Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) (9 page)

Dale glanced at the score board, looking to see how much time remained. Ten minutes left in the third. If the last ten minutes were anything like the first fifty, it was going to feel like a very long, excruciating hour.

Not that the game was dragging. It wasn't. In fact, any other time, he'd be on his feet, pounding the glass, screaming and cheering with everyone else. They had prime seats, close to center ice right on the glass. It was a sell-out crowd and the Banners were on fire tonight, skating fast and shooting often. So was LA, which made the game even more exciting. Right now, the Banners were up by one, but that could change in a matter of seconds.

No, it wasn't the game that was dragging. It was the company around him that was making him miserable and wishing the night would end. He wasn't sure how Kenny had managed it but his shift had pretty much the entire front row—which was great for watching the game, but not so great for conversation unless you were talking to the person on either side of you. Adam sat to his left, alternately watching the game or doing something on his phone.

And Smurfette was on his right. Had that been Lauren's doing, or just a fluke? It didn't matter. And at the beginning of the night, that would have been exactly what he wanted. That had changed while they were in the VIP Lounge, when she had started talking to Jimmy.

When Jimmy had latched onto her, smiling and flirting and charming. It shouldn't matter, it shouldn't upset him.

But it did, and he didn't know why.

Bullshit. He knew exactly why. Jealousy. Pure and simple. And it pissed him off.

Smurfette had made it clear what she thought of him when she called him a barbarian. Had made it clear she wasn't interested in someone like him. It didn't matter that they had been flirting a little on the drive down. It didn't matter that she had blushed when he teased her about going on a date, or that he had been pretty sure she was open to the idea.

None of that mattered anymore, not when it was so obvious that she was flirting with Jimmy, falling for his charm. He wanted to tell her not to fall for it, to warn her that Jimmy flirted with anything that breathed.

Screw that. If she wanted to be one of Jimmy's conquests, then that was on her. She was an adult, she could make her own decisions.

That's what he kept telling himself. For some reason, he had trouble accepting it, no matter how many times he repeated it. It didn't help that he was pretty sure Smurfette was drunk. Not falling-down-drunk, not obnoxious-drunk. That would be too much to expect.

No, it was just his luck that Smurfette was a cute drunk. And she was a toucher.

Like right now. She was leaning to her right, away from him, giggling at something Jimmy was saying. But her left hand was hanging over the edge of her seat and brushing against his thigh. Or his arm. Once she had even grabbed his hand then had the nerve to turn and look at him in surprise, like he'd been the one to grab her hand instead of the other way around. And her left leg kept brushing against his, too, the material of her long skirt tangling around the hem of his jeans.

Dale was pretty certain she was the only person here wearing a long skirt.

He looked back at the ice, saw a knot of players barreling toward them as they chased the puck sliding along the boards. Bodies slammed against the glass in front of them, hitting hard enough that the panes shook. Cheers and yells erupted as the face of one of the LA players was flattened against the glass, held in place by Kenny.

Dale shifted, ready to jump to his feet with everyone else, when something dug into his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. He sucked in a breath and reached down for Smurfette's hand to remove it. Instead of letting him move her hand, her fingers curled around his, holding on. She turned toward him, her eyes wide with excitement and glazed with alcohol, a dazed smile on her face.

"That poor man!"

"No, he's from the other team. That was a good hit."

"It was?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Still. That poor man. I hope he's not hurt."

"Smurfette—" She wasn't listening anymore, at least not to him. She was leaning to the other side, a smile on her face as Jimmy said something to her.

But she was still holding his hand, her grip tighter than he expected. What the hell? He loosened his fingers and gave his hand a little shake. Her fingers tightened around his with a little squeeze.

He looked down at their joined hands, his dark, hers pale. Her fingers were slender but strong, the strength surprising. It shouldn't. This wasn't the first time she'd dug her fingers into him. Hadn't she'd done the same thing two weeks ago, when he had to get her down from the balcony? He remembered the feel of her hands twisting in his shirt, of her fingers digging into his back as they searched for a hold.

And shit, he didn't need to be remembering that right now. Didn't need to be remembering his body's reaction as he wondered what else those hands could do if she was beneath him, her legs wrapped around—

The horn blared and eighteen thousand people surged to their feet as the winning score flashed across the giant screen. The Banners had won.

And Smurfette was still holding his hand. Not just holding it. She was actually leaning against him, her soft curves pressed against his arm, her leg flush with his. But she was still talking to Jimmy. What the hell?

Dale leaned closer, torn between telling her to let go—or ramming his fist into Jimmy's face.

"Don't worry, Jimmy. You'll meet a nice girl before you know it, one who can appreciate your true depths." Smurfette reached out and patted him on the chest with her free hand. Jimmy laughed then leaned down and pressed a kiss against her forehead.

"I'll take your word for it, Mel." Jimmy looked over at Dale, smiled, then turned and started following everyone else out of the aisle. Dale stared after him, wondering if the shock he felt was clear on his face.

Mel?
Had he just called Smurfette
Mel?
What the hell? And they'd been talking about women? Had Smurfette been giving Jimmy relationship advice this whole time? No way. It wasn't possible. He looked down at the woman next to him, surprised that she had her tilted back, her eyes shining as she watched him. Her lips spread in a smile and she leaned forward and for one split-second Dale actually thought she was going to kiss him.

And then Adam nudged him from behind, throwing him off-balance. He caught himself at the last minute, bracing his free hand against the boards so he wouldn't fall on top of Smurfette. That didn't stop him from bumping into her, nearly knocking her over.

"Shit." He righted himself then put his hand on her shoulder, his eyes quickly scanning her to make sure she was okay. "Are you alright?"

