Combust (Everyday Heroes Book 2)

by K. Bromberg

  “You’ve reached Grady. I’m probably at the station and that’s why I’m not picking up. Leave me a message and I’ll return the call when I get off shift.”

  Beep.

  “Hi. It’s Dylan. I just wanted to say I understand now. How you felt when you looked at your picture in the calendar. Thank you for that. I hope you’re doing well.” I love you. I miss you. Do you miss me? Stay safe. “Bye.”

  I end the call and allow the tears to fall. Hearing his voice was almost worse than not hearing it at all.

  Almost.

  Because hearing it reminds me what we shared was real.

  It was.

  “What was Marcy here for?”

  It takes everything I have to look up from what’s in my hand and over to Bowie—but I do for just a second. “She wanted to drop something by for me.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s giving you preferential treatment now after the calendar? What? You get a modeling contract?” He rolls his eyes, and I laugh at how ludicrous he sounds.

  “Not hardly.” I’m distracted so I’m not fast enough when Bowie snatches the photo from my hand. “Give it back, Bow,” I warn with venom snapping in my tone.

  “Whoa!” He holds his free hand up as his eyes grow big before handing it back to me and whistling. “And you let that go . . . why exactly?”

  I don’t answer him. I can’t. Because my eyes are back on the photo Marcy gave me.

  It’s Dylan. Her smile is wide. Eyes alive. Expression sincere. There is a hint of some kind of silky thing from her shoulders down that my dick is begging to know what it looks like, but it’s her face that holds my mind. And my heart.

  The picture is equivalent to mine in the calendar.

  Except she isn’t looking at me like I was her.

  She’s happy on her own. She’s seeing her worth on her own.

  Who am I to ask her back here, to pull her away from her life and everything the confidence in her eyes says she will succeed at? Hold her back when fuck if that look on her face says she’s about to fly.

  “I didn’t let her go. She wasn’t mine to keep,” I murmur, my fingers itching to touch the picture as if I can feel her skin when I do.

  “And sometimes men are dumbasses who don’t see what’s right in front of their faces.”

  “Oh. Wow. Look how far you’ve gotten on this place.”

  I knew I heard tires crunch on the driveway, but when I look over to where my mom stands, she is by far the last person I expect to see standing in my backyard.

  She walks around the playroom. It’s been framed, drywalled, and stuccoed. The roof is papered and shingles are loaded.

  “It’s almost done,” I say and step back from where I’m working and stare at her. “That’s how long it’s been since you’ve been here.”

  “I’ve been staying away,” she says as she runs her hand over the wall.

  “And why’s that?” I chuckle, although I’m pretty sure I know.

  “I was just trying to make sure you had your space.”

  “Space? You mean privacy so I’d fall madly in love with Dylan, right?”

  “No. I never—”

  “C’mon, Mom.” I tip my beer to my lips and shake my head. “You’re about as subtle as a flying brick.” I walk to the mini refrigerator I have plugged in and am surprised she accepts when I offer her a beer. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you once again, but she’s gone now.”

  “Well, of course, she’s gone. Did you ask her to stay?”

  “That’s the question of the day, isn’t it?” Jesus Christ. First Bowie and now my mom. But even with the thought, the photo flashes through my mind and twists up my insides.

  “I don’t know about that. It’s my question, though.” She falls silent. “I saw Mallory at the store today.”

  “Great.” Not sure why she’s telling me this.

  “She said she hasn’t seen you in some time.”

  “I’ve been a little busy.” I turn my back to her and pick up my tape measure.

  “I know she’s typically your temporary bed partner, and I thought since—”

  I choke on air. “Christ, Mother.” I turn to face her. “Really? You really want to go there?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t think I’m dumb. I was young once and liked to have a little fun.” She blushes a bit, and as much as I abhor the thought of thinking about my mom having sex, I also love the shit out of her for trying to talk to me and get on my playing field. The woman has a heart of gold despite being determined to expand the Malone clan. “There’s nothing wrong with a little companionship now and again . . . so long as you’re safe. But Mal said she called you last week, and you didn’t return her call. She just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “So what’s the question here? Am I okay? Why am I not sleeping with Mallory? Am I not sleeping with Mal because I’m still stuck on Dylan? What, Mom? Give me a roadmap here so I can figure out what your question is?” I run a hand through my hair and walk over to sit on the porch steps.

  “You don’t need to be rude.” She traces the label on her beer before meeting my eyes. “I know you turned Mal down because she was temporary and Dylan was permanent.”

  “Can’t be too permanent since she isn’t here.” There’s more bite to my tone than she deserves.

  “I hate to see you hurting, Grady.”

  “I’m not hurting. I know hurt. This is just . . . this is how it has to be.”

  “Says who? Says the gods of guilt you’re living your life by?”

  “Says the four firefighters who lost their lives a few weeks back. Says their wives and kids who will never see them again. Says Brody and Shelby. Who am I to make someone go through that?”

