That he’d shut them out instead of letting them help.
“Shit.”
“I see we’re making progress.” Captain Westin chuckled over the rim of his coffee cup, but Brennan shook his head.
“I can’t believe I didn’t get it. It’s been so long.” God, how had he been so blind all this time? And more importantly, why was it all so clear now?
You’re a good man, Brennan. You’re brave, and strong, and kind. . . .
No. No way had Ava led him here. She’d wanted a story, plain and simple.
“Brennan.” Captain Westin leaned in, nothing but truth in his eyes. “When I said it’s my job to keep my firefighters straight, I meant all of you. You’ve been carrying around a lot of guilt for the past few years. Now what do you say we put this to bed, once and for all?”
Brennan nodded, pushing back to toss enough cash for their tab on the table before following Captain Westin out the door and onto Church Street. His boots felt strangely light on the winter-chilled pavement, as if each step was finally taking him back where he belonged.
He hitched for only a second as they rounded the last corner, his breath sticking in his lungs at the sight of the tall, unassuming building he’d called home for four years. Morning sunlight colored the bricks in shades of red and brown, glinting off the gold-stenciled sign reading FAIRVIEW FIRE DEPARTMENT, STATION EIGHT, which stood proudly across the top of the building. The automatic doors on two of the oversized triple bays on the front of the house were closed, but the clang of equipment over concrete and the masculine laughter that accompanied it were a pure indicator that some things never changed.
Hell. Maybe it was too late for this. After all, it wasn’t like he could come back, anyway. Not the way he wanted to. His vertebrae were like an old jigsaw puzzle, all missing pieces and busted edges. Active duty would never happen again, not even with all the forgiveness in Fairview.
Brennan stood, mired in doubt and cemented to his spot next to Captain Westin on the threshold of Station Eight, when a familiar item in a decidedly unfamiliar spot caught his attention and grabbed on tight.
Hanging directly over the center of the middle bay was a helmet bearing the Fairview Fire Department crest and Station Eight shield, the back edging clearly marked in silver lettering.
I N MEMORY OF MASON WATTS. FIREFIGHTER, BROTHER, FRIEND.
Looked like Mason had Brennan’s back too.
“If you need me for anything, I will be in my office,” said Captain Westin as he left Brennan.
He walked to the open bay, inhaling the heavy smell of diesel from the bright red engine and the blue and white ambulance lined up by the automatic door. A handful of guys Brennan didn’t recognize stood in various stages of hard work, pulling the equipment from Engine Eight’s storage compartments for inventory and safety checks. Each of them wore the standard-issue navy blue firefighter’s pants the captain always insisted on, along with either long-sleeved T-shirts or thermal tops emblazoned with the FFD crest.
“O’Keefe, you slacker. Don’t you have inventory to do in that big old box of yours? Band-Aids to count, or something?” Alex slung a Scott pack over one shoulder, dodging a friendly shove from Station Eight’s paramedic, Tom O’Keefe, as Cole joined in and said something that made both men laugh.
Their laughter faded in short order the second they saw Brennan standing in the doorway.
Ever the peacekeeper, Cole was the first to recover. “Didn’t think we’d see you again,” he said, not inviting Brennan in, but not kicking him out either.
Alex knotted his arms over his chest, his expression as closed off as his stance, but Brennan refused to let it rattle him.
“I thought about what you said, and you were right. There’s a lot we never talked about.”
“Yup. There is.” For a minute that went on for an ice age, Cole split his gaze between Brennan and Alex. Finally, he jerked his light brown head toward the equipment room. “We were just putting this gear away. Why don’t you come on back?”
“I don’t want to get in the way,” Brennan said, hating every ounce of being a bystander.
Cole laughed, shrugging his Scott pack over one arm in a well-practiced lift. “Then don’t. It’s not like you don’t know your way around here.”
