“Your voice is like the song of the nightingale,” Uther said rapturously. “I listen to you all the time!”
“Of course you do.” Frankie gestured to the black plastic bag in Uther’s hand. “Whatcha got there?”
Uther opened the bag, pulling out a chain mail tunic. Gemma and Frankie just stared.
“I’m a medieval reenactor in my spare time. We’re staging the Battle of Hastings in Central Park next Sunday.” His eyes brushed Frankie’s. “You should come.”
“Maybe I will,” Frankie purred.
Gemma’s heart gave a small leap of glee. A medieval reenactor! This was eccentric enough to be right up Frankie’s alley. She had no doubt she could bring the two together. She tugged Frankie’s sleeve.
“We should get going.” She smiled at Uther. “Tuesday?”
“As ever, madam.” He bowed deeply before Frankie. “Charmed to have made your acquaintance, m’lady.” With that he shimmied off.
“What did you think?”
Frankie pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Kinda cute in a Renaissance Fair kind of way, you know?”
“So I can give him your number if he asks?”
Frankie shrugged. “Why not? There are worse things in life than dating a guy who dresses up and pretends he’s William the Conqueror.” She glanced down at her watch. “Honey, your man is L-A-T-E. He was supposed to meet us twenty minutes ago.”
“I know.” Gemma fought rising embarrassment as they strolled along to the next vendor. It wasn’t like Sean to be late. He must have encountered heavy traffic. Or maybe he forgot to set his alarm. She hadn’t talked to him since he’d left for his shift the night before.
As they strolled past a booth selling chunky turquoise belts and rings, Gemma’s eye was drawn to a newspaper tossed on an empty chair: FIRE RIPS THROUGH UPPER EAST SIDE BROWNSTONE, the headline read, ONE INJURED.
“Oh, God.” Gemma approached the vendor, who was showing a potential customer a necklace. “Can I see your paper? Please?”
The vendor nodded and Gemma rushed into the booth to retrieve the paper. Hands trembling, she opened to the story. A black-and-white photo of the brownstone’s charred remains jumped out at her, sending her stomach plummeting to her feet. Sean. Mouth dry, she quickly skimmed the text. As soon as she saw the words Ladder Twenty-nine, she stopped.
“I have to go.”
“What?” Frankie looked confused as Gemma handed her the paper and began anxiously pacing in place like some caged animal. Frankie read fast. “You’re sure it was Sean’s firehouse who handled this fire?”
Gemma nodded, blinking back tears. “Yes. What if something’s happened to him?”
“Calm down. You’re making yourself crazy over nothing. The article said it was a kid who was hospitalized, not a firefighter.”
“So? That doesn’t mean anything!”
“Maybe he’s just delayed. ” Frankie looked genuinely concerned. “Gemma, you have to calm down. You’re acting nuts.”
“I feel nuts.” Gemma stopped pacing and folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Every time he walks out the door, I get this scared, sick feeling: what if, what if. I can’t take it.”
“Clearly.” Frankie pulled her aside so they were out of the way of foot traffic. “What do you want to do?” she asked, wrapping an arm around Gemma’s shoulder.
“Call him. I don’t know.”
“How about this: Why don’t we wait another half hour or so, and if he doesn’t show up, then you call him, or go home, or whatever. Does that sound good?”
“Okay.”
“I can’t believe he stood me up on our first date,” Frankie joked with a smile, trying to lighten things up.
Gemma tried returning the gesture, but her smile wouldn’t come.
———
Wake, up. Wake, up so I can see you with your eyes open and believe you’re really alive. Wake up.
Sitting alongside the hospital bed of the little boy who’d hidden in the chest, Sean tried to will him awake. The boy had a name, Jason Duffy, and according to the nurses, he’d suffered severe smoke inhalation but otherwise appeared to be “fine,” meaning no brain damage from lack of oxygen as far as the doctors could tell. Unlike the staff at O’Toole’s, the nurses had Lenox Hill had a soft spot for firefighters; all Sean had to do was tell them who he was and they let him in, no questions asked, despite the fact it was nowhere near visiting hours. Of course, he felt like a fraud telling them he’d saved the boy’s life. It was his fault the kid was here, but he’d deal with his self-loathing later. For now, it was crucial he see the child alive.
