Cyrus
Chapter six
Firehouse fights
The smell of diesel and rubber hangs thick in the air of the firehouse.
Slight wafts of cedar and smoke cling to me, while my boots scuff across the polished concrete, weaving between hoses and gear racks as I track toward the one man in this town I never wanted to see again.
As far as fire stations go, this one’s impressively kept.
I’d expect nothing less from its captain.
No matter how many times I’ve pressed my mother about his return, I get nothing.
The woman is solid as an oak—unyielding, unmoved.
“If you want answers about Jonah, call him yourself,” she says.
No, thanks. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I make that call.
Because it isn’t just Jonah that lingers in my head.
It’s Fallon. Whether she went with him to California when he left.
Whether she ever looked back. I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t sit wrong.
It does—ugly and persistent, grinding against my patience until all I want is something solid to hit.
After ten years, the pain still hasn’t disappeared.
I rub the back of my neck, the idea of working alongside him sitting wrong under my skin.
I should’ve told the mayor to go to hell.
Years have passed since their betrayal, but the thought of Jonah still makes something in me tighten.
It’s unavoidable—we live in a small town, both first responders—but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I just need this job.
We were inseparable once. Best friends. Always together.
I exhale, forcing the emotion down. It doesn’t matter anymore.
It’s in the past. Jonah was always the type—charismatic, restless, never with the same woman twice.
I never cared enough to look closer. His escapades weren’t my concern.
I just wish I’d known that after cycling through everyone else, he’d set his sights on Fallon.
Plastic pops as I squeeze the binder in my hands.
Wishing it hadn’t come to this, I want to get this over with.
A few of the guys nod as I pass. Tipping my hat, I bypass them, making my way into the back row of lockers.
I turn the corner, boots scuffing on the ground as we both come to a sudden stop.
A near collision, bright green eyes flash with surprise before cooling to a deeper color. His mouth presses into a thin line.
“Jonah,” I hedge, drawing a flicker of hesitation before his shoulders tense.
“The prodigal son returns.”
We stand there, awkward, not willing to burst the impregnable silence between the two of us.
Standing this close to the second biggest regret of my life.
It sucks. He clears his throat. “I take it since you’ve been in town for a few weeks and haven’t reached out, this is official business. ” He nods toward the folder.
“I was informed that we have to work together,” I say. Crossing his arms over his chest, his lips lock with unsaid words. Not caring to hear whatever excuse he’s drummed up. I continue. “It’s the Fourth of July floats, decorations, route map, music choices, colors,”
Jonah’s tone drips with sarcasm. “Slim pickings for colors. Red, white, and blue. Though with how you behave, I suspect you would choose funeral black given the choice.” I don’t smile at him; my pulse pounds in my ears, a steady rhythm I could use as a melody to kick his ass with.
“Anyway,” I continue, my voice cracking with the barely suppressed anger, “it’s all in here. All you have to do is show up.” I hold the binder out, every minuscule detail already organized within.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Cyrus, you left without a fucking word. You didn’t have the common decency to shoot me a fucking text?”
I ignore him, no fucking way we are having this conversation. “We’ll collaborate in public for the sake of professionalism, but let’s not pretend this is anything other than a professional capacity. Okay?”
He looks taken aback. Like he thinks he’s the one who gets to be upset.
I turn to step away—but a sharp yank stops me cold, followed by a slam that pins me against the lockers.
Metal groans under the impact. Jonah’s face is right there in mine, flushed, tight with anger.
I don’t even see the fist until it drives into the locker beside my head, the bang echoing through the firehouse.
Garnering the attention of nearby firefighters.
Too close, a few inches to the right, and I would be fixing a broken nose. Anger radiates from us both. Two men are in a grudge match that’s lasted almost a decade. My fingers wrap around the wrist, pinning me to the metal lockers. One minute I’m about to remove Jonah from my body, the next.
A surge of adrenaline drags me under, pulling me straight back into that night in D.C.
My mind fractures at the edges, reality warping as the hallucination tightens its grip.
The smell of burning flesh coats my throat, making me gag.
My eyes sting, blurring as a cough rips through me, and suddenly the wails from that night flood in—Jonah’s voice distorting, his words slurring and fading into something distant and muted.
The present slips away, replaced by everything I’ve tried to bury.
Caleb’s body pinned to the ground, a phantom agony shreds through my thigh where the iron bar pierced my leg.
The hallucinations deepen. It’s impossible to differentiate where I’m at.
I’m flat on my back, the metal rod pinning me in place as.
“Cyrus! Cyrus McCoy! Goddamnit, what the actual fuck, fuckboy, you don’t get to do this—”
A stinging pain lances across my face as something whacks me back to the present. Jonah’s features come into focus as he growls inches from my face. “Don’t make me take pity on you, asshole.” His hand draws back to slap me again.
“McCoy!”
“Stop shouting.” My hoarse words echo in the station. He looks incredulously at me—his green eyes flash in warning.
“Hey there, buddy, you all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine.” I brush his hands off, straighten my uniform, and glance around to take note of who witnessed my episode.
Two guys peek from around a row of lockers, concern written on their faces.
I toss a weak thumbs-up. They ignore me and turn to Jonah for orders.
He waves them off, tilting back on his heels to give me some space.
Disgust colors my neck as I fight for control of my limbs to peel myself off the cold floor.
“Yeah, you look fine—all but seizing in my arms. Want me to call the doc?”
I tilt my head, flicking a single finger at him. His bark of laughter hits me fast, deafening, and entirely unexpected. He clasps my hand and hauls me upright. “Let’s go fishing.”
Jonah’s suggestion catches me off guard.
All I want is for this to be over so I can crawl back into my truck and pretend the world doesn’t exist. Hair falls into my face, obscuring my vision, and I lean back slightly, nodding.
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. I jolt as he claps me on the back.
“Okay, this Saturday.”
He turns, bending to grab the binder I dropped before heading back to his office.
I slump against the lockers, pulling in a shaky breath and forcing my heart rate to slow.
How long before it spreads that I’m a mess?
There’s no way he didn’t notice what was happening.
PTSD is a bitch. How did I go from wanting to avoid him to agreeing to go fishing with him?
I’m blaming the lapse in judgment on the rewiring my brain decided to do. God, I hope he doesn’t bring Fallon.