Combust (Everyday Heroes Book 2)

by K. Bromberg

  “It’s going.” I sigh. “Slower today than others, but I’ve had some distractions.”

  Like you.

  “Petunia and I were about to have a BLT, do you want one?”

  “There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t even know where to start.” I laugh.

  “Can’t protect the children from the world’s tough reality all the time, now can we? It would be a disservice to them.” I shake my head all the while loving the humor lighting up his eyes. “So yes, no, I don’t ever eat, I’m still on that hunger strike . . . what’ll it be?”

  Glancing around at the crumpled pieces of notebook paper strewn around me, and the nearly blank pages in front of me, I heave a silent sigh. If I take a break for a bit and get some fresh air, it isn’t as if it will impede my nonexistent creative process right now.

  “Sure.”

  His smile lights up his face and makes me feel good. At least I can make one person happy. “I’ll give you a minute to get ready.”

  “Get ready?”

  “It’s Farmers’ Market Thursday.”

  It’s Thursday?

  Wow. I guess the past few days filled with little sleep and even less creativity have melded together. I definitely need to get out.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, and it’s four in the afternoon.” He shakes his head as if he’s worried about me. “You need to get out more.”

  “I guess I do.” I roll my shoulders. “And you go there to get BLTs?”

  “I do, yes, but Petunia passes on the sandwich.” He glances toward where she is rooting around. “We always go when I’m not on shift.”

  “Your pig is your date?”

  “No.” He lowers his voice. “She thinks she is, but we don’t want to hurt her feelings. Burnt bacon is never a good thing.”

  And lucky for Petunia’s feelings, they’re fresh out of bacon at the BLT stand when we get there, so Grady and I opt for corn dogs and French fries to eat while we walk around.

  “I finally got you out of the house,” he says as he holds out the container of fries to me.

  “I’ve left before.”

  “When?”

  “When we had breakfast. Then, the other day, I went to the store, and last night, I went for a walk. I’ve ventured,” I say, feeling like an idiot having to admit that’s about all I’ve done since I’ve moved here.

  “Living the high life, are we?” he teases, and the smile comes easily to my lips.

  I glance at him, and he meets my eyes, a soft smile on his own face as we stroll through the crowded downtown district of Sunnyville with a pig walking begrudgingly on a leash between us.

  Something stirs in my belly, and I push it away. The kind of stir full of equal parts giddy, hopeful, and lustful that you feel when you realize you would be more than okay if the man took an interest in you.

  Not here. Not now. Not a rebound.

  A rebound, Dylan? Like he’s even offering.

  And if he were to, it isn’t as if I would even be in the right mindset to acquiesce. Sure, his smile warms my insides while the sight of his body heats between my thighs, but c’mon, after seeing glitter-dress girl, it’s very doubtful he’d want anything to do with me, the antithesis of everything she is.

  I glance his way as he smiles at a little kid who stops to pet Petunia, and I shake my head. Someone would have to seriously have a screw loose not to think he’s attractive. Not to be attracted to him.

  But then again, I probably have more than one screw loose since I’m standing here in the middle of a farmers’ market, debating whether I’d allow something to happen between us when that something is nonexistent in the first place.

  “Do you know everyone here?” I ask as yet another person calls out his name and waves to him.

  “Not hardly. But it helps that I’m Chief Malone’s son. Growing up, everyone wanted to know me because they had this notion that if they got in trouble, being my friend would have made it easier. Like my dad would’ve given them a free pass if they said they knew me. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that everyone loves Petunia.”

  “So, that’s how you reel the ladies in then.”

  “If that were my game, I’d definitely need more help.” He laughs at himself and nods in greeting to another person waving from afar.

  “I doubt you need any help with your game or the ladies.”

  “Oh yes, me and my eight abs.” His laughter fades as his attention catches on something in the crowd ahead. I can’t see who or what it is, but the lines on his face deepen with concern. “Can you hold Petunia for a minute? I need to go talk to someone.”

