Fan the Flames (6 page)

Rory gaped at the other woman. “What? How did…? I can't believe…” With a groan, she tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “Is there any way you could use your powers of gossip for good and report back that there is nothing—I repeat, absolutely nothing—going on between me and Ian Walsh?”

“Well…” When Belly trailed off, Rory opened her eyes and looked at the coroner. “You could throw in the silver receiver for the price of the plain black one.”

Her eyes narrowing, Rory stared at Belly for several seconds. “Half.”

“Deal.” By the way Belly was grinning, she would've taken a quarter.

“For that,” Rory said, her voice stern, “you will quash all rumors about any type of relationship between me and Ian.”

“Got it.” With a businesslike nod, Belly reached a hand over the counter.

After shaking the other woman's hand firmly, Rory closed the coyote picture so she could pull up the special order form for the shotgun.

“So who's been tramping around here at night?” Belly asked.

Rory shrugged, her focus on the screen. “No idea. I was hoping to catch a shot of his face, but I got Wile E. Coyote instead.”

With a grunt, Belly digested that for a minute. “I don't know what this place is coming to. As soon as one woman kills off her stalker, another one appears. They're popping up like cockroaches.”

Rory gave an amused snort. “Mine hasn't done anything except set off alarms and put a dent in my front-gate lock. I don't think he qualifies as a stalker. Yet.”

“Must aggravate the hell out of you, though.”

“That he does.”

* * *

It must've been Ladies' Day at the gun shop, because her next customer was Louise Sparks. Although Rory had seen Lou in passing a few times—and she'd definitely heard the stories about Lou's stalker and her corpse discovery—they'd never really exchanged more than polite smiles.

“Callum is appalled,” Lou began as soon as she breezed through the front door, “that I don't own any firearms. Zero. Not even a starter's pistol or a squirt gun. He's decided to get me a gun for my birthday in April. I'm supposed to try out a bunch and let him know which one I like the best. It's kind of killing the surprise, but honestly, I didn't want to hear him whine about it anymore, so here I am.”

With a slow blink, Rory digested the load of information Lou had just dumped on her. “Okay. Have you ever shot a gun before?”

“Nope.”

“What are you planning on doing with it?” At Lou's confused shake of her head, Rory elaborated. “Target shooting, skeet shooting, hunting, home defense, keeping Callum in line?”

Lou laughed. “Definitely the last one. And I'm not really a hunter, so probably target shooting and home defense. Not to sound like an idiot, but I'm not sure what a skeet is.”

It was Rory's turn to laugh. “Shooting clay pigeons with a shotgun. It's fun, but if you're looking for home defense, I'd recommend a handgun instead of a long gun.”

Lou shrugged. “Fine with me. Small is good.”

The comment reminded Rory of Phil's girlfriend's insistence on a cute gun. She narrowed her eyes. “You don't want anything with crystals, do you?”

“God, no.” Lou cocked her head. “Do guns seriously come with crystals?”

“Not in my shop,” she said, and then gestured at the display cases. “Why don't you look around and let me know if anything catches your eye.” Rory had a few handguns in mind already, but she wanted to see which guns drew Lou to them.

Lou began to examine the contents of the cases, providing a running commentary of her impressions as she slowly walked the length of the counter. “That one has a real cowboy feel to it. Hmm…I don't like the look of that one. It's too short—squished, almost. You know, the ones with the wood and silver and all that are pretty, but I kind of like these plain black ones. It's like they're so badass, they don't need to be flashy.”

With a grin, Rory pulled out the Glock 21 Lou was eyeing and offered it to her, keeping the barrel pointed away from both of them. “Glocks are great guns. Really reliable. You picked a big one, though. This is a .45 caliber.”

“Is big bad?” Lou took the gun tentatively.

“Definitely not. You're going feel a bit more recoil, and the grip on this gun can be a little big for small hands. Plus, you're going to pay more for ammo.”

Lou turned the pistol in her hands, and Rory gently redirected it so the barrel once again pointed away from her.

“Never point a gun at anything you're not willing to destroy,” Rory said.

“Oh!” Lou stared wide-eyed at the Glock in her hands, her expression as horrified as if the gun had turned into a poisonous snake. “Sorry! I thought it wasn't loaded.”

“It's not. See?” The slide was locked open, and Rory pointed to the empty chamber. “You always want to treat every gun as if it
is
loaded, though. It's just good to get into the habit.”

“Right.” She let out a shaky breath. “Do I lose badass points if I admit that the thought of shooting a gun makes me nervous?”

