“Because Ella Joy, that’s why.”
“That’s not a real sentence.” For a pleasant moment, Fred flashed on a fantasy image of Ella Joy and Kale in a cage match from which neither one emerged.
“Oh, sorry, I’ll be sure to brush up on my grammar between fielding media requests and evicting your groupies from the hose tower.”
Fred winced. “Someone climbed up there?”
“Well, of course they did. How else could they mount the banner? We haven’t taken it down yet, so you can enjoy the moment.”
He hadn’t heard anything about a banner, but something told him it wasn’t good news. “What banner?”
“The banner with the phone number of Delta Nu Omega over at San Gabriel College.” Vader lowered his voice. “Which, by the way, I could have told you anyway.”
Fred saw an opportunity for revenge. “I thought you passed on your phone number collection to Ace. At least that’s what Cherie told me.”
But Vader couldn’t be rattled that easily. “I did pass it on. Cherie knows she’s all I want in a woman and always will be. But I dialed that number a lot of times, and some things don’t leave your brain just because you get married. But let’s get back to your messed-up life. We have a kidnapping, we have a fan club, and then there’s Rachel. What’s going on there?”
Fred stiffened. “Nothing’s going on. My leave is up and I’m ready to come back to work. I heard I missed a few USAR calls. I should have been here.”
Vader made a dismissive gesture. “They were handled. You’re not the only one who can be a hero, you know.”
“I’m not a fucking hero,” Fred ground out.
“Really? According to my TV, you are.”
Maybe it was the twinkle in Vader’s eye, or the sympathy on his rough face, but Fred had just about reached the end of his rope. “Let me ask you something. If you were kidnapped, would you want Cherie to bail you out? You know, pay the ransom or whatever?”
Vader tilted his head thoughtfully. “If I were kidnapped . . . let’s say by the entire Taliban, because that’s what it would take . . .” Fred rolled his eyes, already regretting that he’d asked the question. “My main concern would be Cherie’s feelings. Face it, that’s my biggest concern in most situations. I would hate to make her worry. Would I want her to pay the ransom? Sure, if that helped ease her mind. She’d want to do something. You know what gets me, Fred?”
Fred shook his head.
“I know how much Cherie worries when I’m out on a call, but damn if she’ll ever let me see it. She puts on that cheery little smile when I head off to work. She doesn’t want me worrying about her worrying. Know what I mean? Women are just as strong as we are, Fred. That means they’ll fight like demons for someone they love.”
Fred stared at his captain and friend while trying to make sense of his words. Did Rachel love him? Was that why she’d done the interview? I chose to help someone who matters to me, she’d said. He’d been so wrapped up in his own feelings of failure that he hadn’t considered her point of view. Not really.
For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe he’d been too hard on her.
He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “I think I fucked up, Vader.”
“Let it out, dude. Let it out.”
If only he could talk about Rachel. But he couldn’t, not without betraying her privacy even more. Anyway, he was the problem, not her. “My whole life, I always looked up to my brothers, and guys like Captain Brody. They’re heroes, you know? Fuck, I’d put you on that list, and Chief Roman. Now everyone’s saying I’m the hero and it just feels wrong. Like I haven’t done enough to deserve it. I’m just a fireman, doing the job.”
Vader tossed a paperweight from one hand to the other. “Aw, poor baby.”
“What?” Fred’s head swung up.
Vader pushed his lower lip out, pouting like a two-hundred-fifty-pound infant. “Is a little media circus too much for widdle Fweddie? Are those big meanies giving you a rough time after school? Want me to make those big bad reporters leave you alone? Want me to beat them up for—”
Fred hurled himself across the desk, and suddenly Stan was barking and Vader was on his feet, shoving his face right up against Fred’s. “Did you ever think just doing the job is what it’s all about?” he growled. “You come in here every shift knowing you might have to do something crazy, like kick open the door on a house that might explode. So does everyone else in this firehouse. You saying they aren’t heroes?”
Alerted by the yelling, the rest of the crew was pouring into the office.
“What the hell’s going on here?” demanded the new battalion chief. “Breen, is that you? Mind letting go of your captain’s jugular?”