O’Keefe took a step back, offering Brennan a deferent nod and a wide berth so he could follow Cole and Alex to the equipment room off the garage bay. Although the layout was a little different and the names on the individual stalls were more new than familiar, Brennan still knew exactly how many footsteps it would take to get him to the spot that used to house his turnout gear.
Alex dropped his Scott pack to the shelf labeled DONOVAN, the heavy clang of metal on metal grating the air space between them. “How come you never told us what happened that night?”
“Way to ease into things, Al,” Cole said, but Brennan didn’t flinch or hold back.
“No, he’s right. I should’ve talked to you, and I didn’t. I had good reasons . . . at least, I thought I did. But I was wrong.”
There might be only a single-digit number of things that would put cement shoes on Alex Donovan’s larger-than-life attitude, but hell if Brennan hadn’t just bull’s-eyed one.
“You were wrong.” Alex stared, and it was all the lead-in Brennan was going to get.
“Yeah.” His back muscles jumped in anticipation, but he smoothed them out with a long draw of air. “At first, I didn’t want to see you because I was too screwed up. Losing Mason and my career and all that surgery. It was just . . . easier to push everything away. I’m not proud of it, but that’s the truth.”
Cole nodded, sitting down on the wooden bench in front of them and bracing his forearms over his thighs. “Understandable.”
Alex shifted his weight from one heavy-soled work boot to the other, the look on his face reading an unspoken I guess. “That was at first. What about after?”
“I didn’t realize it until recently, but I guess I didn’t come back after that because we always take care of our own. I knew eventually you’d all get each other straightened out, but . . .” Brennan broke off, the words clotting together in his mind.
“You thought you didn’t deserve that too,” Cole finished.
“I felt guilty,” Brennan said, and damn, the admission pulled up on his shoulders as it tumbled from his mouth. “And then I just wanted to forget.”
Going for full disclosure, Brennan told them how he’d made rescue squad just before the apartment fire, as well as revealing the details about the four months he spent in his post-injury stupor and his twenty-eight days in detox. Just putting his past to words made Brennan feel lighter, the irony of everything he’d tried so hard to avoid growing stronger with each breath.
The story really was worth telling.
“Jesus, Brennan.” Cole ran a hand over his crew cut, coasting his palm over the back of his neck. “Being hooked on painkillers is no joke. I wish I’d known how bad you needed an ear.”
Shock had Brennan’s head snapping up. “I wouldn’t have talked,” he argued, but Cole parried that with ease.
“It doesn’t matter. I should’ve tried harder to get you to. After Mason died and you wouldn’t talk to anybody, we all spent a lot of time not knowing what to think. It was easy to jump to conclusions and blame you for walking away. But I should’ve known you wouldn’t just bow out without a reason. I should’ve pushed.”
Alex pressed his lips into a thin line, but he nodded in agreement. “Me too.” He pushed off from the edge of the equipment stall where he’d been leaning, uncrossing his arms to extend a hand to Brennan. “I’m sorry for what I said at Ellie’s wedding. I knew you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Mason. Any one of us would’ve led the way to that apartment to try and save that kid, exactly like you did, Brennan. You’ve gotta know that.”
“I do now,” Brennan said, startled to finally discover that it was true.
“Westin showed us the fire marshal’s report.�
� Cole stood, repeating the handshake Alex had just shared with Brennan. “It kind of put things in perspective. Although hearing your side of the story has helped a lot more.”
“Yeah.” The feeling of dread that had made a home in the pit of Brennan’s gut resurfaced. “Well, Westin isn’t the only one with access to those files, and someone leaked them to the press. This story’s about to get a whole lot more public than any of us would like.”
“Does this have anything to do with your reporter girlfriend?” Alex asked.
Ah, hell. Brennan was going to have to face this tomorrow anyway. He might as well give it a practice run.
“She’s not my girlfriend. But yes. She’s running a story in tomorrow’s paper in Riverside.” Brennan recounted the events that had gone down at Joe’s, and how he and Ava had reconnected, then disconnected over the story she’d written and the one she was about to let loose.
