Sex and the Single Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novel

by Jennifer Bernard

  Finally, some pride lightened the tight faces of his new crew.

  “I will require you to act like it in every respect. Dismissed.”

  An audible sigh of relief swept across the line of men and one woman. Jones’s glittering turquoise eyes were fixed on him with a look close to hatred. How dare she? He was the injured party, not her. A torn ticket with the word “sorry” on it? It still lurked in his wallet, a deliberate reminder to avoid all beautiful, deceitful strangers.

  “Firefighter Jones, in my office,” he barked at the end of lineup, as the other firefighters all rushed to the workout room.

  A quiver of alarm passed over her face, instantly hidden behind a defiant mask. He spun on his heel and stalked toward the office they’d assigned to him. It used to be the captain’s office until they switched things around for the incoming battalion chief. He held the door until she’d ducked under his arm, then closed it behind them.

  He sniffed. Funny smell in this office. He’d been too preoccupied with preparing himself to put the fear of God into the crew to notice before now.

  Never mind. He had more important things to think about. Unfortunately, under Sabina’s angry stare, all rational thoughts scattered. She folded her arms over her chest, which made him remember every detail of her pale pink nipples and supple, sun-kissed skin with its dusting of freckles, the way her lovely breasts swelled so proudly on her graceful torso, the sounds she made when he skimmed his hand over her waist . . .

  “You should have told me,” he said.

  “No, you should have told me.”

  Standoff.

  Her cell phone rang. She didn’t look at it, keeping her eyes on his until it stopped. Each ring increased his irritation, until his next words burst out without conscious permission from him.

  “You blew me off by way of a ticket?”

  “It was all I had. I didn’t even have a receipt. I thought it was better than nothing, Rock.”

  At her tone, which implied he was a liar, his temperature rose another degree. “For your information, the guys at my old station called me Rock.”

  “You mean the ones you didn’t humiliate in front of the whole crew?”

  There went his temperature, up another degree. “Don’t question my methods.”

  “Really? Is that one of your rules?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly. “And if you’d told me you were a firefighter, we wouldn’t be in this awkward situation.”

  “It’s not awkward at all.” She uncrossed her arms and marched toward him. She poked a finger into his chest. “It never happened.”

  She’d poked his chest. No one ever poked him. He was Chief Roman the Hard-ass, the Intimidator, the Feared. “The hell it didn’t. I have your handwriting on a ticket to prove it.”

  “You kept it?” She went slightly pale.

  “If you wanted revenge for your ticket—”

  “What?” Now she looked just as out-of-her-mind furious as he felt. “As if I would ever do something as low-down as that. It could have been worse, you know.”

  “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

  She leaned toward him with a wicked look. “I could have gotten you completely naked. Then I could have tied you to the bedpost and left you begging . . .”

  Dio. He reached for her, pulled her against his chest, and fastened his mouth to hers. It was just to shut her up, really it was . . . until he felt her lips under his. Then insane lust bolted into his groin, blotted out every intention except touching this woman, devouring her mouth, running his hands up and down her sleek back. And it wasn’t just him. She was kissing him back just as fiercely, her coffee-scented lips opening under his invasion, her tongue battling with his. A force field of sexual electricity zinged around them. In two seconds he could have her naked up against the desk . . .

  “Ow!” He yelped and lifted one leg. Something latched to his ankle. Something painful and growling. “What the hell?”

  “Stan.” Jones wrenched herself away from him. “Down, Stan.”

  The hard pinch on his ankle released. A beagle-ish looking dog looked mournfully up at him.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Jones gave a spurt of shaky laughter and smoothed her hair with a hand that trembled just a bit, he was savagely happy to see. She looked flushed and shaky, and damn if he didn’t want to grab her and do it all over again. “Stan’s the firehouse dog. He was very attached to Captain Brody. And he’s very protective.”

  “Good doggy.” Partly to hide the shocking lust that still cruised his bloodstream, Roman reached down to pet him, but the creature backed away. The dog had a point. He’d been way out of line with his behavior. He probably ought to thank the pup.

