Crash Lights and Sirens, Book 1 (15 page)

“If the wooden spoon trick works for him, I’m going to be annoyed,” Ioanna declares. Then, noticing Taryn, “Oh!” Her hazel eyes widen. “Hi.”

“That’s Taryn,” Nick says to the oven. There’s a thin strip of his lower back showing where his thermal’s riding up, olive and smooth. Taryn’s really careful not to look. “Falvey, that’s Io.”

“We work together,” Taryn explains, offering her chapped hand to shake; for a second she wishes she’d put on some lotion this morning, which is absurd. It’s not like she’s trying to date Nick’s sister. Shit, it’s not like she’s trying to date Nick.

She, um. She doesn’t think.

“Oh!” Ioanna says again, with a laser-fast glance in Alexandra’s direction. It’s a siblings-with-telepathy kind of look, the kind Taryn and Jesse used to shoot each other behind Rosemary’s back sometimes—
do you have a feeling about what is actually going on here, and is it the same as mine?
“Okay. Well. Have you had lunch?”

“She needs coffee,” Nick says, still not looking up. He hits something under the oven and swears. “So do I, actually.”

Ioanna nods. “Coffee we can do. Come on, Taryn, I’ll get you a mug.”

Taryn follows her to the front, taking a seat on one of the old vinyl-covered stools. It’s a neat-looking place, the diner proper, all checkerboard floors and a big, cheery front window. Taryn unzips her coat and looks around while Ioanna bangs through the cupboards underneath the counter, coming up with three giant mugs. “There’s a pot already made,” Ioanna confesses, “but it’s sludge. We’ll give the dregs to Niko and make a fresh one for ourselves, okay?”

Taryn smiles back like she’s supposed to. “Sure.” Honestly, if one of the sisters is going to feel her out, she’d almost rather the sharp-faced Alexandra. At least that would be more direct.

Ioanna disappears through the service doors with Nick’s—Niko’s—coffee while Taryn picks at her cuticles, eyeing the other patrons and wondering if she still smells like sex. That was a stupid thing to do, God, almost like she’d taken leave of her senses entirely—sex with Nick always feels a little off the rails in a way Taryn’s never quite sure she enjoys, like she’s teetering on the edge of something.

The kitchen doors swing open again, and Taryn looks up. Her karma must either be really good or really bad, she decides, because it turns out she’s getting her wish about which sister she’ll be dealing with after all. “Io said you wanted a fresh pot?” Alexandra asks shortly, shoving her order pen behind her ear.

Taryn opens her mouth to deny it, then realizes there’d be no point. “Please.”

Alexandra resets the machine with an almost brutal efficiency, her strong hands exactly like her brother’s, better suited for doing a needle decompression or tying off a tourniquet than waiting tables. When she looks up, Taryn can see that her eyes are the same as Nick’s too.

“Taryn, right?” Alexandra asks, folding her arms like she’s settling in for a conversation. Behind her, the coffeemaker burbles happily. The bright timer on the front promises it will be ready in four minutes.

Taryn nods. And God, she has never in her life tried to charm someone so apparently already set on disliking her, but… “Alexandra?”

Alexandra smiles thinly. “Yes.” Then, without any sugarcoating at all, “We’ve never heard your name come up before. How long have you been working with Nick?” Something about the way she drops the accent off his name feels downright unfriendly.

Taryn works very, very hard on not fidgeting in her seat. “Um. A year? Maybe more, I’m not sure.” She met him on her first day, actually, right after orientation. At the time, she remembers thinking he looked exactly how a paramedic should, those reassuringly solid shoulders.

“I see,” Alexandra says, with the gravity of a person who is witnessing something not altogether pleasant. “So you know about Magdalene, then?”

It takes Taryn a second to make the connection—she’s only ever heard the name Maddie tossed around in conjunction with Nick’s wife, and even then only once—but when she does… Yeah. Sweet Jesus mother-fucking Christ. She takes a deep breath and nods again, being careful not to even blink. “I do.” She wants like hell to follow it up with some kind of explanation or denial,
we’re just friends
or
this isn’t what it looks like
, every single one of her blurting, panicking, lying instincts coming online at once. She physically has to bite her tongue to keep from saying anything else.

It seems to be the right move. After a beat that feels like it lasts for all eternity, Alexandra nods, then picks a menu up off the end of the counter and slides it in front of Taryn. “You want to order something while you’re here?” she asks.

