Page 5 of From the Ashes (Redwood Bay Fire #2)

CHAPTER 5

Colt

This office is a lot…chattier…than the firms I worked at back in New York. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, but I’m still getting used to the fact that if I find myself in the breakroom, I’m expected to join in with whoever’s having a good gossip session.

Most mornings, I either make breakfast at home or grab it on the way in. But today the surf was too good, and I stayed longer than I know I should have. I only just made it through the door before nine o’clock. It’s not like my father is monitoring me, per se. But I’d feel shitty if I started letting my standards slip only a few weeks into the job.

So that’s how I find myself waiting politely in the kitchenette for the coffee maker to produce another pot while I toast a bagel. A couple of the other senior attorneys are shooting shit, apparently either unaware that I’m waiting or not really caring.

I can’t say there’s been a tremendous amount of socializing since I joined the team. Judging by the way some of these people look at me, they must think I’m just going to waltz in here and step in as managing partner the second my father clicks his fingers, and no doubt some of them resent that. I’m not sure how to casually bring up over the water cooler that none of this was my idea and I don’t even know if I want to be running the place.

It’s certainly not something easily segued into from the discussion my colleagues are currently having about their kids and school.

“Timothy keeps whining that he wants to drop advanced chemistry and pick French back up instead,” Lynda is saying scornfully. “Who speaks French, anyway?”

“At least Spanish would be useful around here,” Winston agrees with a laugh.

Lynda snorts. “Well, yes, if you need to tell your housekeeper she missed a spot.”

Winston gasps in mock outrage and playfully slaps her arm. “Stop, you’re so bad. At least learning another language might help with trade negotiations or understanding foreign markets. Dillon is still insisting he wants to ‘make movies,’ whatever that means. I’m seriously tempted to delete his TikTok account. Maybe that’ll get his head out of the clouds.”

It’s probably because I’ve been thinking about Zahir so much lately. But hearing their discussion only makes me think of my own parents, sneering about how subjects like art were a waste of time, knowing full well that my best friend’s passion was painting. Not to mention the casual racism. I’m so disgusted at my colleague’s attitudes and consumed by thinking how they’re probably crushing their own children’s dreams, I don’t realize I make a tsking noise out loud.

I certainly realize when they both turn to face me, eyebrows raised.

“You don’t have kids yet, do you, Colton?” Lynda asks in a tone clearly meant to convey to me just how much of a moral and social failing that is.

I clear my throat. “Oh, um, no. I didn’t mean to?—”

“But you’re married, aren’t you?” Winston interrupts. He’s smiling. However, I can tell by the way it doesn’t reach his eyes that it’s intended as a dig.

And I hate it. I hate the shame that rises inside me for failing to meet my parents’ expectations by my early thirties as I shake my head and laugh nervously. “Uh, no,” I say, wishing I’d gotten out of the water even five minutes earlier so I could have skipped this excruciating interaction.

Why do I care so much that they’re judging me right now? So what if my life is on a different timetable or trajectory to theirs? I know it’s because that’s what my folks want for me, and I hate disappointing them so much. Whenever I do, I can feel their love slipping a little further away from me each time.

But there’s no doubt in my mind that if I’d given in and married a woman and she’d popped out a kid or two by now, we’d all be living a miserable lie.

I don’t think these guys’ offspring are doing much better, if I’m being honest. Perhaps it wasn’t Zahir I was thinking about when they were discussing sabotaging and manipulating their kids’ education and futures.

Man, it’s like since that incident on the beach I’ve been all over the place. It wasn’t just Zahir I came face-to-face with, but every life decision I’ve made since we parted ways. As I stand in the admittedly very nice break room of the very successful business my father and grandfather dedicated their lives to, I wonder who the hell I even am or what the hell I’m even doing.

Winston hums and Lynda chuckles like she’s embarrassed for me. “Oh, you’ll understand when you’re in our shoes,” Lynda says cheerfully, finally pouring some damn coffee and moving out of the way. “You’re only, what, twenty-five, right?”

“Yeah, basically,” I mutter, purposefully moving in front of the coffeemaker, which encourages them to shift over. I’m hoping the subtle hint will get them to forget about me again so they either leave or at least continue their inane conversation without me.

They do give me space to get my caffeine. But then my bagel pops from the toaster, black and crispy around the edges where I neglected to keep an eye on it. I sigh, wondering if I’m just not destined to have breakfast this morning.

