Seeing Red (3 page)

“Chief says he spoke to both in the middle of the night when the fire was still raging. They mentioned they have a vagrant who sometimes sleeps here. The old guy’s been known to leave odd things, or to try to start a campfire. Camille Abrams was reportedly pretty shook up, and didn’t stay long. But I’m surprised she hasn’t made another appearance in the light of day.”

Joe knew exactly why Camille had been shaken up, and why she hadn’t made another appearance. She’d lost her husband here. With a heavy heart, he took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the number listed. She answered on the first ring. “Mrs. Abrams, this is—”

“Is this about the warehouse?” She sounded anxious. “Did you find my cat? She was there with me last night and then vanished, and finally I had to leave without her, but I’ve been worried sick—”

“I have Socks.”

“Oh, thank God. How’d you know her name?”

“I’m Joe Walker, Mrs. Abrams. Do you remember me?”

“Joe Walker…”

“I lived next door to you growing up.”

Silence.

He could have asked her if she remembered him sneaking into Summer’s window to escape his father’s fists. On the worst nights, Camille had brought him homemade healing tea and toast with cinnamon and extra butter. His first experience with basic kindness from a woman, and his first comfort food.

“Joe Walker?” she repeated softly.

“I’m a fire marshal now,” he told her. “I’m at your warehouse. With Socks.” If she gave any indication she found this as unsettling as he did, she gave nothing away. “The cat’s safe in my rig, though she appears to have a cut on her face. Your building—”

“I’ll have to get her to the vet.”

“Yes. Your warehouse—”

“I know. It burned again.” Her voice quivered, giving her away. So she did remember. “No one died this time.”

“No, ma’am,” he said gently, wishing he’d taken a seat to make this call because his legs felt a little wobbly. Whether from his own close call or the memories, he had no idea.

“Thank you, Joe.”

He hadn’t done much, but he wished he could. “Mrs. Abrams—”

She clicked off.

He stared down at the phone. “Yeah, and how are you? Me? Oh, I’m good. And Summer?
Jesus.
” The ball of memories lodged in his throat, he shook his head. “You fool.”

“So, fool. Who’s Summer?” Kenny handed over a first-aid kit, presumably for the scratches burning a slow path of fire down his chest.

“No one.”

Kenny eyed him thoughtfully. He was nine years older than Joe’s thirty, and he believed those years gave him license to know everything. They’d been partners for two years, and had grown close as brothers. Bickering brothers. That suited Joe fine, as he’d never had a smooth relationship in his life, starting with Summer. He rubbed his chest, not sure if it was the scratches or his heart that ached like a son of a bitch.

“You okay?” Kenny finally asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You look pale. Want to sit?”

“Do
you
?”

“I’m not pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Kenny said, sounding unconvinced.

“I
am.
”

“Whatever you say.”

A car pulled into the parking lot. A bright blue VW Bug with the windows down and U2 blaring out of the speakers. When the engine turned off, silence descended everywhere but within Joe, because he knew.

His heart took off again, just as Summer got out of her car. He’d heard about her career leading rafting, hiking, and biking treks all over the world for some big expedition company, but he hadn’t heard she was back. Why would he? He no longer lived next door to her mother’s house, and she’d never sought him out.

She stood there by the Bug, eyes covered in mirrored shades, head turned toward the warehouse. Twelve years ago she’d been a beanpole, long and too thin, with waist-length auburn hair Joe had thought looked like pure fire.

Now she wore some sort of gauzy sundress that clung to her body, still long and lean, but graced with the curves of a full-grown woman. Her hair was reined in. Sort of. It was piled on top of her head in a careless, precarious knot with strands escaping to brush over her bronzed shoulders. The eyes he knew to be a soft, dreamy jade were hidden, but seemed to take everything in with disbelief, and even from his distance of twenty-five feet, he could see her breath catch.

Was she remembering the last time she’d been here? The smoke and flames and sirens wailing in the distance, in tune to her own screams?

