Page 73 of Tameron

Group therapy that doesn’t completely suck.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DAYTON

Bad things always come in threes. At least, that’s what my mom always said to me. She was the more superstitious one when I was growing up. Knocking on wood, throwing salt over her shoulder, avoiding cracks in the pavement like they could actually break someone’s bones.

We’d had cats, but never a black one, though I didn’t think she’d love Knives less if she was a little void monster. But she hung a horseshoe above our front door wherever we lived and always lit candles whenever friends or family were having trouble.

I’d learned to listen to her instincts, and when one bad thing happened, I braced for two and three.

The second came when Dax busted his hand at work. He had a car with a faulty hood stand and didn’t hear the creak before it slammed down on him. All of us had perfected our one-handed signing as teenagers, of course. We were rarely without a bag of chips or a giant sandwich in one hand, and we had to communicate somehow.

But it was like me busting half my jaw or taking a punch and half my lips swelling up. And Dax was pissed off and miserable at the forced time off work.

‘It’s not like your shop is going to go anywhere without you,’ I reminded him, sliding a burger his way.

He glared at me, his hand wrapped up like a balloon with the ace bandage over the ice pack. He flipped me the middle finger, which told me he was in no mood for comfort, so I turned on the show with the haunted house he’d been into lately and increased the caption size so he could sit back and not squint at the TV.

The fucker was also avoiding an eye doctor appointment so I’d have to deal with that bad attitude when he learned he probably did need glasses. That was a fairly mild issue, at least, and I went to bed feeling better, though not entirely. Amid taking care of Dax, I was also profoundly aware of the silence coming from Tameron’s side of the phone. Again.

This time, he at least sent me a text letting me know the next few weeks or so were going to be rough and not to expect much from him. I sent him a heart, then made sure to shoot off photos every time Knives was being adorable, a couple of the sunrise on my drive to work, and then one of my particularly well-put-together Italian sub, which got a squinty-eyed emoji smile in return.

So that was something.

But over the last three weeks, I’d missed our conversations. I’d missed the feeling of being important to him. And above all, I’d missed the feeling of him lounging beside me. He was always so warm and soft. His tension drained away when he was sleepy, and he was open in ways he didn’t allow himself to be when he was fully cognizant.

I wanted to be there when he started letting go. I wanted to be part of his life when he decided where he fit into the world and when he started loving himself again. But I had no idea if I was invited to that part.

Maybe I was just a stopgap. A way to fill the time until he knew what he wanted. It was what I’d agreed to, of course.We were still no strings, and despite falling for him and him mentioning casually he had some kind of feelings for me, we’d made no promises.

That was answer enough for me.

So…maybe that was the third bad thing? Knowing that when times got tough, Tameron turned away?

I supposed that would have been easier if that were the case.

But it wasn’t.

No good calls ever came in during the wee hours of the morning. I was dead asleep, but my alert started blaring so loudly that I felt like my soul had momentarily left my body. I was on autopilot when I answered.

“Car fire, suspected arson. Police are in pursuit of the suspect. Northwest corner of Fifth and Branch.”

The switch in my head flipped, and I became the battalion chief. I was no longer the sad sack of shit pining over my friend with benefits. I was the man my crew depended on.

I took the turns at Mach 10—or at least, they felt like Mach 10. It was probably no more than thirty, but I flew the rest of the way there, my little siren blaring through the streets. Coming to a skidding halt, I saw the smoke first and then the flames. They weren’t in the engine. They were inside the cab of the little two-door beater.

From where I was standing, I could see the windows were caked with soot, and the engine was already there, drenching the flames.

“Seatbelt’s stuck,” Myers called to me, walking over with his face shield down.

“When did you get here?” I asked, throwing on turnout gear and an SCBA.I adjusted my mask and then took a couple of test breaths before heading for the car.

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