Fractured & His (Black Steel Hearts #2)
Chapter 1 The Explosion
Ordinary Fire
The first thing Declan Harlan felt every morning was pain.
It wasn't sharp anymore. Not usually.
Years ago, during the worst months after leaving military contract work, pain had arrived like a knife twisting between his ribs. Back then it had demanded attention. It had consumed entire days and stolen entire nights.
Now it was quieter.
More patient.
A constant ache woven into muscle and bone.
The price of old injuries.
The price of choices he couldn't take back.
Deck had learned to live with it.
He woke before dawn most mornings because his body refused to sleep longer. The stiffness settled into his shoulders, lower back, and knees overnight. Lying still only made it worse.
Movement helped.
Work helped more.
The garage helped most.
Which was why he found himself standing alone inside Whitaker Auto & Salvage long after sunset on a Friday evening.
The rest of the crew had gone home hours ago.
The large repair bay echoed with familiar sounds.
Tools.
Metal.
The distant hum of fluorescent lights.
The comforting rhythm of a socket wrench turning against steel.
Deck preferred it this way.
No customers.
No employees.
No conversations.
Just machines.
Machines made sense.
Machines followed rules.
People rarely did.
The classic 1969 Camaro sitting in front of him certainly made sense.
The muscle car belonged to a collector from three counties away.
Most mechanics would've considered the restoration project a nightmare.
Deck considered it therapy.
The engine sat partially dismantled beneath the raised hood. Various components rested neatly across a nearby workbench. Every bolt, hose, and bracket occupied a precise location.
Organization mattered.
Especially when life felt disorganized.
Deck leaned forward, adjusting a component near the fuel system.
His right shoulder immediately protested.
Pain shot down his arm.
The familiar ache forced him to pause.
A curse escaped under his breath.
Not because the pain surprised him.
Because it irritated him.
Thirty-seven years old and his body already felt twenty years older.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Years spent surviving dangerous places only to get taken down by routine aches and bad weather.
The shoulder injury dated back nearly a decade.
An armored transport accident somewhere in eastern Europe.
The lower back came from Afghanistan.
The knee from South America.
A collection of souvenirs nobody wanted.
Most days he ignored them.
Tonight proved more difficult.
Rain hammered the roof overhead.
A cold front had rolled through Willow Ridge earlier in the afternoon.
Old injuries always noticed weather changes before anyone else.
Deck straightened slowly.
The movement produced another wave of discomfort.
Wonderful.
Exactly what he needed.
He reached for the coffee sitting nearby.
The liquid had long since gone cold.
He drank it anyway.
The bitterness suited his mood.
Not that his mood had been particularly good lately.
The realization annoyed him.
Mostly because he knew exactly why.
Six months.
Six months since Kane Whitaker had nearly gotten himself killed during the tornado.
Six months since Dr. Elias Laurent had arrived in town and somehow turned Riot's life upside down.
Six months since everyone around Deck seemed determined to find happiness.
The thought made him snort softly.
Across town, Kane and Elias had become disgustingly domestic.
The entire garage suffered because of it.
Not in any practical sense.
Business thrived.
Riot smiled more.
The salvage yard expanded.
Everything functioned better.
Unfortunately, Kane had also become convinced everyone else deserved happiness too.
An exhausting development.
The man who once terrified half the county now regularly asked irritating questions like:
"You seeing anybody?"
Or:
"When was your last date?"
Or Deck's personal favorite:
"You know locking yourself in the garage every night isn't a personality trait, right?"
Deck usually responded by telling him where to go.
The conversations continued anyway.
Because Kane Whitaker had never respected reasonable boundaries.
The thought almost made him smile.
Almost.
The expression disappeared before fully forming.
Because beneath the irritation sat something harder to ignore.
Loneliness.
The word felt uncomfortable.
Embarrassing.
Deck rarely allowed himself to acknowledge it.
Especially not out loud.
People assumed he preferred isolation.
Most of the time, he encouraged the assumption.
It simplified things.
The reality proved more complicated.
Being alone wasn't difficult.
He'd spent years doing exactly that.
The difficult part was watching other people find reasons not to be alone.
Watching Riot look at Elias like the doctor hung the moon.
Watching Elias smile every time Kane entered a room.
Watching something solid and lasting take shape between two people who genuinely loved each other.
The sight should have been reassuring.
Instead, it occasionally felt like standing outside a warm house during winter.
You felt happy for the people inside.
You also noticed the cold more.
The realization lingered.
