CHAPTER THREE
“NO, NO, JEEZ, you guys, catch the ball!” Seventeen-year-old Jessica Scarlatta jumped up and screamed at the Rockford Raiders as a ball sailed over the heads of the shortstop and the left fielder for a home run in Frontier Field, the brand-new baseball stadium. Jake’s daughter was heedless of the spectacle she made in the throng of fans amidst the smell of hot dogs, beer and popcorn.
Jake lounged in the seat and watched her fondly, not commenting. It was one of the reasons she was so open and uninhibited—he’d been careful to let her do her thing for years. Her mother, Nancy, had grudgingly gone along, even after the divorce, while trying to instill proper manners and behavior in her. Between the two of them, Jessica had turned out just fine.
“A grand slam.” Jess shook her head in disgust as she finally sat.
Jake tugged the bill of her Raiders cap down. “They’re gonna lose, sweetheart. You’ll owe me.”
She shook her head again, her dark blond ponytail swinging jauntily out of the back of the cap. “You really want that Tommy Hilfiger shirt?”
His laughter felt good after the day he’d had. “Yep. The striped one. Fifty bucks.”
She peered at him with innocent gray eyes the color of his. She had his nose and the exact stubborn set of his jaw. “Dad-dy.”
“Don’t daddy me, babe. You lost fair and square.” He glanced at the scoreboard. “Or at least you will in two innings. Now get rid of that little-girl look and let’s go get hot dogs.”
Her eyes brightened. “Cool.” She glanced mournfully at the field. “They won’t catch up.”
“We’ll come back for the last at-bat, anyway.”
As Jake followed his daughter up the steps of the stadium, he noticed more than one guy ogling her. He stifled the urge to shield her from view, feeling his heart twist more each time he was faced with the fact that his baby had grown up. She was the only thing that meant more to him than the fire department. That she was going off to college in a few months almost killed him. He was having trouble with that and everything else about her maturity. Not the least of which was that she’d turned out to be a beauty. And she had style. Her blue shorts and striped top were pretty ordinary, but on her they looked like designer togs.
Just like you, Dad, she’d told him recently.
Clothes. His one indulgence. Fairly innocuous, though. Putting on the slate-gray T-shirt and matching shorts after work had made him feel good; nice clothes always did.
They reached the Three Dog Night stand and waited their turn. He put his hand on the nape of Jessica’s neck and kneaded gently. “Seen Derek lately?” Danny and Barb’s son was a friend of Jess’s.
She looked at him over her shoulder. “No. He’s not in any of my classes this year and he hasn’t called in a while.” She watched him. “You’ve got that Scarlatta scowl on your face. What happened?”
“He’s causing his mother trouble again.”
Jessica patted his hand, suddenly older and wiser than her years. “He needs help, Dad.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m taking him to dinner tomorrow night. We’re gonna talk about it.”
She scowled and turned to face him.
“What?” Jake asked.
“Last time I saw Derek, he said something about going to Key West to live with his dad.”
Jake dropped the ten-dollar bill he was holding. After retrieving it, he asked, “Has he heard from Danny?”
“I don’t think so.” Jess turned to move up in the line.
Sighing, Jake shook his head, and decided to distract himself from this unpleasant news. He didn’t get enough time with Jessica and he didn’t want to ruin the upbeat mood. He scanned the area. The stadium was new and housed a food and gift area that ran about a third of its perimeter. It always amazed Jake how he could get prime rib sandwiches, rotisserie chicken, sweaters and bracelets at a baseball field. He remembered going with Danny to see the Raiders play at the old Silver Stadium, which had one concession stand. They’d wolfed down hot dogs and let the cotton candy melt on their tongues, just glad to be at a minor league game.
After getting food and drinks, Jake looked for a table in the center court seating area, which was filled with other ball fans who’d given up on the Raiders turning the game around. When Jake was about to suggest they go back to their seats, he heard a voice. “Hello, Jake.”
He glanced to his left. At a big table sat Chelsea Whitmore with a beautiful younger woman.
“Hi.”