  He straightened up, hoping his boner wasn’t visible in the new uniform. Clearing his throat, he faced Jones. “You’re right. Nothing happened in Reno. Or here in this office. More to the point, nothing will happen in the future that isn’t completely by the book. I . . . uh . . .” He decided to quote the ticket. “Sorry.”

  A rapid series of expressions chased across her face. Many things seemed to be on the tip of her tongue, but she restrained herself. “Yes, sir.”

  When she was at the door, he stopped her with a curt “Wait.”

  She paused.

  “You can let the crew know that firefighter fitness is a top priority of mine. I’ve seen men killed because they got soft.”

  Her shoulders tensed, but she gave a tiny nod before slipping out of the office.

  After she left, he met Stan’s soulful brown eyes. The dog still looked wary. Roman noticed one of his ears looked mangled, as if it had been chewed up and spit out. He could relate. “You and I might have more in common than you think, Stan.”

  Chapter Five

  “I’m going to apply for a transfer,” Vader grumbled as he hoisted two hundred pounds of metal over his head. “I don’t need this shit.”

  “Yeah, right.” Sabina was working out her aggressions on the treadmill next to him. She’d set it to the highest level; sweat dripped off her. “Leave the Bachelor Firemen? I’ll bet you a soda you never even bother to get an application.”

  Sodas were the common currency of the firehouse, actual gambling being forbidden. Sabina couldn’t even keep track of how many sodas Vader owed her.

  “He’s going to ruin this station. Acting like he owns it. I can’t wait for those drills. I can’t wait to go mano a mano with the dude. I’m going to obliterate him. He’ll wish he was back in his pansy-ass New York station. I want Brody back.”

  “Vader, don’t be a baby. Brody’s not coming back. I heard he loves his new job at the academy. Besides, Chief Roman’s a training officer, he won’t be here forever.”

  In the corner, Double D made a strangled sound as he attempted a sit-up. His feet rose into the air and he toppled backward. Sabina stepped off her treadmill and ran to help him.

  “I’ll hold your feet down, D.”

  “Little thing like you couldn’t hold down a parakeet.”

  She glared at him. Double D was old school and still resisted the very concept of a female firefighter. “Try me. Or I’ll peck your eyes out.” She knelt between his legs and pressed on his feet.

  Double D leered. “Two, you don’t look so bad from this angle.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him until he stopped snickering and attempted a sit-up. He barely completed one before collapsing back to the mat.

  “I’m fucked,” he panted. “He’s going to write me up.”

  “No, he won’t. Come on, try again.”

  Wheezing, Double D struggled through another sit-up. “Chief Roman’s the king of hard-asses.” Pant. “Called my buddy from the Bronx this morning.” Pant, pant. “Ever since his wife got killed in 9/11, he’s been hell on his crews. Scariest bastard on the Eastern seaboard.”

  In her shock, Sabina let loose her hold on his feet and he crashed into a clumsy backward somersault, contorted twist sort of move.

  Vader cackled. �
�Nine point two from the German judge.”

  Sabina crawled to Double D’s aid. “Sorry, D. His wife was killed in 9/11?” He lay like a plump beetle stranded upside down, legs wiggling. She offered him a hand.

  “ ’Swhat I heard. She was like you.” Clearly not a compliment, from the tone of his voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Female on the job.” He was still trying to catch his breath. “Shows what happens. Wife and mother of a young kid, going inside that tower, getting herself killed.” Under Sabina’s fierce scowl, he backtracked. “Not to say she ain’t a hero. They all were. All three hundred and forty-three.”

  Every firefighter in American knew the exact number of their fellow firefighters and paramedics killed during 9/11. Sabina felt ill at the thought of the way she’d yelled at Chief Roman.

  “We should give him a chance,” she said. “So he’s not Brody. So what? We’ll get used to him. And he’ll get used to us.”