  “Sure.” I watch him jog through the crowd and refuse to admit that I’m being nosy when I shift my feet so I can get a better view of where he’s heading.

  About the time I get a clear line of sight, Grady is dropping to his knees and letting a little boy—I’d say around four or five—tackle hug him so that he falls back onto the grass beneath them. Grady wraps his arms around the child and presses a kiss to the top of his shaggy brown hair. I can’t help but smile at the connection between the two, but then my gaze is pulled to the woman standing there watching.

  She’s petite, pretty from what I can tell, and is standing with her arms crossed over her chest, almost as if she’s guarding herself.

  Something in my chest clutches at the visual, and my mind begins to whirl. A little boy thrilled to see Grady, the woman he’s with not so much. Her expression reflects a sadness that’s almost palpable, and it wears on me despite the distance between us.

  Is Grady divorced? Is that his son? Is this the “a lot” Grady had been through that my brother refused to expand on?

  I don’t know why the idea of Grady being a dad has me so confused. Is it any of my business? No. Should it matter? No. Maybe it’s that I’m hurt that he didn’t tell me.

  Or is it that I thought better of him than my dad, the only other firefighter I’ve known, and now I see that he isn’t. If he’s a father, how come he hasn’t mentioned his son to me? How come he has zero pictures on the bookshelves or walls? Is it because he doesn’t want to claim his child like my dad didn’t want to claim us? Is it because it’s hard to seduce a woman when you take her back to your place and she sees you have a kid and all the baggage that comes with one?

  Memories, moments, shame—they all flood back as I watch the emotional exchange between the three of them. The baseless resentment bubbles up, still as strong as it’s always been.

  I’m jumping to conclusions. I’m being sensitive and letting my past and my current emotional upheaval make speculative assumptions.

  I’ll just ask him. It’s that easy. Decision made, I stand in the middle of the farmers’ market between a stall selling organic produce and one selling cheap sunglasses and hate that Grady is the same type of guy I had as a father.

  My heart wrenches for the little boy, who is so desperate for Grady’s attention that I have to avert my focus so I don’t choke up. I turn to a newsstand, pluck the first magazine I put my hand on, and start to flip through the pages. My mind registers that it’s Rolling Stone a split second before Petunia tugs on her leash.

  “Sorry about that,” Grady’s voice invades my thoughts and simultaneously strikes a nerve.

  “Who was that?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  “Who?” He looks over his shoulder where the lady and her little boy were and turns back to me with a pained look on his face. “That was no one,” he says and effectively shatters the notion of him being a good guy. He’s exactly like my father.

  Despite knowing it’s none of my business, every part of me sags in disappointment, and I have to take a minute to come to terms with the riotous and unfounded feelings bouncing around inside me.

  Of course, being reminded of one man who hurt me isn’t enough, because life decides to slap me in the face with the other.

  There in full color between the pages of Rolling Stone is Jett. The bad boy of rock is in a dress sh
irt, tie, vest, and slacks, looking every bit the part of everything he isn’t. His handsome face stares back at me, wearing that cocky smirk of his and I’m-a-rock-god expression.

  My heart aches.

  I know I should close the magazine, put it back, and walk away, but my eyes wander and roam over the interview. Skimming the questions about his upcoming album. About his home life and long-time girlfriend. Where she fits in his everyday, and how she gets him when it seems no one else does. About how he sees a good thing in his girlfriend and would never purposely screw it up, although he unintentionally has many times before. I scan his answers and then read them again, slower this time.

  He’s talking directly to me. The dichotomy of it all makes my head spin. On one hand, he’s in Rolling Stone apologizing to me, and on the other hand, he’s saying everything I needed to hear before. Everything he negated to utter when he screwed Tara-perfect-tits.

  “Dylan? Everything okay?”