“Hold up.” Alex lifted a hand. “Writing a story about you without letting you in on the deal is uncool, I’ll give you that. But I’m not sure I buy that she bribed someone downtown to sell you out. This is a woman who totally went to bat on your behalf, dude. Not to mention, she’s tremendously fucking hot.”
Cole shook his head, looking a little bit shocked and a whole lot amused. “Don’t be a dick, Teflon.”
“Why not? I’m great at being a dick. And come on, Everett. You saw the woman in question. I’m just asking what we’re both wondering. Are you sure there isn’t something else to Ava’s article that you’re not seeing?”
“Uh, no. I mean, yes. I don’t know how else she’d get a copy of that report,” Brennan finally managed, the words crowding past his shock. “What do you mean she totally went to bat for me?”
Alex opened his mouth to answer, but Cole cut him off with glee. “Donovan got a little uppity with her about being there as your date, and she called him an arrogant, life-sized Ken doll.”
The laugh that popped past Brennan’s lips was completely against his will. “She said that?” Damn, she really was a spitfire.
“Didn’t even skip a beat. In fact, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve got to agree with Alex,” Cole said. “Ava seemed pretty convinced you’re a quality guy. She wasn’t shy about airing it out, either.”
Alex snorted, his feelings stitched to his sleeve just like always. “The woman is a total cherry bomb.” The affirmation was tied up tight with approval. “You really sure it’s not going to work out? She was in your corner just forty-eight hours ago.”
Admiration and want collided in Brennan’s gut for just a breath before he tamped them back into the past, where they belonged. “Well, she’s not now. She’s going to run the story to prove it tomorrow.”
“My bad,” Alex said, lifting both hands in genuine apology. “You know we’ve got your back if there’s any local fallout from the article.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it, man.” Brennan gestured toward the door, shooting straight for a change in subject. “So does the oven in the kitchen still only have two temperatures, or did you lame-asses finally sell enough T-shirts to replace the thing?”
“Why don’t you come find out, Fryboy? Word on the street is that you can cook circles around all of us now.”
But even as Cole slapped him on the shoulder and welcomed him back into Station Eight with open arms, a part of Brennan’s heart still sat empty in his chest.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Brennan backhanded the sleep out of his eyes as he trudged through the fresh layer of snow in the Double Shot’s parking lot. After round-tripping it to Fairview with only a twenty-four-hour turnaround time, he was bordering on total exhaustion. But he’d been away from the bar for too long lately, and even though yesterday’s trip to Fairview had ended with the promise that it would be the first of many, Brennan owed Teagan and Adrian no less than six double shifts to make up for his time away from work.
Starting with today’s.
Brennan palmed the building keys from his back pocket, letting himself into the empty restaurant. He did a quick visual, checking over the receipts from the night before and updating the numbers in the computer system before turning to take the bar stools off the counter.
The one on the end slipped out of his hand with a clatter.
“God damn it,” Brennan hissed, righting the leather-backed stool with a decisive flip. It was just a stool. They had twenty of them. He was going to have to get over the fact that this one would be empty from now on.
Even if someone else sat in it every single night for the rest of time.
He forced his feet back to the bar, shrinking down lower in his canvas jacket to ward off the chill still permeating the air. Another fifteen minutes’ worth of tasks didn’t warm him, and oh, what the hell—at least doing freezer inventory would keep him awake.
“Whoa.” Adrian’s gravelly voice hit Brennan point-blank in the holy-shit region of his chest, and the big guy didn’t pull any punches from his spot at the pass-through. “You look like shit in a shredder.”
“Thanks, Gigantor. You’re a peach.” No point denying the truth, and anyway, how he looked was a step up from how he felt. Not that Brennan would admit that out loud.
“You seen today’s Daily?” Adrian asked, kicking a thin layer of snow from his boots. He tossed the paper to the stainless steel counter behind the bar, just within Brennan’s reach.
“No.” No need to lay eyes on a train wreck to know it was going to be bad. “Look, I’ll do a better job handling the publicity this time, even if it’s negative. But really, I—”
“What publicity?”