He moved his chair an inch closer to the bed, the better to watch the rise and fall of the boy’s chest. The room was eerily quiet, TV on but sound off, the silent image of Big Bird flickering across the small screen mounted up near the ceiling. In the next bed lay another little boy who’d undergone an appendectomy. Every time he groaned, “It hurts… it hurts,” Sean’s guts twisted. There was nothing worse than kids in pain.
He’d gone right home after his shift, but was unable to sleep. His mind kept insisting he revisit the brownstone fire. How could he have missed the chest during the primary search? It was so basic it was embarrassing. He was haunted by the image of the boy lying curled up inside. Had Ojeda waited two more minutes to crack it open, the kid would be dead. Eventually he had put his clothes back on and headed over to Lenox Hill. He had to see with his own eyes that his negligence hadn’t killed the child.
And now here he was, keeping silent vigil. From what he’d been able to gather from his lieutenant, the boy’s parents had been out at a party when the fire started. The babysitter called 911 and then fled the house, leaving the little boy inside. The source of the fire had yet to be determined.
Things like this happen, Lieu had said, referring to Sean’s fuck-up. Just be grateful the kid’s alive. Sean was grateful. Of course he was. But he was also deeply ashamed and shaken. He’d never messed up this badly before. Ever. Yeah, shit happens, but this was major, this was inexcusable. Telling him not to beat himself up was a joke. How could he not? Staring into Jason Duffy’s sleeping face, all he could think was: I almost killed him. Not “Thank God we found him in time,” but “I almost killed him.” How was he supposed to live with that?
The boy stirred. Please wake up. Please. But he was only shifting position in his sleep. Sean sat beside him another half hour. Then he made himself go. Were it up to him, he’d sit here all day and night. He’d stay until the boy was discharged. Crazy, but he couldn’t help it. He felt responsible for the boy’s condition. He was responsible.
It wasn’t until he was back outside in the sunshine that he remembered he was supposed to meet Gemma and her friend at the street fair. He checked his watch. He was over an hour late. They’d probably left by now, so he headed for home. Now that he’d seen the boy with his own eyes, maybe he’d be able to catch some sleep. Maybe. Gemma would just have to understand.
———
At the sound of locks being clicked back, Gemma flew off the couch. She and Sean had given each other keys to one another’s apartment, and Gemma took advantage of the privilege, using her key to let herself into Sean’s place to wait for him. An anguished cry slipped from her lips at the sight of him walking through the doorway, weary but clearly all right. Running to him, she crushed him to her, hugging him, kissing him, frantic, grateful.
“Hey.” Troubled, Sean gently disentangled himself from her grasp and looked down into her eyes. “What’s going on?”
Gemma began to cry. “That brownstone fire—you were there, weren’t you? And when you didn’t show at the fair…”
“Sshh, come here.” He took her in his arms. “I’m sorry I missed the fair. I had to go visit someone in the hospital.”
Gemma swiped at her eyes. “Who?”
Sean swallowed. “A little boy.”
“The little boy from the fire?”
“Yeah.” He drifted from her embrace and sank down o
n the couch. “I’m exhausted.”
“Is the little boy okay?”
“He’s fine.”
Gemma approached the couch. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Gemma wrung her hands helplessly. “I was so worried.”
“You always are.” There was annoyance in his bloodshot eyes. “You know, if you’re gonna freak out every time I get called to a fire—”
“I can’t help it,” Gemma interrupted quietly. “I care about you.”
Sean rubbed his eyes vigorously with the heels of his palms. “I know you do, Gem, but it makes me feel pressured. I’ve got enough shit to worry about without worrying that you’re losing it every time I go to work.”
“I’m sorry.”
She knew Sean was right, but his testiness still hurt.
“I’m sorry, too.” He held his hand out to her, and Gemma joined him on the couch. “Does your friend hate me?”