“Of course not.” Rory picked out two more Glocks, a sub-compact and a full frame .40 caliber, as well as a Beretta M9 and a Ruger revolver. She packed each one into its case for the trip outside to her shooting range. “That'll go away with practice and familiarity. Spend some hours on the range, and you'll get to know your gun.”

“You're really comfortable with them,” Lou commented as she relinquished the G21 to Rory so she could place it in its case.

“I should be.” Rory focused on latching the case. “I grew up with guns. My parents had me target shooting before I could read.”

“That mental image is kind of freaky.” Although Lou laughed, her thoughtful gaze made Rory a little uncomfortable.

“Ready?” Rory asked, glad to change the subject.

Lou grimaced. “Yes?”

With a laugh, Rory handed her a stack of ammo boxes. Lou's eyes widened as she sagged under the unexpected weight. “You'll be great.”

* * *

“That was awesome!” Lou's cheeks and nose were pink with cold, but her grin was huge. Every third step or so, she skipped in excitement as they headed back to the shop after a half hour on the range. “I love shooting!”

“Great,” Rory said, although she winced at the volume of Lou's voice. “You can take off your ear protection now.”

“Right. Sorry. Hey, is that Ian?”

Rory's heart jumped as her head whipped around, and she immediately flushed at her reaction. If she kept acting like that, no amount of Belly's gossip control would quell the rumors about them.

Ian was indeed leaning his shoulder against the locked front door, next to the sign that read, “At the range—back soon.”

“Ian!” Lou called. “I've been shooting, and I was magnificent!”

Despite her agitation, Rory had to laugh. As different as they were, she couldn't help but like Lou.

Ian was grinning. “That's great, Lou.”

“I'm going to tell Callum to get me the big one for my birthday. The Glock…” She shot a look at Rory.

“Glock 21,” Rory filled in for her.

“Isn't that grip a little large for your hand?” Ian asked doubtfully.

“Are you saying I can't handle a big gun?” Lou demanded, but then laughed, ruining her show of indignation. “It felt good, actually.
Right.
”

“The Gen 4 grip is more manageable,” Rory added, feeling a little defensive at the criticism, which wasn't like her. She didn't know why she was surprised. Ian seemed to excel in bringing out odd and unexpected reactions from her.

He didn't respond but just stepped forward, taking the stack of gun cases from her arms. She felt as if she should protest, but then realized how much easier it was going to be to unlock the door with her hands free.

“Thanks,” she said instead, hurrying to shove the key in the lock. She refused to think about why her hands were trembling. The key finally turned, despite her nervous fingers, and she pulled open the door, holding it for Lou and Ian. Once inside, she shed her outerwear, tossing it into the back room to hang up later, and then busied herself with placing the guns back into the display.

“Shoot!” Lou said, and then laughed. “Get it? Shoot? Anyway, I have to run. If I'm late for work, Ivy will cut off my fingers and shove them into the coffee bean grinder.”

Rory blinked. “That was…vivid.”

“Sorry.” Lou was already at the door. “Thank you so much. This was amazing.”

“Glad you had fun.” By the time Rory had finished her sentence, the door was already closing behind Lou.

“I think you've created another gun nut,” Ian said as he circled around to her side of the counter.

“She did great.” Rory was placing the Ruger into the display and panicking a little. It was the last gun to put away, so she was actually going to have to look at Ian in just a minute. Keeping her eyes off him helped keep the butterflies and giddy feelings under control. “She's a natural. Once she had the feel of it and wasn't nervous about the upcoming bang, she got a nice, tight grouping on the target.” She laughed a little too loudly. “As soon as she tried that .45, she wanted nothing to do with the smaller calibers. She just said, ‘Go big or go home.'”

“Maybe she should've gotten a gun a few weeks ago when her stalker was a problem.”

“I don't know. She seemed to do just fine without it.” Her mouth twisted wryly as she put the last case away. Unable to delay the inevitable any longer, she perched a hip on her stool, half-sitting and half-leaning, and met Ian's gaze.

“True.” He eyed her closely. “You're looking better today.”

“I actually got some sleep last night.”

His brows rose. “Did the deer cameras work, then?”

“They worked fine,” Rory said with a grimace. “Or they would have if the guy had actually shown up. I did get a nice background wallpaper out of it, though.” She moved the mouse to wake up the computer, revealing the coyote.

Frowning, Ian drummed his fingers on the counter as he scowled at the photo. “This was the first time he didn't show in how many nights?”

“Four.”

