by Ella Roane
It’s what I do. I get my crew out. I always get my crew out.
But now that’s done, and I’ve got another challenge to face. I’ve got to find out what’s got the fiery siren I met tonight all torn up. I saw her when she was walking out of the hospital. She looked destroyed. Now I’ve followed her outside like a deranged stalker. But I’ll do whatever it takes to put a smile on her face—the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. She’s… She’s… Damn it. She’s the future mother of my children. She’s the woman I’m going to marry. I don’t know her, but I do know that. I’d die for that woman. I’d devote my whole life to her.
Hold up…
What the hell am I thinking?
That shit can’t be real.
I don’t even know this woman. I’m only thinking this way because I’m lonely. Because I’m crazy. Because I’m getting older and latching onto someone because she smells nice.
Whatever the reason, the truth is obvious. I can’t trust my heart. What it’s telling me must be a lie. I can’t love her as much as I do. Not so fast. Not without even knowing her.
But you do, my inner voice tells me. And I feel the truth of it.
I love her.
Rather than try to make sense of it, I fill my lungs with the night’s fresh air and do the only thing that’s left for me to do. I forge forward to find out what has my baby girl so upset. I can see her tucked away into a little spot against the wall, but even from here, even through the darkness, I can see she’s struggling.
Of course, that tear that fell down her cheek when she’d walked out of the hospital had been a bit of a tip-off, too.
As I get closer, I see she’s looking back at me.
I want to go to her. I want to take her in my arms. But I don’t. Instead, I stop walking. I plant my feet wide and cross my arms over my chest, resting my hands on my heavily jacketed biceps. I might be in love with her, but she doesn’t know me from Sam Hill. I don’t want to scare her.
“You okay, miss?” I ask.
I feel foolish being so formal, but no way am I going to risk messing this up by assuming too much familiarity.
She sniffs. Daintily. Cute.
I know she’s struggling, but the sound makes me smile. It makes me want to happily kiss the tears away from her cheeks. But rather than go to her, I shove my hands deep inside my jacket pockets. The movement pushes the scent of smoke and ash up to my nostrils, a reminder of where I was less than an hour ago.
“Are you real?” she asks, peeking out from her spot inside the shadows.
My head rocks back as my brain processes her words. It takes replaying them in my head to get them right. I’d at first heard, “Are you for real?” instead of what she’d actually said, “Are you real?” When I’d thought she’d said the first, the rejection that came with it was like a kick to the stomach. It stripped away a future I’d barely taken the time to imagine. Yet, the loss ripped me to the core of my soul.
What the hell?
“Say something if you’re real,” she pleads. Her voice is small and full of uncertainty. It breaks my heart.
“I’m real. I’m here,” I tell her, my voice thick and gravelly with more emotion than has a right to be there. “Do I know you?” There must be an explanation for how I feel. This instant connection can’t have come from nowhere.
“Oh... I... Uh. Yes.” She takes an inching step out of her nook, halfway into the soft light. “I guess you don’t remember. We met earlier tonight. You carried one of your firefighter buddies, Chuck, out of a burning house. I’m one of the paramedics who took care of him.”
“I know who you are,” I say, almost cutting her off. My voice is harsh to even my own ears. I silently curse myself when I see her flinch. But she can’t have thought I wouldn’t recognize her, that I wouldn’t know her. If you put her in a crowded room with people dressed exactly like her, I would still know her.
She is the woman who will give me children. She is the woman who will sit next to me years from now when I’m old and frail. She’ll be the one holding my hand as I take my final breaths. I know she will. I know it with everything I am.
She is my future. My everything.
I just wish I knew why.
Plus, knowing her name would be a nice bonus. When I sink myself deep inside of her, it’d be good to know what name should be on my lips.
Her eyes look me up and down, appraisingly. Yet her brows are creased, full of uncertainty.
“You’re okay?” she asks.
