Put Out (Kilgore Fire Book 5)(4)

By: Lani Lynn Vale

Unzipping my jeans, I was about to do what every red-blooded man would do in a time like this, after the show Sierra had just given me with those bouncy breasts, when a moan drifted out of my computer.

Freezing, I stared at the computer like it’d somehow become possessed in the last two minutes since I’d used it.

Then another moan came.

And another.

“Oh, Brody,” Sierra’s voice drifted out of my speakers. “You know how I like it.”

With a shake of my head, I let my feet drop from the desktop, and I grudgingly buttoned my pants.

With my erection completely gone, I sat forward, deleted all of Sierra’s emails, friends accounts, and deleted her from my Skype list.

Five minutes later, as I ordered more lumber for the build I was working on with my fellow firefighters and two great friends, PD and Able, I idly wondered why it was so fucking hard to find a woman who wasn’t a complete douche.

When I listened to ladies whining about ‘all the good guys being taken,’ I had to wonder if they realized that the road went both ways. Maybe they weren’t one of the good women—which was what I was having a problem with.

I couldn’t find one.

I’d thought I’d found one in a lovely lady named Masen, but she’d been in love with one of my fellow firefighters, Booth, since she was sixteen.

We’d been in the early stages of dating when Booth came back to town, and the moment the two saw each other, I knew that that was it for me. Booth and Masen were meant for each other. However, that didn’t make it any easier on me.

Then I’d met Angie and had watched her like a hawk. Begged her to go out with me, and was shot down a million and one times.

After each subsequent refusal on Angie’s part, I realized that maybe finding a woman wasn’t in the cards for me.

Maybe I was meant to be alone.

Chapter 2

In alcohol’s defense, I’ve done some dumb shit completely sober, too.

-Angie’s secret thoughts


“Are you all right?” I asked the woman who was my newest patient.

I was a patient care tech at the one and only hospital in Kilgore, and had been for going on two years now. I was nearly twenty-three years old, and couldn’t make my decision about what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I worked for my brother as an office assistant at his automotive shop, and I also worked for one of my good friends as her assistant—or had before she’d started working more with her husband, PD.

Now, I just focused on the other two jobs and helped July when she needed it, which, sadly, wasn’t nearly as often as I would have liked.

I missed her.

Not that I would tell her that.

I didn’t share my feelings. Not with anyone. Not even with my brother or sister.

I’d been taught at a young age that sharing feelings led to emotions, and emotions were unstable.

“Yes, Dear,” the older lady said. “I was just trying to get comfortable. My grandson will be here any minute, and he’s going to have a cow if I look like crap.”

I tried to hold my tongue, really, I did, but a smile overtook my face.

“Nothing you do is going to hide the fact that you had a stroke,” I told her. “Your face droops all on one side and, likely, you’ll have permanent paralysis on your left side.”

She grimaced, and my belly jolted at seeing only one half of her face show the emotion.

“I know,” she said. “I should’ve called the ambulance.”

She should have.

Instead, she’d driven.

Fucking driven while she was having a stroke!

I nodded my head. “If it ever happens again, you need to.”

She sighed. “I get nauseous in the back of the ambulance. Then I throw up. It’s so embarrassing,” she hesitated. “The last time I was in one, I threw up all over my grandson’s boss!”

My eyes lit with humor. “That’s too bad. Although, they’re used to stuff like that.”

She huffed out a laugh.

“I know.” She lifted her mirror—a real handheld one that was sterling silver on the back and looked fit for any princess—and looked at her face again. “He’s going to have a conniption.”

Pounding boots outside in the hallway had me turning just in time to see a blur of navy blue come darting into the room, and then stop once he reached the foot of the bed.

“Grams!” the blur cried. “Oh, dammit.”

Ruth, aka Grams, narrowed her one good eye at her grandson.

“Bowen Race Tannenbaum,” she pointed her finger at him. “Language!”

This was her grandson? My heart started to flutter at seeing Mr. Bowen Race Tannenbaum.

Bowe’s hair was a brown so dark it looked black in certain light, and cut so close to his scalp that it made me wonder if he shaved it off every morning. I’d never seen his hair any longer than it was right then.

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