  I hear his question, but by the time his words register, he’s taking the magazine from my hand.

  “Christ,” he mutters as he scans the article before looking up to meet my eyes. There’s concern in his, compassion, and the sight of it from a man I’m currently mad at has me fighting back tears. “I’m sorry. Just when you need someone to be nowhere, they’re everywhere. Let’s get out of here. We need to drop Petunia at home, and then I know the perfect place to go.”

  “Why are we here drinking again?” I laugh as I tap my glass to his for what feels like the twentieth time.

  “Because your boyfriend’s an asshole and because I’m . . . because I need it too.”

  I stare at him as he tosses back the amber liquid, and the sights and sounds of the bar buzz around us. He doesn’t give me more than that, and I accept it without prying further.

  “You want to tell me why Jett was speaking about you as if you were still together?”

  I sigh and finish off my drink. “Our agent wants us to keep our split under wraps.”

  “You have the same agent?”

  “Yeah.” I snort. It sounded good at the time to have the same one. I can only hope that’s still the case once this project is done.

  “Why would they want you to keep quiet?” He looks as confused as I felt when Ava made the request.

  “While Jett’s bad-boy reputation may play well with his audience, the label isn’t too fond of it.”

  “Why do they care so long as he sells albums?”

  “Selling albums is one thing. Being manageable is a whole other matter. Jett is far from manageable. When an artist has a hard time recording an album, let alone promoting it, because his antics get in the way, it’s a problem.” I sigh. “Temper tantrums where he’s trashed the studio when a song isn’t working. Refusing to show up and record a song because I’m not in town to be there. It’s just—”

  “He sounds like a real winner, Dylan.”

  I glare at him, feeling like I’m being judged while justifying in my mind that he doesn’t know Jett like I do. He doesn’t understand him. And then I roll my eyes at myself. How stupid does that even sound?

  “There’s a part of him that’s all image. Then there’s the guy he was before he hit it big.”

  “Uh-huh.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “So where do you fit in all of this? Why does your agent need you to keep up the charade?”

  “Because I was told I ‘soften’ his image. I’m the only one who tames him. The label knows I’ll deliver. The producer will work with me, not Jett. Ava fears that if they know we’ve split, they’re going to delay or table the album like they threatened to from the get-go.”

  “So let them table the album. Maybe he deserves to be taught a lesson,” Grady says, giving the most logical commentary .

  “I’m not sure anything will change him. It’s obvious he hasn’t learned from any of the repercussions he’s faced before, but when he’s punished, I’m punished. Tabling the album would damage my career and livelihood too.”

  “How so? It’s not your fault he’s unmanageable.”

  I think of the contract Ava constantly reminds me about. I think of the billing statement in my inbox from the rehab center. I think of this surreal bubble bursting that I’ve actually made it in this business when Jett fucks up and the album isn’t delivered on time.

  But I don’t say any of those things. Instead, I toy with the edge of my cocktail napkin and refuse to meet his eyes.

  “You know you don’t owe him anything after what he did to you, right?”

  “You’re right. I don’t.” I mentally shake myself from my thoughts. “I sound like a doormat agreeing to our agent’s request, but I assure you, I’m not.”

  “You’re the furthest thing from being a doormat, and yet . . .” He lifts his eyebrows as if he’s disappointed in me. It’s a look so very similar to one my brother would give that it has my back straightening.

  “Look, I’m not proud that I misjudged him. I’m not proud that I agreed to pretend to still be with him.” I take a sip of water before I look up to meet his eyes. “What I am proud of is that I’m a damn good songwriter, and I have the reputation to match it. I’m proud the label knows it can depend on me to deliver the songs it asks for, quality songs, as well as songs for their other artists. The last thing I want to do is jeopardize that relationship because of Jett. I’m between a rock and a hard place, and the only way to survive is to try to climb up using the only hand I have extended to me. Swallow my pride and pretend for a little while, so in the end, I’m the one who wins. I come out with songs that will net me royalties, and I get to keep the door open to keep my career going beyond him.”

