Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) (2 page)

A blast of wind cut around the side of the engine and cut into Dale's bare neck, slicing into his skin. He hunched his shoulders then reached for the collar of his jacket, turning it up one-handed as he adjusted the pressure of the hose lines. Lights pierced the night around him, slicing through the darkness with a coldness of their own. The noise surrounding him was a crescendo of chaos: the loud rumble of engines, the shouts of the crews yelling back and forth, the squawk of radios filled with static and talk. Over it all was the deep roar of a dying fire, being held at bay and pushed back by the crews working to contain it.

Dale pressed the heel of one hand against his eye as he tried unsuccessfully to swallow a yawn. His jaw cracked, nothing more than a small pop that he felt rather than heard. An image of a warm bed in a dark room came to mind, more fantasy than anything else because the chances of them making it back to the station in time to get any sleep before their shift ended in a few hours was practically nonexistent.

Just another day at work.

At least this was better than a bullshit call, giving him something to do, something he could actually focus on. And it would be so much better if sleep wasn't dragging at him, clawing at him in silent demand. Just a few more hours and he could go home and crash in his own bed, undisturbed.

Yeah, probably not. Not with Smurfette blaring her music next door.

Maybe he could go to Lauren's. She'd be working, and her boyfriend, Kenny, was currently on the road. He was a defenseman with the Baltimore Banners, the city's professional ice hockey team. Lauren's place would be blissfully empty, blissfully silent. And he knew she wouldn't have a problem letting him crash for a few hours.

Except she'd probably want to know why and he didn't feel like explaining about Smurfette. Knowing Lauren, she'd make more out of it than it was.

"Here, you look like you could use this."

Dale turned away from the instrument panel and saw Dave Warren and Jimmy Hughes—the paramedics from his shift—standing behind him. Dave held out a Styrofoam cup and Dale took it, holding it to his mouth and taking a long swallow. Hi-test sludge, thick and strong and barely lukewarm. Exactly what he needed. He took another long swallow, frowning at Jimmy over the rim of the cup. The younger man was bundled up, with a wool hat pulled low over his eyes and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck under the bright turnout coat. Dale would have been embarrassed to wear anything that looked so shiny and new but what the hell. Jimmy was a paramedic, not a firefighter, so at least he had an excuse for being clean.

"Really Jimmy? It's not that cold."

"Speak for yourself. I just got back from Key West, I'm not used to this weather. Besides, I thought we were done with winter."

"Don't be such a girl. It's not even April yet, we could still get snow." Dave leaned against the side of the engine and took a sip of his own sludge, his dark eyes bright with amusement at Jimmy's groan.

Dale was inclined to agree with Jimmy's sentiment but he wouldn't admit it, not out loud, at least. Yes, it was late March. Yes, the weather could be fickle and they could still get snow. Just look at tonight, with the below-freezing temps and biting wind. That didn't mean Dale wanted the winter weather. He was as over it as everyone else, especially with everything that happened this winter.

Yeah, he definitely needed Spring. Warm weather, new beginnings. All that other sappy shit that came with it.

No. What he really needed was sleep. Uninterrupted sleep in silence. Maybe then he'd stop having thoughts of sappy shit.

"You look like hell. Everything okay?" Dave's voice was pitched low, loud enough to carry over the whine of the pump but not so loud that Jimmy could hear him. Dale glanced over at him and nodded.

"Yeah, just tired. I didn't get any sleep today. Yesterday. Whatever."

"You sure that's it?" Dave's dark eyes studied him, seeing too much. Of course he would. He had been there the day Lauren had been poisoned, had calmed both him and Kenny down while taking care of his sister, going with her to the hospital. He knew first-hand what had happened, had seen the drama unfold right before his eyes.

Had seen Dale break down and pretty much lose it in the ER once the reality of what his youngest sister had tried to do sunk in. He didn't need Dave digging deeper, asking too many questions, so he drained the cup and crushed it in his hand, not quite meeting the other man's gaze. "Yeah, that's it."