"Of course silly." She laughed—giggled—then slipped her hand from his and made her way out of the aisle. Dale frowned then looked over his shoulder at Adam.

"What the hell was that for?"

"Sorry. The guy behind me was pushing." Adam jerked his thumb over his own shoulder, pointing at the people behind him. Dale shook his head then hurried to catch up with everyone else. He reached the end of the aisle just as Smurfette reached the first step. Her arm stretched out, her hand searching for the railing that ran down the middle of the steps. She missed the railing and nearly stumbled, her feet tangling in the hem of her skirts.

Dale grabbed her, his hands wrapping around her waist just before she fell. She laughed and tossed her head back, her body flush against his. Dale tried to readjust his hands as she moved and they slipped up, resting just under the swell of her breasts.

And shit. She wasn't wearing a bra.

"Oopsie." She laughed again and turned toward him, her arms resting on his shoulders, her body almost limp against his. "The railing moved."

"Yeah, I don't think so. Come on, let's go." He got her turned around so she was facing in the right direction, tried to get her to walk up the stairs. She swayed then looked down, a frown marring her face.

"The steps are moving, too." She giggled and grabbed the railing, her body swaying to the side, away from him. Dale reached for her, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her arm over his shoulders.

"Come on, Smurfette. Up you go."

"I am. You are. No, we are. Up. Right?"

Dale laughed, leading her. "Yeah. Up. There you go."

"Need a hand?"

Dale looked back at Adam, noticed the other man smiling. It wasn't funny. Or at least, it shouldn't be. Yeah, sure it wasn't. That was why Dale was having trouble not laughing himself.

"Just stay behind us and make sure she doesn't fall backward. Or that nobody bumps into us." There wasn't much chance of that, since they had been in the first row and everyone was ahead of them, crowding the steps to the concourse.

They reached the top of the steps a few minutes later, Smurfette clinging to him, a dreamy smile on her face as she hummed something under her breath. She kept swinging her arm back and forth, keeping time to whatever she was humming. Dale looked down then did a double-take. What the hell was that in her hands?

"Smurfette, why are you carrying your shoes?"

She stopped her humming and looked up at him, a slightly dazed look in her eyes. "Hm?"

"Your shoes. You need to put them back on."

"Oh. Okay." She dropped them to the floor then pulled up her skirt, baring shapely calves and the firm flesh of creamy thighs. Dale grabbed her hands, stopping her before she raised the skirt even more and gave everyone a show. A bigger show. The guys were already watching her as it was. He didn't want them seeing more than what they already had.

"Easy Smurfette. We don't need to know what color underwear you have on."

She stopped trying to shove her foot into the upside down sandal and looked up at him, her head tilted to the side. Then she smiled, her expression serene and comforting. "Don't worry, I won't. I'm not wearing any."

Conversation screeched to a halt. Dale knew that was impossible, knew he must only be imagining the heavy silence that surrounded them. They were standing by the wall of the concourse, surrounded by thousands of fans celebrating the winning game as they pushed their way to the exits. There had to be noise. Shouts and screams and laughter.

All Dale heard was silence.

He looked around, saw his coworkers standing in a semi-circle around them. Pete and Adam. Dave, Jay, Jimmy. Mikey and Lauren. All of them wore varying expressions, from amusement to interest to laughing disbelief. Dale swallowed his groan and leaned down to pick up the sandals, holding them in one hand as he grabbed hold of her arm to stop her from swaying.

She looked around, the serene smile fading from her face, replaced by a worried frown. She leaned in closer to him and placed her hand on his chest. "That wasn't the propri—appro—the right thing to say, was it? I'm sorry. I try not to do that but I don't always remember."

"No, don't worry about it. All good."

"Good." She smiled again then blinked, the blue of her eyes deepening, shining with humor. "I had fun. This was fun. You were fun."

"Uh, good. Glad to hear it." Dale chuckled then looked over at Lauren. "I don't think—"

"Yeah, I figured that. Do you need any help?"

"No, we're good. I'll get her home and get her to bed, let her sleep it off." Dale put his arm around Smurfette's waist, said goodbye to everyone, then led her through the concourse. No way was she in any shape to make it downstairs for the small tour Kenny had arranged.

At least she was a manageable happy drunk, smiling and humming as he belted her into the car and drove home. The humming became softer, more intermittent once they hit the expressway, finally fading as her head fell back against the seat.

Dale looked over, something soft and warm and protective going through him as he watched her. It didn't make sense. How could he go through such a wide range of emotions in such a short time? Amusement, attraction, anger, jealousy. Back to amusement, then surprise, and now this protectiveness. What was it about the woman snoring so softly next to him?

He didn't know. Hell, he didn't know if he wanted to know. It wasn't right, couldn't be normal. She was his neighbor-from-hell who listened to weird music and painted weird paintings and rambled when she talked. A fiery free-spirit who danced to drums only she could hear.

His Smurfette.

He parked the car in front of their building and shut the engine then looked over at her, just watching. Weak light filtered in through the windows, catching in her hair and turning it to the color of smoldering embers, dark fire. Her face was flawless, her skin clear. Was it as smooth as it looked? Would her skin be cool under the touch of his hand? Or would it be warm, hot, a reflection of the mass of fiery curls that tumbled around her face and shoulder and down her back?

The urge to touch her, to run his hand along her cheek, was strong. Strong enough to scare him, to make his hands tremble. How could she make him feel, just by being there next to him? Dangerous. Too dangerous. He bit back a curse and climbed out of the car, slamming the door harder than necessary. It didn't matter because she didn't move, not even when he opened her door and gently pushed her shoulder.