Seducing the Fireman (Risky Business) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Jax awoke facedown on the bed with the mother of all hangovers. His skull felt like it was going to split right down the middle. He lifted his head and blinked against the harsh afternoon sun slanting through the open blinds. His eyelids felt like sandpaper, and his mouth was drier than a motherfucker.

What time is it anyway?

He squinted at the clock,
trying to decipher the blurry images. Eventually, he abandoned the effort and dropped his head back onto the pillow, cursing himself for drinking so damn much. It was a wonder he hadn’t ended up with alcohol poisoning.

Fortunately, he still had some aspirin leftover from his lacerated arm. If only they weren’t in the bathroom. It was only twenty feet, but it might as well have been a city
block.

Deciding to work his way up to movement, he lay still, trying to recount the events of the prior night. He immediately regretted his decision, recalling the look on Becca’s face when he’d told her to leave. Total devastation. His chest hurt just thinking about it. He’d been a complete asshole. But it was for the best, wasn’t it?

Yes
.

He had to believe that or he really
would be the biggest prick in the city. He’d just been so angry after the fire call. Losing a life was never easy, whether it was a civilian or a firefighter. Every loss cut close to home. Every loss left a scar.

They’d been so close, literally within arm’s reach of the vic, when the floor had collapsed. He’d damn near gone with him, but Anderson had pulled him out. Two in, two out. It was
their way. But watching someone fall like that? Knowing you were so close to making the grab? Knowing one day it could be you?

That shit messed with your head.

There was a reason firemen didn’t talk about the horrors they’d seen on the job. It was because they saw the worst of the worst. It was the job. It was his choice. His burden to bear. His guilt. No way in hell was he going to
poison Becca with those stories.

Becca.

His gut churned with nausea. What he’d done, the things he’d said to her…there was no turning back now. It made him sick knowing he’d ruined her special night. It was unforgiveable. He hated himself for it. He could hardly blame her if she hated him, too. That’s what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?

Enough.

It was time to get up and move on.
He’d make himself fucking crazy if he lay there thinking about her any longer. Pulling himself to a sitting position, he swung his feet over the side of the bed.

A bolt of pain hit him behind the eyes.

Probably nothing compared to what Becca was feeling. He forced himself to move through his morning routine. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. The first day of the rest of his life.
Because starting over without Becca? It was like starting a newer, shittier chapter where all the things he’d dared to hope for were no longer possible. He brushed his teeth, took a shower, and popped a few aspirin. Too bad they’d do nothing to ease the ache in his chest.

When he returned to his bedroom in search of clean clothes, he stopped in front of the dresser. The pink bear sat on
his dresser, looking out of place in the masculine room.

Becca’s bear
.

The one she’d won.

For him.

Damn. He missed her already. Missed waking up next to her. Missed the feel of her lips on his. Her laugh. Her smile. The way she quietly watched the world through the lens of the camera. The sassy way she gave as good as she got. Hell, he even missed her temper, although he’d
gotten a healthy dose of it the night before.

Guilt clawed at his gut. He yanked open the drawers and grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, pulling them on and ignoring the condemning stare of the stuffed toy.

Becca was too proud to let him see her cry, but he’d seen the look in her eye when she left. He’d been so sure he wouldn’t hurt her this time. He’d never imagined that hurting
her might be the only way to protect her…from him.

He picked up the bear, squeezing it tight in his hand.

What the hell have I done?

He hurled the bear across the room. It hit the wall with a quiet thud and slid to the floor. Unable to look himself in the eye, he turned from the mirror and stalked out of the room.

Was this what his life would be from now on? Helping others
but keeping no happiness for himself? And really, did he have any right to be angry or sad or whatever the fuck he was feeling when it was his own dumbass fault?

…

Becca stared at
The Post
, words like “promising,” “inspirational,” and “moving” swimming before her eyes. She’d read the critic’s write-up on her work half a dozen times, and she still couldn’t tell if the review was good
or bad. The biggest night of her career, and she couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

Talk about a sad state of affairs.

Even sadder was the fact that she’d cried herself to sleep, just like the old days. Definitely not how she’d imagined celebrating her first gallery exhibit. Of course, she hadn’t imagined Jax getting shitfaced and breaking up with her, either, so it just went to show
how unpredictable life could be.

