Combust (Everyday Heroes Book 2)

by K. Bromberg

  “It’s okay.”

  “Drew’s last words to me were to take care of Brody since he knew his son was going to lose his father.” I squeeze my hand where it is, words failing me as my eyes well with tears. “Do you know how hard it was hearing him say that and knowing he knew?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Not more than I am.” I rub my thumb back and forth on his arm, accepting his comment for what it is—him and his guilt instead of a poor-me statement. “There are days I suit up and go to work . . . and, Christ, I don’t want to. But being a firefighter . . .”

  “It’s not something you do, it’s something you are,” I murmur, knowing full well the commitment, the sacrifice, the selflessness, and selfishness that comes with the occupation.

  “I was going to say something else, but that is definitely more accurate.” He sighs heavily. “The playroom? I couldn’t care less about the damn playroom, but I’m building it for Brody. So he has a place to go when he needs to remember his dad and hear stories about him from those who were his friends.”

  My heart swells in my chest. And he calls Drew selfless? It sounds like he’s cut from the same cloth as his friend. There’s no use in pointing it out though, because he’ll just reject it anyway.

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it as he grows older. It will help keep Drew’s memory alive.”

  “Yeah, well . . . it’s the least I can do for him.” He runs a hand through his hair, my hand on his bicep shifting with the movement. “Everything is just fucked up, Dylan. All of it. In every sense of the word. I should have been able to save him. I should have been able to get to him.”

  “You did everything you could. I wasn’t there, but I know you did.”

  “It doesn’t matter because it wasn’t good enough. I didn’t fulfill my promise to him. There was no two-in, two-out.”

  More silence smothers the room, but I give him a moment because I sense he needs it right now. I leave my hand where it is and close my eyes, freeing a tear that I’m sure he would hate that I’ve shed.

  “There are cuts . . .” I say and cringe.

  “The skin in some parts is thin. Some of the grafts aren’t as thick as my natural skin is. Other parts are stretched so tight that when I do something that isn’t typical—”

  “Like punching someone.”

  “Like punching someone.” He chuckles. “The skin tears. I don’t always notice it. I don’t always feel it. But it happens like it did last night.”

  “Do they hurt?” I ask while he’s talking.

  “Some spots always hurt. Others have no feeling at all. Supposedly, there will come a time when the pigment will lighten or I’ll gain some elasticity . . . but there’s no determining what scar tissue will or won’t do, so only time will tell.”

  “I mean this in the nicest of ways, but they are fascinating to look at.”

  He laughs. “That’s a first.”

  “No, I’m serious.” I shake my head while mentally kicking myself for speaking my thoughts aloud. “I mean, of course, they look painful, but they’re also a roadmap of where you’ve been and where you’re going.”

  “Dylan—”

  “No. Hear me out. We all have scars. Some are visible. Some aren’t. In the end, they represent the fact that you’re stronger now than whatever tried to hurt you. For you, it just means that you’re stronger than the fire.”

  There’s a weight to his silence, making me feel as if maybe I’ve overstepped.

  “You’re the first person I’ve met who isn’t repulsed by them.” His voice is solemn, and I wish he’d turn so I can see his eyes. So he can see mine.

  “I find that hard to believe, Grady.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Are you telling me that your brothers and your parents are disgusted by them? Of you? What about Mallory?”

  His laugh is unexpected and confusing. “Christ. Is it embarrassing to say I’ve always left a shirt on with her? Either that or made damn sure the room was dark.”

  His insecurities hit a chord with me. One I know all too well but am not exactly sure how to give a voice to . . . so I remain quiet.

  “You’re the first person I’ve been with since and not kept a shirt on. I was pent-up on adrenaline—”

  “Alcohol,” I correct because that’s surely why he slept with me.

  “No. I wasn’t drunk. You don’t get to hide behind the alcohol to explain why we’re here right now.”

  “And you don’t get to hide behind your shirt and scars to ignore me at other times, either,” I counter, hating that he has seen straight through my thought process.

  “Not wearing a shirt was an oversight I’ve never made with others,” he says, ignoring my comment. “One I didn’t realize until I woke up.”

  “I’m not sure if I should be offended that you’re mentioning the many others you’ve been with or I should take it as a compliment that you feel comfortable enough with me that you forgot,” I say to try to ease the discord he feels.

  “Or option C: the sex was so good that I fell into a coma afterward and didn’t think twice about it.”

  “Option C could have been a definite possibility,” I murmur and acknowledge to myself his knack for falling back on humor when he’s uncomfortable.

  “There haven’t been that many women since, you know.”

  “Wild-child, Grady Malone? I highly doubt that.”

  He chuckles, but then it fades and falls flat. “You’d be amazed by how much all of this has put people off.”

  My heart hurts for him and the disgrace that taints every word he speaks. “I’m not scared, Grady. I’m not put off.” The words are barely audible, but by the slight nod of his head, I know he heard me. “You don’t have to wear a shirt around me. Hell, I have mermaid thighs and hips for days and one ab to your eight for God’s sake.”

