Fan the Flames (12 page)

After glancing in the direction she indicated, Ian shrugged and nudged her through the doorway. “That's just Daisy. She doesn't leave the house, so we're her entertainment.”

“She doesn't leave? Ever?”

“Nope. Hasn't for years.”

“Wow. Guess I'm really not the only strange one in Simpson.” Rory was distracted by the large kitchen they'd entered. Brushing by her legs, Jack walked into the room, as relaxed as if he'd lived at Ian's all his life. The decor was dated but cute, with avocado appliances, white cabinets, and a tile floor. A window over the sink let in the sunlight, and she couldn't stop looking at it.

“Doesn't that make you feel… I don't know, exposed?” she asked Ian.

“What?” He followed her gaze and then looked back at Rory. “The window? Not really. It has curtains.”

Eyeing the frilly lace covering the bottom half of the window, Rory said, “I see that. Did you pick those out yourself?”

“They came with the house, smart-ass.” He turned her shoulders toward the arched doorway leading to the living room and then gave her butt a slap.

Whirling to face him, she gave him her best glare. “Watch it. I've shot people for less.” As soon as the words left her mouth, the slow-motion movie of Rave collapsing to the floor played in her mind, and she flinched.

As if he could see exactly what was going on in her brain, he didn't respond to her poor choice of words. Instead, he turned her again, more gently this time. “Time for bed, Ror,” was all he said.

She allowed him to guide her through the living room, where the large, plentiful windows made her a little sick to her stomach, and up a staircase. Jack followed. Running her fingers along the banister, Rory admired the ornate rails. The house was an odd mixture of masculine furniture and fussy details, but it was charming and strangely welcoming.

Ian led her into a small room holding just a double bed, a small dresser, and a nightstand. There was an oval rug next to the bed, and Jack stretched out on it with a low groan. The ceiling sloped to the wall with the windows, creating angles that made the otherwise bland room interesting. When he saw where her gaze had landed, Ian moved to close the blinds covering both windows. Sunlight still peeked around the edges of the coverings, illuminating the room.

He frowned. “You going to be able to sleep with it this light?”

With a snort, she reminded him, “I was sleeping sitting up on the floor of my shop with my hands cuffed behind my back. I think I'll manage.”

“Okay.” He hesitated, his gaze bouncing around the room. “Bathroom's down the hall on the right.”

He took a step toward the doorway and then paused. “Sorry about the colors.”

Rory looked at him blankly, and he gestured toward the bed. It took her a few seconds, but then she realized the bedding was differing shades of brown. She huffed a laugh.

“I'll survive an absence of pink for a few days,” she said.

He didn't smile, but just nodded solemnly, as if it had been truly in question. “Do you need anything else?”

“A water bowl for Jack. And do you mind if I shower?” she asked, feeling suddenly grubby. A deputy had checked her for blood spatter and hadn't found any, but she could feel phantom blood on her skin. “And borrow some clothes?”

“Go ahead.” He waved toward the doorway. “I'll see what I can dig up. Everything I own is going to be huge on you.”

“That's fine. At least it'll be clean.” She sent him a sideways look. “It'll be clean, right?”

“Yes,” he said with mock offense. “I do know how to do laundry.”

Too tired to respond beyond an amused snort, she moved past him into the hallway. When she entered the bathroom, she cringed at yet another window.

“Who needs a window in the bathroom?” she muttered, checking that the blinds were closed before starting to undress. It took her a minute to figure out the shower controls, but she managed to get it operating. As she waited for the water to heat, she shivered, her teeth chattering together more from nerves than from cold. It was strange to be naked in someone else's house, especially surrounded by all those windows. Rory sent a glare at the blind-covered glass.

After testing the water and finding it warm, she stepped under the spray. It felt wonderful, and she stood still for several minutes, letting the jets pound against her skin. Although much of the house's decor was older, his bathroom had obviously been updated. The shower was huge compared to hers, and she spent a moment thinking about how it would fit two. Her brain immediately pictured a naked, wet Ian. Somehow, she knew just how the water would trickle over his skin, running down the grooves between his pecs to his ridged abdomen, and then lower… She flushed from her cheeks to her toes.

Shoving the blush-inducing fantasy away, she reached for the soap.

“Rory.” Ian's voice on the other side of the shower curtain made her freeze in place, her hand outstretched toward the soap. “I'm putting some clothes on the counter for you.”

She didn't say anything. She couldn't. Her lungs felt like they'd frozen, right along with the rest of her.

“Rory?” Oh, jeez Louise, now he sounded even closer. “You okay?”

“Fine!” The word came out high-pitched and fast. Her eyes closed in humiliation. She had actually
squeaked
. “I'm fine.” That had been a little better, although she was still in the rodent-family range.

“Sure?”

