Page 20 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

T he next morning, I wake with a tension headache.

By the time I get out of the shower, the Tylenol Doc gave me kicks in, easing the low throbbing of my skull.

I’m not usually one to wash my hair so frequently, but it was necessary.

The fresh hair and clean scent of my soap settles something in me, though I swear I can still smell the singed car in the back of my nose.

The necklace Cal gave me is still around my neck, and for a moment, I consider taking it off, then dismiss it. I love peonies, and the blossom shape is beautiful. I hate how well he knows me.

Shaking off the annoyance, I dress in a pair of navy capri leggings and a geometric-patterned, hot-pink sports bra.

It leaves a sliver of my midriff showing.

The girls are bound tight, but a little cleavage still shows at the top.

I plan to get some cardio in today after almost a week and a half of avoiding Strikers and its particularly grumpy owner.

As I make my way to the kitchen for a quick breakfast, I scroll through my phone, clearing notifications and checking on my messages, but there’s nothing of importance. Two seconds later, I smack into a hard chest.

“Ow.” I rub my nose and glance up at Cohen’s concerned gaze.

His brows furrow. “You seriously going to work out after being in an explosion not even twenty-four hours ago? I don’t think Doc or Cal would think that’s very smart.”

The mention of Cal having a say over how I live my life stirs a wound not quite healed.

“I’m just going to find a treadmill and get some movement in. Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll be fine.”

The face Cohen pulls at my choice of words is comical. He’s frozen as if he just sucked on a warhead when I push past him. When I make it to the kitchen, he finally catches up with me.

Dressed in his usual black combat gear, dark circles ring his bloodshot eyes, a testament to a similar late night.

Mindlessly, I drift toward the coffee and pour myself a mug.

Cohen grabs the pot from me and pours his own while I get the creamer from the fridge.

A healthy splash into mine, none for Cohen.

Leading up to the explosion, we’d fallen into some sort of routine.

Most mornings we would meet for coffee, then he’d eventually follow me around until he realized I had no plans to leave, and he’d wander off to do his own thing.

I’d taken to bringing my laptop to either a library, patio, or even a random balcony I found that’s off another empty guest room.

My editor seemed to be happy with the chapters I sent last week, but as an author, there’s always another project waiting. Today, I had to finish the autobiography I’m ghostwriting for a high-profile tech entrepreneur. He hired me about six months ago, and the final draft is due tomorrow morning .

Andy Thorne is an impressive man, to say the very least. I interviewed him for almost sixteen hours, and his personal assistant gave me her direct cell number for any further questions.

I only had to finish the final chapter, then put the finishing touches on the afterword.

The project was a love letter to his late wife, which I found entirely too sweet.

They’d found each other later than most and had two girls together in the late nineties.

Despite loving her fiercely, Andy spent much of his marriage buried in work.

It put a strain on their marriage until neither of them were happy, he claims.

But everything changed when his wife ran their car into a tree in a remote area with the girls in the back seat.

She’d taken the girls, and they were on their way to the lake for a few weeks to get some space from Andy.

After they crashed, the car caught fire.

Her seatbelt was stuck, and her youngest was knocked out.

Her oldest was in shock and couldn’t move or speak.

It was only thanks to the help of a couple passing through at the same time that they were rescued before the car succumbed to the flames.

Andy claims it was the wake up call he needed.

Tragically, only a few years later, his wife died in another horrific car accident.

After rushing to the hospital, he learned she was dead on arrival.

He said the crushing guilt for prioritizing his work over his family was debilitating, but he had to press on for the sake of their children.

From then on, he scaled back his work to raise them.

He still maintained his position as CEO of Thorne Enterprises, but he delegated any duties he could in order to spend as much time as possible with his daughters.

Now, he was determined to share their story.

To implore others to not make the same mistakes he did.

His plan was to market the memoir as all the best secrets of his best business practices, when in reality, it was a plea to other men to not take their life at home for granted.

When he shared his wife’s tragic passing, I couldn’t help but feel immense sorrow for a woman I’d never met.

I move around Cohen and grab a parfait from the fridge as he trails behind me. I head toward the backyard, and Cohen only laughs once when I make it there without a single missed turn.

