Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) (19 page)

Mikey leaned forward, frowning for a long minute where nobody said anything. Then she blew out a deep breath and sat back, watching him. "Do you think it was real? Her apology and all, I mean. Do you think she meant it?"

Dale hesitated before answering, not upset by the question. Why would he be, when that was how Lindsay had usually operated? Always sorry—until the next time. Always quick with an apology—as long as it got her what she wanted. They'd all been surprised that morning. Suspicious. Not quite ready to believe.

Dale closed his eyes, remembering the look on his sister's face. Remorse, honest and genuine. Nothing like her previous acts, where she did little more than pretend. "I think she meant it this time. No, I know she meant it."

Would she still mean it next month? Next year? Only time would be able to answer that but something told him she would.

"Maybe that means she's finally growing up. Taking responsibility." Mikey's voice was soft, thoughtful. Jay was more blunt. He snorted, shaking his head.

"Hell of a way to do it, if you ask me."

"No shit."

The four of them became quiet, the silence companionable. Demanding nothing, expecting nothing. Dale felt himself relax, for the first time in over a week. Maybe even longer.

Pete's voice came over the intercom, telling Jay he had a call on the station phone. He pushed to his feet and brushed off his backside, grumbling as he walked back into the station.

Dale heard Mikey laugh and looked over at her. "What's that all about?"

"He's getting suckered into working exchange time for one of the guys at Station One. Chippy."

"Oh shit. Why the hell would he do that? He knows better. Chippy never pays back."

"Because he wants to take Angie down to Key West and the only week she can get off any time soon is when we're working. The calendar's already full so…" She shrugged, her voice drifting off.

"What people won't do for love."

"And speaking of love—"

"No. Nope, I'm out of here." Adam stood, holding his hand out. "Give me my phone back so I can go disappear before you even start that conversation."

"Wimp." Mikey laughed but tossed him the phone. He caught it, almost fumbled it, saved it at the last minute before it hit the concrete.

"Yup."

Dale tried to stand, figuring he could make his own escape by following Adam. Mikey was too fast for him and grabbed his arm, pulling him back. She kept her hand on his shoulder, preventing another escape attempt.

"So what's going on with you and your Smurfette?"

"Her name is Melanie. And nothing."

Mikey sat back, her brows raised in surprise. Yeah, maybe he'd been a little short, his voice a little too harsh. He hadn't meant to be, but maybe she'd take the hint and leave it alone.

"I thought you guys were…you know."

"What? Sleeping together?"

"Among other things, yeah."

"Well we're not. Not anymore." And fuck, why did he have to add that last part? It wasn't Mikey's business. It wasn't anyone's business.

And maybe he was more upset about it then he realized.

Dale ran a hand through his hair and sighed, an apology hovering on his lips. He never got it out because Mikey kept talking, obviously not worried about an apology.

"So what happened?"

Dale hesitated, wondering if he could just blow her off. One glance at the determined expression on her face told him no. And she wasn't just determined—she was genuinely concerned. But why? It wasn't like she'd ever been curious about his love life before. Unless…

He leaned back, frowning. "Have you been talking to Lauren?"

A small smile teased the corners of her mouth and she shrugged. "Maybe. She's worried about you. Said you wouldn't tell her what was going on."

"Because there's nothing to tell. I thought we hit it off but I guess not."

"So what happened?"

"Christ. Are you always so fucking annoying?"

She laughed again, not fazed by his language or his question. "How long have you known me?"

Dale grumbled, her answer clear. He'd known her for quite a few years. Long enough to answer his own question. He watched her for a few more seconds then looked away, shaking his head.

"I'm not sure what happened. She just started acting like she wasn't interested." Right after her parents had come by that one day. He frowned again, thinking. Remembering back to the morning before Lindsay's court appearance, when she'd come out of her apartment to talk to him. To kiss him.

She'd completely surprised him, enough that he didn't know what to say or how to act. He'd been too preoccupied with everything going on with Lindsay, too bewildered by how Melanie had acted when her parents had been there.