  “Firefighter Lee,” came a harsh voice from the doorway. “Nap on your own time. I want ten sit-ups, starting . . . now!”

  Sabina scrambled back to her position at Double D’s feet. She watched, amazed, as he reeled off a rapid-fire set of ten semi-decent sit-ups.

  When he was done, he didn’t flop down as he had before. He stayed upright, looking at Chief Roman, who gave a brusque, unimpressed nod, then scorched the rest of the room with a hard stare.

  “Firefighter Jones, you’re not working out today?”

  “I was helping—”

  “A hundred sit-ups, starting now.”

  Sabina hid a smug smile. A hundred sit-ups . . . piece of cake. She’d always worked hard to keep her former baby fat at bay, for fear of resembling her old self too much. She launched into her crunches, aware of his eyes on her. Self-consciousness flooded her face with crimson. Under her San Gabriel FD T-shirt, her nipples pushed against her sports bra. He’d seen her naked from the waist up. Oh God. The new training officer knew exactly what her nipples looked like. He knew the sounds she made when she got turned on. Was he thinking of it right now? Because it sure felt that way, with his stern gaze surrounding her, bathing her in hot awareness.

  Her breath came fast, and it wasn’t only from the exercise. Squinting her eyes, she willed herself to ignore his mountainous, commanding presence in the doorway of the workout room.

  “Chief Roman, what do you lift?” Vader asked in a squeak. Sabina glanced over and saw his pecs quiver with the effort of holding two hundred and fifty pounds above his chest.

  “Enough,” Roman answered in a tight voice.

  Sabina imagined him stripping down to T-shirt and shorts and lying back on the bench press. Bulging muscles and mighty legs danced in her vision.

  “You all right there?” Roman asked Vader. She glanced over at her friend.

  “Ye-es.” Vader seemed to have no air in his lungs. The veins on his neck bulged. His eyes popped.

  “Vader!” Sabina jumped to her feet. “Someone do something!” She was strong, but she couldn’t lift that amount of weight. She ran to help him, but before she got there, Chief Roman reached down with both hands and plucked the iron bar out of Vader’s loosening grip as if it were a cheerleader’s baton. He set it back on the rack.

  “Don’t hurt yourself, Firefighter Brown.”

  “No, sir,” Vader gasped. “I’m fine, sir.”

  “We need you functional.” He addressed all of them. “Carry on. Drills start this afternoon, barring any calls, of course.” He left the room.

  Sabina pounded Vader on the back while he wheezed and coughed. He clutched at her.

  “Off day,” he managed. “I skipped my energy drink.”

  Sabina rolled her eyes. Vader was her best bud at the station, but his obsession with his muscles had always struck her as ridiculous. “You’ll beat him next time.”

  His eyes glittered. “I’ll beat him, then I’ll transfer. And he’ll beg me to stay on hands on knees. Fucking hands and knees!”

  “Sure, Vader.”

  He hoisted himself off the bench and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Need to talk to you about something private, Two. Tomorrow after work?”

  She shrugged and nodded, and he went to work out his triceps. Sabina had to give Roman credit. She’d never seen either Vader or Double D this worked up. The man sure knew how to piss people off.

  While Sabina was doing squats, which she hated, her cell phone rang again. She didn’t recognize the number, but anything was better than squats. “Hello,” she answered warily.

  “It’s Max. Don’t hang up, munchkin,” said a nicotine-drenched voice.

  “Max?”

  “Max Winkler. Uncle Max. Your childhood mentor. You quit answering your phone? This is the third time I called you.”

  “What are you—” She darted a glance around the workout room. She couldn’t talk to Max here. “Hang on.”

  She darted out of the gym and into the bathroom, making sure to slide the sign so it said “Women.” “Why are you calling me?”

  “It’s about your mother. When can we talk?”

  “We are talking. Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. How about lunch?”

  “No, Max. I’m not even in LA. I’m not that person anymore. Just tell me or I’m hanging up.” As a child, she’d fallen for Max’s tricks every time. Hopefully she’d learned a thing or two since those days.

