Hot for Fireman (28 page)

“But . . . what will you do now?”

“Get back to work.”

“You’re going to write up my confession? Take it to the arson squad or whatever? I don’t want to confess to the insurance guy.” She shuddered.

“I’m sure one confession will do,” he said as he sat down. “Maybe you should go tend to Ryan.”

Right. She’d stood up to Captain Brody, but the reminder of being turned away at the hospital punched the courage right out of her. “He won’t see me.”

She turned to go, shoulders drooping. Brody murmured something. She turned back. Brody, seated behind his desk again, no longer looked like the fearsome leader of men she’d stared down. Now he looked like a kind older cousin. The type you might have a crush on, if you weren’t already hopelessly in love with someone else.

“Give him a chance,” Brody repeated, louder this time. “He’s going through a lot right now. He probably feels like a failure.”

“A
failure
?” How could a hero feel like a failure?

“Firefighters are supposed to fight fires, not get caught in them without a cell phone and no way to escape.”

“You’re saying he should have put it out?”

“I’m saying he probably feels like he should have. The bar had fire extinguishers, right?”

“Yes, thanks to Ryan. I never bothered to check them until he came.”

“And yet none of them had been discharged.”

“So?”

“And why didn’t he call 911? He’s probably lying in that hospital bed second-guessing every move he made.”

Katie’s vision blurred. She no longer saw a kind older cousin when she looked at Brody. She saw a traitor. How could he say such things about Ryan?

She strode to the desk. “If he didn’t use the fire extinguishers, he had a good reason. If he didn’t call 911, there’s a good reason. Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe he was more concerned with rescuing your daughter than putting out the fire. I don’t know. You’re the expert, not me. All I know is”—she poked him in the shoulder for emphasis—“if you doubt Ryan Blake, you’re not the captain he thinks you are. And you don’t deserve to have him back.”

She’d never forget the look of shock on his stern face. Or the snort that followed her out the door.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

R
yan had heard it said that your life flashes before your eyes in the moment before you die. He wondered if he was experiencing a very long, extended death scene interrupted by doctors and nurses at regular intervals. In between medical visits, he kept reliving every fire he’d fought, every rescue he’d performed.

Dr. Kinder interrupted the Fillmore wildfire, in which he and Double D had worked forty-nine hours straight without sleeping. Ryan knew Dr. Kinder from past hospital stays. He’d endured several lectures about his daredevil ways. The nurses didn’t like Dr. K much. He had a bad habit of talking down to them, when he wasn’t making awkward advances. Logan Marquez had dated him a few times. The night Ryan and Logan hadn’t had sex, she’d fielded a few stalker-ish calls from the doc. Ryan had a feeling she’d used him as a convenient excuse to dump the man, which might explain the nasty expression on his face as he sat down next to Ryan’s bed.

“Well, Mr. Blake, it appears you’ve sustained some damage to your lungs, which is hardly surprising since you’ve never listened to any of my advice.” With a smugly triumphant expression, the doctor held up an X-ray that showed an array of white blobs. “Patchy infiltrates. High carboxihemoglobin.”

Ryan knew the lingo well enough. “Smoke inhalation?”

“No doubt. We see this often with fire victims.”

Fire victim
. Was he, Ryan Blake, a fire victim? That didn’t sit right. He was a fire conqueror, not a victim. “Well, how bad is it?”

“Hard to say. Bad enough so you should stay away from fires for a good long time.”

“So I’ll cut down on the camping trips. Sauté instead of grill.”

The doctor rattled the stiff paper of the X-ray for emphasis. “I would advise you to take some time off from your firefighting career.”

Ryan stared at Dr. Kinder, who was small and round as a potato bug. “I am taking time off.”

“More time. A lot more.” The man looked almost gleeful. “Things might be different without that uniform.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” Ryan drawled.

The potato bug cocked his little head. “Oh?”

“Yep. It’ll give me more time to concentrate on my boxing career.” With more energy than he’d had since the fire, Ryan sat up and hauled back his fist. The doctor scuttled his chair backward.

Ryan sank back against the pillow. Not that he would have actually hit the man, but he’d made his point.

“That’s not civilized behavior.” The doctor pointed the X-ray at him, the paper shaking in his pudgy hand. “You’re an animal.”

“And you’re a bug.”

“
What?
”

“Why don’t you treat the nurses like professionals?”

The man jumped to his feet. “You’ve . . . you’ve bewitched them.”

Ryan snorted at the absurdity of this conversation, in which they’d swung from the potential end of his firefighting career to accusations of witchcraft. The act of laughing drained him. Fatigue tugged at his eyelids.

“Want my secret?”

“What?” Frowning, the doctor fiddled with the pen in the pocket of his white coat, as if he might take notes.

“It’s a magic spell known as not being an ass.”

“You—”

Ryan longed to close his eyes, but he had to make sure the potato bug didn’t attack him first. For a doctor, he didn’t seem to have much concern for human life. Then again, Ryan wasn’t sure he had much concern for his own life at the moment.

