Under Fire (Southern Heat Book 7)

by Jamie Garrett

  Connor jerked his head back toward the rig. “In the truck.” He leaned in to take a look at whatever it was she was holding, but Scarlett had already turned and started walking back. He quickened his step to catch up and guided her around the back of the truck, to where the equipment storage lockers were built in. He grabbed a flashlight and then reached into the truck for a bottle of water. “Here,” he said, handing Scarlett the flashlight. She flicked it on and illuminated the piece while he tipped the water over it, rubbing the soot and dust away with his gloves.

  He was turning the metal over when her hand shot out, holding his in place. “There!” Her voice was hushed, despite its intensity, and for the first time, Connor noticed they were the only ones around the back of the truck. Their equipment was mostly stowed, and the others must have been still on the scene checking for any spot fires or evidence of any arson.

  They were alone.

  The darkening skies and smoky air took on a new quality, the usual smells and sounds of a scene falling into the background as Connor watched Scarlett. Her brow was furrowed, but her eyes sparkled, bright as she stared at the evidence still in his hands. She loved her job, that much was clear. Her hand moved and rested on his, turning the metal more toward the light. Even through his gloves, Connor swore he could feel the heat of her touch. At the same time, it sent shivers through him. He closed his eyes, remembering the heat of her when he was deep inside her body. She had been scalding, her tight pussy gripping and squeezing him until he’d come in the best orgasm of his life. Somehow, standing in a smoky field with nothing more than her hand resting on his through thick protective gear, her touch felt no less intense.

  “It has a mark,” she said.

  Connor’s eyes snapped open at her words. She maneuvered the piece again, pointing at a series of grooves over one face. Her fingers dipped and swirled over the marks, her bare flesh picking up more than his gloved hands had noticed. He shucked off the gloves and shoved them back into his turnout gear and then brought the metal up closer to investigate.

  If he’d thought her touch through the glove had been something . . . Connor forced himself to ignore what skin-on-skin was doing to him. Even the subtle brushing of fingertips had him hardening further in his pants. How the fuck could turnout gear be tight? His jaw tightened as he resisted the urge to adjust himself to relieve any of the pressure and instead focused on Scarlett’s find. It was an odd symbol, one he’d never seen before—two inverted, interlocking triangles.

  Apparently, Scarlett was as puzzled as he was. “What the hell is that?” she murmured, taking the object fully in her hands and rotating it, shining the light on every surface. The piece was likely perfectly safe. It had cooled from the fire and also been washed, but still Connor’s pulse jumped at the sight of her turning it around in her hands. They still didn’t know what had caused such a massive explosion as to practically rip the house behind them apart, or whatever the hell else their mystery assholes been cooking in there. He didn’t want to take any risks with even the least amount of residue ending up on Scarlett’s skin.

  He reached up to take it, but somehow ended up wrapping his hand around hers instead. She was smaller than he was, that he’d noticed. That wasn’t hard. Excepting Charlie, most of the squad was made up of large, tall men. It was part of the job. What he hadn’t expected was for her hand to fit entirely inside his, disappearing in his grasp. Another burst of heat ran through him, and Scarlett looked up, her eyes locking on his.

  What had he been worried about? Staring into the pools of brown before him, Connor couldn’t remember a damn thing except what it had felt like to touch his lips to hers, to take her in a kiss that was all-consuming, that had made the world fall away. He leaned forward, the hand that had been moving to grab the evidence instead wrapping around the small of Scarlett’s back—whether to hold her in place or pull her toward him, he didn’t care.

  Scarlett didn’t seem to care, either. Her body pressed a little firmer against his, and her head tilted, showing him the creamy skin of her neck. Connor’s pulse beat double-time. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he wondered if he should move a little so she wouldn’t feel his erection, but the rest of him didn’t give a shit. His lips brushed over hers—once, twice—before her mouth opened and his tongue slipped inside. Her taste exploded on his tongue, and Connor groaned. He moved forward, his hand firming on her back, to take her completely, when something sharp pressed against his sternum. He ignored it, wrapping his other hand around the back of her head. He vaguely felt Scarlett’s hand brush against his hip, but then something dug into his abs so deeply he pulled back, jerking before he could stop himself. “Damn it!”