But it wasn’t unpredictable was it? Hadn’t she known all along this would happen? Wasn’t this why she had the stupid three-date rule in the first place? Jax had taught her that lesson at fifteen. And here he was, offering a refresher course ten years later.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She should’ve listened to her gut. Instead, she’d listened to her
heart and look where that had landed her. Home alone, nursing a broken heart, and feeling like she’d been dropped in a vat of Jell-O. The whole world was muted. The sights, the sounds, the colors. Hell, even her movement was sluggish.

A broken heart will do that to you.

And her heart was broken. It was the real deal this time. Shattered into a million tiny shards she couldn’t even
fathom piecing back together. It was still too fresh. The pain cut like a knife, leaving her raw and exposed and weak.

God, she was weak, wasn’t she? Especially when it came to Jax. He was a habit she just couldn’t kick.

Jax.

Against her better judgment, she’d let him in—again—and now she was paying the price.
Again
. Only it was worse this time, so much worse. She
loved
him.
And that pain? It was visceral, cutting her down in ways she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. She’d never felt anything like it. Her heart ached for what she’d lost, what they’d lost.

Even breathing hurt.

Pressing a hand to her mouth, she suppressed a sob, refusing to let another pass her lips no matter how damaged she felt. She’d been so naive, thinking he wouldn’t hurt her again.
Believing he’d changed. Fine, maybe he had changed. Hell, he’d proven it time and again. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered. Maybe they just weren’t meant to be. Maybe she was one of those dark, lonely artists destined to suffer for her craft. Because after everything she’d done, after all the changes she made in her own life—changing her name, her appearance, her attitude—she’d landed in the same
place.

Broken. Miserable. Alone.

A fresh wave of tears leaked down her cheeks. How could she be so careless with her heart? She’d known from the start that letting Jax slip past her defenses was a bad idea. She’d even known he was the one man who could eviscerate her, drawing her in with his good looks and charm. So why had she let him talk her into it?

And breaking her three-date
rule? That was just asking for trouble. Sure their time together had been amazing, some of the best weeks of her life, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
She
would never be enough.

Pulling a tissue from the box in her lap, she wiped her nose.

The way he’d looked at her last night, his eyes flat and uncaring? That wasn’t the same man she’d fallen in love with,
the man who’d lit a fire in her soul, finding passion she hadn’t even known existed. It couldn’t be. She refused to believe it.

Not that it mattered, given how he’d stood her up and kicked her out of his apartment all in the span of one night. She slumped in her chair. Not her finest hour. Or his.

So what had happened to make him lash out like that?

No.

She would not waste
any more time making excuses for Jackson Hart. Nor would she waste any more tears on him. She’d found a way to get over him once before, and dammit, she’d do it again. No matter how difficult and soul-crushing it proved to be.

After all, she was an artist. She’d find a way to channel her pain into her work, and she’d come out the other side better for it. Jax may have broken her heart, but
he would not break her.

She was Brooklyn strong. Always had been, always would be.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jax stepped through the door to Mancini’s feeling like an intruder. Even with Chris’s invitation it didn’t feel right being there. Not after what he’d done to Becca. Guilt and shame washed over him, hitting him harder than the blast of cool air the ancient AC was pumping out.

It wasn’t fucking right.
He
wasn’t fucking right.

He turned to leave.

“Hey, Jax! Get your ass back in here.” Chris slung a bar towel over the shoulder of his Yankees jersey. “They’re just about to throw out the first pitch.”

Resigned to his fate, he joined his friend, taking a seat at the end of the bar where he could watch the big screen in peace.

Chris slid a bottle of lager across the bar.

“Thanks, man.”

“Forget about it,” Chris replied,
eyes glued to the screen.

They watched the top of the first in silence. The Yankees got a runner on base, but failed to score. Chris hollered at the TV like the hot-blooded New Yorker he was, while Jax nursed his beer silently. Guilt gnawed at his gut. Why the hell had Chris asked him to stop in anyway?

He glanced around the bar, half expecting to see Becca come prancing out of the
kitchen in one of her funky T-shirts. But no, Chris had assured him she wouldn’t be there. She was going into Manhattan, which inspired an entirely different flurry of unpleasant emotions.

