Deacon's Defender Read online

  The house was fully engulfed when we rolled up to the scene. I could see the family huddled together off to the side of the driveway, while a small crowd of onlookers gathered across the street.

  I was out of the truck barking orders when backup arrived in the form of flashing blue and white lights. I didn’t have to check the driver’s seat to know it was my brother Kennedy. He had a habit of showing up at night fires when Gunnar rolled out with us, but since it was his night off, I wondered why Kennedy was here.

  “Hey, man!” Kennedy hollered above the roar of the fire and machinery.

  “What are you doing here?” I eyed my brother suspiciously.

  “I’m a cop and this is a fire.” Kennedy’s easy manner made me even more distrustful of his motives.

  “You’re a Vice cop, and this is a night fire that might have the Scorcher’s name written all over it.” I knew Kennedy. He was here to keep an eye on me, plain and simple.

  “Just looking out for you, big brother.” The look in Kennedy’s eyes was serious, no sign of his usual snark to be seen.

  All four of my brothers have been looking out for me over the last two months. In this moment, I wanted to be angry at Kennedy for thinking there was something to keep a lookout for, but I couldn’t be mad at my brother, because I was the one who still hadn’t made any measurable progress after Hal’s death. “Thanks.” It was the best I could do

  “Rumor has it the president of your fan club paid a visit today.” Kennedy snorted.

  For some reason, Kennedy making fun of Deacon didn’t sit well with me. I knew it was hypocritical of me to feel that way, considering the fact that I hadn’t been overly kind to the man in my own head. “He wants to do an in-depth interview with me.” All these hours later, I still didn’t know how I was going to handle Deacon’s request.

  “Well, now’s the perfect time to dig in.” Kennedy’s blue eyes twinkled in the light of the dying fire.

  Dig in? What the hell was Kennedy talking about now? “I’m not in the mood for riddles.” I felt more tired in this moment than I had in a long time, between dealing with Deacon, digging up memories of the past with Stark, and now getting the literal third degree from Kennedy.

  Kennedy pitched his voice low. “Deacon is standing behind us. Notepad out. Furiously taking notes.”

  “He’s a reporter. It’s his job to be here and report on the story.” I knew Kennedy was just trying to get my goat. I wasn’t going to let him.

  Kennedy took one step closer, bowing his head to whisper. “I know what his job is, Christ I’m not an idiot. He’s favoring his left hand. I’m not a doctor. Hell, I’m not even a paramedic, but I know a burn when I see one.” Pulling away from me, Kennedy inclined his head behind us, where I saw what he was talking about.

  Instead of holding his notepad with his left hand, it was rested against his wrist. What the hell was going on here? Sighing, I knew there was only one way to find out. I headed toward Deacon, who, when he spotted me, tried to duck behind a group of spectators. “Fire’s almost out.” I couldn’t help grinning at him, wanting to put him at ease. He’d be more likely to answer my question about his hand if he weren’t already feeling defensive.

  “I can see that. I’m just finishing up my notes before heading back to the paper. How about a quote, Captain Graves?” Instead of smiling, Deacon winced when his right hand shifted the notepad against the palm of his left hand.

  I knew exactly where this conversation was heading, and Deacon wasn’t going to like it one bit. Before I poured a bucket of cold water on him, I would give him what he asked for. “What we’re dealing with here is a single-family house fire with no known point of ignition. Firefighter Coyne is speaking with the family now.”

  “I spoke to them earlier. The father said he heard the sound of breaking glass before the smoke detector went off. Thank God they had one, otherwise this house would have gone up like a tinderbox.” Deacon hadn’t made eye contact. He was still scribbling his bizarre shorthand.

  “You spoke to the family earlier than when?” Christ, was Deacon here when we arrived, and I missed him? Or had he just spoken to the family while Kennedy was busy ribbing me?

  “A little while ago.” Deacon shrugged, before inching to his left.

