Page 53

Mark snickered. “You copied me on the incident report, right? Let’s see what happens. You okay, Ember?”

I grinned. “I need to update my personnel records, sir. I have an emergency contact to add to my file.”

When I joined CAL FIRE, I didn’t have anyone to list as an emergency contact. Cap stepped up and added his name to my records, saying, “Nobody should be without an emergency contact.” That was why I admired and loved Captain Mark Blake. I had no one else, and he stepped up to fill the void.

“Oh? And do I know this person?”

I laughed at his question. “Not yet, sir, but I’d like you to meet him. He’s a musician. He was in that bus accident earlier this year.”

“Tell me when and where, but come into battalion HQ and do the paperwork, Ember. Take care of yourself, son, and don’t let Max talk you into doing something stupid again.”

“Cap, can I ask you something without pissing you off?” It was a fucking risk for sure.

He turned to me and gritted his teeth. “Take your shot, Ember.”

“You and Inspector Cooper? Are you good friends?” Oh, I wouldn’t go out on that limb too far.

Mark chuckled. “You could say that. Let me know when I can meet your emergency contact.”

I nodded, and Cap left. There was a lot at play, but I had one person on my mind. Jordan Horn.

Chapter Twenty

JD

Kit stood at the island in Thatcher’s kitchen with a big grin on his face at seven-thirty in the morning. He and River were kind enough to come to the blue bungalow to help me with breakfast for Thatcher. Kit taught me to make eggs Benedict, and I wanted it to be perfect.

It was comforting to know they were nearby if I needed someone to change the battery in the smoke detector or whip up a delicious hollandaise sauce for my boyfriend. They were the best friends I could ever hope to have.

“Try it,” Kit said, removing the lid from the blender and handing me a spoon.

I dipped the spoon into the blender where Kit had made the hollandaise sauce, then tasted the most amazing thing I ever had. Kit was a fucking chef without the title. I had no idea why the man was driving a truck for a living instead of winning a James Beard award.

River’s and my attempt at making a frittata the previous day fell quite flat, just like the eggs in it that didn’t fluff up like the picture in the cookbook. It was a sloppy mess when the timer went off, and after reviewing the recipe again, we found that we’d added too much oil and too few eggs. We could write and perform chart-topping music, but apparently, following a recipe was out of our wheelhouse.

Riv stood from the island and turned to his boyfriend. “So, Kit, tell JD what you and Nate talked about yesterday.”

Kit turned to me and grinned. “Uncle Nate wants the band to come to Santa Monica for the weekend. He wants to discuss your future, and you can bring a plus one.”

I turned to River to see him nodding. “Yeah. It’s time we make some decisions, JD.”

I took a swig of my coffee and stared at my best friend. “I think I’ve mentioned this a time or two, but I hate performing. I hate the nerves and anxiety I feel before we arrive at a venue and how I look for the closest exits in case people don’t like our music. I puke nearly every time I have to go out in front of strangers and entertain them. I hate everything about it.

“I love playing for the recording sessions, but doing the music live and being petrified if I fuck up is the most awful feeling in the world. It’s torture, Riv, and I don’t want to do it anymore.

“I want to write songs for others to perform. That’s why I get high before a show. It’s the only way I can play without running off the stage. I feel like I’m a total phony. Nothing about me says I should be on a stage anywhere.”

Riv stepped closer and hugged me. “That’s bullshit, JD. We love you, and you are crazy talented. Look at all of the songs on this album. They’re brilliant, and you wrote them. You bring something to the band that makes us special. But if you’re ready to leave, then we all need to talk about it. After that fucking bus accident, I don’t know that any of us are ready to go on tour again. Will you stay with us until Black Rock? We need you for that.”

“What if I can’t play? I’d feel like a fool just standing there, singing and not playing.”

Before I continued trying to persuade him to support me, I heard the garage door rise and Thatcher’s truck pull into the garage. “Can we table this for a bit? I’ve got a man to impress.”

Kit nodded. “Get over here and make your eggs.”

He stepped in front of the pot of water boiling on the front burner and put the handle of a wooden spoon inside to swirl the water as I successfully floated two eggs to slowly poach.

Kit had done the hard work, frying the ham and making the hollandaise. I put the English muffins in the oven with a smear of butter, and all that was left was to get the soft-boiled eggs ready and assemble the dish.