Sweet Baby (Crescent Cove #19)

1. Jensen

ONE

JENSEN

Fire stained my fingers.

Soot.

Ruby dust.

Canary yellow.

Blue flame.

I ground the colors into the wall with the pads of my fingers. With the palm of my hand. With the side of my hand—all made different shapes and smudges. The palette, made of my own blend of chalk, sand, and gel medium, created a paste, resulting in a gritty 3D effect. I’d gessoed some cheesecloth to the wall, building up the flames even further.

I shifted across the scaffolding that took up most of the main wall of my studio apartment. I’d built it with scraps of metal from my days as a metal artist as well as layers of chipped particle board I’d collected over the years.

I’d dabbled in every art form since I was a pre-teen, but mural-sized paint and chalk was where I’d finally landed. Part of that included a mild infatuation with the texture of walls and surfaces.

Chipboard frayed and crumbled in the most fascinating ways.

Right now, it was holding me up near the ceiling where the worst of the blackness remained. I stumbled a step, and the metal frame swayed.

I’d built it to support the past me.

The lean artist who lived on coffee and one meal a day if I remembered.

Not because I was a starving artist—not exactly—but a consumed one. Who forgot to come up for air unless I had to go to work or when sleep demanded it.

Now a new obsession had elbowed its way into my life side-by-side with my art. It included training and a staggering amount of protein to make my body strong.

Forty extra pounds of muscle strong.

Which required me to actually fill my tiny apartment-sized fridge with a staggering amount of turkey and chicken. Working shifts at The Mason Jar and Spinning Wheel often included food as a benefit.

But it was the thirty-pound vest strapped tight over my chest that was causing the real problem. My chest tightened and the strangling constriction of the vest made sweat pop out over my shoulders and neck as I reached higher to dig my nails through the black layer I’d troweled on the night before to find the ruby red and canary yellow layers beneath. With painstakingly slow effort, I teased out the exact flame colors I wanted to portray in the mural.

The ones that never truly left my dreams.

The way it flickered and popped out of the darkness with grasping pain-filled fingers. How it crawled up the walls, hid in corners, roared like a hungry dragon from the depths of Trick or Treat’s basement on that fateful night.

When I’d been trapped above her.

When I hadn’t been able to get to her.

Lyric.

I crouched on the scaffolding, the weight of the vest digging into my abs and thighs in my position as I dug into a new space on the wall. I picked up chalk chunks from my tray of colors, adding blues and purples with my torn nails, creating the gaping maw of the floor that had caved in.

Memories of her stinging sobs rolling out with the oddly alive sounds of the fire as it continued its destruction.

Her quiet pleas for help.

My broken name in her husky smoke-tinged voice.

The persistent beep of an alarm stripped away the all too real flashes of the fire.

To try to clear my thoughts, I shook my head. The scent of smoke and melted sugar dissipated, and I was left with the sharp stench of alcohol and chalk instead. Not to mention, the scent of my damn self, since I’d sweated through the layers of cotton and canvas, thanks to the extra bulk of my vest.

I stepped back from the mural and the complete immersion that had dragged me right back into that moment.

It didn’t matter that it had been well over a year ago now. The memories were fresh and heavy in my chest.

I was in the last weeks of the fire academy, and my fellow trainees were getting ready to do the structural fire challenge. Watching our trainer do the test in front of us had triggered the memories, and I was having a hard time putting them back in their box.

So…I was drawing it.

It was the only way I knew how to control it.

I ripped at the Velcro straps of the weighted training vest I wore while working. I gasped at the relief from the weight closing in on me.

The alarm still shrilled through the room.

The tread of my boot caught in the uneven layers of chipboard of the scaffolding, and I pitched back. I tried to grab for one of the railings, but I was too off-balance with the thirty-pound vest and fell back onto the floor with a bone-rattling thump.

Thankfully, my mattress was just below and took the brunt of the contact.

It wasn’t the first—nor would it be the last—time I’d taken a header from the damn scaffolding. So many times, in fact, that I’d broken the frame of the futon, leaving me to sleep on the goddamn ground like a college student.

Not that I’d ended up staying a college student long enough to really know. But it was the same as being a poor dude.

I sucked a strangled breath back into my lungs, staring at the ceiling of my studio apartment. Even the ceiling was painted in riotous smoke and fire.

Haunted much?

“Computer, alarm off!” I yelled.

The room went blessedly quiet as I brought a shaking hand to my face.

I’d been learning to freeze my ass off in subzero water, crawl through impossibly small spaces, and yes, fall, during the last three months, thanks to the fire academy. Crescent Cove Fire Department might be small, and half volunteer-based, but they were no joke about their training.

