Beneath the Scars (Masters of the Shadowlands #13)(5)

“Couple weeks. The doc wants me on light duty at first, though.”

Liam, the station’s token Aussie, nicknamed Oz, made a disgusted sound. “Paperwork? You’ll go stark raving mad, mate.”

“Yeah, I know. But it beats watching the grass grow.”

As one, they turned and looked at the backyard.

To the left, a four-foot brown picket fence separated his yard from the unfriendly redhead’s house. To the right, a shorter fence divided the two halves of the duplex’s backyard, probably to keep dogs out of Stella Avery’s half of the yard.

He couldn’t blame her. Her side was a lush wonderland filled with exotic tropical flowers. Holt’s side had three camellia bushes against the back fence and grass that needed mowing.

“At least grass is quiet. Beats the constant racket at your singles complex.” Clancy waved his hand in the air. “I like this area.”

Just north of Tampa, the residential neighborhood of older one-story homes and duplexes was comfortably middle class. It was a hard-working, friendly mix of families with children, a few singles like Holt, and seniors.

“I do, too,” Holt said, “especially since the apartment next to mine had a college girl who liked boy bands.”

“Jesus, you got out just in time,” Tank said.

Oz motioned to a corner of the patio. “You’ve got room there for a nice grill. Throw a few steaks on the barbie, and you’ll get company.” The Aussie was one pure carnivore. “That’ll keep the sound of grass growing drowned out.”

“Good plan.” It was a good plan, actually. Might need a few more chairs, but yeah.

Long and lanky, Clancy smoothed his thick ginger mustache and pointed at Holt’s untrimmed beard. “You plan to test the department regs on shaving?” Because of the need to have a seal on the respirator facemask, firefighters couldn’t have beards.

“Nah. I’m just waiting for the cuts to heal.” Holt ran a finger over the slice on his jaw, then the gash on his chin. Razors and sutures—not a good combination. Even now that the stitches were out, the shaver drag on the wounds was painful. “I tell you, the next asshole I take on better use a pistol, not a knife.”

Tank barked a laugh. “I’ll tell the Cap to mark that in your files.”

“Got some scars to impress the girls with, though.” Clancy picked up the basketball lying beside his chair and twirled it on his finger.

“Don’t think that’s working for me.” His ex had run, and his pretty neighbor sure hadn’t looked impressed. Ah, well. “Any interesting fires recently?”

All three scowled.

“What?” Holt asked.

“Someone’s setting fires at the middle school down the street.” Oz motioned to Clancy for the ball. “Started with dumpster fires. Last week, he lit up an equipment shed.”

“Amateur efforts so far.” Tank finished off his beer. “With the school staff keeping an eye out, maybe we can nip this in the bud.”

“Hope so. Next time might be serious.” Clancy tossed the basketball to Oz.

A chill ran up Holt’s spine. The car crash that killed his father had turned into a fiery blaze, and a little girl had died. Two decades later, he still had nightmares. Screaming. Fire and children—no. Just no. “Did the arsonist use an accelerant?”

“Good old gasoline.” Oz dribbled the ball a few times before setting it aside. “You gotta love firebugs who stick to the classics.”

“Sure, you do.” If he found some bastard lighting fires near a school, he’d be tempted to administer a classic beating.

Tank glanced to the west where the sun was setting over the palms. “Guess it’s time to be moving.”

“Yeah. Georgina ordered me to get my ass home in time for supper.” Clancy grinned. “Although she phrased it more politely.”

“You’re lucky you married a sweet Southern girl instead of one of our say-it-like-it-is Aussie women.” Oz rose to his feet.

As Holt walked his buddies out, he spotted Oz’s Harley. It now sported a fine-looking, custom paint job of a red background with black streaks. However, harassing fellow firefighters was a mandatory pastime. “Who rode in on that ladybug on wheels?”

“Get stuffed, mate.” Oz grinned. “At least mine doesn’t give people nightmares.”

“Nah. My pretty queen wouldn’t give anyone nightmares.” Holt smiled at his own bike, also painted in dark red and black. It sure didn’t resemble a ladybug—the gas tank displayed the terrifying queen from the movie Alien. “I’m considering painting teeth on the front fender.”

Clancy barked a laugh. “Some snowbird from the Midwest will see you in the rearview mirror and end up in the ditch.”

“And that’d mean a call-out for us. Never mind.” Holt sighed. “I miss riding.” In spite of afternoon downpours and the fucking bugs, Florida was almost as fine a place to ride as California. Up Highway 98 to Crystal River? The smell and feel of ocean air couldn’t be beat. And he liked country rides at night like when visiting the Shadowlands BDSM club on the weekends.

Unfortunately, the surgeon had made his bike off limits for another week.

“You’ll survive,” Tank noted heartlessly…because he drove a pickup.