  “You listen to me, Grady Scott Malone, and you listen good. All that talk is nonsense. This is the job you love. The person you are. Any woman who is good enough for you, who loves you, accepts this possibility when she decides to be with you. I accepted it with your father. Emerson accepted it with Grant. Families accept it every day when their son, brother, father, daughter, sister, mother, goes off to serve our country. So, I love you, but I’m sick of you hiding behind your profession. It’s an honorable profession. One that makes me proud to be your mother. Stop demeaning it by using it as your excuse.”

  I stare at my mom, eyes blinking, ears rejecting her harsh rebuke that I more than deserve but still don’t want to hear.

  “Dylan isn’t going to wait around for you forever.”

  “Who said she’s waiting around at all?”

  “Seriously?” she asks wryly with a shake of her head. “You men are blind as damn bats. Take a week, Grady. Men do better with deadlines, so take a week to get your head together and figure out what you want. Whatever you decide to do after that week, do it. Move forward, because you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

  She walks over to me and presses a kiss to the top of my head like she used to do when I was little.

  “You don’t drown by falling in the pool, Grady. You drown by not trying to swim out of it,” she says before running her hand up and down my back and walking off.

  I hear the clink of her beer bottle as she tosses it into the trashcan.

  I hear her engine turn over and the crunch of her tires as she backs down the driveway.

  And I sit and stare at the moon above, the same moon looking down upon Dylan somewhere, and wonder how to start swimming when I’ve been treading water for what feels like forever.

  “What’s going on?” I ask as Kai walks into the conference room behind Callum and shuts the door. “Where’s Jett?”

  There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “We wanted to talk to you about something,” Kai says. “It doesn’t pertain to Jett, so we decided to keep him out of this.”

  “Okay.” I draw the word out.

  “I want you to listen to something,” Kai continues as Callum sets down his laptop on the center of the conference room table.


  A few seconds pass as nerves rattle around inside me, that sense that I’ve done something wrong all too present. Especially since Jett isn’t here.

  And then without warning, my voice fills the room. I close my eyes to escape it, but I can’t help but be moved by it.

  It’s the last song I worked on in the studio. I remember it clear as day. Jett on the couch. Kai and Henry in the booth. The song I wrote about how I felt about Grady.

  I feel like I’m not breathing the entire time the song plays. My eyes eventually open and stay locked on my hands as I listen to myself sing about love and loss and hope and want. All the things Grady made me feel. That I still feel.

  And when the song ends, the room is quiet. Riddled with discomfort, I finally lift my eyes to see both Callum and Kai staring intensely at me.

  “What’s going on here?” I ask. Although, the thunder of my pulse in my ears tells me I already know.

  Callum looks over to Kai and nods.

  “When you sang that song in the studio, Dylan, every person in that booth, including me, had chills. It was that stunning. What you just heard was that one take with a few tweaks to the background. Jett was on the couch, so absorbed in himself he didn’t even lift his head, and I remember wondering why he couldn’t recognize that a number-one hit was being sung when the rest of us did? But not a hit for him, no. A hit for you, Dylan. With your vocals. So raw and haunting and emotional. Christ. I knew you were going to be mad at me, but I had to turn it in to Callum. I had to let him hear what I heard.”

  I stare at Kai, every part of my body feeling like it doesn’t belong to me as I listen to his words, hear his praise, and still want to ask if he’s really talking about me.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I finally stutter out.

  “Say you’ll let me release that single on our label.” Callum enters the conversation for the first time. I start to speak, and he holds up his hand to stop my protest. “I know you hate the limelight, Dylan. That’s more refreshing than you could ever imagine, but I can’t let that demo go without begging you to keep it first. Is it a great song for Jett’s album? Yes. Will it be a hit? Yes. But it won’t be the same without your voice sounding like it just did. It will be good, but it won’t be that.”

  I stare at him, my eyes blinking, my rationality warring with my insecurities. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes,” Kai pleads. “Jett doesn’t deserve this song.”

  “Look, think about it. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll send the contract to your agent. I’ll work with whatever terms you want. You want to release the song and never perform? That’s fine. You want to release this single and write more to release a full album? That’s even better. The song is so incredible, your voice so perfect for it, that I’m willing to work with you. You know I’m not one to budge on many things.”

  “I’m flattered.” Stunned. The world is spinning off its axis. “But I’ve never wanted the spotlight. I do better behind the curtain.”

  “We know,” Kai says with a reassuring smile. “But, God, Dylan . . . this is worth it.”

  I leave the conference room feeling like I’m in an alternate reality. I have to be. And yet, I can hear the song in my mind. The clarity of my voice. The raw emotion threaded through it. The possible creation of texture, the layering of harmonies. And I know they’re right.

  It’s a hit.

  Not with Jett’s voice.

  But with mine.

  It looks to me as if I owe someone a phone call.

  “Dylan? Is that you?” There’s what sounds like a flood of relief in his voice and every part of my body reacts to him saying my name. The swell of my heart. The widening of my nervous smile. The ache in my lower belly. The way my fingers grip the phone as if I let it go he’s going to slip through my fingers.

  “Hi.” My voice is shy, quiet, but some of the nerve it took me to actually hit send dissipated as soon as he picked up.

