Page 18 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

W hat I can only assume is about ten minutes later, a gentle hand touches my shoulder. Pain throbs through me sharply, and I shoot up in my seat on a wince. My hands fly to my temple. Cal’s hand lingers on my shoulder, but then he pulls back.

“I’m fine,” I placate, despite the dizziness making a quick return.

“No, you’re not. You probably have a concussion.” Cal hops out of the back seat and skirts around the rear of the car to open my door. He helps me get out, and my feet wobble on the epoxy surface. “Let’s get Doc to have a look at you and get you cleaned up.”

I chuckle, trying to ease his obvious tension. “Well, I won’t say no to that.” Despite knowing I was going to wake up with a few more bruises than I already had, and a low-grade concussion, I was fine. Unlike Nathaniel.

Cal gently guides me through the kitchen, but instead of turning right like I’m used to, we go left. Down a short hallway, there’s a door, which Callahan opens without knocking.

It’s a sterile, beige room with an exam table, sink, and cabinets lining the farthest wall.

Upon our entrance, a thin woman works swiftly to open a medical kit.

She doesn’t bother to introduce herself as she ushers us inside.

I’m skeptical of her credentials—she doesn’t wear a white coat or scrubs, but instead a plain T-shirt and dark pants—but it’s not entirely surprising that Cal has a doctor on site.

She moves hastily to tie back her dark hair into a low bun.

It’s streaked with gray and the faint lines around her brown eyes leads me to believe she’s in her late fifties.

She has golden olive skin and round glasses perched on her nose.

There’s a distinct lack of surprise on her face, which suggests she’s used to Callahan needing urgent medical care. The thought churns my stomach.

The doctor directs me to sit and proceeds to check me over. Her fingers gently prod at my injuries, and she takes extra care to look at my scalp. Thankfully, the bleeding has stopped, and an antiseptic wipe clears away any dried blood.

Then, for the second time, a bright light is shone between my eyes, and I squint. Before I know it, she’s put the light away and has moved on to checking out my palms.

“Any dizziness, confusion, headache?” she asks as she inspects the cuts on my hands.

I nod. “Just dizziness and headache.”

She dips her chin in acknowledgment, cleaning the scrapes with an alcohol pad, and I fight a wince. As she works, she glances over to Cal. “And you?”

Callahan stiffens. “I’m fine.”

I scoff, and he looks over to me.

“I am,” he insists, but he sounds like a petulant child .

I arch a brow. “We were in the same explosion, Callahan. Just because you have six inches and almost seventy-five pounds on me doesn’t mean your head is any less fallible than mine.”

The doctor sighs, as if this isn’t the first time she’s dealt with his particular brand of stubbornness, and she performs the same check over on him as she did on me. She pulls out her small pen light again and flicks it between his eyes.

Then she turns to her medical bag and ruffles through it for a moment.

She pulls out a small container and shakes it, pills rattling around in the bottle.

“These are your basic Tylenol. Anyone ”—she shoots a pointed look to Cal—“experiencing symptoms of dizziness or headache should take two every six hours.” Then she puts the bottle in my hands and pats me on the shoulder.

“You don’t have a concussion, but if your dizziness gets worse, come back and see me. ”

At that, she ushers us out and closes the door behind us.

A clear dismissal. I glance over my shoulder and back to Cal, whose presence overwhelms me.

His hair is disheveled, and a filthy combination of dirt and ash covers his face.

His bloodshot eyes likely match my own. In short, he’s a mess.

But it still calls to me, and I find myself gravitating toward him.

I pray he can’t see the thrumming of my pulse.

Cal clears his throat and glances down the hallway.

“Let’s get you cleaned up. Then we can meet with Everett and Matthias. We have much to discuss.”

My tongue thickens in my mouth, so I just nod.

Callahan places a soft hand on the small of my back and guides me to my room.

The heat of his touch is scorching, and I don’t even think he’s realized he’s touching me.

The entire walk is silent, save for the sound of Callahan’s shoes clicking on the floor.

With each step, my mind races to fill in the blanks of what just happened, and before I know it, Cal is depositing me at my door.

His lips press into a thin line. Moments pass in a tense silence. Then, he finally speaks. “Take as long as you need. Then come to my office.”

I open my mouth to speak, but can’t seem to find the words.

