Fan the Flames (25 page)

Ian looked confused. “Okay.”

“She was really busy helping customers, but Callum was there.” Since she wasn't exactly sure how she'd managed to dump the entire mess in Callum's lap, she fumbled her words a bit. “He…uh, well, he had this
look
—not the scary one, but the calm, I-can-handle-anything one—and he asked if I was okay. Since I wasn't, I told him why.”

“And why weren't you okay?”

For some strange reason, it was so much easier to tell this to Callum. With Ian, the outcome seemed to matter so much more. “Because we argued. And you left.”

His expression unreadable, he watched her silently.

“And I didn't know if that was normal, or if it was a huge fight, or if we were broken up.”

That cracked his impassive look. “Do you want to break up?”

“No.” She frowned. “I really don't. I just don't know the rules.”

“We could add them on the whiteboard with the timeline.”

Shooting him an irritated look, she snapped, “Don't make fun of me. I know I'm stupid when it comes to this.” She waved a hand between the two of them. “Everything else has been easy for me—lessons and guns and drills—so I'm having a really hard time not knowing what to do. I feel dumb.”

A genuine smile curved his mouth as he took a step closer. Reaching out to touch her face, he tucked a loose strand of hair back under her hat. “You're not being dumb. You're actually being up-front and mature about this. I shouldn't have stormed out of there earlier. I was just”—the smile faded, and he blew out a hard breath—“frustrated.”

“Frustrated?”

He started to pace. “I'm not trying to take away your freedom. It's hard being here when I know you're home alone, when there's someone out there who wants to hurt you. Billy's pissed at you—and me—and he's a vengeful fu—guy. I love this job, but right now, all I can think is that I'm out helping strangers instead of protecting you. It makes me absolutely crazy sitting here, imagining your pretty head getting blown off by Billy's shotgun.”

Rory blinked. “I've trained all my life to deal with situations like that. Well, that and others, like a nuclear winter and deadly viruses and zombies. But you have to trust that I know how to handle myself.”

He took three quick strides until he was right in front of her, moving so fast that she jumped. Cupping her face in his hands, he said, “I know you can. But you can't win every fight. It takes just one bad day—one bad second—and then you're gone. I've been chasing you for years, and I've barely grabbed hold of you. I can't lose you now.”

Staring at him, mesmerized and terrified in equal parts by his words, by the intense, almost desperate look in his eyes, she opened her mouth. “So, we're not broken up.”

His hollow expression eased, and he gave a short laugh. “No. Definitely not.”

“Good.” The knots in her stomach eased for the first time since their argument. “Do you need me to stay here for your shift? So you can eat cake without imagining splatters of my brain matter?”

“No.” Leaning closer to her, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “But thank you for asking. You'd never be able to ignore the calls”—he kissed the other side of her lips—“and then you wouldn't get any sleep”—his mouth touched her upper lip—“and you'd be useless in the shop tomorrow.” He scraped his teeth gently over her bottom lip.

By this time, she wasn't comprehending any of the words that came out of his mouth. “Uh-huh,” she murmured blankly, staring at him. His brown eyes were so sweet and warm, and just wicked enough to put off any Bambi references. “Are we making up now?”

“Yeah.” His thick fringe of eyelashes lowered halfway as his gaze turned scalding. “We're definitely making up.” With that, he kissed her for real. This time it was even more explosive, even more consuming and addictive than before. His hands roamed, changing the feel of the kiss, like dialing the oven temperature from three-fifty to broil.

His fingers found her sides beneath her coat, and then one hand slipped behind her, running up the length of her spine and back down to the small of her back. His touch, even with several layers of fabric separating them, made her skin tingle. With a shiver, she tried to burrow closer.

Her own hands reached around him, gripping handfuls of his thermal shirt so she could tug him closer. With a groan she felt more than heard, he took the kiss deeper. He was getting rougher, nipping at her lips with enough force to sting. At first, she was a little startled, but each soft bite flared with heat, that tiny pain morphing into a sweet pleasure.

With a moan of her own, she closed her teeth on his bottom lip, hoping to give him the exact amount of pleasurable pressure he was giving her. When he sucked in a quick, startled breath and then attacked her mouth with renewed urgency, she was pretty sure she'd done it at least halfway right.

Her hands flattened so she could feel the contours of his back through his shirt. Although she knew he was muscled, the unyielding flesh beneath her palms surprised her just as it had the last time they'd done this. It was like caressing a marble statue—a warm, moving statue who could kiss
really
well.