“Of course not. You’ll just meet her next Saturday night, that’s all.”
Sean’s face was a blank.
“Dinner? My apartment? With my friends?” Gemma prompted.
“Right, right.” He let his head drop back, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s next week?”
“Yes.” Gemma tensed slightly. “It’s not a problem, is it? I thought we agreed—”
“It’s fine. I’m just tired and my sense of time is off.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Gemma asked, smoothing his brow. She knew she was pushing. She could feel it. But she couldn’t help it. Maybe it was in Sean’s mother’s nature to let things go. But she was a Dante. She couldn’t. If her man was in pain, she wanted to know. She wanted to help.
Sean slowly lifted his head from the back of the couch to look at her. “I could have sworn I already answered that question.”
Gemma backed off. “You did. I’m sorry.”
Sean rose with a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, babe, but I have to crash. Now.”
“I understand.” Gemma slid off the couch. “Want me to tuck you in?”
Sean shook his head. “Nah, you go on downstairs. I’ll call you when I wake up, okay?”
Gemma stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’m very proud of you, Sean.”
“What do you mean?”
“Proud of what you do. And that you’re the kind of man who goes to visit kids in the hospital. He wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you.”
Pain cracked behind Sean’s eyes. “Right. I’m a real hero.”
Without another word, he kissed her forehead and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER 12
Urging himself down the one flight of stairs to Gemma’s apartment, Sean was in no mood to socialize; hadn’t been all week. Part of it was insomnia: Every time he closed his eyes, he was back at the brownstone, and if there was one thing that made him ornery, it was lack of sleep. But mostly, he just had an overwhelming urge to withdraw—from people, from places, from all the vicissitudes of daily life.
Simply put, he wanted to be left the hell alone.
Still, he knew it was important to Gemma that he meet her friends. He was determined to push himself through the evening, the same way he was pushing himself through life these days. He knocked on the door. The sight of Gemma, radiant in her purple sari, made him smile. He was pleased to note he could still feel. He leaned in for a quick kiss.
“Am I late?”
“Perfect timing,” she murmured, leading him by the hand into the living room. The quiet buzz of conversation slowly faded as a tall, gangly blonde with a patch over her left eye; a slight, platinum-haired man clad all in black; and a handsome young man who looked like a Hispanic Errol Flynn all watched him approach.
“Everyone, I want you to meet Sean.” There was excitement in Gemma’s voice as she led him to the blond woman, who looked like Heidi turned pirate. “This is Frankie.”
Sean extended a hand, flashing his most charming smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” Frankie tapped the eye patch. “Scratched cornea. David Crosby threw a paper airplane at me in the studio.”
“Does this mean your cataracts have cleared up?” Gemma inquired sweetly.
Frankie flashed Gemma a scowl.
Sean thought it was pretty cool that Frankie got to rub elbows with rock stars. He made a mental note to ask her about it later.
Still holding his hand, Gemma led him next to the man in black. Sean toyed with making a Johnny Cash joke, then thought better of it. This guy didn’t seem like someone you could rib.
“Sean, this is Theo.”
“Tay—oh,” he corrected crossly.
Gemma put an apologetic hand over her heart. “Sorry, I mean Tay-oh. I can’t keep track of your ever-changing names. Theo’s a performance artist.”
“Nice to meet you,” Sean said again, reaching out to shake Tay-oh’s hand. He couldn’t wait to get this guy’s story.
“Last but not least, this is Miguel. He’s the fashion editor at Verve.”
“Enchante,” Miguel purred, dark eyes flashing. “You’re the fireman, right?” Sean nodded. “Mmm, I love a man in uniform.”
“Behave,” Gemma chastised affectionately. She squeezed Sean’s hand. “What can I get you to drink?”
“A Guinness would be great.” He settled down on the couch beside Frankie.
“Oh.” Gemma seemed at a loss. “Sweetie, I forgot to get beer.”
“No problem.” You know that’s the only alcohol I drink, but hey, that’s okay. “I’ll drink what everyone else is drinking.”
“You won’t regret it,” Miguel assured him. “Gemma’s mixed up the most divine margaritas.”