She turned and unerringly caught his eye, and her sorrow shimmied through him so that he nearly staggered. He actually took a step toward her, with some idea of trying to comfort her, but a polite smile crossed her lips.

And if he’d thought Socks’s scratches had dug deep, it was nothing to this.

She didn’t recognize him.

Jesus,
what a day. It wasn’t often he felt eighteen again, leaving him stupid, pathetic, and yearning for a doughnut, but she’d done it to him in a blink.

“Who’s that?” Kenny wanted to know.

“Summer.”

“Summer, the No One?”

“In the flesh.”

At his flat tone, Kenny looked at him. “You know her.”

“She’s related to the owners.”

“But you
know
her.”

“We grew up next door to each other,” Joe said.

“Ah. She’s the one you were in love with. The one who loved you back but only as a friend.”

Joe shot him a long sideways look and shook his head. “Thanks for the recap.”

Kenny placed a hand on his shoulder. “No problem, buddy.”

Having clearly decided the two of them were the closest authority figures, Summer shut her car door and started toward them, marching into Joe’s world the way she’d once marched out of it; like a wild, magnificent, deadly twister, leaving awe and destruction in her wake. Her hips swung, the soft material of her sundress molding to her thighs and legs, her breasts.

Joe let out a grim smile as his heart skipped a beat, then turned his back, the burning scratches providing a welcome distraction. “I don’t want to do this. Not now.”

“I’ll see what she needs,” Kenny said.

Joe nodded gratefully, and Kenny moved to head her off at the pass.

Joe got into the MAST truck, and while stripping out of the coveralls, glanced at an equally miserable cat.

Socks hissed.

Joe sighed. “Yeah. I know just how you feel.”

L
ife was short, so grab it by the balls and run.

This was Summer Abrams’s motto. As a result, she’d scaled mountains, traversed canyons, and kayaked down rapids not meant for humans.

She’d survived it all, and more.

But standing right here in the spot where her world had once fallen apart just might kill her. At the sight of the charred building, the confusing circle of fire vehicles, firefighters and cops milling around, her breathing quickened. Number one warning sign of a pending panic attack. She couldn’t control it, being here brought her back.

She could only imagine how her mother must have felt standing in this very spot. Once upon a time, Camille and Tim Abrams had been everything to each other, sharing an all-inclusive love that had begun when they’d been still in school. Their bond hadn’t required a child, but Summer had come along anyway, when Camille had been only eighteen. She and Tim had accepted their fate, arranged a quickie marriage on a beach in Mexico, and for the next sixteen years, life had been bliss for them, pure bliss.

Until the first warehouse fire.

Summer knew her mother still missed her father, so much so that she’d never really invested herself emotionally again. There’d been men, but nothing deep, nothing emotional, a phenomenon that included the relationship she had with her own daughter.

Summer knew she couldn’t have prevented what had happened that long ago day, no one could have, but she still felt responsible. If only she and Joe had gone inside the warehouse sooner, if they’d only smelled the smoke earlier, if only…

So many
if onlys.

Her chest tightened with anxiety.
Second warning sign.
She breathed through it because she would absolutely not have a panic attack now. She hadn’t had one in years. Of course she hadn’t come back to this very spot either, but she could do this.

To prove it, she smiled with remarkable calm at the firefighter approaching her. He was covered in a fine layer of dust so that she couldn’t tell if his hair was blond or gray, but oddly enough his face was perfectly clean. He wore black-rimmed glasses that magnified his light blue eyes and friendly smile. She let go of the lucky crystal in her pocket and held out her hand. “I’m Summer Abrams, the daughter of one of the owners of this property.”

“Kenny Simmons, fire marshal, from the Metro Arson Strike Team.” He pushed up his glasses. “I’m sorry for the loss.”

“It’s a total goner then?”

“Most likely. We’ll know in a little bit.”

Her stomach sank to join her heart at her toes. She felt sick for her mother and her aunt. Unable to tear her gaze from where the roof had collapsed, she kept seeing the original warehouse as it had stood twelve years before. Hearing her own screams, inhaling the smoke—

That was all she had, all she could pull out of her memory. The rest was blank, like an unpainted canvas. She’d lost it all when she’d been hit by the falling debris, then trapped there. She didn’t remember getting out, she remembered nothing beyond that first lick of fear at the top of the stairs.