“Huh.” The rhythmic noise was driving her crazy. Without thinking about it, she reached over and covered his hand with her own, stilling him. When the warmth of his skin seared her palm, she froze, realizing what she'd done. He flipped over his hand and laced their fingers together.

It was the first time she could remember that she'd ever held someone's hand. Usually, she was self-conscious about her blunt-cut nails and fingers stained with gun oil. In Ian's grip, however, her hand looked feminine, dainty even.

“We'd be good together, Ror,” he said quietly, in what she was starting to think of as his gentling-the-wild-Rory voice.

She swallowed, staring at their intertwined hands for several seconds before pulling away with a nervous jerk. The movement unbalanced her position on the stool, and she had to grab the counter to steady herself. She instantly missed the warmth of his hand.

“Uh…” she started, swallowing again. For some reason, her throat was really dry. “I…um, think he might have given up on breaking in here.”

He watched her for a long moment. Worried that he wasn't going to accept her panicked change of topic, she waited with a pounding heart. After what seemed like forever, he shifted back slightly and gave a skeptical grunt. “Who saw you setting up those deer cameras?”

“George Holloway,” she said after thinking for a moment. “That's it.”

“You mention what you were planning to anyone but me?” When she shook her head, his face darkened. He looked pissed…really pissed. “I'll be back.”

“Where are you going?” He didn't hear her, though, since he was stomping to the exit. After he slammed through it, the door settled back into its frame with a rattle. She stared at it for a long time, thinking about the feel of his hand on hers. That connection had felt nice—more than nice. Everything about Ian made her warm inside, from his protectiveness to the intense way he looked at her, as if she were the only person in his universe. It had been a long time since anyone had cared about her. As uncertain and ill-prepared as she was, it felt so very good to be seen.

When she finally tore her gaze from the closed door and returned to her paperwork, she was smiling.

The rest of the afternoon was quiet, so Rory had a chance to switch out the plastic safety button on Fire Chief Winston Early's Mossberg shotgun with a steel replacement. As usual, working on the gun soothed her, although she couldn't completely shut off her rambling thoughts. To her, the intruder's absence the past night was a good thing. She wasn't sure why it had provoked Ian's anger.

Once she was done with the replacement, she called Chief Early and left a message that his shotgun was ready to go. It was after four by then, and the shop was still dead. Rory eyed the pile of paperwork she hadn't quite managed to complete, but she knew she was too twitchy at the moment to concentrate. Anything she attempted to do would only need to be redone later.

She was dusting—not a great distraction, but it was something she couldn't really screw up—when Ian returned. Feeling the usual stomach lurch of excitement, Rory studied his face. Although he didn't look much happier than he had before he'd left, he did appear more controlled. She turned back to the display case and squirted the top with the vinegar and water mixture in her spray bottle.

“Did you accomplish what you set out to do?” she asked, wiping at the glass with her rag.

“No,” he grumped. Since she was standing on the other side of the counter, he took a seat on her usual stool by the cash register.

Wiping the glass with more force than was probably necessary, she tried to wait him out. After a solid minute of silence, she couldn't take it anymore. Dropping her spray bottle and rag onto the top of the display case, she demanded, “Well?”

“Well, what?” His hard expression had softened a little, and the corners of his mouth twitched.

Rory gave him her best glare. “Why'd you go storming out of here earlier, all mad and cryptic?”

That killed any amusement in his expression. “I had told Billy.”

“Told him what?”

“About the deer cameras. That I was going to stay with you if they didn't work.”

She looked at him for a few moments before her brain clicked into gear. “So you thought Billy was the one trying to break into the shop?”

Ian shook his head. “Not Billy. We were standing next to the bar in the clubhouse when we were talking about it, though. Some of the other guys were close enough to overhear.”

“So you think one of the Riders is my trespasser?”

“Maybe.” His frown deepened as he tapped his fingers on the newly cleaned counter. “They could've talked to someone else, too. They gossip worse than the guys at the station.”

“Seems to be a county-wide epidemic.” When he looked at her, she elaborated, “Gossiping.”

His laugh was gruff. “No kidding.”

“I comped Belly a hundred bucks to shut down the rumors about…” She belatedly closed her mouth when she realized what she was admitting.

“Rumors about…?” he echoed, cocking his head.

“Never mind.” There was no way to stop the heat from warming her cheeks. “So you went to the clubhouse this afternoon?”

This time, his chuckle was low and knowing. “I'll just have to guess what those rumors were, then. And, yeah. I talked to Billy, but he doesn't think any of our guys is the one who's been coming around here at night.”

