“Excuses, excuses. My point is, I’ve noticed a theme in your life, Freddie-boy. Take Courtney—”
“Don’t finish that sentence, Mulligan.”
Even Mulligan, instigator that he was, backed off from the feral glare Fred aimed at him. “Pitcher?” he asked innocently.
“Yeah, sure.” Beer or a full-body transplant, either would do.
Mulligan headed for the bar while Fred, nearly comatose, slumped farther into his chair. He knew that no one at the firehouse liked his ex-girlfriend Courtney, which was exactly why he hadn’t told anyone they’d broken up. He was tired of everyone’s opinions on his life. Including Courtney’s. She insisted on calling their current breakup a “trial separation.” Getting beat up by Muay Thai masters was easier than ending things with Courtney.
He flexed his left elbow gingerly. It seemed to still function, and apart from the bruises on his rib cage, he’d gotten off pretty easily. His face showed nothing worse than exhaustion. He didn’t ever notice the pain during a bout. But afterward . . . that was a different story. That was why he trained only during his four days off from his firefighting duties. It took time to recover.
Why, he asked himself for the thousandth time, did he insist on throwing himself into that ring? What did he get out of it besides bruises and stiffness? Well, and the secret knowledge that he could disable every guy in the San Gabriel Fire Department. After all his training, he could probably even beat his brothers, who were all in various branches of the military.
He planted the trophy, a brass-plated karate figure mounted on a square base, in the middle of the table and glared at it. Second place. Never mind that second place was the highest he’d ever ranked. Never mind that Namsaknoi Yudthagarngam was essentially unbeatable. Never mind that his brothers wouldn’t take him seriously even if he had won. Was Mulligan right, and he was doomed to second place because of his—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden whisking away of the trophy. He looked up to see a girl in a bridal veil brandishing it in the air. Under the veil she had masses of wild dark hair and looked like big trouble.
“Cindy Barstow is hereby awarded the title of Most Bodacious Bride!” She mimicked a trumpet call to the women crowding around her, one of whom, a curvy blonde, raised her arms in a victory gesture and made a “gimme” gesture at the trophy. The dark-haired girl in the veil then bent to whisper in Fred’s ear. “Sorry, it was a dare. You can’t deny a bride during her bachelorette party.”
Temporarily stunned by the sudden onslaught of femininity—and the clean, rosewater fragrance of the girl’s hair—Fred warily surveyed the women surrounding him. Four of them, all dressed in skimpy party dresses and sparkly tiaras. All seemed seriously buzzed.
With perfect timing, Mulligan reappeared with a foaming pitcher of beer. “Ladies,” he said in greeting. “If you’re here to celebrate, welcome aboard.”
“What are we celebrating?” an Asian girl in a hot-pink tube dress asked. “I mean, besides the tragic loss of an exceptional single lady to the enslavement known as matrimony?”
“I like your style, babe.” Mulligan gave her a once-over. “You busy later?”
“Oh, I plan to get busy later.” She flipped her hair. “But probably not with you.”
“Ouch.” Mulligan mimed a shot to the heart. Then he plucked the trophy from the dark-haired girl’s hands and transferred it to the Asian girl. “There you go. Prize for best putdown.”
“Hey!” The girl in the veil squawked and dove after the trophy. “I stole that fair and square.”
The girl in hot pink held on tight to it. “Back off, Rachel. I earned it with my outstanding bitchiness.”
Laughing, the two girls pretended to tussle over the silly prize. Rachel, thought Fred. Her name is Rachel. The other two girls took sides, raucously rooting them on. Oh yes. Seriously buzzed.
Fred, watching their antics, heaved a sigh, which hurt his ribs. He was too sore for this. But he’d been carrying that trophy and he knew how cheaply it was constructed. He knew what would happen next. He rose to his feet, wincing all the way, and stationed himself strategically behind the girl in the veil. Sure enough, the thing flew apart, the statuette in the hands of Hot Pink, its base in the hands of Bridal Veil.
Rachel stumbled backward, right into Fred’s arms. He absorbed the impact of her petite body and sputtered against a mouthful of bridal veil.