Ian seemed to appreciate her tentative exploration, his breathing quickening and his kiss becoming almost frantic. His excitement made hers flame even higher, building with each touch and kiss and press of his body against hers. They were fully clothed, with their hands restricted to the PG zone, and even so, Ian was acting like this was the sexiest experience of his life. It truly
was
the most intense and wonderful thing to ever happen to her, and she didn't want to stop touching him.

Rory burrowed closer, seeking his heat and touch, even while mentally cursing all of their layers of clothes. She forgot where they were, forgot about the group of firefighters eating cake just a few rooms away, forgot everything except for Ian. As he dropped a line of biting kisses down the side of her neck and then back up again, she closed her eyes and groaned. The sheer carnality of the sound would have startled her if she hadn't been so caught up in Ian's spell. By the way he tightened his grip, her groan affected him too. With a pleasurable shiver, she tilted her head back so he'd have easier access to that spot under her ear—the place that was quickly becoming her favorite.

She didn't know how long they would have continued—or how far they would have gone—if the radio hooked to his belt hadn't blared. They both jumped and let out simultaneous disappointed groans.

“Of course,” he muttered, adjusting the volume on his portable as the tones sounded. “No calls when Junior was telling that stupid story about his friend's first visit to a strip club for the fortieth time. No calls when Soup was showing me how he could hang a spoon on his nose. But
now
, of course there's a call.”

“Can't everyone do the spoon-on-nose trick?” Rory asked, then quieted as the dispatcher's voice replaced the tones.

“We had a report of a structure fire on Goat Hill Road in Liverton. The caller believes the residence is occupied.”

They both froze.

“Goat Hill Road?” Rory repeated. “Isn't that where…?” She trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought. From the look on Ian's face, she didn't have to.

“Julius.” He whirled and ran for the door.

The patchy slick spots she'd dealt with driving to the station had worsened. Now, flakes thickened into an opaque, wind-blown sheet, and the entire surface of the highway was icy. Soup had taken one look at Ian's frantic face and shoved him into the center seat of the engine, taking over driving duties. Steve and Junior were following in the main tender, with Al far behind in the second tender, a slow beast of a truck. Al's voice was tense as he requested mutual aid from the surrounding districts. Although all of the neighboring fire departments were quick to offer help, their estimated arrival times were dismal, thanks to the weather and sheer distance.

“Ian,” the chief's voice barked over Fire's dedicated channel. “You are on support only on this call. You will not be entering the structure, do you copy?”

Ian didn't respond. Instead, he stared grimly through the windshield. Rory wasn't sure if he was oblivious to Early's words or if he wasn't going to promise the chief anything.

“Walsh, do you copy?” Early's voice was harsh.

Giving Ian's stonelike profile a glance, Soup reached for the radio mic. “He copies, Chief. We'll make sure he keeps his head.”

Ian didn't react outwardly to Soup's promise. Her insides churning with worry for Julius and Ian and all the firefighters about to pit themselves against a house fire, Rory tentatively reached for Ian's hand. She closed her fingers around his, anxiety gripping her when he remained unresponsive. Worried that she'd reacted wrongly—again—she was about to pull away when he caught her in an almost painful grip that contrasted with his expressionless face. Rory clutched his hand just as firmly, trying to put all her understanding and worry and desperate hope into that one squeeze. Neither of them let go until the engine was pulling up in front of Julius's house.

For an endless second, Rory stared. She'd expected the cartoon version of a house fire, with flames climbing the walls and leaping from the roof like a crown. This was darker, with only occasional red glows from the lower-level windows giving hints of the inferno inside. A movement by the garage caught her attention. As she turned her head, she saw Junior and Steve rushing to hook up hoses, and she was viscerally reminded of why they were there.

She scrambled out of the truck. By the time she'd rounded the front and rejoined Soup and Ian, both men had donned SCBA gear, and her heart tried to pound from her chest.

“Chief said you were supposed to stay out of there,” Rory yelled over the noise of the engine.

Ian looked at her, appearing calm. Only his eyes were frantic. “He's my dad, Ror.”

“What are you doing?” Steve demanded. Although Rory was sympathetic to Ian's need to help, a wave of relief crashed over her when she heard his implacable tone. He'd keep Ian from running into a burning building.

“He's going in.” Soup was the one who answered. “We can try to stop him, but it'll take at least four of us even to slow him down, and that's a fu—flipping waste of manpower, if you ask me. He's holding it together, right, Beauty?”

Ian gave a short nod, adjusting his mask. His hand trembled the tiniest bit, making Rory's breath catch.