“Do you? Suspect any of the Riders?”

That brought the return of his frown. “Not anyone in particular. I wondered if Zup was trying to get back at you for making him look like an idiot, but I doubt he could avoid getting caught four nights in a row. He'd be more likely to stick his stupid face right up to your gate and smile for the security camera.”

She laughed, and a snort escaped. “Oh, man. I can just imagine it.”

After his grin faded, he asked, “Do you have any idea who it might be? Anyone giving you trouble?”

Taking a moment to flip through her mental directory, she finally shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Rave's a little bitchy, and Zup is…well, Zup, but most of the Riders are polite and low-maintenance. They know what they want and how much they're willing to pay for it. Easy.” The Riders, as a whole, could also be very, very scary, but that was nothing new. Since she'd taken over the store, she'd regularly dealt with people who frightened her, and had gotten pretty good at hiding her reactions.

Ian glanced around the shop. “I can see the temptation. To stock an armory for the price of a pair of bolt cutters.”

With a scowl, Rory protested, “It's a little harder to get past my security than
that
.”

“I know.” He held his hands up, as if deflecting the heat from her glare. “And whoever's setting off your alarm is figuring that out, too.”

“But you don't think he's given up on the idea.”

“No.” He was once again leaving fingerprints on her freshly de-printed glass as he drummed his fingers slowly. “I don't.”

Crossing over to stand across the counter from him, she grabbed his offending hand. “I'm going to tell Ivy at The Coffee Spot to put
your
fingers in the grinder if you don't quit smudging my counter.”

As quickly as before, his hand flipped over and he captured hers. “Bloodthirsty.” Tugging her fingers toward him, he kissed the tips and released her hand. “I like it.”

“Uh…” Rory couldn't figure out why he had this kind of effect on her, that the simple touch of his lips to her fingertips could reduce her to a blathering idiot.

“Fire training's tonight at seven.”

She blinked at the non sequitur. “That's nice.”

“I'd like you to come.”

“No.” Rory was already shaking her head before he'd even finished his sentence.

“Why not?”

“I have to watch the shop.”

“You have the deer cameras, your regular security cameras, a big dog, four dead bolts on each door, and I saw at least three chains and padlocks on your gate. The only other thing you could do would be adding land mines and electrifying your fence.”

“I looked into the electric fence,” she admitted, a little wistfully. “The soil is too dry and rocky to get a good ground, though, at least for the voltage that would provide the greatest deterrent.”

He eyed her for a long second. “You didn't mention the land mines. I'm hoping that's because they're not even an option.”

“Of course I don't have land mines.” Rory examined her polish-free, close-trimmed fingernails.

“Ror…”

“No land mines.” Unable to hold his steady gaze, she stared at his shoulder. “Maybe a trip wire or two.”

“Hooked to what?”

“Nothing lethal,” she said defensively. “A couple CS gas grenades and some flashbangs.”

Although he sighed, Ian looked to be fighting a smile. “So you can come with me tonight then.”

She tried to hold her exasperated look, even though she wanted to laugh. “You are as tenacious as a badger.”

“Yup.” He stood up and stretched. “Lock up, and let's go.”

“I need to take care of the chickens.”

“So take care of the chickens, lock up, and
then
we'll go. If you get a move on, we'll have time to get some dinner.”

“Dinner?” She'd been moving toward the door, automatically obeying his authoritative tone, but the word brought her to a standstill. “So, is this a…date?”

“Of course not. It's training.”

“And dinner.” Rory eyed his innocent expression with suspicion.

“We both have to eat. Look at it more as a biological need than a social interaction.”

The term “biological need” did not soothe her ruffled nerves in the slightest. “This is a bad idea. Why do you want me to go to training, anyway?”

“You might find volunteering interesting.” His expression was ultrasincere, but she didn't trust his motives for a second. “We learn lots of fun stuff at training.”

“Uh-huh.” Eyes narrowed, she crossed her arms over her chest. “What's the real reason?”

His choirboy expression dropped away, and his frown returned. It was a relief to see that familiar scowl. “I don't want you here alone.”

“What about the locks and alarms and cameras?” she mocked. “Didn't you just talk about how safe it was?”

Ian leaned on the counter, adding forearm smudges to the fingerprints already there. “All this”—he jerked his chin, indicating the shop—“is replaceable. You're not. There are too many people who wouldn't hesitate to kill you for what's in your shop.”

“But if I'm here, pointing my Python at some intruder's face, neither this”—she swept a hand toward the shop's contents—“nor I need to be replaced.”