“Leave my son the fuck alone.” A caustic voice interrupted whatever violence was about to occur.

Ryan dragged his eyes open to see, of all people, his father standing in the doorway. He leaned on his cane, his white hair practically flying off his head from fury.

“Lucky for you, I had to hand over my firearms to get into this place. But that don’t mean I can’t kill with my bare hands if anyone messes with me. Or him,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

The doctor looked like he might jump out the window. Instead he ignored Zeke and addressed Ryan. “If you have any sense, you’ll listen to what I’m saying. Do you want to have children? Do you want to see them grow up?” He rattled the X-ray again. “Patchy infiltrates don’t lie.”

He brushed past Zeke, who snarled at him but stepped aside to let him pass.

Then Zeke stumped to Ryan’s bedside.

“What are you doing here?” Ryan asked him. “It’s not your type of place. They have doctors and pharmaceuticals and insurance forms here. It’s like the heart of darkness of the health care system.”

“Don’t I know it. I can smell the evil.” One of Zeke’s nostrils curled.

“I think that’s antiseptic.” Ryan couldn’t help it. His eyes closed, and he might have fallen asleep for a microsecond. When he snapped himself awake, his father was settling into the armchair in the corner.

“You sleep.”

“You’re . . . thtaying?” His tongue seemed to already be asleep.

“Yepper. If you don’t mind. Someone’s got to stand guard in case that quack comes back.”

As sleep dragged him under, Ryan wondered if he minded or not. When had his father ever watched over him?

He didn’t mind that much, he realized, right before unconsciousness claimed him. In fact, he slept deeply for the first time in days.

Z
eke explained his presence when Ryan woke up. “Katie drove out to see me. Gave me a real lecture. Told me that you might be getting down on yourself, thinking you’re a failure, and if that was so, it would be my doing since I’d never given you the proper emotional support as a child. She’s got a tongue on her, that girl.”

“I’ve noticed.” But amazingly, his father didn’t seem put out.

“First I nearly tossed her ass out of the trailer.”

Ryan struggled into a sitting position, ready to let his father have it. But Zeke held up his hand.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t do her any harm. I like that girl. Straight talker. Cute as a button too.”

“Hope you didn’t tell her that,” muttered Ryan, wondering if maybe he was having a bizarre dream that just
felt
like waking up.

“She gave me something to bring you, too. Said you didn’t want to see her, but you might like this.” He reached into a brown paper bag under his arm and drew out a copy of
The Little Prince
. He laid it on the bed next to Ryan. “I remember how much you liked that book when you were a kid.”

The delicate, familiar drawing of the little prince on his surreal planet sparked such a flood of emotion that Ryan couldn’t speak. At all.

“So.” Zeke cleared his throat. “I’m here to give you some of that support she kept blabbing about. What do you need, boy?” He folded both hands on the head of his cane and looked at Ryan expectantly.

Ryan dragged his eyes away from the book. What the hell was Katie talking about? He didn’t need anything from his father. He never had. Except an exit door. Silence stretched between them. His father didn’t seem to mind. Zeke kept looking back at him, blue eyes peering from under crazy overgrown eyebrows.

It occurred to Ryan that he had his father’s eyes. Odd that he’d never thought about that before.

Zeke cleared his throat. “I knew this was stupid from the git-go. Waste of your time and mine. I told Katie—”

“Why’d my mother leave?” The words popped out before Ryan realized it. He hadn’t thought about his missing mother in years. Had he? Except . . . the question had come out. Just like that.

Zeke shook his head wryly. “Oh hell. You tryin’ to put me in a hospital bed too?”

“Forget it,” Ryan muttered, already regretting the question. Zeke had it right. This was stupid. What had Katie been thinking?

“Well, pick a reason. Top of the list, I drove her crazy.”

Good God, his father was actually answering a question, in a reasonable if rusty tone of voice. Once again, Ryan wondered if his coma was playing tricks on him.

“She was too young to be a mother. Only eighteen, you know. Very pretty. You get your looks from her. Some guy showed up claiming he could make her a model, and
whoosh
, she was gone. She came back to see you a few times.”

“She did?” Ryan had no memory of such a thing.

“Every time she’d have a breakdown and leave a nervous wreck. Sensitive girl. I guess she decided she couldn’t handle it anymore. She stopped coming.”

Ryan turned this over in his mind. “Did she become a model?”

“She did. Even had a bit part in some movies. Her pretty face pops up now and then. You could probably track her down if you go to Hollywood.”

“Wouldn’t want to cause a breakdown,” Ryan answered bitterly.

Zeke shrugged. Sugarcoating was not his style. “Anything else?”

“I guess it must have been hard for you, getting stuck with a baby.”

“Well.” Zeke gazed off into the far corner of the room. “You sure got in the way of my overthrowing of the United States government. Fact is, I might be in prison today if I hadn’t had a kid to take care of.”