“I saw you and Jessica looking for a table.” She shifted a bit, then said with the reluctance of a patient succumbing to a root canal, “You can sit here if you like. There’s room.”
“Great.” Jessica plopped down next to Chelsea’s companion. “I’m Jessica Scarlatta.”
Jake took a seat next to Chelsea as she grinned at his daughter. He got a glimpse of long legs encased in baby pink shorts to match the T-shirt she wore. He thought she even had pink sneakers on. Quite a contrast to the masculine standard blues she wore all day. “Hi, Jessica, nice to see you. This is my sister, Delaney.”
Jake’s brows rose. The women couldn’t have looked less alike. Delaney was petite and slender and dark-haired. Chelsea was solid and tall and blond. He glanced at her hair, loose around her shoulders. It certainly didn’t look dyed, for there was no sign of dark roots.
He flushed when he realized everyone was staring at him. “Jake Scarlatta,” he said, and shook Delaney’s outstretched hand.
It was quick, but he saw the look Delaney sent her sister. They’d talked about him. He wondered what Chelsea had said.
“So, you’re the new female firefighter on Dad’s group,” Jessica commented.
Sometimes Jake wished he had curtailed his daughter’s tongue.
“Yes, I am.”
“He said you did great today with the gunshot victims.”
Chelsea shot him an uncensored sunny smile. “Thanks,” she said. Jake took a sip of beer to hide his flash of pleasure at her reaction.
“Initiation by fire, so to speak,” Delaney said.
Jess looked at her blankly.
“Don’t mind my sister. She’s a psychologist. She has to classify everything.”
Jake wondered how Delaney could be old enough to have a degree in psychology.
“I’m going to be a doctor,” Jess blurted. “I’m going into premed at Cornell next year.”
“I went to Cornell.” Delaney smiled wistfully.
“Thanks to Chels.”
“Delaney,” Chelsea said warningly.
“I was fourteen when our mother died,” Delaney went on blithely. “Only six years younger than Chels, but she saw that I finished high school and put me through college and grad school.”
It was hard to mistake the pride in her voice and the love in her smile. Jake had a thousand questions, yet he smothered them all. But he did glance at Chelsea. Her face was red, the flush beginning at the vee of her shirt. Nestled there was a delicate gold chain, kissing the barely visible indentation between her collarbones. He took a long swig of beer.
“So, you two like the Raiders?” Jessica asked.
“We have season tickets,” Delaney said.
“So do we,” Jess told her.
“Chelsea’s father was a minor league baseball player.” When Jess looked confused, she explained, “We had different fathers. My last name is Shaw. My dad was a sax player.”
Jake glanced at Chelsea, who was smiling at her sister the way he smiled at Jess. His gaze dropped to her plate, quickly bypassing the chain. “What are you eating?”
“Uh…”
Delaney filled him in. “A veggie burger. Chelsea doesn’t eat red meat.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You ate Huff’s burger today.”
“I, um, didn’t want to cause any waves right away. I felt like I was holding back the dam all day as it was.”
Before he could comment, a man swaggered to their table. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Wonder Woman.”
Billy Milligan, Chelsea’s ex-boyfriend, hovered over them. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot. He’d clearly drunk more than the beer he held in his hand.
“Heard you saved the day today, Whitmore.”
From the corner of his eye, Jake saw Chelsea’s hand fist around the napkin in her lap. He said, “Chelsea did great today. Who you here with, Billy?”
“The crew from my old station at Engine Four.” He took a gulp of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of a not quite clean hand. It showed scars from his burns.
“Why don’t you go find them, Milligan.” Delaney’s voice was ages older than it had been earlier. “Maybe they want your company.”
“Why, you little cu—”
“Watch your mouth, buddy,” Jake interjected. He stood and deftly eased himself between the table and Billy.
“Three ladies are present, and one of them is my daughter.”
Milligan, short, stocky and already weaving, stepped back from Jake’s imposing form. Two other guys from Engine Four approached.
“Jake,” one said, his baseball cap obscuring his eyes.