Unwelcome.
Persistent.
Deck shoved it aside and returned his attention to the Camaro.
Work.
Work always helped.
His hands moved automatically.
Years of experience guiding each motion.
The familiar process settled his thoughts.
For nearly an hour, nothing existed beyond the vehicle.
The engine.
The tools.
The work.
Peace.
Simple.
Predictable.
Exactly how he liked it.
Until his phone buzzed.
The sound immediately shattered the silence.
Deck frowned.
Most people knew better than to call this late.
He wiped grease from his hands and glanced at the screen.
A text message.
From Riot.
Of course.
His annoyance returned instantly.
Elias made lasagna. Come eat before I bring it to the garage and force-feed you.
Deck stared at the message.
Then laughed despite himself.
A short sound.
Rare.
Unexpected.
Another text appeared seconds later.
That's not a joke.
The mechanic shook his head.
Somewhere in town, Kane Whitaker was undoubtedly serious.
The image felt absurd enough to improve his mood slightly.
Deck typed a response.
Busy.
The reply arrived immediately.
Liar.
Another followed.
Eat food. Be human.
Deck rolled his eyes.
Then silenced the phone entirely.
Problem solved.
Mostly.
The exchange left a strange warmth behind.
Not because of the lasagna.
Because somebody had noticed he wasn't home.
Somebody cared enough to check.
The realization settled quietly inside his chest.
Dangerous thing, kindness.
Especially when you weren't accustomed to receiving it.
He returned the phone to his pocket and focused on the Camaro again.
Outside, rain continued falling.
The storm intensified.
Wind rattled portions of the building.
Thunder rolled across the sky.
None of it concerned him.
The garage had weathered worse.
Much worse.
The next forty minutes passed peacefully.
Until the smell appeared.
Deck froze immediately.
His head lifted.
The scent barely registered at first.
Faint.
Subtle.
Wrong.
Every mechanic developed instincts over time.
You learned to recognize sounds that shouldn't exist.
Vibrations that felt incorrect.
Smells that signaled trouble.
This qualified.
The scent of gasoline drifted through the air.
Deck frowned.
Slowly setting down his wrench.
The smell strengthened.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
His attention shifted toward the engine compartment.
Everything looked normal.
For a moment.
Then he saw it.
A tiny glimmer.
A single drop of fuel forming near one of the lines.
Deck's expression hardened.
"Damn it."
The muttered curse echoed through the empty garage.
He stepped closer.
Examining the problem.
A damaged section.
Small.
Easy enough to fix.
Annoying.
But manageable.
He reached for a rag.
Planning to shut everything down and clean the area before handling repairs.
The next few seconds happened fast.
Too fast.
Another drop formed.
Then another.
The damaged section suddenly gave way.
A sharp spray of gasoline burst outward.
Directly toward a portable work light positioned nearby.
Deck's stomach dropped.
Instinct screamed.
Move.
The spark arrived first.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
More than enough.
Flames exploded across the fuel-coated surface.
Orange light erupted inside the repair bay.
Heat followed instantly.
Violent.
Hungry.
The fire raced across spilled gasoline with terrifying speed.
One second the garage remained quiet.
The next, flames were climbing toward the Camaro's open engine compartment.
Deck lunged toward the nearest extinguisher.
Already knowing this was about to become a very bad night.
Hero's Instinct
The extinguisher was mounted beside the office door.
Deck reached it in seconds.
Years of experience took over.
Training.
Instinct.
Routine.
He yanked the extinguisher free, pulled the safety pin, and aimed directly at the base of the flames.
White chemical foam blasted across the burning fuel.
For a brief moment, it seemed to work.
The nearest flames shrank.
The fire retreated.
Hope flickered.
Then reality returned.
The fuel leak hadn't stopped.
Gasoline continued spraying from the ruptured line.
Fresh fuel fed the fire faster than the extinguisher could smother it.
The flames surged back immediately.
Larger.
Hotter.
More aggressive.
"Damn it."
Heat rolled across the garage.
The temperature climbed rapidly.
Deck backed away, grabbing his phone.
Emergency services.
Now.
His fingers barely finished dialing before another sound cut through the chaos.
A crash.
Metal striking concrete.
Followed by a terrified scream.
The sound froze him.
Every muscle in his body locked.
Because he recognized that voice.
Tyler.
The realization hit instantly.
Tyler Dawson.
Seventeen years old.
Apprentice mechanic.
Hardworking kid.
Good kid.
Too eager for his own good.