She put a hand to her chest, as if she could pump her own air into her deflated lungs, but she couldn’t. Damn it, this always happened when she thought about the fire, or was enclosed in a crowded space. There were too many people around here, standing too close—

The fire marshal’s brow furrowed in concern as he moved in closer. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No, really. I’m good.” She straightened her shoulders and sent him the I’m-in-charge smile, the same one that allowed her to run crews on some of the fastest rivers and steepest mountains in the world with unquestionable authority.

What she wouldn’t give to be on a trip right now, out in the wilderness, with only a handful of people around. In her element. In control. Where life was lived in the moment, with no time for thoughts of the past, and no need for thoughts of the future.

Life was too short for either. “My mother said you found her cat.”

“We did. Feisty thing too. She’s over there, in that truck. I’ll go get her—”

“Oh, no, that’s okay, I can do it.” Needing to keep moving, needing to get away from here, she waved her thanks over her shoulder and walked toward the truck to which he’d pointed. The driver’s door was open, so she came around and peeked in, and
hello,
found another fire official. This one sat behind the wheel, shirtless, his coveralls shoved low on his hips, holes torn in each knee, a tube of antiseptic in one hand and a fistful of Band-Aids in the other, eyeing Socks with a healthy mistrust.

From her perch on the passenger seat, Socks eyed him back.

Then the man craned his neck toward Summer and said the oddest thing. “Are you okay?” he asked in an intimately low voice, suggesting such intimacy and familiarity that she blinked. “Sure,” she said, and shrugged.

He just watched her. She couldn’t help but watch him back. He was filthy, but he had an extremely nice chest. Sinewy, tanned, with a spattering of hair from pec to pec that wasn’t too light, wasn’t too thick, but juuuust right. The Goldilocks in her wanted to smile. After all, she loved men, all shapes and sizes, but this man…yum.

Unfortunately, all that extremely decent male flesh also sported a series of deep, nasty-looking scratches that appeared to be Socks’s doing. “Ouch,” she said in sympathy.

His light, light brown eyes, with the impossibly long, dark lashes met hers with…amused cynicism?

She went still. Wait.
Wait.
She knew that slashing scar above his eyebrow. She knew that dimple on the right side of his mouth. She knew that wry, slow smile, it had always made her day. “Oh my God.
No.
”

He just kept looking at her.

She took closer stock. Shaggy sun-kissed brown hair, still apparently untamable in thick waves framing his face. Light stubble over his lean jaw—
lean
jaw.
That’s
what was so different, besides the years that had turned him from boy to man.

He’d lost his softness, every single bit of it, coming out with a rangy, leanly muscled build that spoke of long days in physical labor. He looked liked he’d lived each of the twelve years that had passed, every single one of them, well and hard. There were fine laugh lines fanning out from his eyes, and laugh lines around his mouth too. The thought made her heart leap. He’d smiled, laughed, and often.
Oh I’m so glad,
she thought, and felt the grin split her face. “Joe Walker.”

“So you do remember.”

“Of course I do.” She laughed, because just looking at him made her feel young and carefree, but the smile faded away when he didn’t do the same. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

“In the flesh.” Twisting around, he reached for a dark blue T-shirt hanging over the back of the passenger seat.

“Don’t you want to treat the scratches first?” she asked.

“Later.”

“But—” She thought of the herbal cream she always carried for blisters, cuts, and any other nasty surprises she encountered on a regular basis out on a trek, and reached for the little purse hanging off her shoulder. “I have—”

“I’m good.” He pulled the shirt over his head, the muscles in his biceps flexing, his hard, ridged belly revealing a nice six-pack as he sat up straighter to pull the material down to cover his torso. A firefighter patch now covered his pec, making him look official. Grown up. And then it hit her. He looked right at home here. He’d lost the haunted, hollow look that had plagued him all his childhood, and had found something for himself, a place he belonged.

