Pinups and Possibilities (22 page)

Getting out of Cohen’s house was the easy part. But waiting for Painter was killing me. I paced the length of the tall shrubs once more. I kept expecting the neighbour to come out and demand to know why I was wearing a hole in his lawn at two in the morning while my son slept underneath his rhododendron.

I knew—
knew
—Painter was going to come running out any second and tell me that Cohen was dead. We were going to jump into the flashy car sitting a half a block up the street and hightail it out of there. So when a boom rocked the air and a chunk of roof shot straight upward from the garage, flew through the air and landed in the street, I was stunned into immobility.

“Mommy?”

I heard my son’s voice, but I couldn’t look away from the scene in front of me. My jaw hung open as thick as black smoke billowed from inside. A second bang followed the first and in just seconds, a lick of fire poked through the hole in the roof.

Jayme’s hand snaked into mine.

“Where’s Painter?” he asked.

“Painter’s…” I trailed off.

I forced my mind away from what had to be the truth. Whatever the source of the fire was, it had something to do with Painter.

“Mommy?”

“He’s fine,” I managed to get out.

“I didn’t ask you how…I asked you where,” Jayme pointed out.

“I know.”

Flames danced across the garage, seeming to move in time with the sirens that now filled the air.

How is it spreading so quickly?

But the answer was obvious. Gasoline and oil and an old house.

The sirens were getting louder and the streets were already filling up with curious bystanders.

I need to get to the house now,
I realized.
Or I won’t be able to at all.

“Jayme, I need you wait in Painter’s car, okay?” I said.

“By myself?”

“Yes, buddy. Can you do that?”

He hesitated, then replied, “So you can find Painter?”

I nodded. Then I reached down, scooped him up, and pushed my way through the thickening crowd of people. I unlocked the door and set my son into the car.

“I’ll lock the door and come right back. Don’t look at anyone or talk to anyone.”

I kissed his head and bolted back up the block. I made it three feet from Cohen’s driveway before a set of wide, yellow-covered arms came crushing around my shoulders and a fireman dragged me back. I kicked and fought, but couldn’t get free.

“Let me go!” I hollered.

“I can’t do that, ma’am.”

“You can’t hold me against my will!”

“What I can’t do is allow you to go up there,” the fireman told me.

“Please!”

“Do you live here?”

I hesitated, a lie on my lips, but went for the truth instead. “I used to.”

“You have a loved one inside?”

I swallowed against the thick lump in my throat. “Yes.”

“You got a loved one on the outside, too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the one who needs you now. If I let you go, you promise you won’t go running for the house?”

“Okay.”

Very slowly, the fireman released me.

“We’re going to get this fire out, all right?” he said. “But it’s not going to be pretty when it’s done. The house is old and it’s going up fast.”

A loud crack from the direction of the house punctuated his words, and a group of other fireman rushed from one of the trucks up the driveway. When my gaze whipped toward the house, my knees got weak. The fire had leaped from the attached garage to the main part of the house and already one side was flickering with orange.

“Oh, no.”

A burst of high-pressured water met the flames, but even my untrained eye could see that the fire would be the victor.

The firefighter touched my shoulder. “Ma’am, I have to go now. And so do you.”

I gave him a tight nod and backed away from Cohen’s house as quickly as I dared.

* * *

It only took twenty-eight minutes for the fire to consume the building. I watched them tick away on the clock in Painter’s car.

Painter.

His name filled my heart with agony.

Less than a week ago, I didn’t even know the man existed. Now, I felt like a piece of me had been ripped away and was being carried up with the ashes of the fire. Silent sobs racked my body as I watched the vestiges of smoke and steam trickle away to nothingness.

Even Jayme seemed to sense my pain and he sat silently in the backseat, saying nothing.

When the flames finally tapered off, succumbing to the firemen’s efforts to contain the damage to one property, the house was a crumbling, smoking mess.

I didn’t dare leave the scene for fear of being noticed, so I climbed in the backseat to cuddle up with my son until enough people had lost interest.

