Flashpoint Nights (Firehouse 99 #2)

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 the F for?” 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 I have to 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 does that stand 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 buy me a drink?”

I’m not into stereotypes, but it’s rare people offer to buy me drinks.

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?”

He holds his hands up. “Hey, I said I was buying you a drink, not myself.”

“Okay… sure.”

“Do you want another one of those?” He points to my empty glass, sounding unsure, as if he doesn’t quite know what it was.

“That’d be great.”

Nodding, he leans against the bar top, eyes going right to the bartender who’s walking this way.

She moves by quickly, and he flinches forward, lifting his arm like he’s going to call her, but he didn’t get the chance.

His hand goes back to the counter, and he doesn’t say a word as his eyes follow her.

He does this a few times. I watch him so very unassertively try to get a drink, and it’s slightly entertaining. I almost laugh.

“And you got drinks all night by… hoping?” I ask, waving out my hand to get the bartender’s attention.

She raises a brow but doesn’t stop. I hold up my glass. She nods, then grabs three full shot glasses and takes them to the other end of the bar.

“Well, that’s not embarrassing at all,” he says, turning to face me once again.

“What’s your name?” I ask. My mood is slightly better, thanks to him. Distractions are always nice.

“Miles.”

“Nice to meet you, Miles,” I say. “Is it your first time at a bar?”

“Uh, no… She just looked busy.”

“She’s doing her job.”

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Okay.” I shrug as she puts my beer down.

“That’s going on my—”

She takes off before he gets the rest of the words out.

This time, I can’t help but laugh. He looks at me, pouting.

“Hey, at least you’re cute,” I say, pointing at him with the glass before taking a long sip.

His lips turn up in a grin. “You think I’m cute.”

“I’m sure you know you’re cute.”

He moves his head from side to side. “Maybe.”

I roll my eyes because it works for him, and he knows it.

“What do you do for work?” he asks, resting his elbow on the counter.

The crack of someone breaking the first set at pool table echoes through the air, then a bunch of guys start whooping and laughing.

“I’m a firefighter,” I say, the same practiced way I always do. Like it’s not a big deal and I don’t see people die all the time, and if you want to be a firefighter, you totally should be because it’s amazing to save lives and all that jazz.

And it is. Of course, it is. But losing them… it’s never easy.

My job might not be so stressful if my home life were a little better, but that’s a whole other problem I don’t want to think about right now—or ever, usually.

“Shut up,” Miles says with a gasp, pulling me from my spiral.

“My nephew is obsessed with firemen and especially fire trucks. And I don’t mean like a normal amount of obsessed, I mean over-the-top.

Like… it’s concerning, maybe. His entire room is fire trucks.

The walls are that ugly red, and—sorry.”

His cheeks turn pink as he rolls his lips between his teeth to stop from talking.

“I’m not offended that you find red ugly. It’s not a great color.”

“It’s not, right?” he says carefully.

“Not after you’ve seen as much blood as I have.” The words come out flat. Too flat. There should be more emotion there.

He frowns but doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch. Just studies me like I said something important, and he’s filing it away for later. Guess it says a lot about me. Can’t care what people think about me, though. Not lately.

“Sorry. It’s been a rough day.” That’s the normal thing to do, right? I’m not drunk, but when I’m spiraling, I don’t have much of a filter or a handle on my morals.

He smiles and something twists in my stomach. “That’s okay. I have bad days all the time.”

“Excuse me,” someone grunts. The guy sitting on the stool behind Miles gets up to leave, so he hops onto it, still facing me.

“Are you here with anyone?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“You often come to bars alone?”

“Do you?”

“How do you know I’m alone?”

“Because I was here when you walked in, and you haven’t talked to a single person since.”

“Observant,” I comment, taking a sip.

“Yeah, my sister hates it. She says I need to chill out and just let things go.”

“You’re close?”

I don’t know why I’m asking this. I don’t typically make small talk with people I meet at bars.

If I’m meeting someone, it’s for a reason—and one reason only.

Which hasn’t happened in a long time. I’m trying to be good.

I didn’t come here for that tonight; I came to have a few drinks so I could go home with a clear mind and sleep without nightmares.

“Very close,” he says. “When our parents died, they left us a bunch of money, and we bought a two-family house together. She works second shift at the hospital, so I babysit a lot. My nephew is great though, so I don’t mind.

Coolest seven-year-old you’ll ever meet, that’s for sure. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

My stomach turns heavy, and I take another sip. “I have two brothers.”

“Cool. Are you close?”

“We’re brothers,” I say.

“That wasn’t what I asked,” he says gently.

I think about that, considering my options for answering, before actually opening my mouth.

“My brother, Nash, is a cop, so I don’t see him much, even though he lives twenty minutes away. My other brother, Hollis, he lives in California. I visit sometimes.”

“Wow, that’s far.” He chuckles. “Are you from here?”

“California,” I say, taking the last bit of my drink. That was my fifth and I’m still not feeling it. What a waste.

I get to my feet, and he frowns as his eyes follow my movement.

I can’t stay here any longer and dig into my personal life.

The beer isn’t helping. All it’ll end up doing is making me sick, so I may as well go home.

My phone vibrates on the counter. It’s AJ calling, but I press the button on the side to ignore it.

I can’t talk to him right now, which is exactly why he’s calling I’m sure.

Like my brother, he always senses when I’m in a mood and calls to check in.

He’s the closest thing I have to a friend, I guess, though calling him that feels weird. We’ve known each other for years, but we don’t do friend things. We work together. Talk now and then. Grab beers.

“Leaving?” Miles asks. There’s something in his voice. Not clingy. Just… disappointed.

“I’m exhausted. Just got off a 24-hour shift.”

“Shit. That’s rough. Go home and get some sleep.” He smiles up at me like he means it with his whole heart. That even though there is a slight hint of disappointment there, he understands I need to leave and he’s okay with it.

I nod, grabbing my jacket from the back of the seat and throwing it on. I turn to leave but stop abruptly because I feel his gaze on me. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s watching with a curious look in his eyes.

I told myself I was done doing this. Done looking for this type of distraction.

Done making things messier than they already are, because God knows I can’t handle anymore mess.

But there’s something about the look in Miles’ eyes.

He doesn’t look desperate. He looks interested.

That’s worse. But it calls to me all the same.

Loneliness is a bitch that won’t leave me the fuck alone, and I’m weaker than I pretend to be.

I take the few steps back to him. He looks up at me with wide, intrigued eyes.

“Did you talk to me because you wanted to hook up?” I ask bluntly.

His eyes widen further, his cheeks turning pink again. “I, uh…”

“If so, I only do simple. One night.”

Miles looks like he wants to say something, but all he does is nod. I’ll never know if his intention was hooking up, but if it wasn’t… he sure wants it now.

I turn to leave, and this time I don’t stop. Miles is right behind me.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I said I wouldn’t.

I’m married, for fuck’s sake.