“See? I told you you’d get the hang of it.” He smiles, and I wonder—not for the first time—how he’s single.

Fuck it. I’ll just ask. “Why are you single?”

Cohen nearly spits out his coffee but manages to compose himself. He swallows over the cough and covers his mouth with a large hand. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on, we both know you’re an attractive guy, and sometimes you can be funny. What, are you a serial cheater or something?”

A twinkle shines in his dark eyes, and the corner of his lip lifts. “I never said I was.”

My jaw drops. “What? You’ve never said anything.” He has never once mentioned a girlfriend or partner.

Cohen smirks. “You never asked.” With that, he takes another sip of coffee and shakes out a newspaper he picked up from somewhere.

I stare at him, mouth gaped open like a fish. “Well, are you?” I finally manage.

He looks over the paper and shrugs. “Yes.”

I crumple and toss my napkin at him. It breezes over his arm and falls to the ground. Laughter bubbles out of his chest, and after the shock wears off, I join in.

“Dick,” I cough under my breath .

Cohen just winks and returns to his newspaper.

“So, how did you get into the family?”

Lucas has been Cal’s friend since middle school, and I’m honestly surprised he never found out about us back then.

Or if he did, he never said anything. Cohen and Everett were the unfamiliar faces of the group, and if I’m going to be here for the next two years, I might as well get to know them.

Well, Cohen at least. I haven’t seen much of Everett so far.

The breeze picks up, a chill wrapping around my body.

But after spending so long inside, I welcome the brisk air.

Cohen sighs, folds the newspaper, and tosses it onto the table.

It lands with a crinkle, and he laces his fingers together, settling deeper into the wrought-iron chair as he gives me an appraising look. After a moment, he finally speaks.

“I was a fighter.”

I raise a brow. “Was?”

Cohen smiles, but it doesn’t reach his dark eyes. Invisible memories play in the chilled air between us, but I’m not privy to their story. His hands twist in his lap, and he cracks each joint.

“Was.” He doesn’t elaborate further, picking up the newspaper, effectively dismissing me.

We end up sitting on the patio for another fifteen minutes before the clouds start to roll in. It was already brisk, but I don’t want to get caught in the rain.

I gather the trash and empty mug and drop them back off in the kitchen. Then I turn to head to the gym and realize…

“Where is the gym?”

Cohen lets loose a deep sigh and shakes his head. “Some trainer you are,” he jests, leading the way .

“Hey, I never claimed to be a trainer. I just happen to train.”

He opens a door for me and waves me off as I pass through. “Tomato, potato.”

I flip him the middle finger and take in the massive gym.

Machines of all kinds take up a third of the space, while treadmills and a stair master sit in the back.

Free weights line the mirrored wall, and punching bags hang in the center.

Heavy electronic music blares from a sound system, hiding the usual sounds a gym creates.

A few guys pause to watch us enter, but I pay them no mind.

A man on one treadmill pulls my attention, and I find myself frozen, stuck to the floor and fighting to keep my tongue in my mouth.

Callahan runs at a breaking pace, sweat dripping over his bare torso.

A towel hangs from the arm of the machine, but I’m about to burn it and offer myself in its stead.

Muscles I don’t remember him having at seventeen ripple with each stride, and I take several moments to just watch him before a voice whispers next to my ear.

“I can pass a note to him, if you’d like. He’s here every day during second period.”

“Shut up.” I smack Cohen’s chest and turn toward a clearing with mats and bands. Dropping to the floor, I stretch my dormant muscles.

Standing up, I shake out my quads and reach an arm over to the side. My ribs had finally stopped hurting from Jude’s unchecked punch last week, but I think the fall from yesterday only compounded the ache. My body is sore, and not the kind you get after a hard day of labor or a good workout.

With one long exhale, I straighten, ready to get some steps in.

“What the fuck is that? ”

I snap to my left to find a fuming Callahan. Sweat drips from his hair, his temple, his abs—everywhere. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and his hands curl into fists. His face is red, though I can’t decipher if it’s from his workout or his outrage.

I scan the gym, trying to see what’s made him so furious, but don’t find anything out of the ordinary.