Chapter 6

Jake looked up from his notes on Kingston’s progress to find that the old man’s shrewd gaze was on him.

“You still got a thing for my Charlie,” he said.

Jake’s pen stilled, his fingers tightening on it. “No, sir. It’s just, after all this time, a little weird seeing her, is all.”

“That’s horsefeathers.”

“It’s not, but you’re entitled to your opinion, King.”

“Damn straight I am. I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck.” Kingston glared at him. “And I’m only gonna tell you once. You stay away from my granddaughter. You’ve caused my family enough grief, you hear?”

The pen snapped in Jake’s hand. “You know what, old man? I’m sick of the hostility and suspicion. I’m sick of the questions. I’m sick of you staring right through me or cussing and spitting anytime we run into each other in town. Even though you wouldn’t talk to me twelve years ago and haven’t since, until today, I know you heard me shouting outside your hotel window that night. The campfire was out. Now, you don’t have to like the sight of me, or the fact that I remind you of a tragedy in your life, but I did live in your house, as a member of your family, for months. And you do have to ask yourself one question: Have you ever known me to be a liar?”

The old man dropped his glare, looked down at his gnarled, age-spotted hands. “I want some water.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Jake handed him the large covered cup with straw from his bedside table.

Kingston snatched it and took a large draft.

Jake snorted. “You’d love to say yes, wouldn’t you? But you can’t.”

Slurp.

“By the way, I have no intention of going anywhere near Charlie, except for helping out at Will’s wedding at my sister’s request. But please understand that if I did, I wouldn’t feel the need to ask your permission. Now, you have a nice evening, King. I’ll be back tomorrow for another PT session.”

The old coot locked eyes with Jake, still wielding his cup. For a moment, Jake thought he might throw it right at his head. But he just set it down hard; narrowed his eyes under those wacky, furry gray eyebrows; and gave him a barely there nod.

Well, I’ll be damned. Looks like we understand each other.

---

Unburdened, Jake returned to the Silverlake Fire Station feeling a little lighter, despite the distant rumble of thunder and the threatening sky. As unpleasant as this afternoon had been in some ways, he’d finally had some kind of strange breakthrough with Kingston Nash. It proved that the man was actually human, not an escaped character from The Walking Dead. He was just a bitter, lonely old soul who needed a gentle, healing touch. Kindness and companionship. And someone to set him straight.

Before that last discussion, he’d done every rotation and exercise Jake had guided him through, and though it was with a constant grimace and more than a few insults, Jake felt as if he’d actually helped him. Who’d have thought it would be easier to find a way to move on from the past with Kingston than with Charlie?

Jake stepped inside the firehouse, which was technically the office. But it was also home, much more than a bachelor pad and bunkhouse. Its four brick walls and two levels of hardwood floors had been witness to friendship, rivalry, belly laughs, a lot of testosterone, and some occasional drama.

It even smelled like home. Jake sniffed appreciatively at the aroma wafting downstairs from the kitchen. Was that a tinge of possible redemption he scented, or his brother-in-arms Mick’s famous meatballs? Mick made them with fresh parsley and oregano that they mocked him for growing in window boxes out back, and Romano cheese that came from Vittorio’s, a tiny Italian market in town. Vittorio couldn’t stand Mick and wouldn’t let him through the door, but his second daughter had a crush on him and sold to him when her father wasn’t there.

“Hi, honey,” Jake called out to Mick, over the dull roar of ESPN upstairs. “I’m home!”

Not-Spot, their yellow Lab, gave a welcoming woof as Jake started up the old wooden stairs, his hand trailing the worn banister. Not-Spot had come home from the pet shelter one day with Tommy, the newest member of the squad. Tommy claimed that Not-Spot had lobbied to volunteer for them as a mascot until they found a dalmatian, which of course they’d never gotten around to doing. Who could break the big heart of a Lab?

The firehouse dated back to the 1950s and still retained much of the cozy, old-fashioned feel of the original layout. The lower level was essentially one big garage that housed Big Red, the fire truck; a couple of other city vehicles; and all their gear. The upper level consisted of a big eat-in kitchen with an L-shaped bar; a den that held a massive wide-screen TV, a navy sectional couch, and a computer desk; and a bunk room.

As Jake came into the kitchen and bent to scratch Not-Spot behind the ears, Mick wiped tomato sauce off his chin with a paper towel. “How was your day, dear?”

“I got to put my hand on Kingston Nash’s thigh,” Jake told him with a grin. “It doesn’t get much better than that.”