“Oops! I’m so sorry!” The girl righted herself, pushing away from him. Suddenly his arms held no silky, warm presence. He swiped the veil out of his vision and found himself looking into wide, concerned eyes of an unusual deep indigo color. Two spots of pink burned in her cheeks. “Are you okay?” she asked him. “Did I hurt you? You look like you’re in pain.”
“I’m fine,” croaked Fred, whose ribs were throbbing. “Are you okay?”
“Just embarrassed.” She leaned toward him intimately, a little wobbly. He caught that fresh fragrance again, like morning rain in a rose garden. “I really shouldn’t ever, ever drink. And usually I don’t. But it’s a special occasion, you know. And Cindy made me wear the veil, which means I have to do what she says. According to her rules. ’Cuz she’s the bride.”
Mulligan came over and clapped a hand on Fred’s shoulder, harder than he had to. “Freddie can take it. He’s a stud. That’s what we call him, actually. Stud. Not just any guy can win this.” He hoisted the trophy high in the air. “Champion in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off.”
Fred shot him a baleful look. “That doesn’t look like someone baking,” pointed out the curvy blonde, Cindy the bride. “Unless that’s a rolling pin in his pants.”
“Fred,” Mulligan whispered loudly in his ear, “I’m in love. Can we party with these girls for a while?”
Rachel overheard. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not. Right, girls? Bachelorette parties aren’t supposed to have boys.”
“Unless they’re strippers,” said the fourth girl, whose short hair looked like a spiky red dandelion. “Are you guys strippers?”
“Something could probably be arranged,” said Mulligan. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He jerked his head meaningfully in Fred’s direction. “You should get him to tell you about it.”
True, Fred had once taken part in a bachelorette party strip show. Never to be repeated, he’d vowed. “Mulligan, sit down and shut the fuck up,” he told the other firefighter.
“Ooh,” said Hot Pink. “Are you going to let him talk to you that way, big guy?”
Fred shot Mulligan a warning look. He was nearing the end of his tether. Sore, bruised, and he hadn’t even had a sip of that beer yet. Plus he was hungry. True, the dark-haired girl, Rachel, had felt wonderful falling into his arms. If it were just the two of them, alone, maybe with a hot tub and a bottle of ibuprofen . . . some Tiger Balm . . . massage oil . . . Not that he was thinking that, no way, not with Courtney still calling every few days. He wanted out, but he didn’t want to hurt Courtney.
“Yes, I am,” said Mulligan, dropping into a chair. “He’s more of a badass than he looks. Nice seeing you, girls. Best wishes on your upcoming nuptials.”
“Nuptials!” the redhead shouted. “Someone said ‘nuptials.’ You know what that means. Everyone do a shot!”
The other girls groaned and they all fluttered away toward the bar.
As she left, Rachel flipped her veil over her shoulder, catching Fred in the corner of his eye. He clapped his hand over it, while she muttered a horrified apology, then fled.
Fred sank into his seat.
“You owe me big time,” said Mulligan grimly. “Those girls are hot.”
“Just pass me the beer.” But even as he drank, Fred couldn’t help watching the girl in the bridal veil choke down her shot. She really shouldn’t be drinking. With a tiny frame like hers, she probably couldn’t handle more than a teaspoon of tequila. Maybe he should keep an eye on her. Which would be easier if his eye weren’t throbbing from getting nicked by her damn veil.
“H
ere’s what we’re going to do,” Mulligan was saying. “We’re going to organize a firehouse fight club, and take bets. I’ll put all my money on you and say I’m rooting for the underdog, and . . .”
Fred tuned out the other firefighter as Rachel slid off her stool, steadied herself, then set off across the bar. She seemed to be headed for the door in the far corner, the one with the red exit sign. Maybe she’d decided to go home. Not a bad idea, in his opinion, except the path to the exit took her right through a game of darts, to which she seemed completely oblivious. Abandoning Mulligan, he dashed across the room and whirled the girl out of range of the flying darts.
“I . . . I was going to the bathroom,” she stammered, looking bewildered.