"Your neighbor from hell still giving you grief?" Jimmy slid a little closer, raising his voice to be heard. Dale gave a short laugh.

"You could say that."

"I don't understand why you don't just say something to the guy. He's obviously an ass. Once he—"

"
She
." Dale pushed the word through his clenched jaw. "The neighbor from hell is a
she
. I finally met her yesterday morning."

He was pretty sure Dave chuckled, the sound masked by a quick cough when Dale shot him a dirty look. Jimmy nudged closer, a stupid grin on his face.

"Well? Is she hot? Is that why you didn't get any sleep?"

"She's a Smurf."

"Uh…she's a what?"

"A Smurf. You know, those little blue things that live in the woods?"

"A Smurf?" Jimmy repeated the question, his face twisted in confusion. Dave leaned closer, the smile on his face growing.

"Yeah. A cartoon character. A movie featuring them came out a while back, I can't remember how long ago." Dave turned back to Dale, his dark brows raised in question. Or maybe amusement. "So your neighbor from hell is a short chubby blue cartoon character?"

Dale scowled then turned away, refusing to answer. How in the hell had this conversation started? He should have never even said anything to start with, he should have known better, especially with Jimmy.

"So why a Smurf?"

The question came from Dave, which surprised him. Usually it was Jimmy who kept harping on a subject, especially if it had anything to do with a member of the female population. Dave was the more serious one, dark and brooding. At least, he had been until about seven months ago, when he fell in love.

God save him from love-sick men. Dale hoped he never fell into that trap.

Dave nudged him from behind, letting him know he was waiting for an answer. Dale checked the gauges on the instrument panel then released a heavy sigh, his breath a frosty cloud wavering in front of him. "She was covered in blue paint, waving a stupid paintbrush in front of me while she yelled at me."

"She yelled at you?"

"Yeah. Called me a Neanderthal and a hairy gorilla with no manners." The corners of his mouth twitched at the memory, almost forming a smile. He quickly flattened his lips into a straight line.

"Why was she covered in paint?"

"Christ Jimmy, I don't know. I guess she was painting or something. I didn't ask."

"So that's why your neck is splattered in blue. I was wondering about that."

Dale looked over at Jimmy, frowning as his hand automatically went to his neck. All he felt was the rough collar of his turnout coat and under that, the softer material of the hood—which he was using to keep his neck warm instead of his head safe from fire.

Was he still splattered in paint? Probably. He tried to get most of it off when he showered before heading into work, only to realize it was oil-based and not latex. Scrubbing had worked—if that was what you wanted to call scrubbing off the top two layers of his skin.

"So is she hot?"

Dale turned back to Jimmy, scowling as a few choice words hovered on the edges of his mouth. He didn't get a chance to say anything because Dave pulled his partner away, telling him to leave it alone. That didn't stop Dave from tossing a knowing look at Dale, one he chose to ignore.

He spent the next hour by himself, surrounded by nothing more than the steady whine of the pumps and the clouds of his own frozen breath. His crew—Mikey, Jay, Adam—returned to the engine for a quick break, to swap out bottles and pull tools for salvage and overhaul. Their faces were smudged with soot, the odor of smoke clinging to them as they laughed and joked or tossed insults at one another.

And at him.

But they must have sensed his need to be alone, because except for the occasional insult, they let him be. And hell, did everyone know—or suspect—what was going on? Did they know he had too much on his mind, that he couldn't stop thinking about everything that had happened the last few months?

Yeah, obviously they did. Several of them had been there at the charity hockey game. Even if they weren't there, they knew what had happened. They were family, together for long hours, long days and nights. They knew each other, the good and the bad and even the ugly. Of course they knew.

But nobody bothered him, didn't force him to answer questions he didn't want to answer. Which suited him just fine, especially tonight.

Although he had been tempted when Mikey came up and offered him her axe, telling him they could switch positions and she'd look after the engine if he wanted to tear the shit out of something. How had she phrased it? Therapy. Yeah, it had been tempting. But not tonight. Tonight, he just wanted to stay by the engine, doing his job solo.

