Page 61 of Controlled Burn
Unannounced.
In front of his crew.
She pulled off her sunglasses slowly, eyes narrowing as they locked on him like heat-seeking missiles.
“I was in the neighborhood,” she said, syrup-slick and venomous. “Thought I’d see what keeps you so… busy.”
Dean felt a flash of heat rise behind his ears. The air felt sticky, weighted with the scent of sweat, diesel, and something sweet and acidic—Rachel’s perfume, lingering like a threat.
“Rachel—” he started, stepping toward her, but she was already moving — heels clicking on concrete like the start of a countdown.
The crew froze.
Half-eaten sandwiches dangled midair. Reyes stiffened near the engine. Jake leaned against the tool rack with both brows lifted, a smug grin beginning to curl at his lips. Brooks stared straight ahead like his life depended on it.
Even Kennedy looked up from her tablet and slowly took out one earbud.
Dean’s lungs locked. “Not here.”
Rachel blew past him, eyes scanning faces like a commander assessing a battlefield.
“Which one is she?” she said, voice raised just enough to cut through the bay. “The rookie with the porn star body you’ve been dreaming about. Anyone want to point her out?”
Jake snorted, trying — and failing — to cover it with a cough. Watts’s eyes lit up like someone had just dropped dessert in her lap, mouth twisting into a razor-smile.
Dean’s blood turned to ice water.
Talia wasn’t even on shift today. But this? This was going to reach her before she even stepped through the door again.
“Rachel, stop.”
She turned, face blazing. “No. You don’t get to tell me to stop. You made this bed, Dean. I’m just checking to see who else you’re letting lie in it.”
He glanced at the crew.
Twenty eyes burned into him.
Reyes gave him a subtle shake of the head — abort mission, pull her out, do something — but Dean couldn’t move.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re embarrassing yourself.
“Oh, sweetie,” she hissed, stepping close enough that he caught the citrus bite of her perfume. “You’re the embarrassment. Look around.”
She gestured widely, mocking. “This is what you gave us up for? A cot in a broom closet and a rookie who probably doesn’t even know your middle name?”
Dean flinched.
Rachel turned to the crew again, lip curling. “Your son deserves better than this.”
Then she shoved her sunglasses back on, pivoted hard, and stormed toward the front bay doors with her heels echoing like gunshots. Her scent—citrus, acrid, and a little desperate—trailed after her, settling in the heavy silence she left behind.
They slammed behind her.
Silence.
Heavy, brutal silence. The echo of her words seemed to ricochet off the bay’s steel beams, bouncing from face to face.
Dean stood there, staring at the patch of floor she’d just scorched with her words. Shame twisted in his gut. Underneath it: rage. And somewhere deeper, coiled like a secret grief.