“TJ, get Billy out of here. The department doesn’t need this.”
Chelsea noted his choice of words through the cloud of embarrassment the scene had caused her. He was concerned about the fire department. She also noted that Jake’s shoulders were backboard-stiff as he sat. He frowned and didn’t look at her. The easy camaraderie was gone, doused by Billy Milligan’s appearance.
“You about done, Jess?” Jake asked.
Jessica looked surprised, but nodded. She obviously knew her dad’s signals. They got to their feet.
“Well, enjoy the rest of the game,” Jake said to Chelsea and Delaney, his voice neutral.
Delaney tried to lighten the moment. “The Raiders are behind by ten. But you, too.”
When they were gone, Chelsea wrapped the remains of her burger and tossed it into a nearby can. She sipped her beer, trying not to be affected, tamping down the hurt and fury kindling inside her.
“Milligan’s a jerk, Chels.”
“I know. I just wish he hadn’t felt the need to prove it in front of my new lieutenant.”
Delaney was serious. Only thirty, she often seemed older and wiser than Chelsea. “Just how much decency does Scarlatta have?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Will he tell your new group about tonight’s little scene with Milligan?”
“Oh, God.” Chelsea was sickened by the thought.
“Well, if you’d just quit the fire department, you wouldn’t have to deal with any of those Neanderthals.”
“Jake’s not a Neanderthal.”
“Yeah, but he’s pretty macho. Even if he is yummy.”
“Yummy? You’ve been spending too much time with your teenage patients.”
Chelsea didn’t tell her sister she agreed. Delaney’s description of Jake in that damn T-shirt was apt. And the way his shorts molded to his thighs…She cut off the thought. She was done with men, especially firefighters.
“Doesn’t matter how yummy he is,” Delaney continued as if reading her thoughts. “We both know playing with firefighters causes third-degree burns.”
Chelsea sobered. “And scars.” Her beer followed her burger into the trash, and she stood. “Let’s go finish watching the massacre.”
Delaney rose. “Chels, you don’t have to put up with this stress. Think about it. You can support yourself with the gym.”
“I know. But I love the work, and besides, I’m not letting anybody drive me out of the fire department.”
“Better than letting them drive you crazy.”
Hooking her arm around her sister’s neck, Chelsea said, “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got a shrink for a sister, isn’t it?”
Chelsea didn’t feel quite as blasé as she pretended to be. And she was afraid the scene tonight would be back around three in the morning to haunt her. And maybe even tomorrow at work.
Oh, God, she hoped Jake didn’t tell the crew about this. She didn’t want to deal with a whole new round of gossip. Delaney’s question surfaced in her mind.
Just how much decency did Scarlatta have?
FROM INSIDE the locker room, Peter Huff’s deep voice was crystal clear; it stopped Chelsea as she reached the doorway. “It was typical female stuff—act three, scene four, from what he said.”
Diaz chuckled. “My wife’s into that kind of drama, too.”
Huff continued in a smarmy tone. “Heard he really put her in her place. And we all know what that is.”
“Right where women belong,” Diaz added.
Oh, fine, Chelsea thought. I’m the butt of sexual innuendo already.
“After screwing up Milligan’s life like she did, she deserves whatever she gets.” Joey Santori sounded vicious.
The sudden slam of a locker was like a gunshot, then Mick said, “I don’t think that’s fair.”
“All right you guys, let’s move it.” So Jake was there, too. In on this little discussion of her.
Easing down the hallway, though she hated creeping away like a cowed puppy, Chelsea thought, Of course, Jake’s in on it, you jerk. He obviously told them about last night.
Feeling the familiar hurt well inside her, she tamped it down ruthlessly. No, she’d get mad, instead. She was done with being jerked around by male firefighters who were so entrenched in the old boy’s network that they didn’t care who they hurt. She stomped to the rig and threw her bag on the cement floor.
Damn them. She yanked open a side door and pulled out her air tank. She checked the gauge, saw that it was full and shoved the breathing pack inside. She hadn’t done anything but end a relationship. He couldn’t handle it. He made a scene everywhere she went. And then he set out to destroy his career.
