Page 13 of Worth the Fight

He chuckles, but it sounds absent of humor as he moves to the window and stares at the darkness I found solace in earlier. His shoulders are broad, his hair is a mess, and his bicep tenses as he brings the glass to his lips.

I debate leaving him be, giving him the peace he’s most likely used to living on his own. Yet, there is something about him that has me sinking onto the couch and watching him from afar. Maybe it’s that he looks as lost as I feel right now.

The scanner sparks to life and holds both of our attention as codes are given and 10-4s are responded.

I try to push away the riot of memories the sound brings up. The muffled sound of the dispatcher I’d hear as my mother would sit and listen to the scanner long after my brother and I had gone to bed. That and the clink of the neck of her vodka bottle as it hit the rim of her glass.

“Car accident on the outskirts of town with a passenger trapped,” he deciphers the codes for me when the radio falls silent, almost as if he’s not sure what else to say.

I close my eyes and say a silent prayer for the person trapped. When I open them, he’s standing in front of me, head angled to the side, staring. “What are you doing?”

“Saying a little prayer for the person in the car to make sure they are all right.”

He smiles softly and sits on the edge of the coffee table that faces me. “My mom used to do that when she’d hear a call on the scanner. She’d also say one for my dad’s safety. I forgot that until right now.”

“Was your dad a firefighter too?”

“A cop. Then the chief of police.”

“You didn’t want to follow in his footsteps?”

“For a while, but my oldest brother ended up going that route, and I ended up falling in love with fire.” His eyes darken some, and I’m reminded of the nightmare he’s just woken from and wonder if it has anything to do with his work.

“Your nightmare . . .”

“Nothing big really. Just a reminder to keep me on my toes when I’m at work.”

“You said you have it often,” I say, curious if he’ll tell me more.

“It’s late.” He shoves up from his seat and moves around the back of the couch toward the hallway. “Thank you for trying to help, but I need to get some sleep.” I freeze when he places a kiss to the top of my head. It’s unexpected. It’s sweet. It makes me want to snuggle into the couch and stay right here with him.

“Good night,” I murmur, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Sleep sweet.”

I remain seated, listening to dispatch for who knows how long, wondering if my dad is on the other end of that code somewhere.

And if maybe my mom does the same thing even after all these years.

CHAPTER FIVE

GRADY

“What gives, man?” Grayson asks as he tips the neck of his beer toward the house.

“What do you mean?” I swing the hammer and pound the nail into the two-by-four.

“Hottie songwriter,” Grant fills in the blanks for him.

“How do you know she’s a hottie?” I ask.

“I have my sources,” Grant says with a lift of his brow.

“So, that means Emerson must have seen her somewhere and given him the rundown,” Grayson says about Grant’s wife. “So, is she?”

I think back to the other night. The heat of her pussy with nothing separating us but a thin sheet. The way her nipples pressed against her tank top. She was warm and real and inviting when everything about my dream was cold and dark and debilitating.

I line up another nail on the two-by-four I’m holding over my head and pound it into place. “Aren’t you assholes supposed to be helping me?”