And then he'd been too wrapped up in his own feelings about his sister—confusion, guilt, sorrow, loss. Yeah, so wrapped up he'd ended up going next door and using Smurfette to forget, to lose himself.

Yeah, he'd definitely done that alright. He was such an ass.

He needed to talk to her. At least long enough to apologize. Maybe she'd listen to him, or maybe she'd slam the door in his face. But he had to at least try.

He looked over at Mikey again, noticed the way she was watching him. Almost like she knew, like she could see every single thought he was having.

"I need to talk to her."

She raised her brows. "Talking is always a good thing."

"Yeah, it is." He gave her a quick side-arm hug then stood. "Thanks."

"Uh, yeah. No problem. Glad I could help." Was it his imagination, or did she actually looked confused? He couldn't tell, was getting ready to ask her when the alarm went off. They both froze, heads cocked to the side, listening to the dispatcher strike out a box. A second later, everyone erupted into action, running for the engine, everything else forgotten.

"You really are conflicted, aren't you sweetheart?"

Melanie paused, the brush held in mid-air, and glanced at her mother. She was standing at her side, her head tilted, studying the painting with an odd expression in her eyes. Melanie sighed and put the brush down.

"It's awful."

"No, sweetheart, it isn't. A different style, yes. But not awful." She stepped back and titled her head to the other side, a few strands of her wavy hair falling against her cheek. She brushed them away with an impatient flick of her hand then smiled. "I understand why Anna wants to include additional paintings in the auctions. These are very powerful. You've captured something very…primal. Primitive."

Melanie pursed her lips and squinted, tilting her head back and forth. She stepped back and did the same thing again then let out another sigh, long and loud and full of frustration.

"You mean basic." She grabbed a rag to wipe her hands, only partially aware that she was only succeeding in getting more paint all over herself. "Uninspired."

"Hardly. Your work has always invoked thoughts and emotions but this—" Her mom pointed at the canvas resting on the easel, then swept her hand to the side and pointed at the other two propped against the wall. "These are utterly breathtaking. The colors, the strokes, the technique. They're absolutely inspiring."

"Hm." Melanie spun away, tossing the rag onto the work table. She didn't want to look at the paintings any longer, couldn't stand to see them one more minute. Breathtaking? Inspired? No. They were more like angry splotches of emotion thrown onto a canvas, the strokes confusing and haphazard and making no sense at all.

What was the other word her mom had used? Conflicted. Yes, that word was more fitting. Everything was conflicted. Her thoughts, her feelings. Her painting. Conflicted was a perfect way to describe…everything.

All because of her neighbor. Her infuriating, hard-headed, stubborn, confusing, ingratiating neighbor.

Her soft-hearted, big-hearted, well-meaning, thoughtful, thoughtless, confusing neighbor. She didn't understand him. She didn't
want
to understand him.

And sweets, she was such a liar! Maybe she would never be able to understand him—he was man, after all—but she wanted to try. She wanted to hold him and comfort him and hit him upside the head with one of her equally-confusing paintings. How could one man create such a varying range of conflicting thoughts and emotions inside her? It didn't make sense. Nothing about him or the way he made her feel made sense.

"So how is Dale?"

Melanie jerked in surprise, her mother's question catching her off-guard. It shouldn't have, though. Her mother had always had an uncanny ability to read her thoughts and emotions, to know exactly what was going on inside Melanie. Mother's intuition or something more? She didn't know, had long-since given up trying to understand it.

"I don't know." The words were sharp, concise. She stepped around her mother and moved toward the kitchen, ignoring the knowing smile on her face. Ignoring her wouldn't work, though. Melanie knew that, knew her mother too well.

Just like her mother knew her too well.

She reached for the kettle and added water to it, then placed it on the stove to heat. Would her mother take the hint? No, she wouldn't. Melanie didn't expect her to, so she wasn't surprised when she followed her into the kitchen and pulled two teacups from the cabinet.

