I checked my phone out of pure habit, the blue light harsh against my face in the growing dusk. More work emails had piled up in the hour I'd been at the picnic—three from myassistant about depositions, two from opposing counsel trying to negotiate settlement terms, and a reminder notification about a client call scheduled for tomorrow morning at eight sharp. Reality, right there on the lock screen in stark black and white text.
The corporate world didn't pause for small-town Fourth of July celebrations or unexpected encounters with ghosts from your past. It certainly didn't care that seeing Diego Rivera again had rattled me more than I wanted to admit. My carefully ordered life in Chicago was still there, still demanding my attention, still pulling me forward on the trajectory I'd chosen four years ago.
I started the car, and before I pulled out, I risked one last look through the windshield. The bandstand, the grills, the crowd—he was gone. Or maybe I’d merely lost him in the noise.
That was for the best. Probably.
Two weeks. Keep your head down. Stay busy. You can survive this.
I shifted into drive and pointed the car toward the Huckleberry Saloon.
CHAPTER 2
DIEGO
The firehouse smelled like smoke and hot metal, and my shirt still carried the scent of the grill from earlier. Fourth of July never really slowed down. Sure, we’d done the picnic thing, smiled for the town, done our bit for community outreach, but this was the part of the night where we waited for the next dumbass whose celebratory drinking made setting off a roman candle inside was a good idea or the teenagers who set a field—or a house—on fire having a bottle rocket war.
We all pretty well hated this season until everybody ran out of the fireworks they’d stocked up on for the holiday.
The bay doors were cranked wide open, letting in whatever sluggish breeze could find its way through the humid evening air. The massive fans mounted high on the walls hummed steadily on their highest setting, their industrial blades cutting through the thick atmosphere and pushing the oppressive heat around in lazy circles that did little more than stir the sweat on our skin. Someone—probably Meatball, judging by the way he’d been complaining about the temperature every five minutes—had dumped a fresh twenty-pound bag of ice into the big red Igloo cooler that lived permanently by the back wall. Every so often I could hear the musical clink of glass against glass as oneof the guys fished around in the icy slush for another cold beer or soda, the sound sharp and clear against the white noise of the fans.
The department scanner mounted on the wall above the dispatch board popped and hissed with its familiar static symphony, the disembodied voices of dispatchers calling out other crews to other parts of Riverside County. House fire on Oak Street. Medical assist on the interstate. Brush fire contained. The voices were calm, professional, routine—the soundtrack of a busy holiday night that we all knew by heart. We stayed half-dressed in our turnout gear, suspenders hanging loose around our waists, boots unlaced but ready to slip on at a moment’s notice, just in case our number came up.
I’d always loved this in-between time, this suspended moment when we existed in the space between calls. The rhythm of the station felt like something solid and dependable under my feet, like a steady heartbeat that had nothing to do with me personally but was generous enough to let me borrow it, anyway. For a kid who’d spent his entire childhood bouncing from one stranger’s house to another, from one temporary placement to the next, never knowing how long he’d be welcome anywhere, that borrowed rhythm was everything—a foundation I could count on even when everything else felt uncertain.
It usually calmed me. Tonight? Not so much.
“So, Rivera.” Twitch’s voice came from behind me, lazy as a cat and twice as dangerous. Not the natural state for Kyle Russo, who barely stopped moving, even in sleep. “You gonna tell us who the redhead was?”
I pulled at the knot of one bootlace and kept my voice even. “What redhead?”
Donkey—otherwise known as Powell Ferguson—laughed so loud the sound echoed off the rafters. “Don’t play dumb, man.The one you locked onto like a damn searchlight. Then ran away from. Smooth, real smooth.”
Twitch chimed in, grinning like the devil himself. “You looked like a kid at a middle school dance, trying not to get caught staring.”
A couple of the others barked out quick laughs. I didn’t look up. Experience had taught me that looking up only encouraged them.
Of course, that never stopped the peanut gallery.
Meatball—Daniel Costello, biggest mouth in the building—stuck his head out from behind his locker door. “Wait, wait, wait. Rivera was looking at somebody? I thought you’d taken some kind of monk vow. Celibacy or something. Isn’t that why we call you Paladin?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Not celibacy,” Captain Rhett MacAvoy—Tater to everyone—put in from the doorway, arms crossed, watching this like it was better than TV. “Vow of secrecy. You know how many years we’ve been trying to figure out what Paladin even likes? If he has a type, apparently it’s redheads.”
Jarrod Sato—Moose, so named for his long, gangly limbs—who normally only opened his mouth when it really counted, shook his head and added his two cents. “Never thought I’d see the day Paladin got shook.”
Their laughter filled the bay, bouncing off concrete and metal. Normally, I’d be able to tune it out, let it roll over me. That was the deal. You stayed quiet; they got bored; they moved on.
But tonight? Tonight I just sat there with one boot half off, feeling every damn look on me.
The bay door creaked, and a shadow crossed the concrete. Chief Holloway stepped in from the office hallway, coffee mug in one hand, strolling with the ease of a man who’d seen it all.
“What’s this about?” His eyes cut to me. “Rivera finally blinked at a woman?”
The place went absolutely feral. My crew turned into a bunch of idiots when they didn’t have anything better to do.
Meatball practically doubled over, laughing. “Not blinked. Bolted.”