They required a full course with the New York State Fire Academy to walk through their doors, never mind to get hired.

The captain of our local house, Jacob Mills, was no joke about training. Period.

This was also my second run-through the training.

I’d failed out on my first try.

The first time had been a lark. I thought it would be a decent paycheck and fun to be a firefighter. I’d always been lanky and strong due to my interest in art and metal sculpture. Art had saved my life, but it was damn hard to make a living with it. Especially when the supplies were so damn expensive.

I’d tried the college route, but it wasn’t for me, no matter how disappointed my older brother was about it.

I couldn’t stay focused on bullshit classes when all I wanted was to dive into my own projects. But that meant I needed to find work and without that handy certificate, my options were limited.

Truth was, I was tired of picking up shifts at restaurants and bars. Tips were a handy way to make a quick buck, but that sort of work wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

And the thought of being stuck behind a desk in some insurance or call center job made me want to rip my own eyeballs out of my head.

Fuck, no.

But I’d been halfhearted at best about doing the work to get through the fire academy.

Until Trick or Treat.

Until my boss, Lyric Bledsoe, had nearly died.

Until I’d actually been in the middle of those flames and hadn’t been able to do a fucking thing to help.

That would never happen again.

The sense of futility and utter helplessness I’d felt that night was something I never wanted to experience again.

So I damn sure never would.

I hauled myself up off my mattress, every muscle quaking.

Ben Sullivan, a firefighter in the CCFD, was the one who’d convinced me to go out for the department. He’d joked that working out while wearing the vest would give me a leg up with getting through training.

I’d taken him at his word.

But I didn’t think he’d meant for me to wear it for four hours while I was in a goddamn fugue creative state.

I shrugged it off and tossed it into the corner of my room. It needed a trip through the laundry. My whole body ached from wearing the stupid thing too long. And I needed a shower before my shift at The Cove, Crescent Cove’s version of a high-end steakhouse.

I only worked there a few times a month since Jackson Gideon, the owner, had a very stable roster of staff. I filled in when they were desperate.

The tips were triple what I made at The Spinning Wheel or The Mason Jar.

Which was why I’d set an alarm, so I didn’t miss my shift.

After a quick shower, and a trim of my shaggy beard, I pulled on black dress pants and a matching dress shirt, then I shoved my feet into my Doc Martens and grabbed my leather motorcycle jacket. I’d be behind the bar tonight, and since I was low man on the call sheet, it was almost a guarantee that I would end up with the shittiest tasks.

It was a frigid night. January was being an absolute bitch, loading us down with snow and the coldest air off the water I’d ever experienced.

I’d only lived in Crescent Cove for a handful of years.

The first year had been with my grandmother to get her settled after my brother had moved us to the area for his job. He was a lawyer with a firm in nearby Kensington Square and took his responsibilities very seriously.

Which had included getting us out of the scariest part of Albany.

New York’s capital had some pretty rough areas, and he wanted both me and our grandmother closer to him so he could keep his eye on us.

I loved my grandmother, but living with a septuagenarian wasn’t in my life plan. Instead of paying for studio space, I’d finally decided to get a small apartment for myself.

Jean Turner had cultivated her own circle of friends, and she didn’t need me around, anyway. I still checked in on her a few times a week to make sure she was doing all right.

She might be my grandmother, but she was more of a mother than my own POS parents.

Since it had been a few days, I hooked up my phone to the Bluetooth to my speakers and I dialed her number as I let my truck warm up for a minute.

“Is that you, Jensen?”

“Hey, Grams. How are you doing?”

“Tired of freezing my tits off.”

I laughed as I kicked up the heater to defrost my windshield. “Did you get that heating blanket I sent you?”

“Yes. The nice girl next door helped me figure it out.”

I frowned. “You should have called me.”

“Oh, stop. You were at the academy. I can take care of myself.”

I sighed. “I know. Did you get a new neighbor?”

“I’ve had three new ones since Emmaline moved away. Oh, did I tell you she came by with that little firecracker, Adriana, last week?”

“No, how’s she doing?”

I backed out of my space in the small parking lot at the back of my apartment building and listened as she caught me up on her old neighbor. Emma Brooks neé Hauser was the head of entertainment over at The Mason Jar, and I helped out quite a bit on the barge while she did her parties during the summer.

Another good moneymaker for me. Party tips were pretty damn good from the upper crust Cove-ites.

“You should meet my new neighbor, Tatum. She’s very pretty.”

