Chapter Three
SILENCE, INTERRUPTED
Andi
I’m not heartless; I just don’t have the energy for other people’s nonsense.
And today? There had been a lot of it.
Mikey wouldn’t shut up about the auction. The hot firefighter/EMT Cole wouldn’t stop looking at me like I was some kind of challenge. Plus, let’s not forget he stole my burrito.
Which was next-level annoying.
The pan hisses as I drop in a piece of chicken, the smell of garlic filling my tiny kitchen like it’s trying to make up for the silence.
Beef stretches out near the door, his head resting on his paws, watching me with those lazy eyes as if he’s judging my seasoning blend.
“This is why I don’t go out,” I mutter, flipping the chicken. “Everyone wants something.”
He huffs, his tail thumping once.
It’s not much of a dinner—just something to eat so I don’t pass out tomorrow. But it’s mine. The dishes clatter, the fan above the stove rattles, and everything feels quiet in that way I like best.
No noise. No people. No pretending.
I settle on the couch with my plate, and Beef’s head nudges my knee, begging for a bite.
“Don’t push it,” I say, but I give him some anyway.
The TV’s on, but I’m not watching. It’s just background noise while I scroll through my phone. There are a couple of texts from Shay, begging me to come out.
Then I see it.
A message from Mikey.
Mikey: Preview of your big debut. Tell me this doesn’t scream SOLD.
I click.
It’s a draft flyer. My name, bold and bright: Andrea Callahan. Some stock photo he must have pulled from my ID badge, showing me looking halfway to murder.
I stare at it, my fork paused halfway to my mouth.
This should piss me off more than it does.
But it’s just... typical.
People deciding things for me. Mikey being Mikey. Annoying, is what it is.
I set my phone down and push my plate away. I’m not hungry anymore. Beef nudges closer, resting his massive head on my lap.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, scratching behind his ear. “Completely fine.”
He doesn’t move, just breathes. Steady. Solid.
Unlike the rest of the world.
My phone buzzes again, and I check it.
Shay this time.
The thing about Shay is that she’s never been good at taking no for an answer.
Not when we were fifteen, sneaking out to drink stolen wine coolers on her roof. Not when I tried to disappear after my parents died. And definitely not now.
She’s loud, nosy, all fire and sharp edges—but she’s all I’ve got.
The texts keep coming.
Shay: You better be putting on makeup.
Shay: Don’t make me come over there.
Shay: Okay, I’m coming over.
I groan, tipping my head back against the couch.
“Remind me again why I have friends?” I ask Beef, who sighs as if he’s over it too.
The knock isn’t polite.
It’s Shay, which means it’s more like a threat.
Bang-bang-bang-bang. “Let’s go, Callahan!”
“I swear, we should’ve gone into hiding,” I tell Beef, who blinks at me like he’s already halfway there.
I get up to answer the door, pushing a hundred and forty pounds of fur off me first.
I crack the door, already regretting it.
She’s in leather pants, her eyes lined like she’s ready for war. “You’ve had your alone time. Now it’s my turn.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“You never are. Doesn’t mean you’re getting out of it.”
Shay doesn’t care that I’m tired, or pissed, or that all I want is to stay in my little bubble where no one expects anything from me.
She cares that I don’t disappear.
“I’m good right here,” I try again, motioning to the couch, the dog, the half-eaten plate.
“Nope. You’re getting dressed, you’re putting on those black jeans that make your ass look illegal, and you’re coming with me.”
“Shay—”
“I brought tequila.”
She waves a little flask at me like it’s some kind of prize.
Beef lets out a low groan, as if he’s tired of this already. Same, buddy. Same.
I sigh, knowing I’ve already lost the battle. “You owe me.”
“Please, you’d do the same for me.”
I wouldn’t, but I don’t say it.
I pull open the drawer where I keep my going-out clothes—what little I have—and grab the black jeans Shay loves to harass me about. They fit tight, high-waisted, and remind me that I might be five foot two, but I can still make people look twice. Small doesn’t mean soft.
I throw on the jeans she insists are magic for my ass, add some ankle boots, and a basic white tee.
A thousand chunky bracelets and some eyeliner later, I glance in my full-length mirror and turn slightly.
Okay, so my ass is amazing, but that’s beside the point.
I run a hand through my hair, the lavender dye catching in the dim light.
Just longer than my shoulders, slightly wavy, like it can’t decide whether to behave.
That’s as good as it’s getting.
Big Don’t Mess with Me energy, in a small package.
Beef watches me like he’s judging every life choice I’ve ever made, and honestly, same.
“Bye, bubs,” I say, patting his head.
Thirty minutes later, we’re pushing through the doors of O’Malley’s, and I’m already counting down the minutes until I can leave. Bras suck, and pants are overrated.
The place is packed. Music thumps in the background, the air thick with beer and bad decisions. Shay’s in her element, pulling me toward the bar like she owns it.
“You look hot,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Try to have fun.”
I don’t do fun. I just try to survive. That’s enough for me most days.