So had she. Far away from here. Unfortunately, her basis for that distance had been a single tragic event, not a strong enough foundation, she’d discovered. She’d lived free as a bird, yes, and had loved it, but a very small part of her knew she’d missed something by walking away from everyone and anyone who’d ever cared about her.

She just didn’t know what exactly.

And yet standing here, looking at the warehouse, seeing Joe, it was like a high-speed internet connection to the single most traumatic event of her life, and without warning, her vision wavered. Oh, damn. The third and final warning.

“Summer?”

She blinked into Joe’s eyes. He had her wrist in a firm grip.

“Here.” He stood, then pressed her to the driver’s seat. “Sit.”

“I’m okay.” She went for a smile but couldn’t quite stick the landing as she continued to suck air into her lungs too fast. “It’s just…hard to be here.” She waved a hand in front of her face to fan it and gulped air like water.

“Yeah,” he said, watching her carefully. “And it’s going to get worse. You probably shouldn’t hang around for longer than necessary.”

“No.”
Keep breathing, Summer.
It took a few minutes to even it out, to gain control. Humiliating.

His mouth was grim as he waited, his eyes blazing with emotion. This was hard on him too, incredibly so, and yet she could still hardly believe it was him standing here. “You look good, Joe.”

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

It was a shock that she couldn’t read him, not at all. “You used to wear your emotions on your sleeve.”

“Yeah, well, that never really worked out for me.”

She nodded and stood on legs she told herself were steady now. “Look, I’m sorry. I know I left things badly. I never said good-bye. I—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He sounded as weary as she felt. Just yesterday she’d been in San Francisco, planning and organizing a hiking trip through the Sierras for a large group of businesswomen. Then her mother had called at two in the morning. An oddity in itself because in all these years Camille had been extremely cognizant of the fact that Summer didn’t like to come back to Ocean Beach and had never asked her to.

As a result, Summer’d had an amazing freedom to do as she pleased. And what had pleased her was to roam, far and wide.

But her mother needed her now, an event shocking enough that Summer had hopped in her car and driven seven straight hours to get here. She’d had no sleep and it was catching up with her. But looking into Joe’s eyes she could see that he’d had a long night too. And probably an even longer morning. “I’m sorry,” she said again. After a hesitation, she reached past him for Socks. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

“Watch out, she’s still skittish.”

“I’ll be careful.” Her shoulder brushed his. Beneath his shirt, he was warm and hard with strength, but that wasn’t what struck her with an almost unbearable familiarity as she found herself in such close proximity to him. No, his scent did that because he smelled the same, and it took everything she had not to throw herself at him for a desperately needed hug.

But he sucked in a breath and stepped back.

To avoid her touch.

She stared at him, the hurt sneaking in and squeezing her heart. She wrapped her hands around the fat, scared cat, who came compliantly, even happily, pressing her furry face into the crook of Summer’s neck affectionately. “Mew.”

She hugged Socks close, feeling unusually awkward and out of her element.
He didn’t want her here. Didn’t want to see her.
“Did you fight the fire?” she asked.

“No, I’m a fire marshal.”

“So…you’re investigating?”

“Yes.”

That was somehow both unsettling and comforting. “It was an accident last time. A terrible accident.”

His face softened. “I know.”

“Is it this time?”

“I’ll find out.”

He sounded so sure, so confident. So unlike the Joe she remembered. His radio squawked, and he reached for it, talking into it with a shocking, easy authority.

He bewildered her, this man who felt both familiar and so much like a stranger. There was a lot to say to him, and yet nothing to say at all. Cuddling Socks, she turned away, giving him privacy, and taking a moment for herself as well.

The knowledge that the warehouse was probably a total loss dragged at her, fatiguing her all the more. She wondered if her mother and Aunt Tina would rebuild for a second time, and glanced back at Joe.

He was still talking into his radio, and didn’t appear to notice she’d left.

So she kept walking, surrounded by people and still somehow more alone than she’d felt in years. Utterly, completely alone.