Was she at Stout tonight, looking for his replacement? His shoulders slumped. Even if she was, he had no right to feel anything but happy for her. This was his choice. And he wanted her to be happy. The
last thing he wanted was for her to be miserable like him.

Still, the idea of her moving on so quickly hurt like a motherfucker.

When he looked up, Chris was staring at him. Okay, maybe glaring would be a better word for it. Not that he didn’t deserve it. He sure as hell did. Frankly, he counted himself lucky his old friend hadn’t dragged him into the back alley and beat the piss out
of him…yet.

“I should kick your ass, you know.”

Jax nodded. What could he say? He’d been thinking the very same thing.

“I haven’t see Frankie like this since she was a kid.” Chris braced his arms against the shiny bar. “I don’t get it, man. I mean, I’m all for the single life, but if you’re both so effing miserable apart, why aren’t you together?”

“It’s complicated,” he
muttered, taking a pull on his beer. The icy lager slid down his throat easily, reminding him of the last time he’d touched alcohol. The last time he’d lost control. That wouldn’t happen again. Not that it mattered. He had nothing left to lose.

“Complicated?” Chris snorted. “Horses are fucking complicated. Women ain’t that complicated. Why don’t you try me? Just leave out the sex stuff,
or I really will have to break that pretty nose.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” He looked around the bar, at Mancini’s, and realized just how much he envied his friend. “You’ve got this Brady Bunch life with two parents who love you, and a sister you’d give your left nut to protect, and there’s all this love and support and stability. Do you have any idea how lucky you are?” He raked a hand
through his hair, hating the vulnerability of his words. “I didn’t have any of that growing up. You know what I had? I had an old man who lived at the bottom of a bottle, and a mother I can’t even remember.”

“Listen, I get it. You were on the shit end of spectrum the day they handed out families.” Chris paused. “But what’s that got to do with my sister?”

“Everything.” Jax pounded his
fist on the bar. “Everything. I had a bad night on the job, and all I could think about was Becca. Like, what if it was me who didn’t come home, you know? I saw what it did to my dad, and I never want to put Becca through that. Ever.” He raised the bottle to his lips. “Better to end things now than risk that kind of hurt.”

“For her or for you?” Chris snorted. “New York’s Bravest. What a
fuckin’ joke. I was so proud when I heard you joined the FDNY, but, man, that’s some cowardly shit right there. You didn’t break things off for her. You did it for yourself. At least have the courage to be honest about it.”

He slammed his beer down on the counter, ready to defend the FDNY and himself. But this wasn’t about the job, was it? It was about him. It had always been about him.
His
fears.
His
cowardice.

“You want what I got?” Chris asked, not waiting for a reply. “Family means you take the good with the bad. It ain’t gonna be sunshine and bunnies every day, but we stick. We take care of each other. That’s what family is.” Chris wiped up the ring his beer had left behind. “Besides, Frankie’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself, and she can sure as shit make
her own decisions.”

“I know that,” he bit out. Hell, she’d told him the same thing on no less than a half dozen occasions.

“Do you? Because from where I’m standing it looks like you’re trying to run the show, and it ain’t working out so good. For either of you.”

Shit.

Chris was right. Breaking things off with Becca had been stupid and selfish. He hadn’t done it to spare
her feelings, he’d done it to protect his own. He’d been so damn scared of causing someone else the kind of pain he’d carried his whole life that he’d pushed away the only woman he’d ever loved.

Hell, the one time he’d needed her most, the one time he should have been running to her, he’d run from her. He wasn’t so different from his old man after all, always running the wrong goddamn direction.
The realization hit him like a backdraft, incinerating the cowardice he’d wrapped around himself like a fire blanket.

He’d fucked up big time. Becca probably wouldn’t speak to him ever again. After all, she’d given him a second chance, and he’d blown it, just like she knew he would.

No.
No more cowardice. He would find a way to show Becca the real Jackson Hart. The one who loved her
fiercely and would do anything to win back her trust and her heart. If she gave him the chance, he wouldn’t just be the man she needed. He’d be the man she deserved.

…

Becca pulled a stack of prints for Quinn to review, offering her friend what she hoped was an appreciative smile. Quinn wasn’t exactly thrilled about their late night work session, despite the fact that she’d brought
dinner and two bottles of wine.