  There’s silence. Then we both try to talk at the same time. Then we laugh as we both say, “You first.”

  “The connection is shitty. Is that you?”

  “I’m here. Can you hear me?”

  “Fuck, it’s good to hear your voice, Dylan. Really good.”

  “Same here. You’re well?” I ask, uncertain what to say but knowing I will recite the phone book to prevent him from hanging up.

  “Yes. Yeah. Kind of.” His chuckle sounds as nervous as mine. There’s a loud roar overhead that’s almost deafening.

  “It’s a borate bomber. I’m on scene. The Santa Rios fires. We just got here and are about to gear up.”

  The exhilaration I felt calling him comes crashing down and shatters all around me when I recognize the fear in his voice. The uncertainty tingeing its edges.

  I know about the fires. They’re all over the news, their rampage devastating. Maybe I was just being naïve to think Grady was at the station, covering the other units that had been dispatched like he had all summer.

  “Grady.” A sudden surge of panic reverberates through me.

  “God, I needed to hear your voice.” Chills race over my skin, and the way he says those words tells me all I need to know. He’s struggling. Every part of me wishes I could race to his side, look him in the eyes, and reassure him . . . but I can’t. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . . I can’t let the guys down, Dylan.” His raw honesty is heart-wrenching.

  “You aren’t going to, Grady. I know you won’t. You’ve changed so much since I’ve met you. You’ve grown. You’ve faced your fears. You’ve realized—”

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “You can. I have faith in you.” And then my synapses fire all at the same time and my thoughts align. “Grady, we made a deal.”

  “Yeah?” He sounds distracted.

  “I fulfilled my end of it. That’s why I’m calling you. I wanted to tell you I did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “I sang a song. For me. The label wants to record it and release it as a single.”

  “You did?” There is so much pride in his voice, and in lieu of what he’s facing now, I almost feel guilty for talking about me. But I have a reason. “You actually went into the label and asked for studio time and recorded a song for yourself?”

  “Yes.” The white lie rolls off my tongue. My need to give him encouragement is more important than the semantics of how it all went down.

  “God. I’m so proud of you, Dyl. You did it. You really did it.”

  “And I know you can do it, too.” I wipe the tear away that slips down my cheek. “This is what you love more than anything, Grady. Your job. Your calling. This is the last step you need to take to get back to the new and improved Grady Malone.”

  “I wasn’t aware I needed improving.” His chuckle this time is warmer.

  “I’m a fan of you however you are.”

  “Malone. Gear up. We’re heading out in five,” a voice calls in the background, and I want to beg for just one more minute.

  “You gotta go.”

  “I’ve gotta go.” He sighs.

  “Be safe, Malone.”

  “Always.” I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince more, himself or me.

  “Grady.” I’m not sure why I say his name, but I can’t let him go just yet.

  I miss you.

  Come back to me.

  I love you.

  “Two-in. Two-out. Promise me that.”

  “Two-in. Two-out,” he murmurs. “When this is over, McCoy, you and I need to have a talk.”

  And then, before I can say another word, before I can tell him I agree, the call drops.

  “If this shit was easy, Malone, everyone would do it.”

  I look at Veego as the rig we’re on bumps and jostles while it heads up the mountain. The fire rages on the ridge in front of us. She’s a mean, nasty bitch, consuming every piece of brush she can find. The wind serving to add gasoline to her fury.

  I don’t respond other than a
nod because I don’t have the words. How can I when I’ve spent every call, every minute, scared of the one thing that makes me feel alive. Putting out fires.

  My fear and my salvation are one in the same.

  The rig stops at a makeshift basecamp that is ready to go on the fly should the wind switch and the fire swing, and we unload in one big mass of equipment and anxious energy.

  The next hour or so is spent double-checking our gear and stocking up on any supplies we’re going to need in order to keep a line up on the ridge above us.

  When we get the go-ahead, we begin the climb into the belly of the beast to be tried by her flames.

  My fears are eaten by the adrenaline.

  My doubts are eroded by each cut we make into Mother Nature to stop her progress.

  My hesitations are nonexistent as I slowly lose myself to the concentration it takes to stay alive.

  As I do what I love.

  I’m restless as I wait for Emerson to answer my question: How is Grady?

  I pace the confines of my condo, phone pressed to my ear as the news drones on about the fires in the background, doing nothing to calm my irrational fears about his well-being.

  It’s been four days since I talked to him. Four days of listening to the newscasters talk about the worst fire in California’s history and seeing the haunting images of burned-down houses, fire engines, and acres of scorched earth. It’s been four days of putting all the craziness in my life—contract negotiations, studio time for Jett, and then studio time for me—on the backburner because my thoughts are first and foremost with Grady. If he’s safe. If he’s alive.

  Radio silence does this to you. It eats at your resolve when you think you’re strong. It dredges up doubts when you know you have nothing to worry about.

  “Grant is using back channels to get information, Dylan. You know I’ll call you the minute I have more.”

  She makes the statement, but there’s hesitation in her voice that causes alarm bells to sound off.

  “What are you not telling me?”