Consumed (Firefighters #1)(34)

“So that’s why you came, huh.” He refocused on her. “To make this little speech. Pretend that you’re in a movie and laying down a speech that magically turns the damaged idiot around on a oner. That’s Hollywood, sweetheart. Not real life.”

Crossing her arms, she searched his face and saw nothing she could work with in his hard expression. “I didn’t want this to go badly.”

His eyes focused on her lips, and a sudden shift in the air had her taking a step back. But not because she was scared of him. No, for another reason.

Anne pushed her hair out of her face and tried to regroup. “I should leave.”

“Finished talking at me?” His voice grew even deeper. “And that’s that?”

“I only wanted to help.”

“Why.”

She glared at him. “You weren’t going to leave me to die in that fire. And I don’t want to leave you to kill yourself after it. It’s really that simple—”

“I’m not so sure it is, Anne.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you want me to die now?”

Anne turned away. “Let’s talk when you’re sober—”

He snagged a hold on her upper arm and pulled her back around. “I’m sober enough. Answer the question, Anne. You seem to know everything else on the planet. What’s one more pronouncement from on high? If you don’t take things personally because you’re so above everything, why do you care whether I live or die now?”

“I don’t want any of us to be killed!”

“Why?” He put his face in hers. “I thought it wasn’t personal? Oh, wait . . . maybe it’s not all random risk, Anne. Do you think maybe you don’t want me to self-destruct because you might feel a little responsible if I do? That you might worry after the fact about whether you could have done something more, something better, something different? Do you think it’s because you might possibly spend night after night after night staring at the ceiling, replaying, again and again, every single second you were here with me now, looking for opportunities or openings that maybe you hadn’t seen at the moment—and then also praying that you don’t find any? Because if you do, and there was an action you could have taken, you just might be at fault?” He released her abruptly. “But nah, that can’t be it. Right? Because if a tragedy like me killing myself happened, you would just dust yourself off and skip away, light and free as a child. Off into the sunset, perfectly sound mentally. Tra-la-fucking-la.”

As her head started to pound, she rubbed the back of her neck. “You need to go to that psych eval, and not just to keep your job.”

Danny threw his arms up. “Moose totally needs to shut his mouth.”

“There’s more going on here than I, or anybody else, can deal with.”

He jabbed a finger right into her face. “Don’t you pity me.”

“Then don’t give me a reason to.” She looked at his body from head to toe. “And you’re wrong. I wasn’t the best firefighter in the city. That’s you, Danny. Everyone knows it. You’re the best we’ve got, and we need you. We need you healthy and strong on all levels. So fine, if you can’t put this into perspective, and you don’t want to see reality for what it is, then stay in your paradigm—and protect people from that beast you fight. Stay alive yourself so you can save others. I don’t really care what the rhetoric is or what vocabulary you put on it. What I care about is the result—which is you still on this planet with a fire hose in your hand.”

Abruptly, her eyes stung and she had to blink quick and look away. She was not going to cry in front of him— The palms that cradled her face and turned her back to him were callused yet gentle.

“Let me go,” she said hoarsely.

But he wasn’t holding her. Not really. She could have broken away at any second, and he would have dropped his hands.

“Anne . . .” His voice cracked. “Oh, God, Anne . . .”





chapter




16



The following morning, at eight a.m., Anne called Dr. Delgado at the vet clinic. As she waited for the receptionist answer, she drummed her fingers on her kitchen countertop. Took a sip of her coffee. Tucked in the back of her blouse—

“Metro Vet, how may I help you?”

“Oh, yes, hi.” She cleared her throat. “This is Anne Ashburn calling about the—”

“The rescue you brought in? The gray pit?”

“Ah, yes. I’d like to—”

“We just gave him over to the New Brunie pound. So you don’t have to worry about any more charges to your card—”

“Wait, what? You gave him to the city shelter? I thought you were going to try to adopt him out?”

“We really couldn’t keep him here. His injuries were not life-threatening, and we really are not in a position to—”

“Hold on, stop.” Anne reminded herself that yelling was not going to help. “Who can I call there? I mean, who can I phone to—never mind. Thanks, bye.”

As she hung up, she couldn’t breathe, and went for her keys. But then she stopped herself. The rehab social workers had warned her not to make any big life-altering plans in the first twelve months following her injuries—and with her working all day at a new job, how was she going to take care of a—