“Gram.” I sighed with exasperation. “You are not setting me up again.”

“I don’t like to see you alone, Jensen. You haven’t even tried to date since the fire. I worry.”

“I’m okay. I promise. I’ve just been busy.” And I didn’t need to explain to my grandmother about the handful of hookups I’d had over the last year that had gone nowhere.

“You just haven’t found the right girl.”

“Gram, I’m twenty-two. I’ve got plenty of time to get serious with someone.”

“I know. Not that you act like you’re twenty-two. I’d worry less if you did.”

“You know I’m an old soul. But this old soul has to make some money for rent.” I slowed to a stop since there was a backup near the turnoff to The Cove. It was going to be a busy night. “I’m doing a shift at the steakhouse tonight. I’m almost there.”

She sighed. “Fine. But you can’t work all the time, honey.”

“Well, say one of those rosaries for me. I’m almost done with the academy. Then maybe you should do another one so Captain Mills will hire me.”

“I can do that. You come by for Sunday dinner.”

“I will. Is Eli coming?”

“Yes. So, you better show up.”

I laughed. “Only if you make chicken and dumplings. I’ll send you the groceries.”

“Deal. I love you.”

“Love you too.” I hit end as I parked at the edge of the parking lot with the rest of the employees.

I shoved my phone into my pocket and zipped up my jacket against the wind. The Cove wasn’t on the water like The Mason Jar. Instead, it was in a new development area, but had a helluva view down on a nearby vineyard.

The Cove was all shiny glass and modern angles. The wraparound porch was empty, but it looked like the vestibule was full of people currently waiting on a table. I took a hard right and went around the building to the kitchen entry.

The back door was propped open and two of the kitchen workers were puffing away on their vape pens. I knew them by sight, but I didn’t know their names and I nodded hello as I hurried inside.

There was a small locker room down the hall, and I stashed my coat, pocketing my phone before I hustled around the maze of waiters and waitresses picking up plates for the dining room.

“Thank God.”

I grinned as Jackson Gideon pushed through the swinging door of the kitchen. “Busy one for a Wednesday night.”

“Forecasting another storm this Friday so I think some of the date nighters are out tonight, instead.”

I winced. “More snow?”

“Worse. Ice.”

“Hell.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Exactly.” He tossed me a black half apron. “Walk with me.”

I caught it, then I followed him back out into the packed dining room. I listened as he gave me the lay of the land for the night.

“Misty has the freaking flu. I may need you for more than one night this week if you’re available. I swear, half the waiters are coming down with it too. No hooking up with anyone this week, man. I can’t lose another freaking employee to this bullshit.”

I snickered. “No worries. I’ll keep my lips to myself.”

Jackson shot a grin over his shoulder. “Wish more of my employees would. Hell, it’s like f—uh, hookup central here.” He pitched his voice lower as we passed a table full of couples who were celebrating what looked like an engagement.

“It’s cold. Not much else to do.”

“That’s the truth,” Jackson grumbled. He led me to the main bar at the back of the restaurant. Every stool was filled by someone with a drink, waiting on a table.

I clocked the five glasses of white wine with matching women.

Date night or pickup night—I wasn’t sure which.

I tied on my apron, snagging a bar towel on the way behind the bar. I tucked it into the strings at my hip.

“Hey, Jen. Been a minute.”

I bumped knuckles with Pete, the head bartender. “Hey, man. Where you need me?”

“Thank God, someone who knows how to do this shit. I need refills on most of the drinks. I’ve been alone for the last hour.”

“I’m at your service.” I rubbed my hands together.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Jackson gave me a salute as he disappeared back into the chaos of the dining room.

“The sharks are circling tonight.” Pete nodded to the trio of women at the end of bar. “Lots of ladies are in tonight.”

I didn’t recognize the first one, but my gut tightened at the familiar dark hair in a high ponytail. She was talking to her friend, and she didn’t notice me. Her long fingers were cupping the bowl of her glass. No white wine for Lyric.

Nope, it was blood red, and it matched the slash of her mouth.

The shimmering lights of the hurricane lamps above her head caught the shiny skin of her wrist and pinky.

Her burn scars.

She turned her head, laughter lighting up her golden eyes before it winked out when she saw me.

Her chest rose and fell as she sat down her glass and pulled her hand back into the long black material of her sleeve.

I hated when she did that.

Technically, she was still my boss, even if my shifts at Trick or Treat had trickled down to barely one every other week.

I wasn’t sure if she was slowly phasing me out, or if she couldn’t face me.

And I was too fucking twisted up to ask.

Because I’d failed her and wanted her in equal measure.