  Scarlett looked up at him, smiling, holding up the stupid piece of metal. He’d forgotten about it entirely, until one corner of it had jabbed into him nearly hard enough to break the skin. After all his worrying about keeping Scarlett safe, it was his dumb ass that had nearly been on the line in the end.

  “Looking for this?” she said. Her lips were still glistening from their kiss, her hair a little mussed from his touch, and Connor took a step forward. He’d put the damn thing in the truck, where it’d be safe, and then start again where they’d left off.

  Scarlett’s gaze dropped away from his, and she took a step back. He froze, and her expression changed. One moment, she was as hot and flushed as he was, but now . . . he shook his head. He’d be damned if that was pity on her face, mixed with a little regret. He stopped where he was, turning to lean against the side of the truck, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Just tell me why,” he gruffed out.

  Scarlett still wouldn’t meet his gaze, her eyes instead roving over the scene around them. Even from this side of the truck he could hear shouts from his crew. The smoky atmosphere that had been almost romantic just moments ago was now exactly what it was: a crime scene.

  God, he’d been a total idiot.

  He’d told himself multiple times since their amazing time together that he had to take things slow. For all her confidence at her job, there was a skittishness from Scarlett any time he even touched her, let alone tried to bring up the possibility of more between them. That night, well, really it had been the morning after a shift, he was riding high on emotions. From how Scarlett had reacted to him, it was likely she had been, too. Connor cursed under his breath. The last thing he ever wanted to do was take advantage of her, of any woman. She’d been a willing participant that morning, but as the time from the encounter wore on, he was almost certain she regretted it. She hadn’t been ready. He’d caught her at a weak moment, and they’d both indulged to make themselves feel better. He almost snorted at the thought. At the time, the fire had gotten to him, unusually so. After two more similar calls in a matter of days, his suspicions were starting to turn to outright paranoia.

  He glanced over at Scarlett. She’d placed the metal object down on the ledge at the back of truck and was fussing with her clothes, probably trying to not look like he’d just taken her against the side of the truck at a fire scene. He cursed himself again. If he had any hope of convincing her that it was worth taking a chance on what had been between them, then he needed to show her that. Most first responders he knew were tough as nails, and while Scarlett was, too, when it came to her job, she’d also showed him her softer side. The one that craved warmth and touch, that kissed him deeply and made love with abandon. He wanted that back, and so he had to stop being a total ass and let her take the lead, even if every touch of skin against skin ignited something inside him he’d never felt before. If he pushed again, he’d lose her entirely. That much he knew.

  “Just tell me I haven’t turned you against me entirely.” The words surprised him, even as they left his mouth.

  Scarlett stopped mid-finger-comb of her hair. Crap, he’d just put his foot in it again. Except this time, she looked up, finally meeting his gaze. Her face softened as her gaze met his and she smiled, even though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I feel like a walking cliché saying t
his,” she said. Scarlett dropped her hands away from her hair and leaned back against the truck, echoing his posture. “But it’s really not you. It’s me.” A breath huffed out of her so softly it was more like a sigh. She ran a hand through her hair, fingers curling around a strand at the end and playing with it, her gaze looking straight ahead. “Connor, I can’t do that again. Every partner of a cop goes through that, the worrying when they’re late home without a call, or when you know they’re executing a difficult warrant. Most people thought it should be easier for me, seeing it from the other side.” She tilted her head, looking at him briefly before turning away again. “It made everything worse. You play things down for those you care about. We all do. I knew exactly how much danger he was in every time he walked out that door.” The hand still twirling her hair tightened into a fist around the curl. “You imagine it a thousand times. What you’ll do, what it’ll feel like. I can tell you that your worst nightmares are wrong.” Her hands dropped to her side, but she continued to stare off into the distance, avoiding his gaze. “I can’t do that again. I can’t sit up worrying about whether you’re going to walk through the door the next morning or if this time it’ll be the fire chief knocking on my door.” Her hands flexed, every muscle in her body tight as her gaze turned wistful. Her voice dropped when she spoke again. “No matter how much I want to.”