Although Steve barely paused, it felt like forever before he blew out a hard breath. “Fine. But if you start losing it, you get out, got it? If you don't, you're putting your brothers' lives on the line.”

Holding Steve's gaze, Ian nodded.

“I need to hear it.”

“Yes sir. If I start to lose it, I'm out.”

“Okay. Go.”

As Ian grabbed the nozzle end of a hose and jogged toward the front entrance of the house, Rory stared after him, frozen.

“Rory!” Steve's bark made her jump, breaking her paralysis. “I need you on the pump controls with Junior.”

“Yes sir!” Once again, zombie training came to her rescue. If left alone, she would have stood uselessly, silently begging for Ian not to die—but with an order to follow, she could trust her instincts to carry her. She hurried over to climb the steps behind the cab to the top of the truck.

“Hey, Rory.” Junior gave her a hand up. Although he appeared calm at first glance, his face was flushed, and his eyes were wider than normal. Rory wasn't the only one feeling the rush of adrenaline. A clear cord snaked from the portable radio hooked on his coat to his earpiece. “Let's give these guys some water.”

Junior shouted out explanations each time he turned a knob or flicked a switch, but Rory found it almost impossible to concentrate. From their perch on top of the truck, she could see Ian opening the front door. Nearby windows lit with flames as oxygen rushed inside. For a bare second, Ian was silhouetted in the doorway before he stepped into the fire.

Rory must have made a noise, since Junior turned his attention from the controls to her.

“Beauty will be fine,” he said loudly, giving her a hearty pat on the back that nearly knocked her off the truck. “Soup, too. They're old hands at this.” Despite his words, Rory saw the sweat streaking from beneath his helmet, and vapor rising from his skin. It was too cold, and they were too far from the fire for it to be anything but nerves.

Forcing her gaze off the front of the burning house, Rory made herself pay attention to what Junior was telling her. It wasn't doing Ian any good for her to stare at the house, waiting with her heart squeezing painfully for him to reemerge. The best thing she could do was help on the outside. She had to trust that he knew his job and could take care of himself. Soup was with him, too, she remembered with a feeling of relief. Despite his joking manner, Soup would die for Ian.

Al arrived with the second tender, taking over scene command from Steve. The lieutenant paced, his gaze never leaving the burning structure as he spoke into his radio.

“This shows the pressure of the—” Junior broke off, jerking up his head to focus on the house.

“What? What's happening in there? Junior, tell me!” Rory demanded.

“It's fine.” His tight expression told her things were anything but fine. He went silent, obviously listening to the radio through his earpiece. Frustration and tightly restrained panic flared in Rory, and she balled her hands into fists.

“Junior, if you don't tell me what is going on in that house right this second, I'm going to go home, get one of my many guns, come back here, and
shoot you
. So start talking.”

He really focused on her for the first time since she'd joined him on the truck. “Whoa. You sound really serious about that.”

“I am.” She was shaking with nerves and aimless fury, her gaze shifting between Junior's wide eyes and the burning house holding Ian—
her
Ian. “Tell me what they're saying.”

“Uh…they're just at a…delicate point.”

“What does that mean?”

“The smoke's darkening, and they're seeing some ghosting on the ceiling.”

It was like he was speaking in another language. Rory wanted to scream, but forced herself to speak calmly. “Ghosting?”

“Isolated flames moving in the hot gas layer.”

“Junior.”

His mouth twisted unhappily. “It's a possible indication of impending flashover.”

“Flashover?” Although she didn't know what it meant, the word sounded scary.

“There's basically four stages of a fire. Flashover is when it goes from the growth stage to the fully developed stage really fast.”

She flinched. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is.” After pausing to listen to another radio transmission, he continued. “The burning gases can cause a lot of pressure, enough to blow out windows or doors—”

“Okay!” she interrupted. Now that she knew what was happening, each detail just fired her imagination. Rory pictured Ian's limp body flying through the air, wrapped in flames… With a hard shake of her head, she shut down the images. “Okay, so they just need to get Julius and get out of there quickly.”

“Right!” Junior's agreement came too quickly. “They'll be out of there in no time.”

The seconds ticked by, turning to minutes, and even Junior's stream of chatter slowed and eventually stopped. A furious-looking chief arrived and stomped over to talk with Al. Rory caught herself staring at the house again, gripping the metal bar in front of her so hard her fingers ached.

“How long can it take?” she finally burst out. “Julius never moves from that chair. How long can it take to get him and get out?”

“It's hard to see.” Junior stared toward the house, but his gaze was far away. “Even if you think you know where you're going, it's easy to get disoriented.”

