Chapter Nineteen
AJ
The light tries to peek through my curtains, which annoys me more than it should.
After self-sabotaging the one chance I had to finally have what I want—Nate—I haven’t been able to open them completely.
The darkness is familiar. Constant. I never call out of work, especially for days at a time.
Aside from the day I called JJ to cover my ass, I haven’t called out in a decade.
Because come hell or high water, this job has been my salvation.
I fight for the survivors; for the glimmers of hope and the second chances.
I told myself it was my penance for what happened.
I couldn’t save my dad, despite how I’d hurt him, despite how much he hated me in the end.
But my survival didn’t have to be in vain.
I could atone for my sins, and the sins of my father, and that’s what I’ve held onto all these years.
The promise I’d made myself to rise above the ashes and be a better man. But I’m not better.
Not even close. All I am is fucking broken.
I thought I had control of this monster inside of me, but I don’t.
Maybe I never did in the first place.
Which is why I haven’t moved from this bed since I came home three days ago. I told Sarge I was sick, which isn’t a lie.
I am sick.
Sick of the guilt, sick of the shame, sick of the pain that never goes away.
I should get up, make myself something to eat; maybe go for a run or a drink—or two or three. But it’s like I have nothing left in me to even do that.
I close my eyes, trying to go back to sleep, but I can’t.
I keep thinking about that day—about the flames.
I’d thought I was dreaming then. I thought for sure my dad was right, and I’d been sent straight to hell.
The flames were so high, and all I could see was red.
The firelight bathed everything in an almost hellish glow.
The smoke gathered like a red cloud, choking me like a phantom, until I’d realized I wasn’t dreaming.
The first thought in my brain was not to save myself. It was to save him—my father, the man who lit the match, who thought that death was the only way I could be saved from what I’d become.
And he’d almost succeeded, but in his drunken fit of rage, he’d forgotten one thing. I was the son of a fireman, and I’d spent my entire life preparing this moment.
I didn’t think, because there was no time to think.
There’s a simplicity in those moments—the ones where you know you could die.
That nothing is guaranteed; not even your next breath.
The sirens blared outside, but I never heard the footsteps of the firemen.
Which I knew meant they thought they were too late.
They thought we were dead, so they weren’t coming for us. No one was coming for us.
No one was coming for me.
I heard his wicked cough through the wall and didn’t hesitate to move. I needed to save him. I needed to find my dad and get us out of there, or we were both going to die, and I didn’t want to fucking die.
So I did what I was trained to do.
But it was no use. He refused to open the door, and there was too much red smoke.
The flames were too high, and I wasn’t strong enough to break down the door.
I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore, begging, pleading for him to answer me.
I told him I was sorry. I told him I could change.
I told him I loved him, and begged him to forgive me.
Promised that I’d go to his stupid camp or therapy or whatever he wanted, if he would just open the door.
If he would just give me a chance to be worthy of his love again.
We could fix this. We could go back to the way things were before I’d destroyed everything.
All he had to do was answer me. But he never did. I couldn’t breathe, there was too much smoke, and I thought for sure that was it.
The darkness came like a shadow, and then the light disappeared.
When I opened my eyes, I thought it was all a dream. A terrible, awful dream. But it wasn’t. It was real.
The doctors said it was a miracle—I’d somehow managed to escape with nothing more than minor damage to my vocal chords and my throat, which they said was from the smoke. And the screaming.
But the rest of me was untouched—thanks to my hoodie; my too-big Firehouse 99 hoodie that I’d stolen from my dad and never gave back.
Tears fill my eyes because now I don’t even have that anymore. I gave it away, because I thought Nate needed it more than I did. I thought it would give him the courage it gave me once. To keep going, keep fighting.
There’s a knock on my door, and I groan, knowing it’s probably JJ.
I told him I was fine, that I was sick and was taking the weekend off, but of course, he knows it’s bullshit.
Which is why he’d show up unannounced, just to call me out on my shit and force me to talk about it.
Thing is, I don’t want to talk. I just want to feel…
something. Again. I hadn’t realized how numb I’d been until Nate Barrett showed up in the middle of a burning room.