  She turned and walked away. Connor’s mind screamed with a thousand things to say in reply, but he couldn’t voice a single word.

  9

  Scarlett

  Scarlett tipped back the rest of her soda, scowling at her phone as it beeped in her hand. She’d been ignoring texts from anyone—workmates, her captain, even Connor’s boss Alex Stone. After she’d opened her mouth with the confession to Connor, it had taken her exactly two seconds to turn around and run. Connor, for his part, had stood there stunned. It wasn’t until she’d gotten in her car and left the scene so quickly her wheels had spun in the dust that she remembered she’d left the unusual piece of metal still sitting on the back of the fire truck.

  Damn it. There was no way she was turning around to get it, and so she’d shot Connor a quick text to please pass it on to a colleague to bag and tag it. Her face and burned even as she’d typed out the message, imagining his reply.

  So why did it bother her so much when no reply came?

  Her “weird-ass evidence”—as the clerk who had logged it in had called it—made it back to the station perfectly fine, but minus one too-sexy-for-his-own-good firefighter. She’d resisted the urge to ask the cop who’d brought it in for more details. Her colleagues were already awkward enough around her as it was, and she definitely wasn’t in the mood to spend any more time at the station, or going out to the local cop bar for drinks with the regulars. But after that end to her day, Scarlett hadn’t felt much like going home, either. Her house suddenly felt way too large and empty, and the thought of spending yet another night in sweats parked in front of the TV nearly gave her hives. The exhaustion pulling at her after three scenes in as many days meant the gym was out of the question, too, and so somehow she’d ended up back at the diner she’d met Connor in that morning, sipping on a soda by herself. Part of her wished for something much stronger, but she resisted. She was off duty, but there was something nagging at her about this case. It was all just a little strange. Like the weird piece of metal she’d found at the last scene—it could be nothing, or it could end up being everything. She had no idea anymore.

  She sat back, watching a droplet of condensation run over the lip of the glass and trail its way to the worn tabletop. The varnish was cracked along the edge, probably the result of one too many spilled drinks or a lack of coasters over the years. She stared as another drop followed the first, pooling into a tiny puddle at the base of the glass. Scarlett leaned in and took a sip, closing her eyes as the cool liquid ran down her throat. It was a shame the liquid couldn’t moisten her eyes. They felt dry and gritty; whether as a side effect of being awake for nearly two days straight or poking around in the rubble of multiple fires, she couldn’t tell.

  She frowned with the next sip. Nope, without some bourbon to go with, this wasn’t worth it. Maybe a sugar hit would help? She caught the waitress’ attention and gestured at the pie they had sitting in the cabinet. Her stomach rumbled at the thought, and she realized the pie would be the first thing to hit her stomach since breakfast. Maybe she’d have two slices.

  The pie arrived topped with the most obscene pile of cream Scarlett had ever seen. She took a massive bite, but before she’d finished chewing, her mind was wandering again. She tapped the fork against the edge of the plate absentmindedly as her brain ran through the facts again. Scant as they were, everything was screaming at her to look deeper. What had been up with the tanks they’d found? In avoiding practically everyone she knew, Scarlett had also managed to avoid any chance of getting the results from the lab. She needed to know if there was anything beyond oxygen in those tanks, or even a residue on the rest of the equipment. They hadn’t found any chemicals beyond normal household stuff at any of the scenes, but something had definitely made the last house go boom, and with more force than she’d seen before. Were her mystery assholes planning some sort of secret weapon or terrorist attack? Was there a sleeper cell hiding away in Monroe?