Seriously? “From Ava’s article.”
Adrian snapped the paper wide, raising a brow over the top edge. “There’s no article, Slick.”
“But she’s a reporter. Why wouldn’t she run the story?”
Brennan racked his brain, turning over every possible scenario until . . .
She was in your corner just forty-eight hours ago.... You really sure it’s not going to work out?
You’re a good man, Nick Brennan . . . and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make you see it.
What if she really hadn’t had a choice about writing the story? Knowing her boss, it would mean her job, but what if Ava’s version of proving what she believed meant she’d chosen to do nothing at all.
What if she loved him enough to pull the story, even after he’d told her in no uncertain terms to get out of his life.
“Can you cover me?” Brennan dug through his pocket in a frantic search for his keys, yanking them from his jacket in a rush.
Adrian’s brows rose. “Sure. Where are you going?”
“I need to find Ava before she leaves Riverside,” he said, rushing toward the door. “I can’t let her get away twice.”
Ava tossed the last of her personal items into a cardboard box and closed her desk drawer with a snick. She handed the box off to Layla, scooping up its twin from the chair in her cubicle.
Make that her former cubicle.
“I can’t believe how different it’s going to be around here without you,” Layla said, a mournful pout shaping her mouth. The Daily’s newsroom was caught in all the usual midmorning rush, although the place sure had seen its fair share of extra buzz over the last twenty-four hours.
God. Ava was going to miss it here.
“You’ll have plenty to keep you busy,” she told Layla, her chest thudding with a heavy ache despite her ironclad efforts to stay tough. “Anyway, I can’t stay.”
Layla nodded, dropping her gaze to the box in her arms. “I know.”
“Come on. It’s time to go.”
Ava turned, casting a long, last look over the newsroom where she was about to leave five grueling years and one hard-fought career.
Her eyes landed on a very disheveled, extremely wild-eyed, and utterly breathtaking Nick Brennan.
“Ava!” Brennan strode down the stretch of carpet in the newsroom’s main corridor, and she blinked, certain the emotions
of the last few days and the four cups of coffee she’d thrown back this morning had just sent her over the edge of reason.
Nope. He was still right in front of her. And he looked furious.
“Where’s your boss?” Brennan’s eyes moved over the box in her grasp, his expression dropping briefly into something she couldn’t label before hardening back into anger. “Where is he right now?”
Ava opened her mouth three times before she could coax anything intelligent past her vocal cords. “Technically, in his office, I guess, but he’s really not—”
“He’s not firing you, that’s what.”
Brennan charted a course for the glass-walled office at the front of the newsroom, and Ava jostled her box to the floor as she renewed her protest.
“Brennan, wait.”
Nope. No go. Holy crap, he was going to burn a path in the carpet.
“Brennan . . .”
She rushed after him to no avail, and okay, now it was time to get serious.
“Nick.”
He screeched to a stop just shy of the office door.
“A lot of changes have gone down here at the paper since Monday night, and yes, I am leaving the Daily. But before you go barging into that office, you should know that nobody fired me.”
“But your stuff is in boxes,” he argued, gesturing to the spot where she’d plunked down her belongings.
“I know. I put it there when I resigned.”
“You quit?”
Ava nodded, certainty welling in her chest.
She knew Nick Brennan’s story. It was time he learned hers.
“I should have told you from the beginning that I was working on an article about firefighters, and that I wanted to use your story as part of the piece. I only meant to show you that you’re worthy of recognition, but just because I think your story is worth telling doesn’t mean it’s mine to tell. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
“Ava, wait.”
“No, you deserve to hear the rest. I wrote my article as a personal interest piece, but Gary wanted more. He’d been pressuring me to write something splashier, to increase the bottom line. I don’t know how, but he got his hands on the investigation report from the night you were hurt. He said if I didn’t use it in my story, he’d write the piece himself.”
All Wrapped Up (A Pine Mountain Novel) Page 29