exactly every day your average citizen was introduced to a celebrity. But the Macy thing—that was just plain wrong. Grace was wonderfully calm and easy on the blood pressure. What if Macy went and turned her into someone more like herself?
But as he tried to imagine Grace all tarted up, strutting her stuff at the local honky-tonk and setting men on fire, it wouldn’t gel. Grace was her own woman, not one filled with flashy, edgy, in-your-face sexuality like Macy. Guys tended to respect her precisely because she wasn’t the kind of woman to flash cleavage. Although that probably didn’t mean she wouldn’t like to have a little fun. And he had to admit The Flirt could probably provide that in spades.
Still, he was tense over the strange-ass evening this had turned into, and wrestling a fire into submission sounded like just the antidote.
But not one he’d find tonight, he saw moments after turning off Highway 2. There was a spot ahead lit up like high noon with the truck’s halogen work lights, and when he pulled over to the side of the farm road running through Art Bailey’s spread he saw that Johnson and Solberg had the flames undercontrol. They must have caught the small storage barn before the building was fully engaged. It had sustained some damage and still smoldered, but he had no need of the turnout gear he kept in the back of his ride. Solberg was inside with the hose taking care of the last of it. Climbing from the SUV, he cast a curious glance at the old pickup truck full of split wood he’d parked behind even as he assured himself that the fire being out was a good thing.
And, hell, it was; his men had done their job. Too bad it didn’t stop him from feeling a little let down. For as he’d already noted, the evening had left him feeling strangely tense, and he would’ve welcomed the chance to blow off some steam. God knew his opportunities in that direction were limited these days.
He’d given up his old standbys—enonstop, in discriminate fighting and fucking—eat seventeen. That’s when a caseworker had helped him see past his rage long enough to realize he was headed down a one-way track to early death or incarceration if he didn’t get his shit together. So he’d climbed aboard the Straight and Narrow Express, set a course for himself and, except for a few backslides early on, had pretty much stuck to it from that point on. He thought before he spoke now. He never used his fists. He even expressed most of his obscenities internally.
Okay, he hadn’t given up sex—even if it felt that way sometimes. He was, however, a whole lot moreselective than he’d ever been at seventeen. But, hell, what grown man wasn’t?
Still, fighting fires was one of the few outlets he had when things got tense, and the only one that was guaranteed to relieve whatever ailed him. Yet the chances to pit himself against an inferno, to feel the muscular pulse of the fire hose in his hands, the spike of adrenaline rushing through his veins—not to mention outwitting that brutal bitch in full conflagration—were fewer and farther between since he’d traded in his job in Detroit for this county fire-chief gig. Being chief instead of crew meant more supervising and less getting to throw himself in the thick of things.
But he had a job to do here and no time to dwell on matters he’d already decided on. Going up to Johnson, who was guzzling a liter bottle of water, he said, “What’ve we got here?”
The blond volunteer capped his bottle and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good Samaritan driving by—” he nodded toward a middle-aged man standing a short distance away talking to the farmer who owned the property “—saw smoke rolling out of the shed and called 911. He found the water hookup and hose and did what he could until Solberg, who was nearest the station, got here with the truck. I showed up maybe two minutes later.”
Gabe was suspicious by nature, and his years on the Detroit
But as he tried to imagine Grace all tarted up, strutting her stuff at the local honky-tonk and setting men on fire, it wouldn’t gel. Grace was her own woman, not one filled with flashy, edgy, in-your-face sexuality like Macy. Guys tended to respect her precisely because she wasn’t the kind of woman to flash cleavage. Although that probably didn’t mean she wouldn’t like to have a little fun. And he had to admit The Flirt could probably provide that in spades.
Still, he was tense over the strange-ass evening this had turned into, and wrestling a fire into submission sounded like just the antidote.
But not one he’d find tonight, he saw moments after turning off Highway 2. There was a spot ahead lit up like high noon with the truck’s halogen work lights, and when he pulled over to the side of the farm road running through Art Bailey’s spread he saw that Johnson and Solberg had the flames undercontrol. They must have caught the small storage barn before the building was fully engaged. It had sustained some damage and still smoldered, but he had no need of the turnout gear he kept in the back of his ride. Solberg was inside with the hose taking care of the last of it. Climbing from the SUV, he cast a curious glance at the old pickup truck full of split wood he’d parked behind even as he assured himself that the fire being out was a good thing.
And, hell, it was; his men had done their job. Too bad it didn’t stop him from feeling a little let down. For as he’d already noted, the evening had left him feeling strangely tense, and he would’ve welcomed the chance to blow off some steam. God knew his opportunities in that direction were limited these days.
He’d given up his old standbys—enonstop, in discriminate fighting and fucking—eat seventeen. That’s when a caseworker had helped him see past his rage long enough to realize he was headed down a one-way track to early death or incarceration if he didn’t get his shit together. So he’d climbed aboard the Straight and Narrow Express, set a course for himself and, except for a few backslides early on, had pretty much stuck to it from that point on. He thought before he spoke now. He never used his fists. He even expressed most of his obscenities internally.
Okay, he hadn’t given up sex—even if it felt that way sometimes. He was, however, a whole lot moreselective than he’d ever been at seventeen. But, hell, what grown man wasn’t?
Still, fighting fires was one of the few outlets he had when things got tense, and the only one that was guaranteed to relieve whatever ailed him. Yet the chances to pit himself against an inferno, to feel the muscular pulse of the fire hose in his hands, the spike of adrenaline rushing through his veins—not to mention outwitting that brutal bitch in full conflagration—were fewer and farther between since he’d traded in his job in Detroit for this county fire-chief gig. Being chief instead of crew meant more supervising and less getting to throw himself in the thick of things.
But he had a job to do here and no time to dwell on matters he’d already decided on. Going up to Johnson, who was guzzling a liter bottle of water, he said, “What’ve we got here?”
The blond volunteer capped his bottle and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Good Samaritan driving by—” he nodded toward a middle-aged man standing a short distance away talking to the farmer who owned the property “—saw smoke rolling out of the shed and called 911. He found the water hookup and hose and did what he could until Solberg, who was nearest the station, got here with the truck. I showed up maybe two minutes later.”
Gabe was suspicious by nature, and his years on the Detroit
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