I nod to answer her, then say it with words. Some things need to be heard. “I’m okay.”
“How?” she asks, moving towards me. “I saw that house.” She pauses. “I saw what used to be a house... engulfed in flames. You went inside it. Was the guy you were going after simply passed out next to the front door or something?”
I don’t want to answer this question. I know the truth will cost me. I can see it in her eyes. She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t want the danger of having feelings for someone who does the things I do.
But I won’t shield her from the truth. I won’t lie to her and tell her I pick daisies for a living. I’ve seen firefighters who’ve done that, and I’ve watched their relationships crumble as awareness of the realities set in for the loved one sitting at home all alone. Waiting. Watching the door. Checking their phone. Hoping and praying.
I won’t sell her a fairy tale. I can’t.
“Thompson was trapped near the center of the house. Things were iffy, but we got out. The floor gave way, and we fell into the basement. That got us out of the worst of the heat, and we were able to find a quick way out.” I watch her face carefully as I lay out the truth. Her jaw clenches, and her eyes narrow. She doesn’t like what I’m saying. Her back stiffens, and her chin lifts. A chill stillness settles in over her vulnerability. She’s shutting down on me. She’s shutting me out.
“I’m glad you’re alright,” she says, folding her arms over a mountainous landscape I want to explore with my mouth. “I’ve got to go find my partner. See ya.”
There’s no “see ya” in any part of her body language as she turns to walk away. She’s telling me “goodbye, and I don’t care if we ever meet again.”
How can she not feel what I feel?
How can she blandly accept a future without me?
“Wait,” I call after her.
She turns back to look at me, her demeanor as chill as ice.
I hadn’t planned for what to say next, but my mouth opens and words come out. “My finger.”
Her brow goes up as if to say, “And?”
I belatedly lift a hand.
“I think I might’ve broken my finger.”
She stares wordlessly. Unmoved. Unimpressed. Unsympathizing. The silence goes on so long that I think she might leave me hanging, standing there like a fool. She looks over her shoulder in the direction of the hospital and then pointedly back at me. She doesn’t have to say a word for me to get her meaning. She’s telling me to talk to one of the dozens of doctors, nurses, and technicians found inside the building less than fifteen feet away. The one with the ten-foot sign lit up with spotlights, reading “HOSPITAL.”
I give her my best grin. My closer grin, the one that always gets me laid. It’s cheeky and sinful and has never, ever let me down.
“They’re all so busy,” I say. “I’d hate to bother them if it just turned out to be a sprain, not to mention what it might do to my reputation.”
“So, you’re okay looking like less of a man in front of me, then?” she zings back.
Rather than feel the sting of her shot, I’m elated. My grin morphs into a big toothy smile.
My girl’s sharp and sassy. Nobody’s plaything. Rather than feel rejected, my chest swells with an overwhelming sense of pride. My baby’s got claws and a backbone. I love it!
“What can I say,” I tell her, letting my voice drop into its naturally deep baritone. “I feel safer with you.”
My girl’s eyes widen, and she take
s a staggered breath. Her arrogant, dismissive attitude falls away. She looks undone. She looks... ready.
Mirroring her, I let my smile fall away as well. I drop the pretense of an injured finger by dropping my hand to my side, and I close the distance between us in sure, long strides. I never break eye contact. She’ll be gone like a mythical creature if I do. I’ll be left wondering if she only ever existed in my imagination. I’ll die if that happens without me first stealing a kiss.
She’s frozen as I draw near. I don’t stop at the usually accepted perimeter of her personal space. I get up close. I get close enough to be able to smell the green apple scent of her hair and to lose myself within her gold and amber eyes.
She has to look up to keep eye contact with me, and I have to look down. I tower a head’s height over her. It puts her right where I want her. Her plump lips right there. Ready and waiting, slightly parted. I could take them now. She hasn’t stepped away. Hasn’t leaned back. Hasn’t deflected her attention. I could have her lips on mine and be breathing in her sweet breath, but I don’t.