“It’s a good thing I like you. I wouldn’t skip happy hour with Johnny Football for anyone else,” Quinn said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You don’t even like him,” she challenged. “Last week you said he was, and I quote, a colossal jackass.”

“True. But he has these muscles I can’t get enough of,” Quinn explained, taking the photos and flipping
through them. She nodded appreciatively, pulling two out and setting them to the side. “These are really good.” She paused and looked up thoughtfully. “You’re not going to forget the little people now that you’re a fancy pants photographer, are you?”

“Very funny.”

“Who’s kidding?” Quinn quipped, tucking her legs beneath her on the sleek leather couch. “That piece in
The Post
was glowing.
I’ll be surprised if you don’t sell out the exhibit.”

“I don’t want to get my hopes up,” she admitted. After the blowup with Jax, she was finding it hard to be too optimistic about anything lest she crash and burn again. Frankly, she wouldn’t survive another soul-shattering disappointment. But Quinn was right. The images for the FDNY piece had turned out better than she’d expected. There
was a lot of good material to choose from. It was just hard to see the images without thinking of Jax.

Hell, everywhere she went, and every photo she took, reminded her of him in some way. How could she possibly be expected to celebrate her success when her heart was broken beyond repair? Even her photography, which had always provided light during the darkest periods of her life, seemed
bereft of anything remotely resembling joy.

She jerked her eyes from the FDNY photos in Quinn’s hands. Seeing them was too damn painful, like pouring salt in a gaping wound. Yep. That was her heart. A giant gaping wound. The kind that would never heal, leaving her permanently damaged beyond repair.

So much for Brooklyn strong.

Quinn pulled another photo. “How many pieces have
you sold from the exhibit?”

“Two so far.” The critic’s reviews had been solid, and they’d helped drum up interest in the exhibit, which was amazing. Really, she couldn’t be happier about it. It was just…well, there was one piece she was having trouble letting go. She sipped her wine, knowing that if she asked for Quinn’s advice, she’d get the cold hard truth. “And I’ve got an offer on a
third, but I’m not sure if I’m going to take it.”

Quinn’s brow shot up. “What do you mean you don’t know if you’re going to take it? Why not?” she asked. “You’re an artist with a day job—what’s to think about?”

“The buyer wasn’t able to make it to the reception, so they’re requiring a personal meet and greet at the gallery as part of the sale.” It was a bit mysterious, but art collectors
tended to be eccentric, so she wasn’t really hung up on the terms, especially given they’d offered the asking price. No, it wasn’t the circumstances that left her questioning the sale. She chewed her lip, knowing her friend was likely to give her a not so gentle reality check. “The photo they’re requesting is…personal.”

“Sweetie, unless it’s a picture of you doing the deed, you should take
the offer.” Quinn plucked another photo from the stack. “An opportunity like this doesn’t come along every day. You’re getting your art into more hands. You’re earning money you can use to help get your business off the ground. From where I’m sitting, there’s no down side. How personal can it be?”

“It’s Jax.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Quinn dropped the remaining photos on the couch next to her.
“How’re you holding up? Really?”

“You want the truth?” she asked, knowing her friend wouldn’t have it any other way. “I feel like I’m fifteen again, and I. Hate. It. I want to stay in bed and gorge myself on Chunky Monkey ice cream and never see his stupid face again. But I’ll get through it. One day at a time.”

“Look, you know I don’t believe in love, but I do believe in you. You’ve
got to shake this off,” Quinn advised. “Screw fireboy. Trust me, this is his loss.”

“Spoken like a true friend.”

“I’m serious.” Quinn refilled both their wineglasses. “You are not some lovesick kid from Brooklyn anymore. You’re an amazing woman and a kick-ass artist, and everyone can see it except for you.” She scrunched her nose. “And maybe Jax. But he doesn’t count because he’s obviously
a dipshit.”

Becca laughed, a silly giggle bubbling up from her belly and roaring out of control until she had tears streaming down her face. Quinn wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her until the tears subsided.

“I’m not saying this as your friend,” Quinn said, her voice taking on the hard edge of Back-alley O’Malley. “I’m saying it as someone who believes in your talent.
Take the offer.”