  “I don’t have a single complaint about any of those traits of yours. In fact, I seem to like your thighs and hips and—”

  “Ha. You like what’s between them is what you’re saying.”

  “This is true,” he muses.

  “Let me tell you, those traits of mine are all much worse than the badge of honor you wear on your back.”

  The muscle beneath my hand tenses as he physically rejects what I’m saying. “Christ, Dylan—”

  “Don’t.” I stop him from arguing with me because it’s my turn to make him feel better about himself—even if it’s at my own expense. “I’m well aware I’m not svelte, so no need to try to stroke my ego.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “And so are you,” I whisper, leaning my head forward and pressing my lips ever so softly to the top of his shoulder in an effort to reinforce the words. His body flinches and his breath hitches as I make him uncomfortable but for all the right reasons.

  “I’ll be the first to admit I’m a vain son of a bitch. If you knew how many hours I spent in the gym before the fire, you would probably laugh. I was obsessed with adding definition to this muscle group or that one, and then I’d walk around shirtless to show them off. To be admired. My ego didn’t need any stroking, that’s for sure.”

  “You were proud of your body. That’s something I’ll never be, so I’m sure I’d be the same.”

  “I felt like the fire was fate’s way of telling me it didn’t matter how damn perfect I was because there were other things that were way more important. It’s like I was marked for being self-centered.”

  “I disagree with you.”

  “Yeah, well, I used to work out because it was the way to feed my ego. Now I work out to save my soul.” His words strike me to the core. A fresh round of tears well, and I fight them back, trying not to think about him alone in the gym, struggling against some unforeseen beast in his mind. “Most nights I go late because there is no one there to watch me. I go late because when my skin tears like it did last night, it bleeds through my shirt . . . and that’s the last thing I need people to see, to gossip about, or pity me
for.”

  “Do you really think anyone cares what your back looks like? You’re a hero, Grady. You tried to save him.”

  His chuckle isn’t convincing. “Tell that to my ex-girlfriend who broke up with me because she couldn’t handle this. The scars. The nightmares. My fucked-up head. I mean, I’m sure I wasn’t a peach after everything happened. But when I overheard her on the phone telling a friend how nasty my scars were and how there was no way she could look at them every day without cringing. How she couldn’t fake being okay with them . . . well, that tells me people do care.”

  “She’s a shallow bitch.” The words are out, and I don’t care that they are because she is one. I can picture him—a man struggling to heal physically and mentally and what comments like those did to him and his psyche.

  “Perhaps she is, but she isn’t the only one. This is a small town, Dylan. Everyone knows everyone, and they’re all curious about what happened to pretty-boy Malone. They all want to see how bad he looks. They all want to know if the scars are really that horrible, and then, of course, there are the assholes who question if I was selfish and tried to save myself instead of trying to save Drew.”

  “No one thinks that.”

  “I bet Shelby does. How could she not? Every time I look her in the eyes, I know I didn’t do enough. I know she looks at me and wonders how I couldn’t save him but I could sure as shit save myself.”

  There are so many things I want to say to him. That he was trying to get to Drew to save him. That he wasn’t being selfish. So many truths I could tell him that would negate what he just said, but I know they’ll fall on deaf ears. He feels how he feels, and no one is going to change that. Least of all me.

  “Will you turn around?” I ask him finally, hoping that we’re both lying here naked is enough for him not to feel like he’s the only vulnerable one.

  He doesn’t respond.

  There’s a momentary hesitation of indecision before he abruptly scoots to the edge of the bed. “I’ve gotta get to work on the playroom. I’m behind schedule.”

  And with that, I’m left alone in Grady’s bed with the scent of him still on my skin, the desire for more of him still aching in my lower belly, and the sight of his bare ass walking to the bathroom door before he shuts it behind him.

  You walked away.

  You left me there.

  You made me feel as if you didn’t care.

  How can this be?

  How can we love?

  How can we . . .

  “Grrr,” I growl in frustration and stare at the last line I’ve jotted on the page in front of me. I can’t get it right and it’s driving me crazy.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as the pounding outside begins yet again.

  He’s been swinging his hammer for over two hours. It’s an oddly soothing rhythm in the background to my work, which is as comforting as it is harsh.

  But it does nothing to combat the sudden conflict roiling around within me. The overthinking that is messing up my creative process. Sure, what happened last night was pleasurable in so many ways I lost count. After being with Jett, who I thought rocked my world in bed, he doesn’t hold a candle to the unexpectedness of the man I was with last night. It’s enough to throw a girl for a loop.

  No, not a loop—a tangled mess of rope with frayed ends that are twisted and gnarled together.

  I watch him hammer another nail in place. Hating the confusion I have and wondering if he feels it, too. Is he as uncertain about where we go from here or is he already done and over it like most guys would be?

  Was last night a one-off moment for him?

  Am I the new Mallory to him? Stop in when I come in from out of town for a no-strings-attached lay?