The solitude suited him fine, except for the direction his thoughts kept taking.

Lauren, so still and pale in a hospital bed, poisoned by their own younger sister.

Lindsay, spoiled and entitled even as she sat in jail, awaiting trial.

And a pair of ocean blue eyes, wide and deep enough to fall into.

Dale shook his head, dislodging the unwelcome image. Where in the hell had that even come from? From being tired, that had to be the only explanation. He couldn't imagine why else he'd be thinking about Smurfette's eyes.

Maybe he should find Mikey and take her up on her offer. Maybe a little physical exertion would do him good, wear him out to the point where he'd stop thinking, at least for a little while. Exhaustion did funny things to the mind. Why else would he be thinking about his neighbor from hell in ways he shouldn't be thinking about her?

No, it was definitely exhaustion. It had to be. And he latched onto that excuse, holding it tight, forcing himself to believe it.

Anticipation shimmered in the warm air of the upstairs office. The only sound was the rumble of the furnace, a muffled moan that came from somewhere below them in the ancient building. Maybe ancient was the wrong word. The building was just over a hundred years old, worn brick and plaster and rough beams giving it a charm that fairly screamed with atmosphere. It was a perfect building in a perfect location to house a trendy gallery that catered to the perfect people in the surrounding neighborhoods.

Melanie Reeves just wished it wasn't quite so warm.

She pushed the hair from her face and brought her thumb to her mouth, absently chewing on the ragged, stained cuticle. She realized what she was doing and pulled her hand away, curling it into a tight fist and letting it drop to her lap.

Maybe it wasn't the heat coming from the old furnace that caused a fine sheen of sweat to break out along her hairline and the back of her neck. Maybe it was nerves.

Melanie was always nervous when she brought her pieces in, waiting in silence, barely daring to breathe while Anna studied them with her discerning eye.

The silence stretched around them, stretching Melanie's nerves, stretching her patience. Anna James, the gallery owner, moved from one piece to another to another, the high heels of her designer shoes clicking against the polished planks of the wood floor. She paused at the center painting, her head tilted to the side as she studied it. She looked over at Melanie, her hazel eyes curious, then turned back to the painting. Long minutes went by before she moved to the third one, studied it for a few seconds, then went back to the middle one.

She hated it. Melanie could tell. And oh sweets, why had she brought that one with her? She should have left it at home. Should have just scrapped it and started over, pretended she had never painted it.

The colors were all wrong. Dark and light, negative energy fighting with positive in a battle of bold strokes and weak lines. And why, oh why, had she brought it with her?

She'd finished the painting in a day, a frenzy of action and anxiety and anger, aggression on canvas that was so unlike her. And it was all
his
fault. The Neanderthal from next door. She had been so upset, so…so…confused. No, that wasn't the right word. Dismayed? No, that wasn't the right word, either.

She hadn't been herself after their encounter. She'd been angry and upset and off-balance and intrigued and then even angrier because she'd been intrigued and then she had to stop what she was doing and take it out on her canvas and then…then…

Melanie took a deep breath and studied Anna as she studied the middle painting. The one
he
had made her paint. And why, oh why, had she brought it?

"I love this one." Anna stepped back and folded her arms across her thin narrow chest. The dark hair of her neatly trimmed bob swayed just the smallest bit as she nodded, agreeing with her decree. Melanie sat up a little straighter and tried not to frown.

"You do?"

"Absolutely, dear. It's dramatic. Vivacious. Very high energy."

"It is?"

"Absolutely." Anna finally turned toward her, those hazel eyes shining with shrewdness behind the narrow black-rimmed glasses. Melanie blinked and almost asked her if she was overdue for her optometrist appointment.

Anna was the best. Discerning, shrewd, well-connected—and always bringing in top dollar for her artists' work. At least, she used to be. Melanie suddenly worried that maybe she was losing her touch, especially if she liked that…that
thing
.

"It is?"