Vader stood, brushing Fred’s hands away from his neck as if they were cobwebs. He forced a big grin, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “Firefighter Breen and I were just reenacting his kidnapping. I was playing the part of Kale. How’d I do, Stud?”
Fred took a big step back, clenching and unclenching his fists. Even though Vader’s words were still tearing into him like bullets, he knew that his friend had just thrown him a lifeline. The battalion chief would not appreciate a firefighter attacking his captain. “You did awesome, Vader. Might want to keep your day job, though.”
“Planning on it. We also agreed that Breen needs a few more days to recover from his injuries. Right, Stud?” Fred nodded meekly.
Then Vader added quietly, “Breen doesn’t have anything to prove to me. Or anyone here.”
Fred stared at him for a long moment, then wheeled out of the office.
Breen doesn’t have anything to prove . . . You saying they aren’t heroes? The words kept flashing in his brain like a neon strip-club sign.
Vader, in his in-your-face way, had managed to pound a crazy new idea into Fred’s head. Was the big guy right, and it really was all about doing the job? The job he’d been doing all along?
He jogged down the dim corridor that led to the exit. Pushing open the side door that bypassed the apparatus bay, he blinked in the May sunshine.
Maybe he wasn’t not-quite-good-enough. Maybe he didn’t have anything to prove. Maybe Fred the Fireman didn’t have to take a backseat to anyone. Maybe he needed to get rid of the fucking monkey on his back.
Especially if it made him lash out at a wonderful girl who cared so much that she’d tried to rescue him. And he’d thrown that gift back in her face. Because he was an idiot. He remembered his crazy ideas about how to win a girl like Rachel. Feats of strength. Quests. Rachel had performed a goddamn feat of strength, and look what it had gotten her. A bunch of crap from him.
Could Rachel ever forgive him? He pulled out his phone to send her a text. Sorry, he wanted to say. I’m a moron. But that wasn’t enough. There was so much more to say. Too much for a text. Or a phone call. He had to see her. Had to tell her . . .
Hot damn. He had to tell her he loved her.
That moment in the elevator, the moment when he’d realized he loved her, came back to him with searing intensity. It was still true. Truer than ever. The whole thing with Kale had messed him up. Messed everything up. He’d acted like such an ass at her apartment. Would she even believe him?
He put a hand to his head, which had begun throbbing dully. The doctor was right; he needed to be back in bed. Putting away his phone, he shielded his eyes from the sun and headed across the parking lot. He had to get this right with Rachel. He’d already screwed things up enough.
Before he got into his car, he took a detour to the backyard to check out the hose tower. A bedsheet—yellow with ruffles, for Chrissake—stretched across the upper exterior portion of the tower. He couldn’t tell what ties they’d used, but they were frilly and elastic and resembled garters. In curling letters, traced in purple paint, he read the words, “Call us, Freddie!” along with a giant phone number. He was still mesmerized by this embarrassing work of art when the rumble of an engine made him glance toward the sk
y.
The Channel Six News chopper hovered overhead. Was that ridiculous banner going to be on the news tonight?
He ran back into the firehouse and went straight to the kitchen. Ace, whose turn it was in the cooking rotation, always included vegetables in his meals. Fred flung open the refrigerator door. Jackpot! A plastic container of ripe tomatoes took up an entire shelf. He snatched it up and dashed back through the firehouse with it, ignoring Ace’s outraged yells behind him.
At the base of the tower, he dug his feet into the lawn, loaded up a big, fat, juicy tomato, and let it fly. It landed with a splat right in the middle of the painted 2. The tomato split against the sheet and the juices ran down the fabric. He launched another one, which landed on the F in Freddie. “Call us, reddie!” the banner now read. He could live with that. But he had more tomatoes, so he kept going. Boom, boom, boom. The sheet held up pretty well under the onslaught. Those sorority girls probably bought expensive bedding. He couldn’t bring down the banner, but by the time he’d emptied the bowl of tomatoes, not a single digit or letter could be identified.
He heaved a supremely satisfied sigh. Finally, his world felt a little more like it belonged to him.