His voice was really close to the curtain now, and Rory panicked. What if he looked in to check on her? “Yes! Fine! Go away!”

“Okay.” Now he sounded amused. Rory didn't care, as long as he was stepping away from the shower curtain. “I'm going.”

“Thank you.” Now that the crisis had been averted, embarrassment at her overreaction began to warm her cheeks. “For the clothes, I mean.”

“You're welcome.” He was definitely holding back a laugh, the bastard. To her relief, she heard the click of the door closing behind him.

Once he left, she hurried to finish, washing her hair and body at warp speed. Rinsing quickly, she turned off the water and peeked her head around the edge of the curtain.

Her clothes were gone. She figured that Ian had probably grabbed them to wash, which was good, except he'd taken her underwear. The idea of him handling her underwear, even just enough to toss it into the washing machine, made her flush.

As fast as possible, she toweled off and dressed in Ian's sweatpants and top. The clothes were enormous on her, as Ian had warned, and she had to roll up the pants and fold the waistband over a few times before she could even manage to walk. Avoiding the mirror, she ran her fingers through her damp hair, picking out the worst of the knots.

Once that was done, there was no more delaying. Rory wasn't even sure why she was nervous about facing Ian again. Frustrated with herself, she squared her shoulders and opened the door.

Ian was framed in the doorway, his fist lifted as if he'd been about to knock. With a quick inhale of surprise, Rory stopped herself before she took a step back. Instead, she held her position and raised her eyebrows in question.

“Just about to check on you.” He lowered his hand to his side.

“I'm fine,” she said for the hundredth time that day. “Ready for bed.”

Stepping to the side, he gestured for her to move past him. Her arm brushed his chest as she left the bathroom, setting off a buzzing feeling under her skin.

“Stupid,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” It seemed that embarrassment was her constant companion when she was around Ian. “Good night.”

It was an odd thing to say, considering that the afternoon sun illuminated the hallway, but he took it in stride. “'Night.”

With great effort, she didn't look back at him as she hurried toward the guest room. She felt the heat of his gaze burning her back the entire time, until she rushed into the room and closed the door. Jack swiveled an ear toward her, and his tail thumped against the rug, but otherwise he didn't move. Leaning against the door, Rory let out a relieved breath. She'd survived being naked in Ian's home. After that, the rest of this sleepover would be a breeze.

* * *

Even though she was exhausted, her sleep was uneven. Half-awake memories of the previous night mixed with dreams, creating a nightmarish mishmash. Occasionally, she jerked completely awake. Each time, she was relieved to be out of her restless doze, but she was too tired to stay alert, so she'd fall right back into it. The room didn't help, with all its windows. It would be too easy for someone to watch her. She could almost feel the pressure of eyes on her, of Billy's rage-filled glare. He could be outside right now, determined to get retribution for Rave. Her tired brain ran over everything she'd sold to the Riders. Hadn't Billy bought that SR-25 sniper rifle from her? He could be aiming it at her head right now. Startling to full consciousness, she barely resisted the urge to crawl under the bed.

She longed for the safety of her bunker. Giving up, she dragged her exhausted body out of bed, along with the brown-toned comforter and a pillow.

The closet was small. Even the most optimistic real estate agent couldn't call it a walk-in. Rory managed to squeeze inside, though, and made a nest on the floor. The wooden boards beneath her were not comfortable, but the security she felt after closing the door between her and the windows made the hard floor worth it. In less than a minute, she was asleep.

“Rory!”

Her eyes popped open at Ian's shout. It was so dark! She never slept without the glow of the security lights. She sat up abruptly, one arm swinging instinctively toward an imaginary attacker as the other groped for a gun that wasn't there. The back of her hand connected with a wall, sending a shock of pain through her and reminding her of where she was.
Ian's. Windows. Closet. Right.

“What's wrong?” Her voice sounded croaky, so she cleared her throat as she shifted positions. Her body protested, her muscles complaining about the time spent on the hard wood floor.

The closet door swung open, and light from the fluorescent bulbs in the overhead fixture blinded her. Covering her eyes with her hand, she flinched away.

“Why are you in the closet?” Ian demanded.

Blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light, she peered at his silhouetted figure. “It was too bright out there. Plus, you know, windows.”

“Windows?”

“Yes.”

“What about them?”

“I don't like them. Anyone could be looking in. They're glass, so someone could throw something through them, like a Molotov cocktail or a grenade. Plus, they let in the light.” She stretched, and her spine popped several times.

There was a pause before Ian spoke again. “They had blinds over them.”

She shrugged. “Still don't like windows.”

“Every house has windows.” When she just looked at him, he amended his statement. “Every house except yours has windows.”

“So?”

“So haven't you stayed anywhere with windows before?”

“No.”

He paused again. “Are you telling me you've never stayed anywhere except your house?”

