No Damaged Goods

I know my job.

Blake seems like the kind of man who doesn’t take advice unless it makes sense to him, so I might as well head him off at the pass and explain.

He just blinks at me, tilting his head before arching a brow.

“Yes ma’am,” he says sardonically, with a tired half-smirk. “Hell, I’ve been doing this for years, probably making it worse. Damn miracle it’s still more than a piece of gristle. Where you been all my life?”

I bite back my answer.

It sounds like a pickup line, but I’m smart enough to know it’s not.

A man hurting like him isn’t thinking about me as anyone but somebody who might be able to ease his pain.

So I smile and deflect. “Oahu, mostly, though I’m guessing for a part of it I wasn’t even born.”

He narrows his eyes, but there’s a spark there, curious and assessing. “I’m only forty-two.”

“And I’m twenty-five,” I say. “So. Guess that’s your answer.”

I smile brightly. He’s looking at me like I just poleaxed him between the eyes.

“Go on home and get some rest, Gramps. I want you at my cabin bright and early. Don’t worry,” I tease, turning away, unable to help a little toss of my hair, just a little flirt. “I’ll take good care of you.”

6

Sweet Refrain (Blake)

I barely get half a second to stare after the switch of that firecracker’s hips before I’ve got a face full of Leo.

Not the view I want right now, dammit.

He’s got my full attention as he leans in close, though, dropping his voice so it only carries between us.

“We have a problem,” he growls, brushing his hand against mine like he’s just offering a brotherly bit of comfort over my throbbing, fire-burning thigh.

Except a crumpled bit of paper falls against my knuckles. I instinctively turn my hand to catch it in my palm and hide it in the curl of my fingers.

I look over my shoulder real quick. Nobody looking our way.

Justin, Rich, and the guys are on cleanup duty. Leo’s watching me urgently, violet eyes shadowed with the sun at his back. I look down at the crumpled note on a little scrap of blue paper, smoothing it out with my thumb.

You and your merry band of assholes aren’t as smart as you think, you scarred freak.

What the fuck?

The instant surge of anger hits my guts like bad whiskey, wondering how anyone would dare call my friend a scarred freak. It’s eclipsed fast when I realize what it means.

Shit.

I thought this fire felt weird.

The scorch patterns say it broke out explosively, force thrusting flames out from inside till they seared the surrounding buildings.

Fires that start off as accidents, usually retail or industrial, kick off in cluttered corners. Frayed electrical cords, a candle, old machinery, something flammable close by.

One spark jumps, catches the right material, and then there’s no stopping it.

Disaster.

Still, without some kind of incendiary, the blast wouldn’t race outward with that kind of punch.

I sigh, murmuring under my breath. I don’t want anyone to get freaked out; this is between me and Leo right now. “You think it was set? Arson?”

“Had to be,” Leo snarls. “This is practically a confession. Found it on the ground. Just waiting to be picked up, right there in the line of sight.”

“Dammit, yeah.” I twist my lips, frowning. “But who? If this is about you…do you think they’re back?”

“Galentron?” Leo shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Not really their style. Fuchsia Delaney doesn’t have a good reason to fuck with us anymore, seeing how she ran off after the last dustup and hasn’t been seen since. Hell, the rest of the company’s in ruins, caught up in legal battles. I don’t think anyone’s even left with enough incentive to take revenge, considering how many people wound up in jail. Even Durham, the CEO. Plus, with the Feds in and out of here all the time…who’d risk it?”

“That’s a good point.” And a bad prospect, meaning we’ve got no obvious motive. “But can we really rule ’em out just like that? Seems like those evil pricks live to fuck with this town.”

“It’s just not their M.O., Blake,” Leo says ruefully. “They’re more likely to send a strike team or some kind of cloak and dagger subterfuge. Not…this.” He gestures at the note. “It’s too personal.”

“Okay.” I twist my lips, scanning the sharp dashes of handwriting. “So, who the hell hates you enough to try to kill a bunch of people?”

He narrows his eyes. “…how much time do you have?”

“Real funny.” I sigh, glancing toward the open door of the shop.

Rich comes out with several half-burnt piles of clothing, sniffing them, and I’d bet you anything he’s smelling some kind of accelerant. I sigh my lungs out.

“So we’ve got ourselves a problem. Again.” The words taste numb rolling off my tongue. I’m so sick of this shit, always some new fire to put out every so many months in Heart’s Edge. Figurative and literal.