I slide a hand around the back of her neck. My palm cradles the base of her head, and my fingers slip into her silky hair. I lean in, lowering until my lips can feel each breath she takes. She trembles, and a tiny moan escapes.
That is the gentle cry of surrender and welcome I wanted to hear.
I claim her lips as mine, not by crushing them or destroying them but by gently, delicately, forcing her to beg for more—forcing her to admit what she craves.
The weight of her head gives itself over to my hand. Her neck stretches, trustingly. She breathes me in when I breathe out.
As if I had just slipped a ring on her finger and then consummated our union by pushing my claim-staking manhood into her maidenhead, she is now mine. She has moved into my soul and taken up residence. She will always be a part of me.
Yet, she thinks she’s only letting me have her for the length of this kiss…
Of course, she’s wrong.
She’s mine. Forever.
Chapter 5
Stella
I wish this guy would kiss me already.
Really kiss me!
None of this teasing stuff.
What is he, a teenage girl?
I want his lips bruising mine and his tongue halfway down my throat. I want his hands trying to figure out how to reach the warm flesh of my breasts. I know they’re good breasts. It’s one of the perks of being a little thick in the curves. You get super amazing—I’m talking world-class—breasts.
But this guy is acting like he’s fresh out of a church choir.
If he doesn’t get hot and serious about this soon, I’m going to combust.
Enough of this.
I decide to take my fate in my own hands. I sink my fingers into his hair, then make a fist and squeeze, pulling his hair, letting him know I want a better ride than the one he’s giving me.
It’s my damn birthday, and I’ll have the kiss I want!
I arch my back, throwing my center of gravity out of whack. The move has him wrapping his arms around me to keep me from falling away from him, just the way I wanted him to. What I hadn’t anticipated was how strong those arms would be. They’re like steel bands. I feel as if a meteorite could smash down to earth next to where we’re standing, and it wouldn’t faze him at all. He’d still be here, holding and kissing me. And I’d be safe.
Whoa…
How did I go from kissing a complete stranger to... to... feeling safe?
No no no no no. Nobody gets to make me feel safe. Safe is an illusion. It’s a lie. This is the same guy who marched back inside an inferno. There is absolutely nothing safe about him! He’s an adrenaline junkie, just like my ex. Always chasing a bigger high. A bigger risk. The more risk, the more glory.
No effing way.
He can get the hell off me.
He can stop filling my head with the scent of earth and smoke. He can remove the shelter and protection of his strong, muscular arms. He can take his chest of granite and be on his way.
But, in a minute.
When I’m ready…
His lips break free of mine and travel down my neck.
“Ahhhh,” I moan.
Yes! Like that!
I tremble and tighten the hold of my arms around him. He nips my tender flesh, and I cry out. If he pushed me into the little shadowed nook from which I’d come, he could have me right now. He could strip my pants away, and I would gladly wrap my legs around his waist. I wouldn’t even care about protection as he sank his hard length into me. Just as long as he was there, in me, filling me. Driving his desire with hard, determined, demanding thrusts. He’d make me come on him. He wouldn’t stop until I had. He’d make me give him his due.
Oh, God!
If he keeps this up, nipping and teasing my neck, I’ll throw him into the shadows myself. I need him. He has me on fire!
What the hell am I doing?
I need him to stop. I need to push him away before I do something I’ll regret.
Baby steps. One move at a time.
My hands release their grip on his thick, dark hair. My fingers slide down to caress his temples, then his cheeks. My thumb brushes the corner of his lips as his mouth makes love to my neck.
That’s the best way I can describe it. Making love. It’s intimate. Thorough. Even invasive.
It feels so unbelievably good.
I’m about to give in, give up, let go. I’m about to tell him he can have me and use me however he wants. Throw me away afterward. I don’t care. Just as long as I get to have him now. But then my fingers trace over a bump on his cheek. It doesn’t feel right. It’s soft and fluid.
