Page 5 of Tasting Fire
“Chelsea?” Jonah asked with a disbelieving chuckle.
Cash’s laugh was rough and directed toward himself. Truth was, he hadn’t given her—a woman he saw on a casual and nonexclusive basis—a single thought since he’d heard the news about Emmy. “No. Emmy McKay.”
“Ah. The one who got away. Far, far away.” Jonah hitched his chin toward the line of remaining beer cans. “Maybe you should’ve bought more beer.”
“Fuck.” Cash sighed and ejected the magazine from his gun. This wasn’t doing him a damn bit of good. “I’m an idiot.” Because he still wanted the one woman who’d once made him look like a horse’s ass in front of everyone in this town. For shit’s sake, it had been thirteen years. A normal guy would’ve gotten over it.
Apparently, Cash wasn’t normal.
Jonah made a gimme motion, and Cash handed over the gun and remaining ammo. With a lazy smile, his cousin secured the magazine and took aim at can number four. It flew off the target and landed on the ground, but Jonah continued to press the trigger, shot after deliberate shot. Seven times.
Cash strode out to pick up what should’ve been a mess of metal fragments, but Jonah had somehow shot up the can to look like some kind of aluminum emoji. And the fucking thing was winking.
Cash walked back toward his cousin. “Anyone ever told you that you’re an arrogant asshole?”
“All the time, man. All the time.” Jonah’s smile was wide. It was the smile of a man who knew his place in the world and knew he was secure in the love of a good woman. Tessa Martin had done that for him. “So what are you going to do about the situation?”
Cash didn’t pretend he didn’t understand the question, but what could he do about Emmy getting married? She’d moved on a long time ago, and it was time for him to do the same. “She deserves someone smart and ambitious.”
“Dude, in case you haven’t noticed,youare smart and ambitious. But she also deserves someone who loves her.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long ago if you’re here shooting the shit outta beer cans.” With efficient and practiced movements, Jonah ejected the magazine and squatted to put it and the gun back in the case. He might look like a quintessential gamer, but Cash’s cousin was a Carolina boy, born and raised.
When he looked up at Cash, there was a glint in his eyes. “But I’m betting Reid will thank you kindly for stocking his fridge with all that beer.”
“Cash, we need to talk.”
He woke up with his sister Maggie shaking his shoulder and leaning over his bunk in the fire station quarters he shared with the other two shifts. His sight was still bleary. Not surprising since he hadn’t rolled into bed until four this morning, all of two hours ago, after a five-car interstate pileup that had required multiple ambulances and engines.
Blinking and rubbing his eyes, he scooted up to rest his back against the wall, the cinderblock scratchy and cold through his T-shirt. “You know what time it is?”
“The sun is out, so it’s daytime.”
“Maybe if you actually slept last night.”
“If you’ll remember, I was at the crash site, too.”
He grunted, but she was right. Maggie and a good portion of her deputies had managed traffic and interviewed witnesses. It sucked when a guy couldn’t get any sympathy because his sister worked as hard as or harder than he did. “Then what are you doing here, waking me up at the asscrack of dawn?”
Maggie’s gaze cut right, and she wandered over to the window overlooking the rear of the fire station, the same grassy area where Jonah had once unpacked a box sent to him by a wack-job playing a dangerous alternate reality game. “I wanted to talk with you about the tactical medical team before Captain Styles makes the leadership announcement.”
Cash’s drowsiness left the building and he swung his legs off the bed. “Today’s the day. We get more new TMT members and a team lead. The fact that Steele Ridge has its own friggin’ SWAT team is epic enough, but Jonah contributing toward this tactical medical team? As much as he makes me want to coldcock him sometimes, he’s done incredible things for this town.”
“And for some of our careers,” she said, almost to herself. Then she turned and took the stance he liked to think of as Maggie-the-Handler—hands on her hips, feet spread, and chin up, up, up. “Before the official announcement is made today, I wanted to—”
Braaaaah, braaaah, braaaaah!
The tones cut her off with an eardrum-busting bray, and dispatch came over the radio. “Structure fire reported at 1200 Beulah Rucker Road. Dispatching engine one and engine two.”
Cash was already off the bed and on his feet. Another thirty seconds and he’d have his gear on and be inside the engine. “We’ll have to finish up this tea party later, Sis. It’s time to go kick some ass.”
“Emergencies have the most inconvenient timing.”
He had to laugh at her disgruntled tone. Again, it wasn’t like she worked some nine-to-five desk job. People interrupted her life all the time. He especially enjoyed it when Maggie was dragged out of bed because ElmaSue Smith couldn’t find her cane and called 911 or someone got sideways when the Mad Batter ran out of hazelnut cream cheese puffs. With one arm, he pulled Maggie in for a quick, hard hug. “It’s what we do.”
Hours later, the fire had turned out to be less emergency and more clusterfuck. Apparently Thomas Felder had developed a keen hankering for fried catfish at breakfast time. And instead of using peanut oil, which could be heated to nuclear temperatures, he’d chosen bacon grease. The cornmeal from the batter had settled in the grease and the whole damn thing flared up. Then, in his panic, Mr. Felder tossed water on a grease fire.