Ryan gestured for his water cup. Zeke used his cane to push the swinging tray table closer. “Guess you owe me. Not to mention the entire U.S. government.”

Zeke chuckled. “Joke’s on me. I spit out a hardheaded kid and then got surprised when he wouldn’t do what I said.”

“Was I that bad?”

“Never knew how to handle you. Wild kid. Smarter than anyone knows. Yelling didn’t work. Whipping didn’t work. Finally I let you go and hoped you’d find your way.”

Well, he’d found it, all right. He’d met Captain Brody and become a firefighter. Fire Station 1 had become his new family. His home. His everything. And now he’d lost it all. Ryan turned his head away from his father, toward the beige wall, blank as his future.

Zeke used his cane to prod Ryan in the side.

“Jesus, Zeke. My ribs.”

“I never worried about you after you left.”

“That would explain why I never heard from you.”

“I never worried,” repeated Zeke, “because people always loved you. Before you were good-looking. Before you were a fireman. Before you were a hotshot. Before all of that—and I bet I’m the only one who can tell you this—you were the sweetest child anyone ever saw. Always hugging on me. A little love bug, that’s what you were. I don’t know where you got it, ’cause I’m a mean old son of a bitch. But that’s how you were. Until you started hating me. Didn’t surprise me when you became a firefighter. Saving lives. Perfect fit.”

“That’s not . . .” Ryan’s throat worked. Why was his father saying these things? Nice things. He wasn’t going to cry. No fucking way. “That’s not why I became a fireman. I liked the rush. The adrenaline. Being the hero. Besides, I was good at it. Don’t make me out like a saint or something, that’s crap.”

Zeke got up and stomped to the door. “Hell no, you’re no saint. You do stupid shit. Take dumb risks. I’ve heard some stories. But you’re still my little boy with the heart as big as California.”

“Where are you going?”

“This place is giving me the heebies. ’Fraid if I stay much longer the chemicals they pump into the air will brainwash me.”

“Well, thanks for coming, Zeke.”

“If there’s thanks to be said, it’s to Katie. Talk about a love bug. Two of a kind, you are.” And he was gone, the crooked rhythm of his footsteps and cane echoing down the hall.

Ryan lay flat on his back, staring at the acoustic ceiling tiles until the little black dots did a tarantella across his vision. It was a lot to process.
His mother . . . Hollywood . . . overthrowing government . . . love bug . . .
And then there were Dr. Kinder’s words.
Do you want to have children? Do you want to watch them grow up?
In all the swirling thoughts, one stood out.
Before you were good-looking, before you were a fireman, before you were a hotshot.
He’d forgotten about “before.” He’d forgotten there had ever existed a Ryan who didn’t fight fires.

And yet, the last year and a half, he hadn’t gone near a fire. Well, until they started reappearing in his life, thanks to Katie. And those fires didn’t have anything to do with a “rush.” All he’d wanted was to protect Katie.

He fingered the book she’d sent. When he flipped the cover, it fell open to chapter ten. The part with the king. He read the words under his breath.

“. . . It is much more difficult to judge oneself than to judge others.”

He groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. Too much thinking.

Or maybe not enough thinking.

The hell if he could decide which.

B
ridget wore her step class teaching outfit, black and sapphire spandex, for the occasion of her confrontation with Doug. It brought out her dominatrix side—never too far from the surface in any case. She only wished she had a whip.

“I gave you lots of chances, you worm.” She added the mental
whoosh
of a whiplash. Doug cowered on the bar stool where she’d found him, at T.G.I. Friday’s, of all places. Guys up and down the bar kept checking her out, as well they should. “I kept inviting you to our family gatherings. I let you hang out with my friends. I took your side when Katie dumped you.”

“I-I never had any problem with you,” Doug ventured, hopefully.

“Well, now you do. Katie’s covering for you, like she always has. Do you want Katie to go to jail for something you did?”

Doug turned white. “Jail?” Bridget would have felt sorry for him if she hadn’t known he was more worried about his own future behind bars.

“I knew Katie was acting funny. Even for her. Now she’s planning to take the blame for burning down the bar.”

It had taken quite a while to pry that information out of Katie. Bridget had vowed not to tell their parents yet, but she hadn’t promised anything about not killing Doug.

“I’m sorry, Doug, but I cannot allow my sister to take the blame for your asshole-ness.”

“But . . . you don’t even like Katie.” With a smirk, Doug leaned an elbow back on the bar, nearly knocking over his basket of potato skins.

“Wrong. I love Katie. It’s annoying when she doesn’t do what I say, that’s all. She doesn’t want to be my mini-me, and that’s a crushing disappointment. But she doesn’t deserve to go to jail.” Bridget sighed deeply. Every second she spent with Doug made her more aware of the apology she owed Katie for not supporting the breakup. Maybe this would make them even.