“Bathroom’s this way.” He spun her around so she faced the other direction. “Darts are the other way. Can you manage it or do you need an escort?”
She bristled. “I’m not going to the bathroom with some strange guy I don’t even—”
“Not me. One of your friends.”
“Oh.” Her face flamed. “You must think I’m a total ditz.”
“Not at all,” he said politely, which made her face turn even more crimson. She tore her arm from his grasp and headed for the bathroom, indignantly muttering something about overprotective men.
Well, if that was the thanks he was going to get . . .
Shrugging, he returned to Mulligan, who drained his mug and eyed him with amusement. “At least she didn’t whack you this time. So back to fight club. It’s not a bad way to prove up. Show the crew you’re more than a kitten lover. Let that pretty face of yours fool them, then bring down the hammer. If I hadn’t seen you in that ring, I wouldn’t have believed it, Fred.” His cell phone rang. As Mulligan muttered into his phone, Fred watched the dart players finish a game, then start another, then finish that one.
Mulligan ended his call. “I might have to hedge my bets, though, in case you decide to pull your punches. It’s that nice-guy thing again. How do I know you aren’t going to wuss out and . . .”
“Hang on.”
Rachel had been gone too long. He just knew it. Leaving Mulligan in midsentence, he hurried to the dark hallway where the men’s and women’s bathrooms were located. Sure enough, there she was, a silvery sprite in the dim fluorescents, bending over a guy who knelt on the gritty, sawdust-covered floor. His chinos and stained crewneck sweater screamed vomiting frat boy.
“Are you all right?” Rachel was asking him in a concerned voice, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was alone in a dark hallway with a drunk.
“Awesome.” The guy swiped a hand across his face. “Hey, you’re pretty. Gimme a kiss.”
“Uh . . . no thanks.” She started to straighten up, but the guy latched on to her arm.
“Come on, baby.” He sang, “You can leave your veil on . . .” and tugged her so she lost her balance and started to fall on top of him.
Fred didn’t wait another second. He strode to her side, swooped her out of the drunk guy’s reach, and whisked her down the hallway. Her rosewater scent teased his nostrils; he resisted the urge to bend closer to sniff her hair, a move that might shift him from rescuer to stalker.
With her dark curls falling back over his arm, she tilted her head back to glare at him. “I had the situation handled.”
“You’re welcome,” he said grimly.
She seemed to puzzle over that for a second. “I guess I was supposed to say thank you?”
“Some people would at least consider it.”
Her quick shimmer of a smile cast sparks of light into their grungy surroundings. “Who are you, anyway? Why do you keep”—she gestured wildly, bonking him on the chin—“popping up like this? Did my father hire you?”
“What?” The throb in his chin distracted Fred from her odd question.
“He insisted on hiring the limo driver, but he didn’t tell me about hiring anyone else.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, but she seemed to forget about the subject anyway. He headed down the hall toward the bar. Surprisingly, she didn’t ask to be put down, and he didn’t offer. She needed to be with her friends. And for some reason, he needed to make sure she was safe. Besides, it felt good, holding her in his arms, so good he sort of lost track of time. The hallway seemed to go on forever, and yet end too soon.
When they stepped back into the bar, the blonde, Cindy, spotted them and came hurtling over, shrieking bloody murder.
“What happened? Are you okay, Rachel?”
“I’m fine,” she grumbled, as Fred set her on her feet. “Someone threw up in the hallway and tried to come on to me. Apparently this guy”—she jerked a thumb over her shoulder, jabbing him in the chest, making him wince—“thought it was a federal crime.”
The spiky redhead appeared at Cindy’s shoulder. “The most important question is, how’s the veil? It’s my turn to wear it.”
Rachel whipped the veil off her head, dragging long strands of her hair along with it. “No, the important question is why this complete stranger thinks I can’t take care of myself.”
Now, that was just too much. Fred threw up his hands. “Really? The important thing isn’t nearly walking into a game of darts? Or worse?”
Rachel, struggling to free her hair from the veil, turned to her friends. “Don’t I have enough people watching every little thing I do? Why him?”
Exasperated, Fred reached over and untangled her veil from her hair. “You are the strangest girl I’ve ever met.”