For three hours, the emergency crews worked to keep people back and to keep the scene secure. I watched them pick through the rubble, looking for signs of life and coming up empty-handed. The news crew on the radio reported non-stop, discussing the questionable lifestyle of the owners and interviewing neighbours who said they weren’t at all surprised to see it go up in a blaze.

I drifted off, and when I woke up, Jayme was sound asleep and the crowd had dispersed. I unfolded myself from my son and climbed out. Even in the fire-warmed air, I shivered.

With a quick glance back at the car, I jogged up the sidewalk and made my way to the back of the property. I picked along the edge of the yard, careful to keep out of sight by staying in the shade of the ten-foot shrubs.

A startling tap on my shoulder made me yelp and I spun and found myself staring down the same firefighter who’d stopped me the night before.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t call the cops over here, right now,” he said.

“Because I’m not doing anything illegal?”

“Ma’am, you’re walking a fine line. And illegal or not, you really shouldn’t be behind the tape,” he stated softly.

“I know. But I just had to see it for myself.”

“You’ve seen it. Now go home and get some rest.”

“Please,” I begged. “Just tell me something. Anything.”

The big man sighed and scratched his chin. “Near as we can tell, there was an explosion in the garage. Plenty of flammables in there, so the fire spread quickly as you’d expect. Wasn’t much we could do.”

“What about the people inside?”

“So far, ma’am, we haven’t found any survivors. I’m sorry.”

I turned back to the house.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m going.”

I moved slowly, though. I wasn’t even sure what I was going to do now that I wasn’t running from Cohen anymore. And I couldn’t quite accept that Painter was gone. I wondered if I was in denial, and if so, how long it would take me to get to the next stage—guilt. Because this
was
my fault.

I had to anchor myself. I had to get back to Jayme, to remind myself that at least something good could come from our loss.

Another sob rose to the surface. Tears blurred my vision and I stumbled back to the car, barely able to see where I was going. I put my hands out to break my fall, scraping my palms along the ground. As I struggled to come back to my feet, a strong hand closed around my wrist and pulled me up.

“Thank you,” I gasped.

I righted myself and dusted off my hands on my dress.

“Polly.” The voice was raw and rough. And familiar.

My eyes jerked up, and he was there. Really there. He was barefoot, his clothes were torn, and he had a singed black bag over his shoulder. He was covered in soot and abrasions and the stitches on his arm were loose, but he was
there
.

“Painter.” It was too quiet to even be called a whisper.

Joy, relief and confusion rolled through me. I stood stock-still, worried that if I moved he would disappear.

He coughed. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, sweet Jesus. Am
I
okay?” I replied and threw my arms around him. “I’m not okay. I thought you were dead, you asshole, and you’re alive, so no, no I’m not okay.”

“You’re not?”

“No, Painter. I’m fucking perfect.”

I ran my hands up his torso and decided I didn’t care when he winced. I dug my fingers into his back, relishing in his solidity. I leaned back and stood on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his smoke-fire lips and inhaled his sweet, masculine scent. Then I pulled away and punched him not quite lightly in the stomach.

The dry, cracked corners of his mouth turned up. “Ouch.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I fell through the trapdoor.”

“You did what?”

“Cohen’s safe room, under the garage,” he elaborated. “When the shot he fired hit something and caused the explosion, I fell in. I bumped my head, but the door must’ve closed, because when I came to, I was stuck inside. I tried to get out twice, but both times the inside of the door was just too hot to open.”

“I don’t want you to ever, ever try to sacrifice yourself for me again, okay?” I said firmly.

“No, Polly.”

“Painter, I love you too damned much to think I’m ever going to lose you again.” The words were out before I could stop them, and heat bloomed in my cheeks.

“I still can’t promise that,” Painter growled.

“I don’t know how much more of this my heart can take.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I won’t ever make you a promise I can’t keep. I’d sacrifice myself an infinite amount of times if it meant you were safe.”

His eyes were intense with longing and my heart thrummed in my chest as hard as it had the first time we met. He leaned down and pressed his forehead into mine.

“Polly, I can’t make you that promise because I love
you
too damned much to lie to you.”