  At the thought, fingers of ice gripped the base of her spine, stealing away any sense of well-being and safety she’d had left. It wasn’t something some small-town cops would consider, too arrogant to think they wouldn’t notice someone out of place in their own town. She knew better. Evil hid in broad daylight every day. The thought slammed into her, almost jerking her physically forward. Could whatever was going on somehow be linked to the case her husband had been working on? She’d helped him research at the time, poring over reports. Most people thought of chemical-warfare attacks as something that happened far away, in other countries. They’d all heard about them in Syria and Iraq—“those” parts of the world. Some had heard of the Sarin attacks in Asia, but not many of them knew about the cyanide bomb attack that was stopped in Texas, and Scarlett was pretty sure nobody knew about the thwarted VX gas terrorist attack in New Orleans that past Christmas. Official channels had been beyond quiet—what little she’d heard had been nibbles through unsanctioned channels when Derek had pushed someone’s buttons for more information. The whole thing had been stopped by some paramilitary group operating out of D.C. after the Feds had failed to even notice the plan to kill millions brewing right under their noses.

  God. VX could kill thousands with a single drop, the median lethal dose at just 10mg. If they were dealing with something like that, then they were already screwed. The lack of any chemicals detected meant nothing when enough of the poison to kill half the population of the USA could fit in a paint can.

  She’d raised the possibility of more going on than just the fires with her brief but required check-in with her captain earlier, before she’d managed to escape the station. His response had been a slowly rising eyebrow and a request to “keep him posted.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement. But, he also hadn’t dismissed her outright, a fact which bothered her more than it usually did. She sat back in the booth, sucking a crumb off the fork. Maybe he was just afraid to call her on what he likely thought was complete shit. They’d let her keep investigating, trying on her theory, all the while doing the “real” investigation without her. She sat up, the fork dropping back on the table. Was that why she’d been given the special assignment at the firehouse—to get her out of the way? God, she was so sick of being treated with kid gloves. It had been two years, for heaven’s sake! And yet she still rarely even went out with a partner.

  She let her arms fall to the table, clinking the fork against the plate again, likely to the extreme annoyance of the guy glaring at her from the next booth over. She didn’t care. A smirk played on her lips. It was precisely that attitude that was likely why she didn’t have a partner. At first, after Derek’s death, no one had known what to say to her
. Now, she was perfectly capable of pissing them off all on her own. That didn’t mean she didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Scarlett had been on the job for too long for her instincts to be crap.

  She stood, pulling a few bills from her wallet and leaving them on the table to cover the tab. For two years, she hadn’t trusted a soul except herself, and her gut was screaming at her. She needed to see what was in that lab report.

  10

  Scarlett

  Stepping out onto the street, Scarlett was surprised to see the darkness that had been tingeing the edge of the horizon when she’d left the last fire scene had fully engulfed the sky. How had she lost so much time without drinking anything stronger than a soda? Her mind was still jumbled with data and theories, and at first the coolness that tinged the air took her by surprise. She wrapped around her shoulders the leather jacket she’d been carrying as she made her way around the back of the diner to the parking lot.

  At least she’d driven there, sure even before she’d arrived that she wouldn’t be drinking. Even the short walk to back to the station would take too long. Her mind had conjured up a link between the fires and a possible terrorist scenario, and now it wouldn’t let it go. Something in her subconscious kept poking at her. Maybe the lab report would give her one more missing puzzle piece.

  As she shrugged her second arm into the jacket’s sleeve, she tilted, and her keys fell to the ground. Scarlett froze, scanning the entire lot, her gaze taking in nothing more than an old tree in the corner and buildings’ back walls, the faded brickwork, about half of which was covered in graffiti tags. When had she become so paranoid? True, Monroe wasn’t exactly angelic, but it wasn’t to the point she feared being attacked in a parking lot—solely because she let her guard down for as long as it would take to pick up her keys. At least, she hadn’t until after that god-awful night.