"And why is that, sweetheart?"

"Why is what?"

Her mom scooped some loose tea leaves into a tea ball then looked over at her, amusement and knowledge shining in her blue eyes. "I know you can sometimes be easily distracted, Melanie, but I also know when you're trying to avoid a subject. Now tell me, what's happened with you and Dale? He's such a nice man."

"Mom, how can you even say that? You only met him for a few hours."

"Because I can." She stepped forward and placed her slender hands on Melanie's shoulders, guiding her to the table. "Now sit. I'll finish making the tea, and you can tell me all about it."

Melanie propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her cupped hands. "I don't want to." Sweets, could she be any more pathetic? She sounded like a petulant, whiny child. Her mother laughed, the sound tinkling like fine crystal.

Melanie looked down, her gaze tracing the whimsical splashes of color that decorated the tablecloth. Bright pastels in gently swirling designs. Serene, soothing.

And boring. Oh so boring.

Is that what was wrong with her now? She used to love bright pastels, often used them in her paintings. But not recently, not since meeting Dale. Now her colors were bolder, more vibrant, daring and even edgy.

She had thought the change was because of him. Well, not
him
exactly. More like the frustration and confusion he caused her. But maybe it was something more than that. Maybe it was because she had been bored and never even knew it until she met him. Maybe she had been craving adventure and earth-shattering experiences all along and didn't realize it until she met him.

And maybe she was just being a teensy bit melodramatic—something else she had never really been until she met him. Well, mostly.

Her mother placed a steaming cup of tea in front of her then took the seat across from her, gently blowing on her own tea before taking a delicate sip. Melanie watched her, wishing she could be more like her mother. Confident, self-assured, comfortable with who she was.

She sighed then reached for her cup, taking a sip without really tasting it.

"I remember when I first met your father—"

Melanie stifled a groan, causing her mother to smile. That didn't stop her from the telling the story Melanie had heard so many other times before.

"I was so frazzled, studying for finals, worried about my next showing, worried about my trip to Europe. I wasn't paying attention to anything else, my mind everywhere except on where I was walking—"

"And you ran into Dad, almost knocked him over and fell madly in love right then and there." Melanie finished the story for her, then looked up in surprise when her mother laughed.

"Well, not exactly, no."

"But I thought that's what happened!"

Her mother shrugged, a teasing smile on her face. "I may have left out a few details before, sweetheart. But your father enjoys thinking I fell madly in love at first sight."

"You didn't?"

"Of course I did. I just didn't realize it at first."

Melanie sat back in her chair, the cup of tea forgotten in the confusion that ran through her. "I don't understand."

"Your father was so…different. And oh so confusing. Stubborn and funny and strong-willed and sweet. I didn't understand how he could have so many opposing personality traits."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Melanie mumbled. She caught her mother's knowing smile and quickly looked away.

"I was so conflicted and torn and completely beside myself, not knowing if I wanted to hit him or hug him. Laugh or cry or tear my hair out in frustration."

"You never told me this! I thought you met him, fell madly in love, and married two months later!"

"We did, sweetheart."

"But—everything you just said…that doesn't sound like love at first sight."

"Of course it does, sweetheart. And you know what?" She leaned forward and placed a hand over Melanie's arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Your father still makes me feel that way. And I'm certain if you asked him, he'd say the exact same thing. Love can be stable and calming and steady. But it should also be exciting and surprising and keep you always guessing and never be boring. And if you can find someone like that, someone who inspires and delights and doesn't let you settle, you should hold onto him."

"Mom, I don't love Dale. That's just…that's…I don't. I just don't. That's insane."

Her mom smiled again, a small knowing smile that brightened her eyes. "Is it, sweetheart?"

Melanie looked away, trying to ignore the way her heart pounded in her chest, the way her palms grew a little damp. "Yes. It is."

"Hm." Her mother took another sip of tea then placed her cup in the saucer, the sound of clinking china somehow ominous. Final. She pushed back from her chair and grabbed Melanie's arm, urging her to her feet.

