Page 144 of Rising Heat

“Get your coat anyway.”

He holds my gaze just long enough for me to realize this isn’t a negotiation.

I disappear into my bedroom, muttering under my breath the whole way, which would probably be a much more convincing display of defiance if I weren’t, in fact, getting my coat.

Once outside, I make it three steps before the Buick stops me in my tracks.

Now, technically, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. I’ve seen it before. Sat beside it in the garage while Mack worked. Watched him disappear underneath it for hours. Listened to him talk about bushings and seals and a dozen other things I immediately forgot the names of because I was mostly watching him.

Parked beneath the streetlights, the black paint almost disappears until it catches the light, the whole car shifting as I move around it. It sits low and unapologetic against the curb, looking like the kind of thing people turn to watch after it’s already gone.

He opens the passenger door without commentary.

The interior smells like clean leather and cold air and something distinctly him underneath it. Mack turns the key and the engine answers with a deep, rolling rumble that I feel almost as much as I hear, the sound vibrating through the seat as he pulls away.

Pink Floyd spills softly through the speakers while Boston slips past outside in streaks of taillights and brick, and somewhere between the music, the engine, and the sight of Mack driving with one hand hooked over the top of the wheel, I realize I can breathe again.

It feels like progress, considering twenty minutes ago I was one passive-aggressive comment away from moving back to Pennsylvania out of spite.

My eyes catch on his hand for a second longer than they should.

What is it about guys driving one-handed that feels like metaphorical Viagra for ovaries?

It’s a dangerous train of thought when the guy behind the wheel comes with another half. A brother who, in hindsight, may have been a little too eager to give me a very hands-on firehouse tour while Mack was preoccupied.

My stomach knots, because that’s the part I keep trying not to think about.

Does Mack know about the other night?

Did Tyler tell him?

If he did, what does that make tonight? Am I getting in the middle of something that worked just fine before I showed up?

I’d hate to be the thing that came between them.

I let myself sit with that for maybe two seconds before shoving it back where it came from. Not tonight. Tonight I’m just sitting beside Mack while Boston slides past outside the windows, and somehow that’s already more than enough to deal with.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

darcy

There’s no sign outside. Just a narrow black door with a fading gold number beside it and warm amber light spilling across the wet sidewalk.

Mack pushes it open, and the smell hits me first—old wood, whiskey, and brick that’s been holding this building together longer than most of the people drinking inside it have been alive.

My eyes adjust a second later. Exposed brick climbs the walls behind the bar, shelves of liquor stretching almost to the ceiling, and the leather stools look like they’ve spent decades collecting elbows, spilled drinks, and terrible decisions.

Somewhere in the back, somebody lines up a shot at one of the pool tables while Springsteen hums softly through the speakers. A faded sheet of printer paper taped beside the register reads “CASH ONLY,” looking like it’s been there since around 2009.

I love it immediately.

Mack moves through the place like he’s been coming here long enough that the room stopped noticing him years ago. One nod to the bartender, one in return, and that’s apparently all the social effort required. I trail after him to the bar, struck by the fact that nobody here looks like they’re trying to be seen. Everyone here just exists in the room comfortably, half-finished conversations curling through the air alongside the smell of bourbon and the storm that just started outside.

I slide onto the stool beside him and glance around again, choosing to blame the warm feeling spreading through my chest entirely on the lighting.

“Is this your version of therapy?” I ask.

“Something like that.”