“What kind of thing is that to say—”
“All right, all right.” Cindy grabbed her hand. “Let’s go. Limo’s waiting.” She bundled Rachel behind her and addressed Fred. “Thanks for everything, attractive stranger. She’s usually such a sweet girl, believe it or not. Devotes her life to helping animals, will do anything for a friend, even drink too much champagne during her friend’s last night of freedom . . . okay, we’re going now.”
They all waved good-bye and flocked to the door. After they left, the entire room seemed to go dim.
Back at the table, Mulligan tossed some money down and pushed back his chair. “Nice move, bro. You scared away the only girls worth talking to in this whole joint.”
“I didn’t scare anyone away. I rescued her from being slobbered on by a vomit-covered idiot.” Fred worked at a knot in his neck, trying to understand how the night had begun with a mauling in the fight ring and somehow gone downhill from there.
“Details, details,” said Mulligan. “Come on, let’s ghost. I want to see what’s rolling at Firefly.”
“Nah, man. I’m done. If that bout wasn’t enough to do me in, that girl was. She got in more hits than Namsaknoi.” He tenderly felt his jawbone, where she’d bonked him in the hallway.
Mulligan cackled. “You should date her. I can see you with a girl like that. She’d keep things hopping.”
“Not going to happen. The girl I go for is going to be nothing like her.”
“I wouldn’t say nothing like her,” mused Mulligan as they headed for the exit. “She’ll probably wear a veil at the wedding.”
“Nothing like her,” said Fred firmly. “What kind of woman nearly walks into a game of darts?”
“Someone fun, someone who lets loose once in a while. Someone who’s not Courtney. Someone who doesn’t think she’s superior to everyone else in the damn world.”
Mulligan’s lip curled. The guys really didn’t like Courtney. Sometimes Fred thought he would have called it off much sooner if he hadn’t wanted to prove them wrong. Dumb, since they weren’t exactly wrong. “Courtney,” he pointed out, “is proud of my fight trophies. She wouldn’t rip them apart.” He gave a mournful glance at the dismantled statuette in his hand.
“Right. She’d probably polish them every day in their little glass case,” said Mulligan. “Because she’s a control freak.”
“And Courtney wouldn’t be caught dead alone in a dark hallway with a drunk. What was that girl thinking?” He followed Mulliga
n through the door into the cool of midnight. The loud music from the bar chased them, the wail of U2’s “Mysterious Ways” suddenly stifled as the door slammed shut.
“Seems like you were watching every move she made.”
“Someone had to,” he grumbled, trying to remember where he’d parked.
“Holy shit,” Mulligan breathed.
Fred was still scanning the street for his truck. He remembered parking next to a construction barricade. The City Lights Grill squatted in the shadow of the old City Hall, which had partially burned a couple of years ago. They were finally starting to rebuild, and during the day this entire area was a construction zone mess. At night, it was a ghost town of earth movers, backhoes, and cranes.
“There it is,” Fred said, finally spotting his Toyota pickup and moving toward it. But Mulligan snaked out a hand and stopped him cold. The big guy’s phone was at his ear.
“Look,” he said, and pointed up the street, to the end of the block.
The sight made Fred’s blood run cold. Illuminated by the chill light of a streetlamp, a white stretch limousine was stopped in the middle of the street. Its roof was crushed by the arm of a crane, awkward and ungainly, like a metallic giraffe that had toppled over. Steam hissed from the engine. If the crane had hit the gas tank, it could explode at any moment.
“Calling 911?” he asked Mulligan.
“Yup.”
The door opened, spilling a blast of music and a handful of people. “Keep everyone back. I’m going in.” Fred ran toward the limo.
About the Author
JENNIFER BERNARD is a graduate of Harvard and a former news promo producer. The child of academics, she confounded her family by preferring romance novels to . . . well, any other books. She left big-city life for true love in Alaska, where she now lives with her husband and stepdaughters. She’s no stranger to book success, as she also writes erotic novellas under a naughty secret name not to be mentioned at family gatherings.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
It's a Wonderful Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novella (The Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel) Page 14