Before anything else can happen, one of the only people I’ve actually formed a connection with in this place sticks his head around the door and looks directly at me.

“Colt,” Preston Windward says, flashing me a perfect smile.

He’s the kind of all-American guy my parents definitely wish I was. But rather than being an asshole, he’s pretty much the only person who’s treated me with respect since I arrived. He even went to far as to defend me when a frequent flier got uppity as we were informing him about the upcoming change in his representation due to my father’s health issues.

“There’s someone here to see you,” he says, glancing at Lynda and Winston, like he knows he’s saving me from the horrendous exchange we were just having.

I blanche as I realize what he’s saying to me. I didn’t think I had any appointments until noon. “A client?”

He shakes her head. “He said he was a paramedic following up on an incident you assisted with at the weekend?”

I can hear the curiosity in Preston’s voice as well as feel the stares from our other colleagues. I haven’t mentioned what happened at the beach to anyone. It seemed too personal to bring up in idle chatter, both with regards to mine and Zahir’s history, as well as on behalf of the little girl who almost drowned.

Not that many people are including me in idle chatter, as Lynda and Winston have just illustrated.

It is intriguing gossip, and I can’t blame them for wanting to know more. But right now, all I can do is hyper focus on the fact that a paramedic is here at my work. Zahir’s partner was a woman, so it can’t be her. I try and convince myself that Zahir might have a boss that needs to get a witness statement from me or something. Is that something fire stations do? Or just police officers?

Oh…god. What if it’s not a statement he needs? What if it’s taken this long because…what if there were complications for the girl after all and…and those complications have only just happened?

No, no, no! She was okay! She woke up! If she’s taken a turn for the worst…

Ignoring everyone else, I dash out of the office into the main reception area of our small practice. I’m too panicked to even appreciate that it is indeed Zahir who’s standing there.

“Is she okay?” I blurt out without so much as a hello.

Zahir blinks at me. “Oh! Nevaeh? Yes, she’s absolutely fine. That’s why I’m here.” He sheepishly holds up a Ziploc bag with a couple of slightly squashed but very colorful cupcakes inside. “I’m sorry to disturb you at work. I was actually expecting to talk to your dad, but when I mentioned it was about you, they said you were in the building.”

Even though he doesn’t ask directly, I can here the question in his tone. “Uh, yeah,” I explain. “I moved back a few weeks ago.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause, then he holds up the clear baggie again. “Well, I promised to pass on her mother’s number. And these if possible. They want to thank you.”

I pull absently at my tie as my heart rate slows. She—Nevaeh—is okay.

That means I now have to deal with the reality of Zahir being here. At my work. He knows where I work.

At my family’s law firm.

Suddenly, both the fear of what my father might do and the need to protect Zahir from him come back as strong as when I was a teenager. I immediately move closer and place my hand on the small of his back without thinking of what that might mean or how it might look.

“Let’s talk somewhere a little more private,” I say, steering him into an empty conference room. It’s one of the smaller ones where we usually hold our preliminary meetings with clients when we’re deciding if we’re the right fit for each other, so it’s not too big and awkward.

I mean, it’s still plenty awkward. But at least it doesn’t feel echoey.

“So she’s okay?” I repeat.

“Yeah,” Zahir says, looking at me like he’s surprised that was my first and main concern.

I can’t say I blame him. He doesn’t know me anymore. He probably wonders if he ever knew me back then. The image of a cutthroat lawyer isn’t improbable. Therefore, I don’t have any right to be offended that he potentially thinks so little of me as I’ve given him every reason to. It still stings. But all that really matters is that Nevaeh is all right.

I’d forgotten her name, but I did hear it at the time. I’m glad I can stop thinking of her as ‘the girl,’ not to mention cease fretting about what happened to her after she left the beach. Apparently, she’s making colorful, squashed cupcakes. That’s a good sign, right?

“Thank goodness,” I say as I move around the room, gripping the back of a chair and avoiding eye contact with him. “I tried calling the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell me anything, which makes sense, but I was worried. So…thank you, I guess.” I finally look up at him. “For putting my mind at ease.”