“You’re making dinner tonight,” grumbled Ace, who stood to his right, gazing up at the tomato-spangled sheet.
“You can make your damn salad without tomatoes,” said Fred. “Nobody eats it anyway.”
Ace scratched his blond head, then pretended to have a light bulb moment. “Hey, I know what I’ll use instead. Kale.”
“Ha ha.” Fred gave himself lots of credit for keeping his cool.
“There’s a lot you can do with kale, you know? They say it’s a very versatile green. Kale soup, kale salad, kale stir-fry . . .”
When Fred refused to react, Ace wandered off. “Kale chili, kale casserole . . .”
Sabina jogged up on his other side. “Good God, Fred. Have you totally lost it? That banner looks like a bad remake of Carrie.”
“You ought to know, Scream Queen.” Fred realized he must feel better, if he was able to dish it back. Sabina didn’t exactly enjoy references to her previous career in the movies.
She gave him a nasty eyebrow-raise. “Joke now, but if that’s a news helicopter up there, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do. It looks like a murder scene. I can see the headlines now. ‘The Bachelor Hero Massacre. No Tomato Left Alive.’”
Fred felt a smile get started. “Maybe that sorority will take it as a warning.”
Mulligan arrived behind him; Fred knew because a hard clap between his shoulder blades made him rock forward. “It’s good to have you back, Freddie-boy. I was getting tired of collecting all the panties the ladies were leaving for you. It’s hard work, man. You owe me.”
His smile gained steam. God, he loved this firehouse. Loved his job, loved his crew.
More of Vader’s statements came back to him. Women will fight like demons for someone they love.
Rachel hadn’t mentioned anything about love, but what if . . . what if . . . ?
His smile suddenly expanded into an all-encompassing, beaming grin.
“You all right, Stud?” Sabina took a wary step away from him. “You look like you just took a hit of something.”
“Yeah. Well, sort of. Maybe. Or I will be. Maybe. If what I think might be true is true.”
Mulligan and Sabina stared at him in mystified silence for a moment. Then Mulligan threw up his hands. “Aw hell. I recognize that expression. Another one bites the dust. You’re in love, Freddie. Aren’t you?”
Rachel’s father arrived without warning, as usual. She couldn’t seem to convince him that the fact that he owned the apartment didn’t give him carte blanche to barge in whenever he wanted. He whisked her off to dinner at Castles, where they ate surrounded by his security guards.
Rachel tried not to think about the last time she’d been there, for Cindy’s wedding, the night she and Fred had finally made love. It had been one of the most amazing nights of her life, and now everything between them was ruined. She still didn’t understand how or why, even though she’d been thinking about nothing else.
Inside the restaurant, a few curious glances came their way, but not nearly as many as she’d feared. Maybe the reappearance of a long-ago kidnapping victim wasn’t all that fascinating.
“You’re not happy,” said her father in his abrupt way, after they’d ordered mushrooms en brioche a la diable over a saffron-infused risotto—or something along those lines. Fancy food was lost on her. “Why aren’t you happy? You got your way. Breen got out. You didn’t even have to mention that ridiculous group.”
“I’m happy.” But even to her ears, she didn’t sound happy.
“What’s wrong? Something happen I don’t know about? How’s Breen? Hospital said he walked out on his own.”
“I think he’s fine.”
Her father pounced on that. “You think? Where is he? You give him the night off because we’re covered?”
“He . . . um, isn’t guarding me anymore. It was only until your testimony, remember?”
He fixed her with that relentless black stare of his. “He left? Get him back. You need a bodyguard more than ever, thanks to your brilliant move. Breen proved himself.”
“He never had to prove himself to anyone,” Rachel answered, irritated on his behalf. “Anyway, I can’t just ‘get him back.’ He had a job, and he went back to it.”
“So? We’ll offer him more money. Double his salary. Quadruple it, who gives a fuck? Enough zeroes and he’ll come back.”
“Dad, it’s not about the money. In fact, he says he doesn’t want his paycheck.”