  There was definitely something going on with this kid. Usually, he was doing everything he could to get closer to me, now he was trying to escape. Why? “That’s a nasty burn on your hand.” While Deacon had been staring down at his notebook, I had been keeping my eye on him. Even in the low light, I could see the large blister forming on the palm of his hand. There was only one thing I could think of that would cause a round burn in the center of his hand. A doorknob.

  “Oh, that thing. I’m fine.” Deacon sidestepped another several inches away from me.

  I was having none of that. Grabbing his right elbow, I tugged him closer to me. His entire body shivered under my hand. “What happened? No bullshit.” I kept my voice low but spoke in a tone that would tell Deacon not to fuck with me.

  “I have a deadline. I’ll catch you later.” Deacon tried to yank his arm back from my grip.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Princess, until you tell me what happened to your hand.” I took another step toward him.

  Deacon cast a surreptitious look behind him. He moved a bit closer to me, before motioning me to come closer still.

  Obviously, Deacon wanted to tell me something he didn’t want anyone else to overhear. I was willing to play his game, for the moment. Taking off my helmet, I bent my left ear closer to his lips.

  “When I got here, I could hear pounding on the front door. I ran up to it, opened the storm door with my right hand and grabbed the doorknob with my left. That’s how I burned my hand.”

  None of this made sense. Lots of people burn their hands on doorknobs during a fire, never before had an eyewitness insisted on whispering that piece of information in my ear. Some instinct told me there was more to Deacon’s story. “Was the door locked?” I figured that was an innocent enough question to get him talking.

  “No,” Deacon whispered.

  His warm puffs of breath against the shell of my ear were driving me crazy. I kept my mouth shut and sent a silent message to my waking dick to calm the fuck down.

  “The door was nailed shut.” Deacon’s whispered words were even softer than before. I wondered for a moment if I’d actually heard what he said correctly.

  “I had to yank them out before I could get the door open.”

  I had heard Deacon correctly. While I was trying to figure out how such a thing was possible, Deacon pushed his notebook toward me. When I took it, he dug into his pant pocket and pulled out four long carpentry nails. Each one had to be about three inches long. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “You’re saying whoever set this house on fire deliberately nailed the front door shut?”

  “I can’t say that for a fact. All I can tell you is that the four nails were hammered into the doorjamb when I got here. I assume the homeowners didn’t do that or they would have tried to escape through a window, since the back of the house was already burning out of control.”

  When we’d arrived on the scene, the house was fully engulfed. Deacon had a lot of explaining to do. I took a deep breath and caught a whiff of gasoline. I was too far away from the house, and too much water had been poured on the blaze, for me to smell gasoline from here. There was only one other explanation. Jesus fucking Christ, was Deacon the arsonist? Is that why he was here before everyone else? I could feel my hands shaking with anger. Yesterday, he’d claimed to be Hal’s best friend, but was he the reason Hal was dead?

  Grabbing Deacon’s arm tighter, I started dragging him away from the crowd. I was only moments away from losing my temper and I needed to get him out of my sight so I could think clearly. He tried to resist me at first, digging his feet against the pavement of the driveway, but I was well over a foot taller than him and outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. I didn’t stop dragging him unti
l I reached the ambulance. “Dallas, this reporter burned his hand.” I shot my brother a look, knowing he would pick up what I was trying to tell him. I dropped Deacon’s arm and headed back toward Kennedy.

  “I need you to follow the ambulance to the hospital.” I was going to give Deacon a piece of my mind, once his hand had been looked at by the ER staff at Gloucester Mercy.

  “What? Why?” Kennedy looked around the scene.

  “Deacon just gave me some cock and bull story about burning his hand on the doorknob because the door was nailed shut.” If it was such a bullshit story, why did he have the nails?

  “Nailed shut?” Kennedy looked horrified.

  I handed him the nails. Before I could say another word, Kennedy was moving toward the house at a pace slow enough not to arouse any attention. He ran his hand down the scorched doorjamb. “He’s telling the truth about the nails. I found the holes.”

  “He also said he was here when only the back of the house was on fire and the family was still trying to escape.”

  Kennedy looked at me as if he didn’t know what I was trying to say.

  “I smelled gasoline fumes on him.”