Carefully, he places the plastic bag down on the table, the cupcakes sagging a little and the frosting smooshing against the transparent side. “You’re welcome,” he says softly, meeting my gaze.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

He was always slimmer than me with slightly narrower shoulders and hips. But in the years we’ve been apart, he’s clearly bulked up. I noticed it somewhat at the beach, but he was wearing his uniform, and I was buzzing with the rush of having just pulled Nevaeh from the water. Now, though, he’s wearing black jeans and a white V-neck tee that are both clinging to his muscular form like a prayer. He used to wear his dark, curly hair down to his shoulders, but now he has a fade around the back and side with a thick mop at the top that I desperately want to run my fingers through and?—

Nope. Stop that right the fuck now.

I clear my throat and look away. “So, uhh…”

“Yes, right.” Zahir pulls a scrap of paper from the pocket that’s hugging his pert ass. I manage to keep my expression neutral, but apparently my mind is determined to live in the gutter. “This is Mrs. Adams’ number—Nevaeh’s mom. They really want to thank you for what you did. How you helped.” He points at the food bag. “Probably make you some fresh, less mangled cakes.”

I laugh at his sweet little joke, probably louder than is appropriate, but I don’t care. Just hearing him talk to me again is a relief I didn’t know I was waiting on all these years. But the apprehension has always been there, gnawing away, that the memory of this person who once meant the world to me was going to fade completely into oblivion.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the piece of paper from him.

Our fingertips brush. Electricity jolts through my heart, but unsurprisingly, he snatches his hand away then grimaces, no doubt wanting to ignore the moment ever happened.

The shiver down my spine tells me it did. So does my racing pulse and throbbing cock. Christ, it’s like I can taste him. As if chasing that taste, I lick my lips before taking a breath and trying to make my mouth utter coherent words. It’s difficult with my hands and knees trembling with adrenaline. It’s a different kind to what I experienced on the beach, but no less overwhelming.

“Zahir,” I say, my voice full of reverence for simply being allowed to say his name again. To see him. To be so close if I just reached out, I could…

The conference room door bursts open and my father blusters in. For a man supposed to be taking it easy after major surgery, he certainly does seem to enjoy stomping around the place still.

“Colton, there you are. I need you to—” At the sight of Zahir, the words die in his mouth but not for long. “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t realize you had a meeting. I did check your calendar.”

Of course he did. The implication that I forgot to enter an appointment is clear. Because in his mind, I’m still a child that he has to run around after to make sure I’m not embarrassing myself or the family name. If this actually was a client that he’d undermined me in front of, I’d be mortified. As it is, irritation that’s been brewing for a very long time bubbles up in me.

“I don’t have a meeting, Dad,” I say coolly. His eyes widen at my informality. He made it clear that when I’m in this building, he’s not my father, but my boss. However, I get a thrill from my micro triumph, and plow forward before he can interrupt me. “This is my friend, Zahir Delacroix. You remember? From San Clemente Academy?”

His expression smooths out. “I see,” he replies, matching my cool tone.

He either has no earthly idea who I’m talking about…or he remember exactly how much he hated the two of us running around together all the time. He and Mom never said it out loud, but I was always acutely aware that they saw Zahir as brown, poor and Muslim before anything else. They weren’t even aware he was gay, but I know that wouldn’t have helped the situation in their eyes one bit.

“Your son saved my patient’s life this weekend, Mr. Ross,” Zahir says with genuine respect despite the fact that my father never earned it from him. “I was passing on the girl’s appreciation.”

“A girl, hey?” my father cries, his eyes lighting up. I can tell the inappropriateness that’s going to spill from his mouth before it happens, but I can’t do anything to stop it. “If she’s that grateful, maybe she’ll give you her number for a date, hmm?” He winks and chuckles at his own gross humor.

“Yeah, she’s eight, Dad,” I drawl, dropping all pretense of respect in that moment. I love my parents, I do. But their obsession with me meeting a ‘nice girl and settling down’ is getting obnoxious. Even if Nevaeh was my age and not a child, why does he think it’s okay to crack jokes about a hypothetical woman owing me a date because I helped her?

I can tell I’ve embarrassed him by the way he harrumphs and wrings his hands, puffing out his chest. I’ll pay for that later, no doubt. Never mind that he was the one out of line. All he’ll see is that I was disrespectful.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” he grumbles.

“I should go,” Zahir says, and suddenly I don’t give a shit about my father and his nonsense. I can’t let Zahir slip away yet again.

“I’ll walk you out,” I say, nipping around the table to open the door as Zahir approaches. He slows his walk and narrows his eyes like he wants to tell me where to shove it. But he simply nods and exits the room.