Old George choked audibly from the den and fell into a coughing fit. He’d officially retired as fire chief a few years back, but he still worked gratis—what else would he do? He’d never married, and the firehouse would always be his home.

“Yo, Georgio,” Jake called.

Old George grunted. He hated being called that.

“Tell me you’re kidding,” said Mick. “Please.”

“Nope.” Jake ruffled Not-Spot’s ears and walked over to the stove for a look.

“You should have ripped it out of the socket and fed it to the Lundgrens’ hogs,” Mick said.

There came a hoot from George at that.

“You know he’s still lobbying hard to put us out of our jobs.” Mick retrieved a fork, then banged closed a drawer with his hip. “Not to mention . . . how he’s acted toward you over the years.”

Mick knew all about how the Nash family had treated him. He’d couch surfed at Mick’s house more than a few times after the Nashes kicked him out.

Despite Deck’s best efforts to talk to him—even occasionally putting an actual hand on his shoulder—Jake had avoided him and the ranch. The Braddock homestead only depressed him, and Declan was no replacement for Mama or Pop. The more he tried to be, the worse it made Jake feel and the madder he got. Irrational, maybe. But it was what it was.

After the fire, he’d followed Old George around like a lost puppy, constantly asking questions about what could have caused the fire, how it could have been prevented, what they could have done differently. And George, being gruff but good at heart, had tolerated him.

Mick had tagged along, too. The two of them had trained for their badges together after George had kicked them into shape. And back when Jake’s world was falling apart, the fact that Mick had never tried to be more than Jake’s loyal wingman worked better than Declan’s shell-shocked love.

“Yeah,” Jake said. He tried to snake a meatball out of the pot, but Mick blocked him. “I’m pretty tired of the old man’s BS. But even Kingston, underneath all that crap of his, is a human being—”

“Debatable.”

“And someone’s got to help him walk again.”

Mick adjusted the flame. “Also debatable. If he can’t walk, he can’t heckle the town council. Ever think of that, genius?”

“True.”

Mick took pity on him, finally. “Here, you can taste this. Does it need more oregano?”

Jake took the fork Mick extended to him. A chunk of meatball steamed enticingly. He inhaled it in a single bite, his eyes rolling up into their sockets with sheer pleasure. “Mmm. Man, I can’t tell oregano from catnip, but I can tell you that these are incredible. As usual. I’ll take five right now, on a hoagie roll, with extra cheese and sauce.”

“Four,” countered Mick. “But they’re oversized. And you’ll wait until dinnertime with the rest of us.”

“Yes, Mom,” Jake said with a grimace. “Do I gotta do my homework first?”

The sound of a video call coming in on the television interrupted Mick’s response. “Ace is early,” he said, and looked at Jake in alarm. “Injury?”

“We’ll find out,” Jake said, accepting the call from his brother. Ace appeared on the screen, his baseball uniform dirty and accessorized by a black eye and disheveled hair.

“Hey, bro,” Ace said. His other eye, bright blue, winked. But it wasn’t a merry wink, or a reassuring one.

Jake cursed. “This doesn’t look like a simple superstition call. You okay?”

One of Ace’s pregame rituals was to call Jake. They’d shoot the breeze a little, Jake would tell him that all the family members were alive and well, and then Ace would go off to hit home runs, catch fly balls, and man second base with the Lone Stars, the major league team out of Austin.

Jake and Ace had maintained the same pregame ritual since they were kids in Little League, ever since their parents had died.

Alive and well. Ace said he had to hear Jake say it or he couldn’t play.

Jake sometimes suggested that Ace come home and see for himself. Declan never missed a game and had Ace’s stats pinned to the wall in his office, and Lila baked brownies to take to Schweitz’s on game day. But Ace never came home. Neither did Everett.

It was never a good sign if Ace called too early, and a couple of times when he hadn’t called at all, Jake had been legitimately worried. Those were the times when his brother never even made it onto the field.

Ace took a long swig from a bottle of water, the wreck of a house party showing behind him on the video screen. And was that—oh, man. A baseball bunny was still sprawled, barely covered, in his bed.

“I’m alive, but I can’t say I’m well. Don’t think I’m playing today, bro,” he said.

Mick made a worried sound behind him, and Jake looked around.

“Hey, Mick,” Ace said.

Mick might have a loud mouth in general, but he never shared Ace’s business with the press. “What the hell, Ace?” he asked, still hovering over his meatballs like a nervous mama hen.

Ace ran his fingers through his hair. “Got into a fight last night.”