Even with Cal and my subs, I never let myself feel present.
Even my scenes, carefully orchestrated as they were, were designed to be methodical; cause and effect.
But Nate makes me feel. He makes my heart thump in my chest, makes my breath catch in my throat, and he makes my stomach flip flop like I’m on a roller coaster.
But most of all, he makes me feel alive.
He makes me feel like for once in my life, I have a reason to keep going, to keep doing the things that make a difference.
Nate makes me feel like it’s all going to be okay, but I know now it’ll never be okay.
Because I’m a broken piece of machinery that will never work right no matter how many times you change the part.
The knock sounds again, heavier this time, like he’s already getting pissed that I haven’t answered the door.
I have half a mind to ignore it, but I also know he won’t let up or leave me alone until I at least show him my face and let him know I’m alive.
So I get up, my legs like deadweight because I’ve been bedrotting for two fucking days, and head towards the door.
I need a shower. I need to eat something, but even the thought of doing those things feels like a monumental task at this point.
“Coming,” I mutter. “Hold your fucking horses.”
But when I open the door, I have to do a double take.
Because standing in front of me is the one person I never thought I’d see again.
Nathan fucking Barrett, in my hoodie. My father’s hoodie.
With…
“Are those fucking flowers?” I ask as I take in the sight of an array of flowers wrapped in plastic.
I must be more sleep deprived than I thought…
“Yes,” he says, clearing his throat. His blue-green gaze holds mine, and I swear, my heart wants to rise up from the ashes.
“You brought me… flowers?” I deadpan, trying to make sense of the fact I keep blinking, but he doesn’t disappear like I keep expecting.
“Can I come in?” he asks carefully.
I look at him on my porch, standing there in my hoodie as he offers me the small bouquet.
In all my life, I can’t say I’ve ever had a man buy me flowers.
Ever. Not even to apologize. The fact is not lost on me.
I take the flowers from his hands. It’s not a large bouquet, and it’s mostly carnations and lilies with a few roses thrown in for good measure.
But it’s the color of the roses—a dyed green-blue—that hits me in my chest.
I think it might be my favorite color.
The color of his eyes.
“Why would you want to?” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Nate stands taller. His shoulders squared, and he holds his head high.
“Why wouldn’t I want to?” he says, his gaze bold, strong.
The way he says the words are solid and unwavering.
Dominant as hell.
“I could think of several reasons,” I mutter as I step back, giving ample space for him to come inside.
Nate takes two steps into my house before he slams the door shut, and the air changes instantly.
The hallway is dark, barely lit by slivers of light that pour through the windows in the door and barely reach the floor from the living room.
He takes another two steps forward and settles his hand on my hip. He guides me back not one, not two, but three steps until my back is against the wall, and I set the flowers down on the entryway table; my hand opening of its own accord. His touch is jolting and forceful, but not angry or harsh.
“No,” he says, his voice tinged with a deep growl. I raise my eyebrow.
“You had your chance to talk, AJ, now it’s my turn, and you’re going to listen to me until I’m done.”
My body goes numb beneath his hand, where he holds it on my chest. I can feel the rapid beating of my heart as my breath catches. I’ve never felt so compelled to shut the fuck up in my life.
I nod. “Okay…”
“You are infuriating,” he says, and I close my eyes, hanging my head because the bitterness in his voice is evident. “You know just how to push my buttons. You think you scare me, but you don’t,” he says, his palm warming against my chest.
“Nate…” I sigh, but he growls.
“I said you’re going to listen to me.”
He slides his hand over my mouth, and every bone in my body vibrates from the touch. My breath catches and my heart races as his gaze holds mine. He doesn’t look away.
“I have always been Mister Unlucky. Every chance I have to fuck something up, you best believe I’ll fuck it up. It’s what I do best.”
My eyebrows furrow, and I can taste the sweat from his palm, and my breath steadies. Something about the force, the heat of his skin; it soothes something deep in my soul. I stay as still as a statue as he continues, his gaze sharpening.
“When I came here, I was hanging on by a thread. And the house…” He swallows, hard. “That house was all I had left, and I lost it, too.”