  He stares at me for a beat, and the intensity of those aqua eyes bearing down on me makes me shift in my seat.

  “You finish the album with Jett, then what?”

  “Long-term? I sell songs to other singers. I make a name for myself beyond Jett’s cowriter.” I shrug. “But for now I need to get through this current mess.”

  “And you think you can do that and come out the other side unscathed?”

  I angle my head and stare at him, hating being questioned but knowing it’s a valid point. “I can play the game that needs to be played while at the same time protecting my heart. But it doesn’t make seeing the things he said in that interview any easier. All the things he never said to my face but that I needed to hear.”

  “I’m sure it’s brutal.”

  “It’s hard not to feel like a coward for heading for the hills, but I couldn’t stay.”

  “Nah. I get it. You gravitate to comfort. To what’s familiar . . . even when that familiar has done you wrong and is now saying all the right things.”

  “Hmm. True.”

  “Did you fear you’d get back together with him if you stayed?” Grady asks the question I’ve asked myself a million times. When Jett calls. When he texts. When he’s mentioned on the radio.

  Because I’ve taken him back before. Not for cheating though . . . this time was a first. That I know of.

  “It isn’t something I’d admit aloud because feminists would be in an uproar . . . but, yes.”

  “At least you’re honest. So many people say they wouldn’t put up with it but then end up taking the person back. Hell, I’ve done it.”

  His admission takes me by surprise, but I appreciate that he’s trying to put me at ease with my decisions. “You know what the best way to get over someone is, don’t you?”

  “Drink?” I ask and laugh as I hold up my empty glass.

  “That’s a start, but no.” A mischievous smile curls up the corners of his lips and his eyes fill with amusement. “Sleep with someone else.”

  His eyes hold mine as my mind spins. Is he offering to be the someone else? Is he feeling okay? Is he . . . holy shit.

  “Wh-what?” I stutter the word out as embarrassment floods my cheeks. “Are you—?”

  “There are plenty of guys in here who wouldn’t hesitate to spend the night with you.”

&
nbsp; Thank God he cut me off. Thank God he just saved me the embarrassment of asking if he was offering.

  It has to be the alcohol making my brain fuzzy.

  “C’mon, Dyl. What would it hurt? You have some fun, clear your head for a bit, and realize there are other guys besides Jett Kroger who want you and think you’re attractive.”

  “We’re in a bar with a few dozen drunk men. I don’t think my looks factor into anything after a certain number of drinks have been consumed.” But I laugh at the notion anyway. “Besides, you’re crazy if you think I’m going to pick up some random guy and take him home with me. Like that’s safe.”

  “First off, it’s my home, so no need to worry about your safety. Remember? Chief Malone’s son, here. And secondly, he wouldn’t be a random guy. I know everyone around here, so I’ll make sure he’s a good fit.”

  “A good fit?” I laugh.

  “Yeah. Someone who’s not clingy. Who’s not a dick—”

  “This sounds so promising already.”

  “A guy I don’t have to worry about being—”

  “You’re actually serious, aren’t you?” I ask as he stands some from his seat and cranes his neck to survey the patrons of the bar.

  “I never joke about getting laid.” He laughs while all I want to do is shrink in my seat and vanish.

  “I have to keep up pretenses that Jett and I—”

  “Fuck Jett.” He rolls his shoulders. “This is a small town. No one’s even talking about Jett being here so that means he’s keeping a low profile. And his low profile means that no one has connected the dots that the two of you are together. Or rather, not together.”

  “This is a bad idea,” I groan.

  “You didn’t say no.” He stares at me, eyes alive.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine?” he asks as he scans the crowd.

  “No firefighters,” I say, prompting him to whip his head my way.

  “What’s wrong with firefighters?” he asks. If I could kick myself under the table I would.