A car door slammed loudly, just out of view, and the muffled sound of a police radio made Painter jerk away. “We should go.”

“Are we still running?”

He hesitated, then unzipped the black bag he was carrying and showed me its contents. I gasped.

“What is that?”

“Near as I can tell…forty-five pounds of cash. Two-million, ten-thousand dollars. Plus a few bearer bonds and some
really
personal information about Cohen’s staff.”

“You stole it?”

“Technically, Cohen gave it to me.”

I met his eyes. There was a little sparkle there that let me know he was stretching the truth.

“Is he dead?” I asked with a backward glance at Jayme.

“Without a doubt.”

The sound of the police radio chatter got closer.

“We
should
go,” I whispered.

He smiled. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

I swung open the car door and we climbed in. As I turned the key in the ignition, Painter put a hand on my arm.

“Where are we going to go?” he asked.

I shrugged and said the first thing that came to my mind. “Home.”

Painter raised an eyebrow, and for a second, I thought he was going to argue. Then a grin overtook his tired features.

“Nothing has ever sounded more wonderful to me in my whole life.”

I put my foot down on the gas pedal and pulled out onto the street. I didn’t know where home was. Not yet. But I did know that no matter where we ended up, as long as the three of us were together, we’d be fine.

Jayme eyed his bedroom nervously, not because he was worried she was going to give him heck for eating all the cookies, but because he was worried that she wouldn’t. He’d eaten them as a test, really, to see if she would get mad.

After the fire, she had been weird for a while. He could do what he liked and stay up as late as he wanted and it hadn’t mattered if he talked back or forgot to take off his wet, sandy shoes in the new beach house. And maybe he should’ve liked that, but he didn’t.

In fact, there were a few things he didn’t like ever since they ran from the city. He didn’t like the way his mom and Painter fought about the black bag full of money and papers and computer parts. He didn’t like the way they got quiet when he asked about it.

But a few weeks ago, they had taken a bunch of stuff out of the bag and lit a beach fire and tossed it all in and ever since then things had been good. He’d started school again and got in trouble for forgetting to flush and wasn’t allowed to have cake for breakfast. Things were normal. Except for all the kissing and hand-holding, which was kind of gross.

Still, Jayme worried. So he ate the cookies and waited for the consequences.

“Jayme!”

He jumped, mostly because he’d been expecting his mom to call him, not Painter.

He moved cautiously out of his bedroom and into the living room, where both grown-ups were seated on the wicker-and-fabric couch. Painter pointed at the big, empty chair on the other side of the glass table, and Jayme moved toward it, trying to look like he was hurrying when really he was stalling.

“Have a seat, buddy,” his mom suggested.

“M’kay.”

“Painter has a question for you.”

“M’kay,” Jayme said again and turned his attention to Painter.

Sometimes, Painter looked a bit scary, but Jayme knew how silly he actually was. At that moment, though, his face was a bit red and he was tapping his fingers on his thigh.

Jayme couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly make the big man nervous.

“I’m ready,” Jayme stated.

His mom and Painter both laughed, then Painter took a breath.

“All right,” he said. “Here it goes. You’ve been the only guy in your mom’s life for a long time, and I kind of stepped in without asking your permission. So I’d like to do that now. Jayme, how would you feel if your mom and I got married?”

Jayme opened his mouth, puzzled, then closed it.

His mom frowned. “You don’t like the idea?”

“I just think…shouldn’t he be asking you instead of me?”

Painter’s face spread out into the happy grin that Jayme liked so much. Then he dove down to one knee and turned his face up to Jayme’s mom.

“Polly,” he said, trying to sound serious but not being able to on account of his big smile. “Would you do me the honour of being my wife?”

“Yes, Painter. I will.”

“She said yes!” Painter shouted.

Jayme rolled his eyes at the idea that she might’ve said no and stood up.

“Can I go now?” he asked.

“One more thing,” his mom replied. “Buddy, do you know where all the cookies in the jar went?”

Jayme grinned, secure in the fact that things were going to be normal from now on.