Through the Fire
Winner of the Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award for best African-American Romance in 2006!
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~ EXCERPT ~
Brandt Hughes sat in the shadows of his living room, searching for a reason not to die.
Photos lay scattered among the wood shavings of his carvings. Photos he didn't have to see to recall, snapshots of the life he'd once had. In the last four years memories had deteriorated into nightmares that haunted him and sapped at the innate instinct to survive.
Brady... He hung his head as his son's name echoed through the remnants of his heart. His son would have been eight years old tomorrow. Which meant Brandt would have to endure a day of phone calls and visits from his parents, brothers, and sisters. Maya would want to go with him to Brady's grave, his mother would concoct some home repair emergency to get him to visit, even though his father owned half of Brandt's construction business.
It had been bearable the year before, the year before that. But now the grief sat like a stone one his chest like it had those first few days, weeks, months after Brady, after Sara. It weighed him down, threatening to sink. Grief, and anger. Always the anger.
He couldn't face his family tomorrow. Couldn't face his parents and siblings staring at him, pitying him, accusing him. No, he'd have to do something today.
The phone shrieked. He grabbed for it automatically, clutching it like the lifeline it was. Probably Maya, probably worried. He had to convince her that she needed to look after her new family, not her sorry excuse for a brother. "Yeah?"
"It's Mack."
Brandt forced his muscles to relax as he heard the sound of his best friend's voice. "What's up?"
"I need a favor," Mack said in that same no-nonsense voice he'd used when leading their unit. Mackenzie "Mack" Zane had never been one for beating bushes or dealing with fools. Why he still bothered with Brandt, the latter had no idea. "Can you come down to Serena Bay?"
Serena Bay. Brandt remembered that Mack had described it as a small lazy town on the East Coast of Florida. He considered it for half a moment. Spending time in a small town in during a Florida summer might do him some good. Anything would be better than where he was, what he was doing. "When?"
"As soon as you can," his friend answered, "but don't you want to know what the favor is?"
"Don't need to know." Brandt would do anything for Mack, especially since the commander had saved his ass on more than one occasion. Still, curiosity made him ask, "You out of deputies or something?"
He still couldn't believe that Mack had traded his General Issue for small-town sheriff brown. Being brass in Miami, maybe, but Sheriff Andy? Though if Mack had gotten as tired of the bloodshed as he had, Miami wasn't the place to go for law enforcement.
"Nothing like that, though you know the offer will always be on the table," Mack replied. "An old Spanish mission on the coast is being renovated, but no one's got the skills to restore the chapel. I think you could do it."
Brandt failed a laugh attempt. "Think they'll let me in the door?"
"I didn't get struck by lightning when I went inside," Mack informed him. "Besides, you didn't do anything I didn't order you to."
"I've gotten more blood on my hands since then." Brady. Sara.
"You know my opinion on that, so I won't waste my breath," his former commanding officer said evenly. "I won't lie to you, the place would probably be better off if they razed it and started over. It's definitely a challenge. The building's just waiting for you to bring it back to life."
"A challenge, huh?" Why not? Getting away would probably do him some good. And maybe, just maybe, restoring the chapel would earn him some brownie points with the man upstairs.
"I've done work in St. Augustine, so I'm good to go. Give me two days to clear things here and I'll be there."
"Excellent. Let me give you the address and directions. Got something to write on?" Brandt retrieved pen and paper, and Mack rattled off the information.
Afterwards, Brandt disconnected, then sat back in his chair. Relief swept through him. It didn't matter if the construction help Mack needed consisted of building a birdhouse or an outhouse. It would give him something to do and somewhere to go, somewhere where memories wouldn't stalk his every waking moment and sleepless night. Somewhere where no one knew or cared about his past, his sins.
He didn't need two days to get things in order, either. He'd had everything in his life settled for years, no loose ends, just in case.
Leaning to the left, he replaced the cordless phone on the table. He hesitated a moment, then grabbed his M-9 Beretta and popped the clip out.
Today wasn't the day.