I’m about to order something strong enough to make this night end faster when I hear him.
“Didn’t peg you for the bar type.”
I turn.
Are you kidding me?
Cole’s here.
He leans against the bar like it was made for him, a beer in hand and forearms casually flexed.
He’s ditched the uniform, trading it for a dark T-shirt and jeans that fit just right—annoyingly right.
His hair is still a mess, as if he ran his hands through it on the way over, and I hate that it works.
I arch an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you for a mind reader.”
He grins, slow and easy. “Lucky guess.”
I turn back to the bartender and order. Cole shifts closer—not enough to crowd me, just enough to make it clear he’s not leaving.
“Rough night?” he asks.
“Every night’s rough when people won’t leave you alone.”
“Ouch. That was almost personal.”
“It’s been a long week.”
He nods and takes a sip. “Yeah. You could use some fun.”
I shoot him a look. “I don’t do fun.”
“I’ve heard.”
His eyes flicker, warm and amused, and for some stupid reason, it makes my chest feel tight.
Shay slides in next to me, two shots in hand, already glowing. Her eyes land on Cole, and she lets out a low whistle.
“Damn,” she says. “I’d ride that ride.”
My stomach drops. “Shay—”
“What? Look at him.” She nudges me, not even trying to whisper. “Tell me you wouldn’t climb that like a tree.”
Brennan appears behind Cole, grinning like he’s at a comedy show. “She’s got a point.”
Cole just laughs, unfazed. “Should I be flattered or file a complaint?”
“I’m mortified,” I mutter, shooting Shay a death glare.
“Oh, relax. He knows he’s hot.”
Brennan raises his beer. “Cheers to that.”
I should walk away. I should shut them all down.
But Cole’s still looking at me, like he’s waiting for me to admit something.
I don’t. I down my drink instead.
“I’m not interested,” I say, more to myself than anyone.
He leans in, his voice low. “You sure about that?”
I meet his eyes, steady. “Positive.”
But my pulse says otherwise.
Well, that’s annoying.
Some people have resting bitch face. I have resting don’t-talk-to-me energy. But Cole seems undeterred by that.
I try to focus on my drink, but he’s still there—too calm, too steady. Like he’s used to waiting people out.
“You always this difficult?” he asks, taking another slow sip.
“You always this nosy?” I shoot back.
“Only when I’m interested.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Well, don’t be.”
“Too late.”
His gaze doesn’t waver, and for a second, I forget what I’m supposed to say. He’s closer now, the crowd disappearing around us, making the room feel smaller than it is. I catch a whiff of his cologne—clean, something woodsy—and it’s annoying how good it smells.
“How long have you been working at the hospital?” he asks, his voice casual.
“Long enough.”
Shay suddenly leans into the conversation like she never left.
“Six years,” she says, tossing back another shot. “She started right after school. Could’ve gone anywhere, but she stayed here.”
I glare at her. “Thanks, Shay.”
“What? It’s not a secret.”
Cole raises an eyebrow. “You like it?”
I shrug. “It’s a job.”
“She loves it,” Shay cuts in again, ignoring the kick I send to her ankle. “She just doesn’t like talking about it.”
He smiles, clearly enjoying this.
“What about you?” Shay asks, turning the attention back to him. “You always wanted to run into burning buildings for fun?”
“Something like that.” He sets his beer down and rolls his shoulders like it’s no big deal. “Tried college first. Spent two years at Boston College.”
“Ohh, smarty pants,” Shay says.
“Anyway, I didn’t like sitting at a desk, so I figured, why not?”
“Figures.” I cross my arms. “Adrenaline junkie.”
He grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not a compliment.”
Another laugh, low and easy.
“Okay, your turn,” he says, narrowing his eyes slightly. “What do you do when you’re not slicing people open?”
“None of your business.”
“She reads true crime books and takes Beef for long walks in the park,” Shay answers, way too cheerfully.
I choke on my drink. “Shay.”
“What? He asked.”
I’m going to kill her.
Cole’s smile grows, but he doesn’t push. “Beef’s your dog?”
I nod, wiping my mouth. “Yeah.”
“I like dogs.”
Of course you do.
“Well, he hates all men, so… good luck with that.” I force a grin.
I wait for a joke about how similar I am to my dog or something equally stupid, but he doesn’t say anything for a second—just watches me. I shift my weight, suddenly too aware of everything—my clothes, my hair, the way his eyes flick to my lips when I breathe in.
Cole wraps one hand around his beer, eyes still on me. “So, what made you want to work in the morgue?”
I shrug. “Dead people are quiet.”
Shay rolls her eyes. “And she likes being the smartest person in the room.”
“What about fun? What’s your idea of it?”
“Not this,” I mutter.
Shay pipes up, because of course she does. “She bakes when she’s mad. Pies, mostly.”
Cole smiles like he likes this answer. He watches me even closer now, as if he’s fully invested even though I’ve given him zero reason to be.
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” I ask, trying to break whatever this is.
“Nope. And you’re not very good at being chased.”
I don’t have a response for that.
But I wish I did.