a fellow firefighter.”

  Gamble’s brows lifted to match the huh winging through his veins, and he slid another glance at the spot where de Costa now stood talking to Station Seventeen’s lead paramedic. “I’m assuming that’s a direct quote,” he said.

  Capelli sent an ultra-serious look past his thickly framed glasses. “I have an eidetic memory, Lieutenant. Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes, any time I quote someone, it’s exact.”

  McCullough laughed, clearly used to and enamored with the guy’s quirks. “Looks like DC’s virtue is safe. Even if her pride isn’t,” she added. Spinning her gaze back to Gamble, she said, “You coming over for a game? I’m not nearly as bad at eight-ball as de Costa. Bet I could take you.”

  “Nah. Not tonight.”

  “You sure?” Surprise mixed with the slight hint of worry on her face. “You’ve been sitting here by yourself for almost an hour.”

  Ah, hell. He’d nearly gone to a shitty dive bar instead of their regular hangout for this very reason. Firefighters were a perceptive bunch, their lives depending on it and all. He probably shouldn’t be shocked that McCullough had noticed the personal-space bubble he’d created around himself. The two of them were fairly tight, with her having the most tenure on engine besides him. On any other night, he would’ve taken her up on her challenge, then had to keep every last one of his wits about him to try and beat her. But tonight wasn’t any other night. It was the only night out of the year when his fire house family wasn’t enough to dull his memories.

  Five had gone out. One had come back. The only thing that could dull the anniversary of that came in a shot glass and clocked in at eighty proof.

  “Yeah. I’m sure,” Gamble said. “I’ve got something to take care of over here.”

  Whether McCullough believed him or had decided to let him off the hook, he couldn’t be sure, but either way, she simply shrugged. “Suit yourself, chicken.”

  “That’s Lieutenant Chicken to you,” Gamble reminded her.

  “Oooh, I kind of like the sound of that.” When he skewered her with the most “don’t you dare” stare he could work up, she grinned and—smartly—reconsidered. “But maybe I’ll stick with good, old-fashioned Gamble, just for the sake of tradition…and not being assigned to scrub the fire house toilets with a toothbrush during next shift.”

  “You’re in love with a smart woman,” Gamble told Capelli, who finally allowed a smile to sneak a half-path over his mouth.

  “I’m well aware of her aptitude.”

  “Aw, flattery will get you everywhere, baby,” McCullough said with a laugh. She took a step back, letting Capelli thread his arm around her shoulders before turning back to give Gamble one last smile. “You know where we’ll be if you change your mind.”

  Gamble lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “Copy that.”

  Watching the two of them head back toward the pool table, he couldn’t help but shake his head a little at the idea of a relationship that deep. Sexual attraction, he got. A couple of hot-sex hookups here and there to satisfy said attraction? He got those, too. But the sort of no-holds-barred love that McCullough and Capelli and a few other members of Seventeen had tumbled into lately seemed as alien to him as little green men, complete with flying saucers and moon dust.

  People swore they saw that shit; hell, they believed it in their bones. But as far as he was concerned, they were all fucking crazy.

  “Well, well. Lieutenant Gamble. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

  The throaty, feminine voice hit Gamble point-blank from the business end of the bar, and God damn it, he must have more of a beer buzz than he’d thought. He was almost always hyper-aware of his surroundings—especially when they involved someone as sexy as Kennedy Matthews. Yet, here she was in front of him, wearing a form-fitting red top and a brash, brows-up stare, and for a fleeting second, he wondered if her smile tasted as tart as it looked.

  “If you say so,” he told her, while snuffing out the unbidden thought. Not that he hadn’t entertained it dozens of times before, or thought about tasting Kennedy in places other than her mouth. But as the manager and head bartender of their regular hangout, she was almost as much a part of his inner circle as his fellow firefighters, and—like his rookie—Gamble knew far better than to muddy that water with a good, fast fuck. “Can I get another beer, please?”

  Kennedy’s darkly lined eyes widened for just a heartbeat before narrowing over the frost-covered bottle in his hand, the piercing in her eyebrow glinting in the soft overhead light of the bar.

  “That one is nearly full.”