She retrieved her gear from the hooks along the wall, then stowed it in the alcove, which the night crew had emptied of their goods. Forcefully she stuffed bunker boots, pants and an air tank into the small space.
“Got a problem, Whitmore?”
Chelsea looked into the impassive face of Peter Huff. The guy who’d just been slandering her. “No problem, Huff. You?”
“Me? Nope.” Giving her his back, he put his goods on the truck. They worked in silence, though it was far from companionable. Chelsea was reminded of some of the girls in high school who’d been forced to play on the same team but in the cliquishness of teenagehood never spoke to each other.
Well, who cared?
When Peter left, she leaned against the rig and couldn’t keep back a sigh. She did. She cared. Because she was hoping she’d have some respite here. That these guys wouldn’t trample her, wouldn’t shut her out. Especially Jake.
So much for hope.
She made her way to the kitchen, where the shift met for coffee and discussed the upcoming day. As she entered, Mick’s smiling face greeted her like a ray of sunshine peeking though dark clouds.
I don’t think that’s fair, he’d said. He’d stood up for her. She smiled back. Huff came in behind her, got coffee and took a seat. Then the lieutenant entered.
“Morning, Chelsea.” Jake addressed only her. Of course, he’d already had a powwow with the others.
She nodded, but didn’t speak. Those gray eyes had warmed up yesterday. They were filled with humor and goodwill last night. Today he was Benedict Arnold. One of the boys.
Small talk was made over coffee. Chelsea refused to join in; as it was only her second day, her silence wouldn’t be noticed.
After about twenty minutes, Jake stood. “All right. Housework assignments are on the bulletin board. When you’re done, let’s meet in the bay. We’re doing confined-space training today.” The men groaned when he referred to the newest form of rescue the fire department had taken on—crawling into dark, smelly, tight places that no one in his right mind would willingly go.
Jake chuckled. “That’s right, time to show your stuff.” Facing Chelsea, he said, “Could you stay b
ack a minute? I want to catch up on how much of this training you’ve had.” Something like a grin curved his lips. “We’re going through the pipe today for the first time.” The city had provided the department with big water pipes the firefighters could use to prepare for the psychological aspects of being confined.
She kept her face impassive and gave him a haughty nod. When everyone left, he studied her. “Something wrong?”
“No, why?”
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Sure it’s not something I should know about?”
She shook her head. “No, Lieutenant, I have nothing to tell you that you don’t already know.” She held his gaze, and he shifted uncomfortably. “The confined-space training?”
He studied her for a moment longer, then said, “Our group’s gone over the basics and seen the videos on claustrophobia. We’re ready for our first shot through the hole.”
“I’ve been through it.”
His brows rose. “You have?”
She nodded.
“Well, good. You can help us. None of us has yet.”
“Fine.”
When she started out ahead of him, he said, “Whitmore?”
She turned.
“You sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Nope. Nothing.” She walked out the door.
THE HELL THERE ISN’T, Jake thought half an hour later out in the bay. They’d reviewed the basics on breaching a confined space and were ready to crawl through the thirty-foot-long, two-foot-diameter iron pipe laid ominously on the cement floor of the huge garage. To make it even more difficult, the ends were blocked once the firefighter entered the pipe. Done frequently enough, the drill would acclimate the rescuers to dark, tight spaces. So far, Chelsea hadn’t been any help at all. She’d been more like a kid pouting at not getting her way.
“All right, who wants to go first?”
No response.
Not even Chelsea, who’d done it.
He shrugged. “Okay, I’ll go.” Dropping to his knees, Jake stuck his head inside; the faint scent of disinfectant couldn’t mask the iron smell. His shoulders just managed to clear the opening. Inside, it was tunnel-dark. Smothering. He drew in a deep breath, which filled his lungs with heavy air and made his mouth taste coppery. Closing his eyes, he inched in. He could feel his breathing escalate. Sweat popped out on his brow. His stomach muscles clenched. Jeez, this was tougher than eating his first smoke.
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