Page 68 of The Fire We Crave

There’s also a tense standoff. The five men on the ground are yelling at the cops about how they weren’t doing anything wrong, and that, somehow, we’re the assholes.

“You seem intent on bringing trouble to my town,” Radcliffe says to Butcher as I get within earshot.

Butcher simply laughs. “It was an Outlaws town a long time before it was your town. Long before this town even had a sheriff’s department.”

I tip my chin in the direction of the men on the ground. “Why aren’t you asking them about why they’re bringing trouble to our town? We were all at home, minding our own fucking business before Quinn’s security company alerted her.”

Radcliffe turns and looks at me. “You and Quinn Moran?”

“Me and Quinn Moran what?” I ask, daring him to finish his sentence.

“You said you were all at home before her security company alerted her.”

I shake my head. “You got a boner for the bakery girl?” I ask, as I tamp down the need to go beat her name out of his mouth. Wonder what it would feel like to kneel on his chest and crush his cheek bones to powder. “Never said who was with who. Just that she got an alert. Better cop would ask better questions.”

Radcliffe’s eyes narrow even as his cheeks heat. “We need to take statements.”

It takes another fifteen minutes to give him the basics. He tries to get us all to do it individually, but we insist on doing it as a group. Butcher throws out the backbone of our explanation. The rest of us add our own details.

While everyone is distracted, I make my way around the cop car that now seats two of the men. “You’re lucky fuckers, thistime,” I say, even though the cop guarding the door can hear me. “When you make bail, like I’m sure your fucking boss will provide, just know we’re gonna find you.”

The larger of the two men scoffs. “You have no idea what is coming for you.”

I grin. “If it’s more of this, we’ll be ready.”

20

QUINN

My phone still shows the camera feed from the rear of the store. It’s impossible to tell, except for the drenched floor, what just happened.

But I watched every painful minute of it.

I saw one of the men light the rag of a bottle obviously filled with some kind of accelerant, and I began to cry when I saw him raise his arm and launch it through the window by the kitchen sink.

They all jumped and looked in the direction of the alleyway, as if they knew someone was coming. They split like mice, scurrying to the left and right.

And then, Smoke appeared.

There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation. He jumped the wall, ignoring his own injuries, and didn’t even wince. I could see the way he scanned to area behind the bakery to see what was going on.

I gasped at the explosion, at the lick of fire that passed through the broken window.

But as soon as he saw the fire, glorious muscle memory kicked in. I don’t know how he remembered the hose I useto rinse things in the yard, including Bones when he’s gotten muddy on our morning walks.

Watching Smoke put the fire out was intense, but watching him crumple against the wall afterward, broke me. The way he dragged his hand over his face and how he sucked in air. And the way he took a deep breath and straightened, then tried to shake off what he was feeling when the other firefighter arrived on the scene.

The man is still suffering so much. And it’s becoming clear that this might not be something he can fix on his own. My own relationship with therapy is complex. It helped me; it didn’t save my mom.

I’m not the arbiter of how long it takes someone to get over something, because, if I’m honest with myself, I know you never do. But you somehow find a way to normalcy. Where you can function every day.

There’s also a significant amount of hypocrisy in my observation. After all, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. Here I am, living in Smoke’s house because I’m too scared to go home.

And jumping every time I hear tires outside the house.

As if the universe hears my thoughts, a roaring bike pulls up in front of the house. I consider reaching for the gun.

But my phone pings.

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