"You're repeating yourself, dear." Anna removed the glasses and closed the distance between them, lowering herself to the overstuffed chair next to Melanie. She reached out and took one of Melanie's hands in her own, her long narrow fingers cool and confident. "Stop doubting yourself. It's beautiful. It speaks to me like none of your other work has done."

Melanie slumped in the chair, the words deflating her with their implication. She was a fraud, she must be if—"

"Stop." Anna squeezed her hand, almost too hard. "They are all fantastic, as usual. All your work speaks to me, speaks to those who buy them. But this one—there is something very primitive, very earthy about this one. Very elemental."

"Elemental?"

"Yes, certainly. Do you have a name for it?"

Melanie opened her mouth, almost said she wanted to call it
Neanderthal Unearthed
, then quickly snapped her mouth closed. She shook her head. "No, I don't."

"Then we shall call it
Elemental
and I will charge an obscene amount for it. Or perhaps I will put it on auction."

"Auction? Really?" Melanie's hand automatically squeezed Anna's, an involuntary reaction. The gallery's auctions featured the best of the best, drawing in huge amounts for the featured artists. Melanie's work had never been in one of the auctions before. Not that she still didn't make a decent living but—an auction? Really?

She looked over at the painting, tilting her head to the side and trying to study it from a different perspective. Trying to see whatever it was Anna had seen. Bold strokes of vibrant reds and oranges filled the canvas, broken by slashes of sulfur yellow and smoky black, each color fighting for dominance. The painting was so different from her other works, which usually featured softer colors, softer lines. Pleasing and peaceful. This one was angry, confused.

It was how she had seen her neighbor. Angry, confused. Harsh and strong but hiding something, too. And she hadn't stopped to think, just stormed back to her apartment, set up a blank canvas, and practically threw the colors on it. Instinct and emotion, raw and blinding, had guided her hand.

Melanie tilted her head to the other side, still hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it was Anna saw. No matter how hard she looked, even if she squinted her eyes and scrunched her face, she couldn't see it. So what did that mean? If Melanie thought this particular work was awful but Anna loved it, what did that say about the works that Melanie loved but Anna only liked?

The breath hitched in her chest, cold and painful. Oh sweets, no. She was a fraud. That had to be it. If she didn't even like what Anna loved, that must mean she was a fraud. A fake. A failure.

"You must stop at once," Anna demanded, her voice cool and direct. She squeezed Melanie's hand then stood, her posture erect and regal as she stared down at Melanie. A determined expression ruled her smooth thin face, demanding that she obey immediately.

Melanie blinked, not even trying to hide her confusion. "Stop what?"

"Questioning yourself. Doubting yourself. Don't lie and tell me you're not, I can see it in those eyes of yours." She leaned down and grabbed Melanie's hand, urging her to her feet. "Now come. We'll drink some champagne and toast your latest works, and the money they will bring in.
All
of them."

Melanie didn't have any choice but to follow so she did, casting one last glance over her shoulder at the paintings leaning against the exposed brick wall. Anna tugged her hand once more, leading her into the back lounge area. She motioned to the sofa then moved to the glass-fronted refrigerator and pulled out one of the many bottles of champagne she kept there. Minutes later, Melanie was sitting next to Anna, toasting her new paintings and sipping champagne. She knew this was part of Anna's routine, a treasured repeating of actions and celebration. One Melanie had learned to dread, because this was usually when Anna asked about her inspiration for each painting.

And usually Melanie struggled with each answer. How could she answer, when she didn't know? The ideas just came to her, ethereal explosions of color in her mind that didn't completely take shape until she placed the brush to the canvas. They weren't conscious creations or ideas. They just
were
.

Her parents, each artists in their own right, completely understood. One or two of her friends mostly understood. Everyone else? No, not really. That included Anna. And how could Melanie explain something she didn't understand? Something she had merely accepted, like she accepted knowing how to breathe without thinking?

Except for this latest piece.
Neanderthal Unearthed
. No, that wasn't right. What had Anna called it?

Elemental
.