Taryn doesn’t actually—she’s nervous now, shit, and she has a hard time with food when she’s nervous—but it’s not like saying no is an option, so. “Thanks.” She scans the menu as quickly as humanly possible, remembering at the absolute last second not to order something that needs to be baked. “A turkey club would be great.”

“French fries?” Alexandra prompts, raising her eyebrows like possibly it’s a trick question.

Fuck it. “Sure.”

Ioanna comes through the kitchen doors again as Alexandra’s keying in the order, thank God—direct is what Taryn had been wanting, she guesses, and direct is absolutely what she got. “Alexandra, I said give me two seconds, I told you I would—” Ioanna breaks off, sounding exasperated, like possibly this is a conversation they’ve had before. “Are you torturing her?” She motions toward the coffeepot, then toward Taryn. “Is she torturing you?”

“N-no,” Taryn says, which isn’t a lie if by torture Ioanna means things like waterboarding or shoving lit matches under her fingernails. “Not at all.”

“I’m getting to know her,” Alexandra says, picking up the coffeepot and filling Taryn’s mug. “Can I get to know her, is that okay with you?”

“You’re getting to know her, or you’re giving her the third degree?” Ioanna nudges a tin pitcher of milk in Taryn’s direction. “Ignore her,” she instructs cheerfully. “Sugar? Or the fake stuff. I’ve got all three colors.”

“That’s okay.” Taryn cannot for the life of her figure out whether the good cop/bad cop routine is for her benefit specifically or if maybe they’re always like this. “How’s it going with the oven?” she asks, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. She looks down and realizes she’s shredded her napkin into little grayish bits.

Ioanna makes a face. “Don’t ask.” She pours a cup for herself and takes a long sip, raking her fingers through her hair. “Hi, Paul,” she calls, as the front door jingles open and an older man in a scally cap ambles in. “Go ahead and sit anywhere. I’ll send somebody over.” She lowers her voice to a murmur, raising her eyebrows. “Not that you’re going to tip ’em, God forbid…”

It’s good coffee, strong and thick-tasting. Taryn downs a full cup. Next to the waitress station is a revolving dessert case, carrot cake and out-of-season blueberry pie cycling by. For the moment, at least, both sisters seem content to let her be. “Lunch,” Alexandra announces, sliding a club sandwich with a heaping side of fries in front of her. “Look out, plate’s hot.” And that’s that. Taryn still isn’t hungry but she takes a bite anyway, watching as a mother over by the corner table wiggles her baby out of his snowsuit piece by piece, mittens and hat and booties. The kid treats each newly released limb like a magic trick, holding them up for the
ta-da
.

“You aren’t making her pay for that, are you?”

Taryn whips around in surprise, Nick suddenly materializing directly behind her stool. The wooden spoon trick worked, apparently. “I can buy my own lunch, Kanelos,” she says, realizing a beat too late that she left her bag and wallet back at his house. Fuck, that’s probably what tipped his sisters off in the first place—not only is Taryn tagging along for no good reason, but she has nothing to her name but a coat and scarf. The whole thing screams houseguest.

Nick just ignores her, leaning up beside the stool to get Ioanna’s attention. “The coffee you brought me tasted like dirt,” he accuses his sister. Under the counter, two of his fingers slip into the vulnerable crook of Taryn’s knee and press lightly, warm and secret. Taryn can feel the heat straight through the denim.

So. Not ignoring her then.

“It was supposed to,” Ioanna says easily, taking his empty mug and reaching through the service window to rinse it out in one of the back sinks. As she puts it away, separate from the other diner mugs, Taryn looks down at her own cup and realizes she’s eating off of the family’s private dishware too. “And I hope the stove is fixed,” Ioanna continues. “Because Alexandra’s about scared this one off the property.”

“S’fixed,” says Nick, at the same time that Alexandra insists, “I’m just getting to know her.”

Then Nick says, “Falvey, that true?” right as Alexandra asks, “Taryn, do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Well. Taryn definitely knows who she’s supposed to answer. “A sister and three brothers,” she tells Alexandra, setting the club down for good. Probably she couldn’t eat it now if she tried. One thing’s for sure, her normal
don’t pry
tone promises to go over like a ton of bricks. So instead, “I’m the oldest.” That’s another trick, albeit a more subtle one—she and Jesse used to use it on guidance counselors and teachers, anyone they couldn’t just tell to go screw. If you offer enough boring information without prompting, sometimes people lose interest.