“A margarita sounds great.”
Gemma flashed him a happy smile as she scurried into the kitchen, leaving Sean to wonder whose responsibility it was to pick up the conversational ball. He decided to take the bull by the horns.
“I know you and Gemma have been friends since you were kids,” he said to Frankie. He turned to the two men. “But how do you guys know her?”
Theo sighed. “We met many, many moons ago when we were in the same coven.”
“Really.” Just what I wanted to hear. File that under “Info never to be repeated.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t her cup of tea, though we all adored her. She’s clearly a solitary.”
Sean nodded. “And are you still—er—”
“Pagan? Dear God, no. That was just a step in my evolution as an artist.” Miguel snickered and Theo turned to him furiously. “Up your hole with a Mello roll.”
Miguel rolled his eyes dramatically. “Theo’s very touchy about his art.”
“I’d like to hear about it,” said Sean, trying to sound friendly and encouraging. He was having a hard time getting a handle on these guys. Are they a couple? Did they used to be a couple? Gemma hadn’t said. His fingers itched for a drink.
Theo’s expression was earnest. “My performances explore the oppression of man in an increasingly gynocentric society.”
Sean’s brows knit together so hard it hurt. “Excuse me?”
Miguel chuckled meanly. “He wishes he had a hoo-hoo.”
Before Sean could respond—not that he was sure there was a response to that—Gemma swept back into the room and handed him his margarita, saving him. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” He held his cocktail glass aloft. ‘To friends.“
‘To friends,“ everyone echoed.
“What did I miss?” Gemma asked brightly as she co-zied up to Sean.
“I was just getting the lowdown on how everyone knows you,” Sean explained. “It’s Miguel’s turn.”
Miguel peered at Gemma quizzically. “Sister woman, how did we meet? Do you remember?”
“Yes. We both wanted that royal blue boa at Screaming Mimi’s. We nearly came to blows over it.”
“Thaaat’s right. I won, if I recall correctly.”
“Only because I let you.”
>
“So generous.” He blew Gemma an air kiss. Pretentious twit, thought Sean.
“Screw boas, I want to hear about firefighting!” Frankie exclaimed.
Sean instinctively stiffened. “What about it?”
“It must be interesting.”
“It is.” But please don’t ask me if I’ve ever saved anyone’s life.
Miguel flicked a piece of lint off his trousers. “You must get dirty a lot.”
“Yup.”
Miguel pursed his lips. “I don’t think I’d like that very much.”
Theo snorted. “Oh, puh-lease. You go into cardiac arrest if you’re within ten feet of dirt.”
Miguel shuddered. “That’s why I hate the country.”
Sean concentrated on his drink. What the hell did you say to something like that? You could challenge the guy, sure, but where would it lead? To some bitchy witticism that would leave him feeling like a schmuck. Not worth it.
Putting down her drink, Gemma reached forward to grab the tray of crudites and hummus from the coffee table and started passing them around. “Did I tell you guys Sean was on Wall Street before he was a firefighter?”
Theo looked bored. “About a hundred times.”
Sean shot Gemma a questioning look. What, being a firefighter isn’t good enough ? He reached for a carrot and, swiping it in the hummus, popped it in his mouth. “Great hummus, babe.”
“I love when men call women ‘babe,’” Miguel sighed. “It’s so Neil Diamond.”
“Neil Diamond wears so much cologne he could choke a train car,” cracked Frankie.
Finally, a line of conversation Sean could get interested in. “You’ve met Neil Diamond?”
“She’s met ‘em all, honey.” Miguel smirked.
“Yeah?” Sean turned to Frankie. “Mick Jagger?”
“Swears by Elizabeth Arden.”
“Steven Tyler?”
“Borrowed my favorite scarf and never gave it back.”
“Bruce?”
Frankie groaned. “What is it with firefighters and Bruce? They all love Bruce.”
“He sings their pain,” mocked Theo.
Sean felt a rush of anger but he beat it back. “Tell me about Bruce,” he urged Frankie, consciously ignoring Theo.
Total Rush Page 14