“Ror. Quit being stubborn and go do your chicken thing. I'm hungry.”

She didn't move at first, but she was hungry too, and she knew that Ian was not going to leave until she agreed to go with him. Plus, although she didn't want to admit it, a big part of her was thrilled at the thought of spending more time with Ian—though if she called it a date, even in her head, nervous excitement would short out her brain. But going to a restaurant with a good friend—that was something normal people did, wasn't it?

Taking a deep breath, she accepted that she was going to be eating a meal with Ian Walsh at a place that was not home. For tonight at least, she was going to be
normal
.

“Fine.” Pivoting toward the exit, she stomped outside. When the cold air hit her face, she realized she was just in jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt. Muttering to herself, she reentered the shop. As she hurried to the back room to get her coat, she tried her best to ignore Ian's smirk.

* * *

“Isn't the whole point of a motorcycle club to, you know, ride
motorcycles
?” Rory asked, eyeing Ian's SUV. The older Ford Bronco sat alone in the shop's parking lot.

Instead of taking offense, he gave an amused snort. “Out here, we get four months to ride, six if we're masochistic. Either way, March is not one of those months. I tried on that nice afternoon last week and ended up spending most of the day at an arson call in borrowed bunker gear.” He opened the passenger door and waited. Jack, the traitor, followed and sat on Ian's foot. Her dog, apparently, had a full-blown crush on the man. Honestly, Rory couldn't blame him.

“Um…I think I'll take my pickup.” Rory's nervous gaze darted toward the pole barn where her vehicle was stored. Ian had opened her door. That was intimidatingly date-like.

“Ror. Get in.”

With a last, longing look at the pole barn, she moved toward the Bronco's open door. She blamed her compliance on all the survival drills her parents had run. When Ian barked orders in that drill-sergeant tone, she had to obey, thanks to twenty-two years of her parents' conditioning. Rory ignored the tiny part of her that said she got in the SUV because she actually wanted to go on this not-date date.

After Rory climbed in, Jack put his front feet on the running board, prepared to jump into the SUV with her.

“Jack. Off.”

With flattened ears and a pathetic whine, he returned all four feet to the ground and slunk a few feet away from the Bronco. Ian closed her door and circled the truck.

Chewing her bottom lip, she looked at her unhappy dog. Jack wasn't used to being left at home without her, and his bewildered expression made her nerves return with a vengeance. What was she thinking? She needed to get her behind back to her bunker and cook the meatloaf she'd planned for tonight. There was hamburger thawing and everything.

“This isn't a good idea,” she said when Ian hopped into the driver's seat. Her right hand felt for the door handle.

“Yes, it is. We'll eat, maybe talk to another human being or two, see if you like fire training, and then head home. You might even have fun.” He cranked the engine. “Rory, don't even think about bailing.”

That stupid commanding tone worked its magic again, and her hand returned to her lap as he drove through the gate. When they came to a halt right outside the fence, she reached for the door handle again.

“I've got it,” Ian said, opening his door and jumping to the ground. “Do you have your keys?”

Patting her coat pocket, she felt the lumpy bulge of her key ring. “Yes.”

“Good.” He gave her a grin. “Be right back.”

The SUV was angled so she could watch him in her side-view mirror as he pulled the gates closed, then locked them with the multiple chains and padlocks. While he worked, the deer cameras flashed as they photographed him.

By the time he returned to the Bronco, he was scowling. “I hate those cameras,” he growled, releasing the brake. “They've completely fu—uh, messed up my night vision.”

“At least we know they're working.” Now that the gate was secured behind them and the option of running was, if not impossible, at least more inconvenient, Rory relaxed a little. “I might have a new picture to use as wallpaper for my computer, too.”

At Ian's grunt, she bit her lip to hide a smile.

* * *

They ended up at Levi's, as did most of Simpson's residents. There wasn't much choice, really, with most of the other restaurants closed until May. Rory made a beeline for an open booth in the back, grabbing the bench on the far side of the table so her back was to the wall.

“Shove over,” Ian grunted, trying to sit next to her. When she didn't budge, he used his body to slide her along the seat until she was wedged between the closed end of the booth and Ian's substantial bulk.

“What's wrong with that side?” she asked crankily, waving a hand at the empty seat across from them.

“I don't like to have my back to a crowd,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the small, but busy, restaurant.

“Me neither,” she admitted, shifting back and forth on the seat in an attempt to claim more room. It didn't work. All Rory managed to do was brush her hip against Ian's. Flushing, she tried to focus on her menu.