  “Not for long.” He was already on his way to a decent beer buzz, courtesy of the bartender who had been working this section of the bar before Kennedy had come out of the back. He’d stick to beer for now to keep a low profile. Once everyone from Seventeen started heading home in a little while, he’d kick his night into high gear.

  Kennedy paused. She was tougher than she looked, which was saying something since she had as much ink and even more hardware than Gamble did, with a watercolor tattoo that spanned from the middle of her bicep to her shoulder and the top of her chest, and tiny silver studs and hoops marching all the way up her left ear to match the piercing in her eyebrow. But he returned her calculating stare with one of his own, until she lifted one sleekly muscled shoulder and let it drop.

  “It’s your liver, tough guy.”

  She reached into the cooler built in beneath the bar, popping the cap off the beer she’d unearthed and placing it over a napkin on the glossy wood in front of him before turning to saunter off. Gamble watched her go, his eyes lingering on the way her ass filled out her jeans like a fuckable version of an upside-down heart. He couldn’t deny being tempted. Shit, he’d have to be pulseless not to be. But even if he did decide to break his personal protocol and see if Kennedy was up for blowing off a little steam between the sheets, it wouldn’t be tonight.

  Tonight wasn’t about anything other than him, a bottle of Patrón Platinum, and the ghosts he’d never shake.

  As far as Kennedy Matthews was concerned, tequila made men dangerous. So, when the most dangerous man she could think of upgraded from the beers he’d been drinking for the last two hours to two shots of Patrón Platinum, it definitely sent her red flags waving in the wind.

  She could handle a guy like Lieutenant Gamble sober, no problem. Drunk?

  Christ, it was going to be a long night.

  There was a plus side, she thought, as she poured the two shots of high-end tequila he’d just ordered. She’d never had to kick him out of her bar before; in fact, Gamble had always been essentially respectful, albeit in a dark and deadly, I-could-eat-you-alive-I-just-choose-not-to sort of way. They weren’t friends, at least, not like she and Shae and Quinn and Kellan’s fiancée, Isabella, were. They definitely weren’t close, like she and her co-bartender, January, were. But January also ran all of the admin at Station Seventeen, and The Crooked Angel had been the go-to hangout for both the firefighters and the detectives down at the Thirty-Third for years now. Gamble might’ve given Kennedy a covert up-and-down look that had made her skin heat and her mind wander every now and then, but he knew better than to sling shit in her bar.

  Probably.

  Fucking tequila.

  Kennedy straightened her shoulders and placed the two shot glasses on a small serving tray. She’d have to keep an eye on him, for sure, but she’d handled far worse than a drunk firefighter, even one who was sexy as sin and built like a German tank. The last time Gamble had gotten chemically inconvenienced in here—God, it had to have been a year since she’d last seen him order shots of tequila—he’d done so thoroughly but without fanfare. As long as he remained well-behaved and didn’t try to drive, they’d be all set.

  “You’re drinking off the top shelf tonight, huh, Lieutenant?” she asked after taking the handful of steps needed to get back to his spot at the bar. Like clockwork, h
e’d chosen the seat at the very end of the wood. It was a vantage point thing, Kennedy guessed. Like most of the other cops and firefighters who frequented The Crooked Angel, Gamble never seemed to like his back to face anything other than a wall. Hell if she didn’t know the feeling.

  He arched a brow over his black-coffee stare. “You worried I’m not good for it?”

  At that, she had to laugh. “If I was, you wouldn’t still be sitting here.” Kennedy tapped one glossy, dark red fingernail against the shot glass in her hand. “All I meant was, overindulging isn’t really your style. You haven’t gone hardcore with your liquor in about a year.”

  “You’re perceptive,” he said, the slightest hint of surprise coloring his tone.

  “Don’t sound so shocked.” Kennedy put the shot glass on the bar in front of his thickly corded, very inked forearm, following it with the second shot of tequila before continuing. “I’m a bartender. It’s my job to be perceptive.”

  “Hmm.” He threw back one of the shots without so much as a wince or a shudder. Placing the empty glass on the bar between them, he asked, “Can I get two more of these?”

  Confusion prickled a path up her spine. “You haven’t done the other one.”

  “There you go, being all perceptive again.”