Somehow, I fit into that tiny ass huckleberry car of hers.
It’s close. Tight. Cramped.
I can’t really say it’s much better for this bum leg of mine when I’m all tensed up in the passenger seat, my thigh already throbbing. Still, it’d be worse if I had to wrangle that fire truck back to the station and then drive myself home.
It’s hard to focus on the pain during the drive home.
Hard to think about anything but the fact that this town’s in danger again, and I feel like it’s my fault.
Yeah, so the arsonist has gone after Warren, Leo, Doc.
Not me.
Not yet.
But the fact that the scum are using fire?
Maybe it’s to hurt Leo and Doc and kick up chaos, sure.
It feels like they’re baiting me.
Trying to draw me out, one messy combustion blaze at a time.
It’s like in all the little messages to my friends, there’s a deeper message:
You’re next.
Like hell.
Because if anyone hurts me, that’s gonna hurt Andrea.
And it might just hurt Peace, too.
I won’t fucking let it happen.
Something stinks rotten.
I know where that equipment came from. There’s nobody in town who has that shit but Clark and his Uncle Rog.
But Peace said she was sure it wasn’t Clark.
So would it be Roger?
What the hell would Roger Patten be doing setting fires like this?
I mean, he’s always been a bit of an old weirdo, this drifter type making his life in show biz.
Maybe he’s starting to go a little soft in the head, and his lifelong obsession with pyrotechnics is turning dangerous.
Trouble is, I don’t even think Rog is in town right now, unless he’s laying low. That’s the main reason Clark’s been taking over the prep for the carnival shows, with Roger off doing stuff in other states for winter, flitting in and out of town.
I still can’t stop thinking about my brother.
He’s no firebug, not that I’ve known.
But that’s the problem.
We’ve been estranged for so long. I don’t know Holt anymore.
And he’s not stupid. He works construction. Even if he’s more on the business side now, I’ve seen him bust his balls before his stint in the Air Force—and he can work some pretty complicated shit.
He’d be able to rig up something easy if he set his mind to it.
Hell, he’s been skulking around town, talking to people.
Probably sneaking talks with my daughter whenever he gets a chance. He knows damn well I won’t let him back in the house to see her, but I can’t watch her every minute.
All she’d have to do is drop hints that I’m trying to beat up her boy over fires he didn’t set, and she’d give Holt his scapegoat.
Is that it?
Is Holt setting Clark up?
I wouldn’t put it past him.
Still...it doesn’t totally jive. I feel like one of the UFO guys who call my show, ranting and raving about the sketchiest rumors.
Like I’m twisting things around to suit wild theories because I don’t want to doubt Peace’s judgment with Clark. Or Andrea’s.
Don’t want to doubt my own good sense, either.
Even if I think Clark’s a smarmy, proud little asshole...
The kid had an alibi. Langley told me so himself.
And he’s not old enough to know who Jenna Ford was other than a name dropped here and there, let alone worship her like some kind of hero we’ve failed to honor.
None of it makes sense.
I’m missing something.
I feel like it’s right in front of my face.
I’m still stuck on what by the time Peace pulls into the driveway, the empty spot where my Jeep should be. I’ll have to go back to where I left it parked at the station in the morning.
I’m almost hoping to see Clark’s ratty Pinto there, too, but there’s no sign of it. Andrea’s window upstairs is dark.
Probably out screwing around in the woods with her friends again.
The only reason I haven’t put more of a stop to it is because it’ll just make her go overboard.
Girl doesn’t even like the taste of moonshine after she spent a night puking it up. She still insists she wasn’t drunk that night she came home way back last year, puking her guts out and weaving.
Besides, she’s never let teenage shenanigans come between her and school.
I leave her to be smart. If she drinks that crap again, she’ll take one or two sips for show, just to fit in with her friends and then pass it on.
“Hey,” Peace says gently. “Earth to Blake.”
Then her hand is on my thigh—just below the scar.
It should hurt.
Should hurt like hell, but all I get is warmth.
Like it just drifts off her, this gorgeous candlelight of a girl who soaks her heat into me and soothes storms with the lightest touch.
“Blake?” she whispers again.
“Sorry. I zoned out.” I jerk away from glaring out the window and look down at her.
“I could tell.” She smiles playfully. “I’ve been waiting for you to get out so I can lock the car for over a minute.”
“Uh. Oops.” Clearing my throat, I pry myself out of the little purple car, stepping into the snow—and hissing, clutching at the car roof to hold myself up as I try to put my weight on my bum leg, and it says fuck you, nope.
Pain like chainsaw teeth ratchets through me, and I growl, closing my eyes. “Fuck.”
“Hey—you’ll be okay. C’mon.”
I feel the car door slam, rocking it, and then she’s there, pressed against my side. Her arm winds around my waist as she eases me away from the car, into her warmth.
“It’s okay, Blake,” she whispers. “I’m here.”
“I...fuck. I’m too heavy,” I manage to grit out, and she laughs softly.
“I’m stronger than I look. It’s okay. Let’s just get you inside. It’s not far.”
My pride wants to rebel, turning into this mangled, helpless thing in front of this beautiful woman.
But there’s no room for ego. If I try to be stubborn and stagger my way back, I’m gonna tumble us both into the snow.
So, reluctantly, I lean away from the car, clumsily shoving the door closed, and let my weight lean on her carefully.
She dips a little, but she’s right—girl’s stronger than she looks.
Then one hobbling, fire-burning step at a time, we make our way up the drive.
It’s the porch steps that are the worst. My leg’s turned into a brick with every step, and suddenly I can’t fucking bend it without feeling like someone’s shoving a molten steel rod right through the muscle.
Snarling, I stomp up, then slump against the wall next to the door.
I go stiff as a mummy while her hand slips into my open coat, burrowing down into the pocket of my jeans.
Pain or no pain, I can’t really ignore it.
That warmth sliding down my hip, my thigh, way too close to my cock.
Hell, maybe I’m some kind of freak because suddenly it’s like the pain just makes my cock throb harder as she twirls her fingers around down there.
Shitfire.
She can’t know what she’s doing to me.
Not when she looks so focused, so distracted.