  Understanding lit in Kennedy’s eyes. “You don’t think Deacon had anything to do with setting this fire, do you?” Kennedy seemed to be searching my face for any signs of a punchline. “Jesus, you do.”

  “Follow the ambulance. I’m coming with you.” The boys could handle taking the truck back to the firehouse without me. I’d put Chasten in charge and he would get the job done.

  The red and white lights fired up on the ambulance. I stood with Kennedy as it slowly left the scene. From where I was standing, I could see the nail holes Kennedy spoke about. My mind was spinning. Was it possible Deacon was the arsonist or was I just grasping at straws?

  4

  Deacon

  I’d never been in this much pain in my life. Even though my left hand hadn’t gotten anywhere close to the flames, my skin burned as if it had. There was a singe mark outlining the imprint of the doorknob on the palm of my hand, and in the center was a growing blister.

  Figuring out what the hell was going on with Ozzy had mostly kept my mind off the pain. One minute he was cozied up next to me, and the next, he was dragging me toward the ambulance. He’d exchanged some kind of weird look with his brother, Dallas, before stalking off and leaving me behind. I hadn’t expected him to cuddle with me all the way to the hospital, but I had expected a word of thanks or a wish that I felt better soon.

  I had a sinking feeling I would never understand men. I had an aunt who was in the same boat, never marrying and spending her life working hard and traveling. She didn’t need a man to make her happy, so maybe I didn’t either.

  What was so great about Captain Ozzy Graves anyway? He’d never been overly kind to me, never gave me the time of day. I knew he was single and gay, yet he never wanted anything to do with me. I was going to have to face the fact that he just wasn’t into me. Fantasizing about him had been fun while it lasted.

  Gloucester was a big city with a lot of diversity, it shouldn’t be that hard for me to find a man willing to take me out on one lousy date. Getting men to fuck me wasn’t the problem, all I had to do was shake my booty at Bait and I’d have my pick of men to go home with. Problem was, I didn’t want to go home with just anyone, but it was starting to look more and more like one-night stands were all I was worth.

  Dallas and Maxine, the other paramedic on the ambulance, escorted me to a private room in the back of the ER. From the tiny rectangular window, I could see they were both standing outside the door. What the hell was going on? No doctor or nurse had been in to see me yet, and it seemed like the paramedics were holding me hostage.

  The feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach grew when I heard two very familiar voices outside my door. It was Ozzy and Kennedy.

  I didn’t have long to ponder what the two of them were doing here. The door swung open and in walked the handsomest doctor I had ever seen in my life. He was tall, with bleach-blonde hair and the most dazzling blue eyes. This guy should be starring in blockbuster Hollywood films, and gracing the cover of People’s Sexiest Men. Sweet baby cheeses. Ruining the fantasy I had going in my head was Ozzy, who walked into the room looking like he was only a heartbeat or two away from completely losing his temper.

  I didn't know what the hell the story was, but every time I saw Ozzy, he always looked angry. I understood that I was a newspaper reporter, and sometimes asked probing questions, but never in my recollection did I recall doing or saying anything to make the man angry at me.

  “Deacon Fairbanks? I’m Doctor Stark Givens. I understand you burned your hand. Can I have a look at it?” Without waiting for me to grant permission, the handsome doctor was by my side and gently examining my hand. “Looks like you had an encounter with a doorknob. I can see the ring in the center of your hand. How the hell did this happen?”

  I eyed Ozzy nervously. There was no reason for me to be tense, but his hulking presence, alongside his brother, in this tiny room worried me. “I did it at the fire out on Old Salem Road. The family was trapped inside the house and I was trying to help them escape the flames.”

  Doctor McHotPants hummed under his breath, his full attention on my hand. “I’m going to wrap this for you. Keep it as dry as possible. Do not pop the blister. It will drain on its own.”

  “What about the smell of gasoline?” Ozzy growled from between gritted teeth.

  Gasoline? What the hell was Ozzy talking about? “I don’t smell like gas.”

  “All I can smell is the coconut in your shampoo.” Dr. Givens winked at me. I was speechless.

