Chapter 1
JJ
Today’s a bad day.
They happen too often and they never get easier. I just get better at pretending they don’t bother me.
Pulling bodies from wrecked cars and collapsed buildings is part of the job. It’s what I was trained to do. What I wasn’t trained for is holding someone’s hand while they stop breathing. Telling them help is coming when I know it isn’t, because all the help in the world wouldn’t save them. Watching the life fade from their eyes and then trying to figure out how I’m going to deal with that memory when I get off my shift, like it’s a normal nine to five.
I learned a long time ago that life is full of pain, and it never stops. No matter where you go or what you do, pain is always there to greet you like an old friend.
Being a firefighter is not a job for the faint of heart or the weak-minded. Some days are bad. Some are just days. There are no good ones. I deal with that. I live with that. Because what else am I supposed to do?
I usually avoid drinking alcohol when I’m in a mood—my father was a drunk and the memories I have of him are beyond brutal. But sometimes… I just need alcohol to drown out the ghosts. At least I prefer to drink in public instead of home, where I’m alone with nothing but my thoughts. That’s a dangerous mix that I’m not willing to tango with. I’ve seen what that does to a person in the way of brains splattered on a wall.
So, I spend time at the bar. Bear Brewery usually, because it’s got just enough noise that I don’t feel alone, and not too much that it’s overwhelming. It’s a ten-minute drive from my house, but I always take a rideshare. If I’m coming here, it’s for a reason—one that means I shouldn’t drive.
Classic rock plays from a jukebox in the back corner, loud enough for me to hear but low enough that people can talk over it. The screens above the bar are smaller than most these days, but the picture is clear. Sports always play on them, even though this place isn’t marketed as a sports bar. But what goes better with beer than men tackling, bodychecking, fighting, or chasing after other men?
“Hi.”
I glance to my left, at the guy standing there. He’s smiling like he expects something in return, but I’m not the smiling type—and I don’t know him. Does he think he knows me?
“Hi,” I say finally, a questioning lilt to my voice.What the hell does this guy want?
He’s younger than me, I’d guess, but not by much. His face is smooth, clean-shaven, with bright blue eyes that look as if they’ve never witnessed a single bad thing. His blond hair is natural and styled in that purposefully messy way.
“What’s theFfor?” he asks, pointing at the small, faded black letter tattooed on my ring finger. It’s still there after all these years, but pieces of it have disappeared over time, the lines no longer connected like they should be. It reflects what it stands for too much—something meant to last, slowly coming apart.
I lift my beer instead of answering. Let him think what he wants. I don’t have time for stories—especially that one. Not tonight. Not after the shift I had.
There is no reason Ihaveto answer him, so I don’t know why there’s a niggling sensation in my chest telling me to. I should tell him to go away, but it doesn’t feel right. He’s only curious and my bad mood has nothing to do with him. I assume people are having bad days—it forces me to be thoughtful and just a little nicer when I don’t want to be. Maybe they need a little kindness—I know I always do. You never know when a single word or a bad look will send someone over the edge… make them do something they can never take back. Something that will scar someone else’s life forever. Everyone has a different breaking point.
“Okay, don’t want to talk about it,” he says with a firm nod. I breathe a quiet sigh of relief. He doesn’t push. That earns him a point he doesn’t know he just scored. “What’s your name, then?”
“JJ,” I answer easily.
He’s looking at me with a bright smile, as if we’ve known each other for years. I have no idea who this guy is. Never seen him a day in my life.
“What doesthatstand for?”
I huff out a laugh. He doesn’t quit.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Oof. Harsh, but classic.” His hand goes to his chest, and I immediately notice his long, lithe fingers and soft hands. Unlike mine. He probably sits at a desk and types all day. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; it’s just not for me, and it’s not the kind of people I hang out with. “Okay, JJ-I-can’t-tell-you-my-real-name-or-I’d-have-to-kill-you, let me buy you a drink.”
I give him a disbelieving look. “You want to buymea drink?”
I’m not into stereotypes, but it’s rare people offer to buymedrinks. Usually, I’m the one buying the drinks. There’s no stamp on my forehead, but people assume. Big guy. Quiet. Firefighter. They assume I’ll take control, and they’d be right. I will… when I want to. That’s not why I came here tonight, though.
“I would love to buy you a drink,” he says happily. Like maybe doing this will make his day.
“Why?” I ask before draining the rest of my beer and putting the empty glass on the bar. The foam slides down the inside of the glass, settling at the bottom.
“Because alcohol makes me really brave.” He says it like he knows it’s ridiculous, but he’s still committed to doing it, anyway. Sounds like he’s used that excuse a hundred times before. Don’t know why he needs excuses at all. He’s good-looking in an innocent boy-next-door type of way. I can’t imagine he needs to buy drinks to get someone to talk to him.
I narrow my eyes. “Should you be drinking more alcohol then?”