  His deep-throated laugh, which inhabited the bottom-dwelling register of a bass line, made her pull the phone away from her ear. “Playing hard to get, huh?”

  “I’m working, Max. I actually have a job that means something to me now, and . . .”

  But she was talking to emptiness. She knew what that meant. A more important call had come in and Max had switched over without bothering to mention it to her. She ended the call and turned off her phone. As long as her mother was fine, she had nothing to say to Max.

  She splashed cold water on her face to calm herself down. Was Max going to make trouble for her? He didn’t know where she lived. No one from her old life did.

  Don’t be paranoid. She’d told him to get lost, and Max never wasted his time. Everything would be okay.

  Stepping out of the bathroom, she gratefully inhaled the beloved smell of the firehouse—a hint of gas drifting from the apparatus bay, coffee from the kitchen, varnish from the ladders they’d been working on. And for the millionth time she gave thanks for the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn that had landed her at San Gabriel Station 1.

  For his first overtime shift filling in as battalion chief, Roman made a brief appearance at dinner, which was prepared by Fred the Stud. The easy flow of conversation was clearly hampered by his presence, so he returned to his paperwork as quickly as possible.

  “Thanks for the meal,” he told Stud, scraping his chair back from the table.

  “Sure thing, Chief Roman. We never had a battalion chief at the station before. What about the dinner rotation?”

  “Stud,” said Captain Kelly sharply. “Chief Roman will not be cooking.” He shot a glance Roman’s way. “Unless he wants to, of course.”

  “No,” said Roman, more brusquely than necessary. “No cooking.”

  As he disappeared into his office, he heard a few mutters. “Of course not . . . hard-asses don’t cook . . . Chief Bighead . . . Brody always made pot roast . . .”

  He ignored the complaints. He wasn’t here to make friends.

  Victor Renteria, chief of the San Gabriel Fire Department, called soon after dinner. “Heard you’re already making an impression over there.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “I knew I got the right man. If you can keep those guys out of the news for two weeks, I’ll buy you a bottle of Jameson’s.”

  “I don’t foresee any problems.”

  Chief Renteria gave a long, ironic chuckle. “Glad to hear it. Have they briefed you on the curse yet?”

  “No one’s mentioned it.” He’d heard about
it, of course. Virgil Rush, the 1850s volunteer fireman jilted by Constancia B. Sidwell, his mail-order bride, had been so tormented by his crewmates’ teasing that he laid a curse on all San Gabriel firemen, dooming them to disaster in their love lives.

  Since he didn’t have a love life, he couldn’t care less about the “curse.”

  “Media eats it up. We used to like the publicity—bunch of good-looking, single firemen landing in People magazine—good for the image. But it’s gotten out of hand. The opinion pages are making mincemeat out of me. Did you see their nickname for me? Chief Rent-a-Mirror. They’ve taken this too far, Roman. It’s personal now. I can’t think about those bastards without a stiff drink in my hand. Get this damn thing under control, that’s all I ask.”

  “I’m on it, Chief. Total media blackout.”

  “You can make exceptions for fires, of course,” said Renteria dryly. “But only for fires.”

  As Roman hung up, Stan opened one eye and bared his teeth. For a beagle who slept most of the time, he sure was feisty. He gave Roman a long, meaningful look, then collapsed himself into a ball on the floor.

  So the dog didn’t like him. Why the hell should it bother him?

  Only two calls came in that night, both handled perfectly well by the men and woman of the B shift. Roman got almost no sleep, tossing and turning on the narrow bunk, which was six inches too short for him and about seventy-five feet too close to Sabina Jones. Although he’d tried not to acquire this information, he knew exactly where she was sleeping. And now he knew her first name. Sabina. Unusual. Kind of romantic-sounding. Of course, everyone at the station called her Two. Of all ridiculous names. She wasn’t the second of anything; she was one of a kind. Even after such a short acquaintance he knew that much.