Melanie wasn't sure she agreed with the name, but she knew exactly what had inspired her to paint it. No, not what.
Who
.

Him
. Anger. Frustration. Irritation. He may have inspired it, but the emotions involved were all hers—including those unwelcome sparks of excitement and attraction and curiosity. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Melanie pushed the thoughts away and took a sip of the champagne, the bubbly liquid cold and sweet against her tongue. She looked over at Anna, studying her, wishing she could be more like her.

Anna wasn't ruled by her emotions. Anna didn't shy away from challenges. She was determined and sophisticated and savvy. Independent and controlled. She even looked the part, dressed in a chic feminine business suit that flattered her long legs and lean build. Melanie couldn't even guess how much the designer suit cost. Probably more than she could afford to spend—more than what she would even think about spending. Not that she really thought much about her wardrobe anyway.

Maybe she should reconsider. Anna always looked so put-together, so stylish and young even though she was in her late forties, at least twenty years older than Melanie's own twenty-six. But next to Anna, Melanie looked…frumpy. Scatterbrained. Frazzled.

And oh, for sweet's sake, why was she suddenly so worried about how she looked? She dressed for comfort in flowing skirts and loose tops when she was out, or in stained shirts and flowing skirts when she was home. Her only accessories were the crystal pendant hanging from the leather thong around her neck and the ever-present smears of paint. Always smears of paint, because she never quite remembered to clean all of it off and it never really mattered before.

Why did it matter now?

Her fingers tightened on the fragile stem of the glass and she took a deep breath, relaxing her grip, trying to relax herself. She knew why, and it was silly. So silly.

Because of
him
.

She wished she had never met him. Never gone next door, never saw him standing there in those loose pants and bare chest with his smooth glowing skin and rugged muscles and that ridiculous tattoo across his chest. Latin, of all things. He probably didn't even know what it meant.

Vini. Vidi. Vici.

A little thrill went through her as she wondered what, exactly, he had conquered. She shivered and quickly took another sip of champagne, hoping Anna hadn't noticed. The other woman was watching her, a patient expression on her smooth face, her head tilted slightly to the side. Waiting. Waiting for what, though?

Anna must have asked her a question, a question Melanie didn't hear because her thoughts had been scattered elsewhere. She cleared her throat and smiled at the older woman, hoping she would repeat the question without being asked.

Anna laughed, the sound low and smoky, then moved to sit behind her desk. "You must tell me, dear. What possessed you to paint something so different?"

Possessed
. Melanie wasn't sure what to make of that word, worried that it fit too well. "I just, um…my neighbor…I may have been a little angry when I painted it."

Anna laughed again then raised her glass in a small salute. "To your neighbor, then." She finished the champagne then placed the glass near the edge of her desk before pulling her planner close. Her long fingers flipped through the pages, lines creasing her otherwise smooth face. She stopped at one page, a thoughtful expression on her face, then shook her head and turned a few more of the colorful sheets. Her face cleared and she looked up with a satisfied smile.

"Six weeks!"

Melanie stared at her, not understanding. "For what?"

"I will schedule a special auction just for your works in six weeks. The middle of May. The anticipation will be fabulous. And that will give you time to paint at least one more. Two would be better, but yes, at least one more."

"One more what?"

"Of your fiery creations, dear. Yes, this will be perfect. I can see it now. The auction will be black-tie, of course. Surrounded in mystery. I'll have Carla begin the advertising and PR for it this week."

"But—"

"No buts." Anna stood and made her way over to Melanie, a bright smile on her face as she reached for her hands and pulled her to her feet. "I know you. Stop doubting yourself. Don't be afraid to let your inner turmoil show."

Inner turmoil? Good grief, is that what Anna saw in the painting? How could she see something so far from the truth, something that wasn't there? Melanie had to stop her, had to tell her she was wrong.

She didn't get the chance because Anna kept talking the entire time she led Melanie downstairs and over to the door, shooing her out with a quick kiss and instructions to go home and paint.

To tap her inner turmoil and set it free.