Not quite. “And do you live at home?”

This woman would make a great social worker. Taryn inhales, sitting up straighter on the stool. “Yeah, I do.” Kanelos is watching her like a hawk, fingers still crooked behind the bend of her knee. Taryn can practically feel the weight of his curiosity. “With them and my mom.”

Ioanna’s eyebrows arch, like she’s impressed or just surprised by how many of them there are—Irish Catholic or not, five is a lot of kids. Three different dads, Taryn doesn’t explain, and Rosemary didn’t marry a single one. “Full house.”

“Tell me about it.” Taryn tries to smile like a normal person, aiming to paint them as something out of a sitcom, like her life is full of madcap capers neatly resolved in twenty-two minutes to leave time for commercial breaks. Something with a laugh track possibly. Something with a golden retriever. “It’s definitely that.”

She thinks she fools them, actually. Ioanna smiles back and Alexandra doesn’t press her on it any further, like either she’s satisfied or she was only trying to make a point to begin with. Taryn forces her shoulders to relax.

Here’s who she’s pretty sure she hasn’t fooled at all: Nick.

He doesn’t call her on it. “Okay,” is all he says then, straightening up, tucking both hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. It feels like her heartbeat is concentrated in the spot behind her knee. “We gotta get to work.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ioanna teases. “Lives to save, et cetera.” She leans over the counter so he can kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks for fixing the thing. Glad you came by, Taryn.”

“Me too,” Taryn says, mustering one more shot of bravado. “It was really nice to meet you both.”

Nick kisses Alexandra too before he shepherds Taryn back through the kitchen door. Alexandra hands Taryn the bulk of her sandwich in a Styrofoam to-go box, and she realizes it might have been better not to order anything all. She feels scraped and examined, like possibly she just failed a pop quiz. The idea of going to work is exhausting.

“So,” she says once they’re back in the truck, heater whirring. It’s gray today, more snow coming maybe, that drab winter light. “That was the wooden spoon trick.”

“That was it.” Nick keeps his foot on the brake, leans his head against the seat and looks at her. “You wanna come back to the house and lie down with me for an hour?”

Taryn runs the edge of her thumbnail across the Styrofoam. Draws a letter T. “Nick—” she starts, no real idea how she thinks she’s going to follow it up, but he shakes his head to stop her.

“Look, Falvey,” he says, and he sounds really tired all of a sudden. “I get that that was weird, and that Alexandra probably said something nasty to you. And we can talk about that as much or as little as you like, but I would really, really like to lie down for an hour before we have to go to work again.” He huffs a breath like possibly he’s irritated, and what he has to feel annoyed about right now Taryn doesn’t know. “And God knows you don’t owe me anything, but I wish you’d come.”

Taryn feels her mouth twist. “She didn’t say anything nasty.” Her voice sounds about as young as Caitlin’s.

Nick smirks, wry and hard. “Not anything nice either, I’ll bet.”

“No,” Taryn agrees, tearing off a chunk of Styrofoam at the box’s lip. There’s grit on the top corner, this inky smudge across the white like Connor and Mikey’s foreheads after Ash Wednesday. It’s one of the few days a year Rosemary attends church without fail—every single year, she gives up booze, and every single year, she’s drunk again by Easter. “Nothing nice.”

“It’s not personal,” he promises her, shaking his head. “She figured it out, probably, about you and me. And she was close with—” he breaks off, shrugging. “They were close.”

Taryn thinks about that for a minute, about his wife and his sister and all the things that happened in his life before she knew him. It makes her feel lonely, though she doesn’t think she could explain why. “I wouldn’t mind lying down,” she finally says.

So they do, fully-clothed on top of the wide, canopy bed in the rose-patterned room, ancient ceiling fan turning overhead even though it’s the dead of winter. Nick sleeps hard; Taryn doesn’t close her eyes once. At quarter to they get up and get in their separate cars and drive to work, hardly any words exchanged between them at all. Instead, Taryn rides out the longest shift of her life with Doc, cleanup on a four-car collision with no survivors. By the end of the day, her whole body stinks of blood and disinfectant. She’s almost too tired to drive home, thinking seriously about just sacking out in the Barn’s on-call room.