My heart’s excited beat flips into a heavy thud as I push him off me. Hard. But I don’t push him away. I grip the front of his coat in my fists so that he can’t escape my close inspection. I’m not letting him go until my need to know is satisfied.
There! A heat blister on his cheek. A freaking heat blister!
I turn him so that his face is toward the light of the hospital’s entryway. His cheeks are outlined in a well-defined pattern of sunburn. But it’s not a sunburn. It’s from extreme heat. Such as the extreme heat found when walking into the belly of a freaking house fire!
Rage surges within me. I want to push him so hard that he falls to the ground. I want to stomp on his knees. I want to break them so that he can’t get up, so that he can’t chase his death. The fucking selfish bastard!
How dare he make me... make me... feel for him. He’s obviously got no qualms about causing me pain by throwing his own life away. I want to beat him. Hit him. I want to pound my fists into his face.
Instead, I charge off in the direction of where I know the ambulance will be parked. But I don’t let go. I keep one fist white-knuckled and full of his jacket. The inconsiderate jerk is going with me. Maybe he doesn’t care about himself, but…
My mind screeches to a halt even as my feet continue marching forward.
He doesn’t care about himself, but...
How am I supposed to complete that thought? Truly, how?
Am I supposed to say that I’d feel like a widow if he died? Because... I suspect I would.
Am I supposed to say the world would turn as gray as his smoky eyes? Because... it would.
Am I supposed to say I love him?
No… I won’t say that.
He can rot in hell. I’m not saying that.
Chapter 6
Brad
I don’t know what set her off, but my girl’s mad. Really mad. Which has me grinning like a damn fool. It has me thinking about what it would be like to have her in bed when she’s fired up like this. I’m not sure I’d survive, but damn... I’d die with a smile on my face.
When we turn a corner and I spot a parked ambulance up ahead, it becomes clear where we’re heading. The sight of it—and its presumably empty bay—has me pulling my girl’s angry fist from my jacket to take her by the hand.
My steps quicken as my mind fills with images of taking her and me out on a virgin run. My first time with her; her first time with me. That’s as virgin as I need. I’m not an idiot. My girl’s lived her life. She hasn’t been sitting cloistered away, waiting for me to show up.
We near the ambulance, and she twists her hand out of mine. There’s no warmth in how she shakes me off.
Her silent rebuke has my heart shrinking in on itself.
She pulls the ambulance’s bay doors open with a fierce yank, then climbs inside. “Sit,” she says, pointing at the steel bumper. It’s deep enough to use as a small bench.
I glance inside the ambulance, noting with satisfaction that her partner isn’t there. He must be working inside the hospital. We’re alone. I sit, glad that the long line of my fireman’s jacket covers the bulge of my throbbing need of her.
I’m not eager to ruin an opportunity to spend time alone with the woman I hope to make my wife. Regardless, I ask, “Why are we here?” She hasn’t told me, and if she hasn’t brought me here to ravage me, then I’d like to know her plans.
“Your face has burns,” she simply says.
“What?” My hands go to my face. My fingers find a few small blisters. “Oh, that’s nothing.”
“I’ll decide what’s nothing,” she snaps.
“Yes, ma’am.” An uneasy realization settles over me, and I shift uncomfortably as she rummages through various storage pockets inside her rig. I want to marry this woman. I’m going to die next to this woman. My life is dedicated to her from here on out. But I don’t know her name.
She sets a tray down next to me. In it is a roll of gauze, disposable gloves, wooden application sticks, salves, bandages, and a few other items. She sits down next to me, then slides off the tall bumper.
On her head is a headband with a miner’s lamp. Her fingers don’t fumble around when turning it on. They go right to the switch.
Leaning in, she takes a close look at my face. She’s all focus. All business.
The brightness of the light has me squinting, but I do my best to hold still. I respect the intensity she has for her work—healing people.