If I say what’s actually on my mind, I’m liable to make the night worse—so instead, I just nod.

Disappointment momentarily flashes on Callahan’s face right before he dips his chin and turns away.

His steps echo the thudding of my heart until he reaches the door on the other side of the hallway, about ten feet down.

He pauses with his hand wrapped around the doorknob.

I’m suspended, heart in my throat for what feels like an eternity.

I try again to speak, but Cal shakes his head and leaves me standing in the hallway.

Alone. The door latches softly behind him.

Oh. Callahan’s room is only a few feet away from mine. My mouth parts.

Oh.

With that newfound information, I head inside my room and make a beeline for the shower. I try to avoid my reflection in the mirror, but the call is too difficult to ignore.

The woman in the mirror looks like hell. Her hairline is stained with blood, her eyes red with dark purple bags underneath. Dirt covers her face, and her dress is ruined.

It pains me—both physically and emotionally—to peel off my dress, and I toss the singed garment to the floor.

I turn the shower on and wait impatiently for it to warm before finally saying fuck it and hopping in.

The icy water slices over my skin, stinging where broken.

I rush through washing my body, slowing only to wash my hair delicately.

Thankfully, none of my cuts are deep, but I still move with as much care as I can manage.

Ten minutes later, I’m dressed in loose loungewear and unraveling the cord to my blow-dryer.

When my hair is half dry, I leave the bathroom, grab my phone, and head to Callahan’s office.

I only make one wrong turn—progress—and when I approach the office, muffled voices argue behind the closed door.

My feet falter, but I press forward, leaning my ear against the wood.

“How did this happen?” Cal says. His voice is strained, and I can only imagine the look on his face.

“We’re still investigating. Edwards hasn’t sent over the security footage yet.” I can’t tell whose voice that belongs to, but I want to be in this conversation.

Without knocking, I twist the doorknob and enter.

Thick tension heats the room as the men angrily turn toward me.

Callahan visibly checks me over, and I note his hair is also damp.

Unlike my need for comfort, Cal has put on black combat clothes.

A tight tee stretches across his broad chest, and his tactical pants are tucked into combat boots.

The angry pinch between his brows softens when he looks me over, eyes darting from my drying hair down to my bare feet.

“She shouldn’t be here right now,” Matthias grumbles with an arm thrown out toward me.

Cal doesn’t look away from me. Instead, he addresses me. “How are you feeling?” His voice is gentle. Tender.

A pang in my chest stings, but I tell myself he’s just checking on my well-being. He’d ask the same of anyone. “I’m fine.”

I step farther into the room and shut the door behind me.

Matthias stands next to the bar cart, a glass of some amber liquid in his hand, while Everett sits on the leather couch.

Cohen leans against a bookshelf while Cal perches against his desk.

I move to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of Cal’s desk, but Callahan stops me from passing him.

His hand catches my wrist and doesn’t let go.

I lift my gaze to catch his, and he softens more.

He dips his chin and lets me go.

“She stays,” Cal instructs as I sit in one of the guest chairs. “What do you mean Edwards hasn’t sent over the footage yet? It’s been an hour.”

“I haven’t heard anything else. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Let’s remedy that.”

Cal pulls his phone out of a pocket and types something, then places the call on speaker. The phone rings twice before a deep voice answers.

“Keane,” Isaiah Edwards answers.

“Edwards.” Cal’s voice is strained, and his jaw ticks. “Care to share why you haven’t sent over your security footage yet?”

Isaiah lets out a sigh, and something in me tells me we aren’t getting that footage.

“It’s been wiped. Has to be a professional job. We have some of the best tech money can contract, and it’s as if a ghost blew up your vehicle.”

Callahan’s grip on his phone tightens until his knuckles turn white. I swallow over a thick lump in my throat and shift in my seat.

Isaiah continues, “Would’ve appreciated if whoever you pissed off blew up your car in front of your house instead of mine.” His tone is playful, but there’s a thread of annoyance in his words.

“It’s your house, Edwards. It’s not too far a stretch to believe that was meant for you. ”

Isaiah remains pensive, as if considering Cal’s words. “I’ve made it a point to ensure my enemies wouldn’t dare try me in my own home. Could you say the same about yours?”

Callahan’s eyes narrow as his gaze darts to Everett. “Perhaps someone isn’t very keen on our partnership taking root.”