Bolting to her feet, she stared at him in horror. “You think they're lost in there?”

“What? No! Of course not.” He looked at the controls and fiddled with a valve she was pretty sure didn't need fiddling with. “I'm just saying that they have to move slowly. That's all.”

“Rory!” Chief Early was gesturing for her. As she turned to climb off the truck, Junior bumped her arm lightly.

“He'll be fine, Rory. They both will.”

She studied his face for a moment, judging his sincerity. He looked more earnest than she'd ever seen him, so she gave a slow nod. “Thanks, Junior.”

As she hurried over to where the chief waited, her gaze kept getting drawn to the house. Even though Junior had retracted his words, they'd left a looping track in her brain. She kept picturing Ian lost in the fire, separated from Soup and the fire hose, wandering from room to room in the flames and smoke until the dreaded flashover blew him into oblivion.

“Sorenson!” bellowed Early, and Rory realized she'd stopped moving, her horrified gaze fixed on the house and her feet locked in place. She forced herself to move, dragging her eyes from the now-flaming front of Julius's home and focusing firmly on the chief.

“You okay?” he asked, his normally cheery face tight with concern.

“Fine.” It seemed crazy for him to be concerned about how she was doing when two of his men were inside a blazing house.

“You're not thinking of following him in there, are you?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Could I?”

“What? No!” His brow drew down in confusion. “You haven't been trained in SCBA, or even passed basic firefighter courses.”

“Then why are you suggesting it?” Frustration and frantic worry made her voice snappy.

“I'm not
suggesting
it, I'm saying—”

Both of their attentions were drawn by a shout from Junior, and their heads jerked around toward the fire. A form stumbled out of the front entrance, and Rory sucked in a breath and held it, her heart pounding in her ears. The dark shape wasn't quite right, though—it wasn't Ian. Then the form materialized, showing it wasn't one person or even two, but three. Ian and Soup were supporting a limp Julius between them.

All the tension leaked out of Rory's muscles. She felt like Mr. Hoppity would after all his stuffing was removed.

“Thank God,” Early muttered.

Rory would've echoed the sentiment if she'd been able to speak. As it was, she had a hard time not crying with sheer relief. She bit the inside of her lower lip until she tasted blood and the tears had been forced back to where they belonged.

With excellent timing, an ambulance pulled up behind the second tender. Soup and Ian changed course to haul Julius in that direction, and the EMTs jogged to meet them. Although Rory knew she should stay out of the way, she couldn't seem to stop herself from hurrying toward Ian.

By the time she reached him, they were loading Julius into the back of the ambulance.

“Ian!” She wanted so badly to throw herself at him, to wrap her arms around him and feel the steady beat of his heart. When he turned toward her, though, she jerked to a halt. His gear was blackened, and his face was streaked with soot where it hadn't been covered by the mask. His face was drawn, and he looked like a stranger—a stranger about to snap.

The ambulance turned, siren blaring and lights flashing, and headed toward the highway. It passed a car parked a block from them.

An oddly familiar-looking car.

Rory squinted to get a better look at the vehicle until an audible inhale from Ian snapped her back to the present situation. He was staring after the ambulance, looking lost.

“Aren't you going with him?” Rory asked. “What did they say? Will he be okay?”

“No.” His voice was calm—too calm. “I promised him I'd stay and try to save Mom's house.” As if he'd just remembered the burning building behind them, he turned and took a step toward it. He stumbled slightly, and Rory reached for him but pulled back before making contact.

“He was talking, then?” she asked carefully, watching to make sure he wasn't going to topple over.

“He tried a few times—he was in and out. We took too long to get him out because I couldn't find him. We had to look through the whole damn house before we tripped over him in the bedroom.”

“At least he finally got out of his chair.” She closed her eyes. Those had not been the right words. In fact, they were probably the furthest from the right words she could've managed.

Ian's sharp crack of laughter startled her into opening her eyes. “True.” The blank look melted away, leaving him looking scared. “Fuck, Ror. What if he dies? I lost my mom, lost the club… He's all I've got left.”

The fear in his face was flat-out wrong. She'd never seen Ian Walsh frightened—not driving in a blizzard on ice-slicked roads or facing armed burglars or running toward the scene of an accident. Rory was determined to take away that terror. She had no idea how to do it, but she'd get it done. Somehow.

Taking the tiny step forward required to bring their bodies into contact, she wrapped her arms around his middle. His coat was bulky, as was hers, and she felt like she was trying to hug Paul Bunyan. Despite that, she clung to him the best she could.