Her father tilted his head back and let out his odd, dolphin-squeal laugh. “That’s good. I like him. I like him a lot. Tell him we’ll double his salary. Hell, what else does he want? A house? A motorcycle? Figure out some kind of signing bonus type thing, and throw that in too.”
The brioche dish arrived, fragrant steam pouring from the little vents in the pastry. Rachel pushed it away from her. “You don’t get it, Dad. He’s done with the bodyguard job.” He was also done with her, but she didn’t want to mention that. It was still too painful, and her father didn’t even know they’d ever been involved. Better to keep it that way.
“I’ll talk to him,” he said, arrogance pouring off him the way the steam rose from the brioche. “Don’t worry about it. You watch, I’ll have him back at work in no time.”
“What are you going to do, Dad, kidnap him? I told you, he’s not interested.”
“I won’t have to kidnap him. I have other ways.” He tucked into his brioche, his eyes flickering shut for a moment as the flavors hit him. Rob Kessler loved his food, though he was notoriously particular. He’d probably only have one or two bites. He went for a brief dose of flavor, then moved on to the next dish. He’d once explained to Rachel that he liked to be in control of the food and not allow its savoriness to defeat his own willpower.
Her father’s willpower was a force of nature.
As she watched him consume his few bites of brioche, Rachel imagined her father marching into Fred’s firehouse, or maybe his little house in the suburbs, prepared to use all his weapons to bend Fred to his will. Bribery would come first. Then a threat of some kind. Maybe he’d try to make Fred feel worthless, as if he needed to be in the Kessler orbit to have any future. Maybe he’d play on Fred’s fear of not being as important as his brothers. When her father wanted something, he was relentless. The only time he’d failed was during negotiations with her kidnapper.
She rose to her feet, rattling the plates and drawing attention from nearby tables. She didn’t care. Her message to her father was too important to deliver sitting down. “Dad, listen to me very carefully. Manipulating me is one thing. I let you because I love you and I don’t want to hurt you. But you cannot, absolutely cannot, bother Fred.”
Her father blinked once, then put down his fork, and waved for a waiter to remove his plate. “I manipulat
e you? And you ‘let me’? I don’t know what you’re getting at, but you’re out of line.”
“You know exactly what I’m saying. If you mess with Fred, I won’t go along with your rules anymore. I’ll leave that apartment. I’ll walk around without protection. I’ll do whatever I want.”
“You’d do that?” A low, dangerous hum vibrated in her father’s voice.
Even though her hands were sweating so much she had to grip them together behind her back, she held her father’s snake-charmer gaze. She couldn’t back down. Not now. If she gave so much as an inch, he’d take it. “I would. I don’t want to, because I know how much you’d worry. I know how hard it was when the kidnapper had me. But I can’t let you bother Fred Breen. It’s not fair to him. I don’t have a lot of leverage here, but I’ll use what I have.”
“Rachel, I appreciate your concern for Breen.” He paused as the waiter set another plate before him, some sort of baked fish, its dead eyeball staring up at the two of them. “But I think you’re bluffing. You’ve lived under my protection your whole life. You’ve never lacked for anything. You don’t know how to survive on your own. Why would you want to? Yes, you’re bluffing.”
“I’m not. I’m not bluffing.” But she was shaking. She willed herself to stop, so that her father didn’t think she was afraid. She’d never stood up to her father in such a decisive way. She’d fought to go to a regular college, she’d fought to start the Refuge. But each time the final decision had been up to him.
This time, it wasn’t up to him. She couldn’t let it be.
“How do I know you’re not bluffing?” Her father dug a fork in the breading that encased the fish. Juice leaked onto the plate. He tilted his head at her, as if she was providing welcome entertainment, almost as good as the fish.
“Do you love me, Dad?” she asked suddenly.
“Of course.” His black eyes flashed with outrage. “How can you ask that?”
“Then why aren’t you listening to me?” She heard the helplessness in her voice, fought against it. More than anything, she hated feeling helpless. That’s how she’d felt in the kidnapper’s cage. And she’d felt that way, to some degree, every day since her kidnapping. Every day that she’d allowed her life to be dictated by someone else.
The Night Belongs to Fireman Page 26