"Mom—"

"Hush." Her mother kept her hand on Melanie's arm and led her back to the living room, over to the completed paintings propped against the wall. "Look at them, Melanie. Really look. What do you see?"

Melanie sighed, knowing her mother wouldn't release her until she looked. So she squinted her eyes and tilted her head and stared at the two canvases. "I see a mess."

Her mother sighed, a tinge of impatience in the sound. "Look again, Melanie. Really look and see what everyone else sees."

Melanie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then opened them and stared back at the canvases.

Bold strokes of scarlet and smoky tangerine and bright violet. Vivid streaks of azure and emerald and pineapple. Stronger swirls of clashing color and chaos at the bottom, coming together in a gentle compatibility at the top. Soothing. Hopeful. Reassuring.

She blinked then shook her head, disbelief filling her. No, she must be seeing things. Imagining things. Her mother had put the idea in her head, that was the only reason she could see something so different now.

But now that she could see it, she wondered. Were the paintings real? Was she only just now seeing what she had really felt when she painted them? How could she have been so foolishly blind and not noticed it before?

She stepped away and shook her head, then brushed a curl away from her face with an angry swipe of her hand. Something like desperation and sadness filled her. "But it doesn't matter."

"Why doesn't it matter, sweetheart?"

"Because he doesn't even like me!"

That made her mother pause. She turned to face Melanie and gently folded her arms in front of her. "And why do you think that?"

"Because—" Melanie stopped and cleared her throat. "I don't know why. I must have done something because he practically ran away when he was here the last time and I haven't seen him since."

"When was this, sweetheart?"

"Over a week ago. The day after…" Her voice trailed off and her brows snapped together. The day after he had the thing with his sister. She still didn't know what had happened, but she knew he had been upset. So terribly upset that she could feel his pain even through the walls separating their apartments. Dark, violent, consuming. And for a little while, while they had been together, his pain had eased. Disappeared.

And then something had happened, something that filled him with horror and disbelief and regret. And he'd left, practically running from her apartment.

But what had happened? She didn't know but it must have been something she did. What else could it have been?

She looked over, saw the concern and curiosity mingled in her mother's eyes. "The day after something happened with his sister. He was upset and we…talked…and then he left and I haven't seen him since."

Her mother smiled and Melanie looked away, wondering if she knew what
talked
really meant. Of course she did. Her mother knew everything.

"And when you
talked
, did he seem better?"

Melanie looked away, her face heating under her mother's knowing look. "I think so, yes."

"Then maybe you should speak to him. You won't know what's wrong unless you ask."

"But what if it turns out he really doesn't like me? Or if he thinks
talking
was a mistake?"

"Melanie, I'm almost positive that won't be the case. But you won't know until you ask, now will you?"

"But…I don't know if I can do that."

"Sweetheart, you can do whatever you want, if it's something you really want. Now, enough brooding. Let's get these paintings into the car so we can get them to the gallery." Her mother stepped away, leaving Melanie standing there with her mouth partially opened. How could she just change the subject like that? Not change it—drop it. Just stop talking and walk away! Didn't she know Melanie needed to talk? That she needed her mother's advice and help and support and…and…oh, sweets. Her mother had already given her the advice. Now it was up to Melanie to decide what to do.

She didn't know what she wanted to do. Well, she did. Maybe. No, she did. She just didn't know how to do it.

"Sweetheart, enough thinking. Help me with these."

Melanie stomped her foot in frustration, a silent scream burning in the back of her throat. She swallowed it then reached for the painting her mother was holding out to her. Her mom opened the door and Melanie moved through it, walking sideways so the frame wouldn't hit the doorway. She adjusted the painting, holding it up in front of her to kick the hem of her skirt out of the way. There, that was better. Now she wouldn't trip and fall down the stairs.

Although maybe she should just fall down. Maybe she'd hit her head and develop amnesia and forget all about Dale. As long as she didn't break her arm or hand, that would suit her just fine.