  I’m more than aware that Grady Malone does not do strings-attached. Or rather that’s what the locals have said the few times I’ve gone into town. Even though I’ve tried to keep to myself, curiosity goes a long way in a small town. Innocent introductions in the grocery store or post office turn into subtle probing about what I’m doing in Sunnyville and why I’m living with Grady Malone. The Grady Malone who used to be wild but now is tame and most definitely doesn’t stick with one woman for more than a few dates. Where does that leave me other than in the middle of an awkward situation I never should have gotten myself into?

  My God. I’m sitting here thinking that last night meant something when I’m sure it was nothing more than a sudden urge on both our parts to release the tension having Jett around has created.

  Didn’t I say yes to him knowing that was the situation? Didn’t I agree to sex because getting involved with someone is the last thing I need right now?

  All I can do is laugh at myself though because while I may have convinced myself I could separate sex and emotion last night, is it too soon to admit to myself that I might be developing teeny, tiny feelings for him?

  I’m sure those feelings were helped along when he unexpectedly opened up to me this morning and let me in a little. When he dropped his playful demeanor and was honest with me about the fire.

  And then he shut me out and hasn’t said another word since. Shouldn’t his total indifference be my clue that he thinks sleeping together was a mistake?

  Did I make an error in judgment as well?

  Stop staring.

  Stop thinking.

  Start writing.

  There’s a big difference between one night of sex and emotions. The two can be separated.

  I can separate them.

  Then why do I keep trying to make myself believe that?

  There’s an odd ache in my chest when I look at him one last time before moving from the window.

  I have at least two months here before I return to Los Angeles. Not for a recording session but to go back home for good. If last night was a mistake, that’s a long time to avoid someone when you’re sharing the same space. If it wasn’t, that’s a super long time to keep emotions and sex in separate corners.

  “C’mon, Jett.”

  “Don’t you want to know about my time in Napa?” he asks as he points to the case of wine he set on the counter. I’m pretty sure he thinks booze will earn him brownie points with me. I don’t think he realizes we’re sitting in a house surrounded by grape vineyards, so wine is in abundance around here.

  And I’m certain he has no clue what I’d really like to do with the bottles is empty their contents in his lap to prove to him that a case of wine isn’t going to win me back.

  Doesn’t he get that nothing will?

  “Not really.”

  “Well, at least let me take you to dinner?”

  “No, I—”

  “Let’s get out of this house and go out and have a nice meal. Alone. We can bring the wine with us and—”

  “Jett, I just want to get this song finished.” The one he started writing about winning the love of your life back. The one that is currently grating on every one of my last nerves because now it all makes sense. His roundabout way to tell me how he feels in the lyrics he wrote followed by the promise of a dinner that I can presume will be romantic.

  “And I just want you back.”

  I grit my teeth as I look at him across the family room and glare. “Just play the damn chords again.”

  “You always were sexy when you were pissed at me,” he murmurs, eyes alive and charisma in full force. Compliments won’t win him points, either.

  “And you always tried to charm me when you did something wrong. Too bad charming me—or wining and dining me—won’t work this time.”

  I think of Grady last night. The anger. The tension. The kiss that knocked me off my feet and landed me on my back in his bed.

  Such a total contrast to the man sitting across from me, and it’s so much more noticeable than before. Almost as if being with someone else has woken me so I can see clearly.

  He finally plays the chords. I sing the newest lines I’m trying out.

  “I was yours to lose.

  You tested the waters.
/>   I tested her lips.

  And then your claim on me began to slip.”

  Jett groans. “You’re making him sound like a pussy.”

  “A pussy?” I ask with a laugh, slightly offended. “How about you write your own damn songs then?”

  Jett stands and runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I think we need to skip this one and move to the next,” he says.

  “How about you go back and leave me here to finish them. I was working fine by myself before you came.”

  His eyes flash over to mine, and there’s surprise in them. “We always worked best when we were together.”

  “Apparently, not anymore.”

  “Dyl—”

  “Good afternoon,” Grady interrupts as he waltzes into the family room in the all-blue pants and shirt that make up the Class A’s uniform he wears at the station and heads straight toward me as if Jett isn’t even in the room. Grady flashes me an unabashed grin, telling me he knows exactly what game he’s playing, before he frames my cheeks and levels me with a kiss to rival all kisses.

  For a moment after his lips meet mine, I forget this is pretend. I forget that Grady is putting on a show for Jett and that last night was something that now feels like a hasty yet equally pleasurable lapse in judgment since neither of us has addressed it yet.

  And even with all that, I still sink into the kiss and deflate when his lips leave mine.

  I was wrong. Dead wrong. It’s impossible to separate sex and emotions. Not when a man kisses like that and looks at you as if he can’t wait to do it again.

  “I’m in the room,” Jett says, annoyance singing in his voice.

  “But you’re in my room, so . . .” Grady shrugs and pats me on the ass as he makes his way to the kitchen. “Everything okay? Things feel a bit tense between you two.”

  He walks to the fridge, pulls out a water, and leans against the appliance as he looks from me to Jett and then back to me.

  I stare at him for a moment, so clean cut and preppy compared to Jett’s all black clothes and colorful tattoos. Such a contrast, and yet it’s Grady who makes my breath catch when it used to be Jett.