Not wanting my father to undermine me any further, I nod cheerfully at him before following Zahir across the lobby and out into the sunshine. The practice is part of a small but nice parade of stores that is too fancy to call a strip mall. In between the two rows that host an independent coffee shop, a fashion boutique, a hair and beauty salon, and a florist is a burbling fountain and well-maintained shrubbery. I pause to speak, grateful that he does as well.

“Sorry about that,” I say with a rueful chuckle. “You probably remember what he’s like.”

“Yes,” Zahir says, his voice flat.

The hope and excitement that was tentatively rumbling in my belly fades away, leaving me disappointed. But really, what did I expect? For us to laugh and joke like the good old days?

That was a lifetime ago.

“So you’re back for good, then?” He juts his chin toward the office. “I Googled your dad’s company and came here to see if they had a way to get in touch with you for Nevaeh’s sake. But then I was told you started working for the practice a few weeks ago.”

“Uh, yeah,” I say guiltily.

He had to search online because we certainly never came here when we were teenagers. Hell—I remember telling him I would set foot in this place as an employee over my dead body.

Turns out that my dad’s almost dead body was all it took.

I sigh apologetically. “I would have let you know I was back, but…I wasn’t sure if you still lived here.”

Sure, that’s it, buddy. Not that you were terrified of seeing him and facing the consequences of your actions.

“Still here,” he says in that same firm, hollow voice. “Never left. This is my home. And now I have fulfilled my obligation to my patient, I don’t see any reason why we should cross paths again. I hope you’ll be very happy in Redwood Bay once more. Although I imagine you’ll be spending more of your time in San Clemente.”

The implication that’s because it’s fancier lingers in the air. Because he thinks he was never good enough for me or my family. My grandfather set up business here because it’s all he could afford at the time, and we’ve stayed here for nostalgic purposes. But my parents moved us to San Clemente as soon as they could and absolutely look down on anything else in Redwood Bay, including the people.

So, yeah. I’m sure they still believe that someone like Zahir isn’t good enough for me. However, that couldn’t be further from the truth, at least as far as I’m concerned.

He turns to leave and my heart somersaults in my chest. “Wait!” I cry.

He pauses, looking at me expectantly.

If I knew what I wanted to say, that would really help. There are probably a thousand—a million things—I should tell him. But instead, I feel my resolve crumble. The disdain in his eyes is clear. I have no right to ask anything of him.

It doesn’t mean I can’t try, though. I didn’t become a brilliant attorney by shying away when the shit hit the fan.

“I am living in Redwood Bay,” I say simply. “My dad had a heart attack and surgery. So I moved back to a place close to the office. I’m not going anywhere soon. And I…I’m sorry. For everything.”

I wish I could say that I came back for him, but we both know that’s not true.

This time, though, I can see myself staying for him. Even if just for a little while.

For a second, the words simply hang in the air as we stare at each other. Then he huffs out a sad laugh, shakes his head, and turns to walk away, really doing it this time. I watch him until he vanishes out of sight.

Dizziness washes over me, but I take a breath and rub my chest, letting it pass.

No, that didn’t go well. But I have more information than before, and so does he, actually. We both know that the other is living in town, and I can make an educated guess that means he’s at the Redwood Bay firehouse, so we both now know where the other works as well. Sure, he basically said he never wants to see me again, but me being the sonovabitch I am, I cling to the hope that we could still accidentally run into each other.

I glance at the paper I’ve got crumpled between my fingers, then smooth it out. We’re linked now by this event, this girl. Saving Nevaeh’s life together creates a bond, no matter how unwelcome it might be. Perhaps there’s still a chance for me to find my way to back to Zahir.

It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I’m going to make him see how truly sorry I am. It’s not just a word I’ve thrown at him. I mean it with every breath I take. And he doesn’t have to forgive me. I understand how much that would be asking of him. I just need him to believe me.

With my new mission clear in my mind, I spin around and head back inside the office, prepared to face my father. I’ll take his ire. Just speaking to Zahir again after all this time makes me feel like I’ve got a suit of armor on, which is probably ridiculous considering how much he obviously hates me.

Everybody hates me. I’m a lawyer. But I’m not going to rest until Zahir understands that the boy I was before loved him and never should have left him the way I did. After that, I’ll let the chips fall where they may.

But I’m not giving up on Zahir Delacroix. Not this time.