  What the hell was going on? This man was a god on earth, and he was flirting with me? Forget being People’s Sexiest Man, Stark could have been a male model for a modern-day Michelangelo. I smiled up at the doctor.

  “Cut the shit, Stark,” Ozzy growled, stalking over to me. He grabbed my chin to keep me from moving and stuck his nose in my hair. He did the same thing with my other hand and the shirt I was wearing, as if he were a bomb-sniffing dog instead of a fire captain.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing, Captain Graves?” Stark sounded bored.

  “I smelled gasoline on him at the fire scene.” Ozzy turned from me to Dallas, who was hovering at the door to my room. “Dallas, you said you smelled gasoline on him. What the hell did you do to make it go away?”

  Dallas stepped into the room, shooting me the side eye. “The entire fire scene smelled like gas, Oz. I told you I smelled it, but not on Deacon.”

  It all made sense now. Ozzy’s grumpy mood. The paramedics guarding my room. Detective Kennedy Lynch showing up at the hospital. “You think I did this.” Ozzy thought I set the house on fire, which could only mean one thing. “You think I’m the Scorcher.”

  The room was dead silent. Dallas looked embarrassed, while Kennedy’s focus was on Ozzy. As for the big man in question, he stood there staring at me with his hands on his hips, biting his lip.

  “Say something!” It was my turn to growl.

  “You got to the scene before we did, you were burned and smelled like gas. What the hell was I supposed to think?” Ozzy thundered back at me.

  “Uh, that maybe I have a police scanner and live out on Old Salem Road? Or that reporting on fires is my job? Anything but that you think I’m the arsonist!” I’d never been this angry in my life. My heart was pounding, and my hands were shaking. “The entire Jones family would have died if I hadn’t been there. I risked my own life to save them. Before this fire scene, I’d wondered how the hell sane people found the courage to run into a burning building. When I heard those people screaming, I had my answer. I couldn’t just let them burn.” My anger, and the pain in my hand and heart, were pushing me closer to the edge of collapse. I’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours and still had to file my story.

  “The last time we spoke on the record, all you did was ask questions about fires. How they burned. What acceler
ants were commonly used. Christ, I gave you all the information you needed to start your own fires.” Ozzy wore an incredulous look on his face.

  “Or you gave me all the information I needed to write an in-depth article about arson fires and how the Massachusetts Fire Marshal’s office detects them.” Where had I gone wrong? I was a reporter doing a job. That was it. I asked questions for a living. If Ozzy’s logic held that I was an arsonist because I asked him about fires, then I was also a lobster boat captain, a landscape painter, a fish processor, and the mayor.

  In that moment, a darker thought struck. Was I going to be arrested because Ozzy thought I’d set the fire out on Old Salem Road? Why else was Kennedy here? In addition to my rising emotions, I could feel myself starting to panic. “Get out! All of you, get out of my room!”

  “You heard my patient.” Stark grinned at Ozzy, which only seemed to make him angrier.

  “I’m not finished with him yet!” Ozzy growled, his eyes never leaving the doctor.

  While I appreciated my doctor standing up for me, I saw what was going on here. Stark was flirting with me to make Ozzy jealous. Obviously, there was some sort of history between the two of them. Of course there was, Ozzy was a living, breathing Greek God, and Stark was the kind of man poets penned sonnets over.

  In addition to my crush thinking I was an arsonist, he was openly flirting with my doctor. My left hand was going to be virtually useless to me in the days to come, and last, but by no means least, my car was parked out on Old Salem Road, which meant I had no ride home.

  What else could possibly go wrong tonight?

  5

  Ozzy

  I couldn’t decide who I was angrier with, Stark for being his usual asshole self, Deacon for daring to question my motives, or myself for daring to question Deacon’s motives.

  As much as I hated to admit it, the kid was a fucking hero. I’d seen the nail holes in the front doorjamb of that house. The nails used to keep the family from escaping the inferno were in the custody of the Gloucester Police Department. If it weren’t for Deacon, those people would be dead.