“Not with her, I hope,” Jake teased, trying to keep his concern under wraps.

“What?” Ace blinked and then looked over his shoulder. “Oh. Right. No, not with her. We got along just . . . great. She’s been a nice distraction from this.” He held up his hand. One of his fingers looked distinctly bent, and the others looked black-and-blue.

Jake winced. “Son of a— What the hell did you do? And why isn’t that splinted yet? You need a doctor.”

The cell phone lying on Ace’s bed rang. “That’ll be the team doctor now.” He grimaced, and said to Mick, “Sorry about the game.” To Jake, he just said, “Sorry.” And then he hung up.

The blare of ESPN came back on automatically once Ace logged off.

Jake slowly shook his head.

“Maybe some guy spilled a beer on him,” Mick said. “Or got too pushy about getting an autograph. Or got pissed that Ace was flirting with his girlfriend. Who knows . . .” He went back to his meatballs. “I do know that they’re gonna retire him a lot faster if he can’t behave. Too bad we couldn’t send Coach Adams on the road with him. Keep him in line.”

Coach Adams—Mia’s dad—had been a mentor for Ace growing up, as Charlie’s dad had unofficially adopted Jake. The high school baseball coach still lived vicariously through his protégé.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Damn, that television was loud. Jake picked up the remote and absently killed the sound so that he could think.

“Hey!” Mick said. “I need that to drown out all the voices in my head.”

“There’s nothing on the planet that will override those.”

“Amen to that,” Old George called from the other room.

“I should just accept the voices?”

“Exactly. Just as the rest of us do.” There was a silence as Jake stared off into space before he said, “I’m having one hell of a day.”

Mick put down his cooking spoon and wiped his hands on a towel. “Um, just so you’re not caught by surprise, I’m gonna make it worse. Charlie Nash is in town for Will and what’s her name’s—Felicity’s—wedding next Saturday.”

Jake stiffened.

This statement had the effect of producing Old George from the other room. He was rumpled, his shirt untucked from his khakis and his shock of gray hair flattened in the back. He tugged at his mustache. “Serious?”

“Hey, man. Yeah,” Jake said. “I ran into her at the hospital.”

Mick’s eyebrows flew up. “And?”

“And nothing,” Jake answered.

George snorted. “Last time she was in town, you volunteered for extra shifts.”

“It was the holiday season. I was trying to help the rest of you out.”

George’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

“You were trying to avoid her,” Mick said.

“Well, hello, Mr. Serious All of a Sudden. No, look. It’s fine now. I’ve seen Charlie, and it’s fine.” Jake shrugged, forcing himself to look like he didn’t give a damn. He only wished it were true.

George said nothing, just went and stuck his head into the fridge. He knew better than to try to fish out a meatball.

“Fine? Okay. Yeah.” Mick snorted. “I’ve been around the block with you, Jake. I know how it all went down.”

Not this again. What is with everyone? “It was high school, man. It’s been over a decade.”

“You said you’d never get over it. You looked like you’d never get over it. Are you getting over it?”

“There’s nothing to get over, I’m telling you.”

“’Cause if you are, I think we should throw a big party and invite every single girl in the county.”

Jake forced a smile.

“Charlie included. If you’re over her, then I’m gonna take my chances.”

“Ha!” Old George pulled his face out of the fridge.

Jake quit trying to smile. “Don’t even think about it.”

Mick grinned. “Called your bluff. That was way too easy.”

Jake stepped over to him and palmed the back of his head, shoving it down toward the steamy pot. “Time for a facial, Mick!”

The two of them struggled, laughing and cursing, until Not-Spot bounded over and barked them apart.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Jake told him, as they all panted at each other. “I’d never kill the guy who bakes you homemade dog biscuits.”

“And I’d never kill a poor lovesick fool,” Mick added.

George snuck toward the meatball pot, taking advantage of the distraction. And scored.

Charlie’s image flashed into Jake’s mind’s eye. Again.

I was engaged . . .

He wanted to kill the unknown guy.

I’ve got some errands to run . . .

Any excuse to get away from him. It was borderline insulting.

And that look of almost comic dismay on Charlie’s face when he’d agreed to stand in as a groomsman.

We shouldn’t have asked. It should be anyone but you.

Nice. The only thing worse than being asked was specifically not being asked. “I am not lovesick!” Jake growled.

Not-Spot cocked his head and looked at him askance. Then he barked once more.

“See,” Mick said. “Even the dog knows you’re lying.”