For some reason, she was embarrassed to admit that. She wasn't going to lie about it, though. “So?” she demanded, her voice sharp.

“That's…” He trailed off as he watched her like she was a strange species of bug. That made her feel lonely and a little sad. She stood abruptly, shoving past him to get out of the closet.

“It's what?”

Ian shook his head. “Nothing. I have to go to work. Did you want to join me or stay here?”

“Join you.” Her answer was immediate. She didn't even have to consider whether she'd rather stay in this fishbowl of a house alone or spend the night at Station One with Ian. “I need different clothes, though.”

“I washed yours,” he said, nodding toward the end of the bed where he'd left her things in a folded pile. “I'll let Jack out in the back. It's fenced. There's some leftover chicken and rice—would it be okay to feed him that?”

“That'd be great. It's pretty close to the homemade dog food I make for him, actually.”

“Can you be ready to go in ten minutes?”

“Sure.” She stretched again as he headed for the door. After pulling on her clothes, she made a quick trip to the bathroom.

As she passed him in the hall, Ian said, “There's a spare toothbrush in the top right drawer.”

“Thanks.” That drawer, she discovered to her delight, also held toothpaste and a comb. It was funny how the absence of simple things made her appreciate them more.

“Two minutes!” Ian called from the hall.

“Ready.” She opened the door and walked out to join him.

“Speedy,” he said with an approving nod. “Good.”

Shrugging off his praise, she followed him down the stairs. “What time is it?”

“Quarter 'til seven.”

“Your shift starts at seven?” Their boots were lined up next to the door. As Ian reached for his, Rory eyed the two pairs of footwear. It was oddly cozy, seeing the boots together like that. She thought of her bunker, and how there was only one of so many things—one pair of boots by the door, one coat, one plate to wash after dinner, one dent in the pillow in the morning.

“Yeah. Seven to seven. We have four twelve-hour shifts, and then we get four days off.”

Twelve hours would be a long time for her dog to stay alone in an unfamiliar house. He was normally well behaved, but she didn't want to come back to find he'd eaten Ian's couch. “Can Jack stay in the yard while we're gone?”

Shaking his head, Ian said, “It's still pretty cold, and I don't have a shelter for him back there. He can come to the station with us.”

“Good.” She moved to pull on her boots, thinking of her other animal dependents. “I'll take my truck and meet you at the station. I need to close the chickens up for the night.” That morning, she'd let them out and fed them before they'd left for Ian's house.

He frowned. “I don't want you out there by yourself.”

“I won't be by myself,” she argued, pulling on her coat. “There will be several law enforcement officers there, as well.”

“You don't know that for sure.” Pulling out his cell phone, he tapped the screen a few times and then put it to his ear. “Hey, Squirrel. You free? Great. I need a favor.”

When he eventually ended the call and moved to put his phone back in his pocket, she stopped him. “You'd better give the sheriff a heads-up that some strange guy's going to be on my property, messing with my chickens.”

“Good idea.” He made the call. His tone was quite a bit stiffer talking to Rob than it had been during the conversation with Squirrel.

Once he put away his phone, they headed out to the Bronco, collecting Jack on the way.

“I thought you and Rob were friends?” she said, raising the end of the statement to turn it into a question.

“Never really
friends
,” he answered as they climbed into the SUV. “Usually we get along pretty well, but lately the sheriff's department has developed some jacked-up theories about me and the Riders. It's made things tense.”

“Is this about the murder?”

His jaw grew visibly tight. “Yeah. Supposedly, something that used to belong to me ended up by the body Lou found in Mission Reservoir.”

Her eyes growing wide, she stared at his grim profile. “So the sheriff thinks you killed him?”

“Maybe.” He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. “At the very least, he suspects the Riders are involved.”

“Why do you stay with them—the Riders, I mean?” she asked. It felt like an extremely intrusive question, but she'd been wondering for a while, and something about the dim interior of the Bronco made intimate conversation easier.

“I grew up in the club. They're family. I can't abandon my family, even if some of them make piss-poor decisions.”

With a frown, Rory asked, “Are you angry that I killed Rave?” She tried to keep the words from turning into full-color images in her mind, but she wasn't successful. The movie in her brain flared to life, and Rave crumpled to the floor again in grisly detail. Swallowing down bile, she wondered if the memory would ever lose its vividness.

“No.” Ian sounded surprised. “In another two seconds, he would've killed you. The fu—ah, jerk deserved what he got.”

“But he was an MC member, part of your family.”

“Just because he was a Rider doesn't mean he deserved to keep living, not when he was ready to point a gun at you and pull the trigger.” Ian turned into the Station One parking lot, his movements jerkier than normal on the steering wheel. The abrupt turn made her shoulder bump the passenger door. Putting a hand on the dash, she steadied herself as he whipped the Bronco around and backed into a parking space.

Thinking about Ian's response, Rory jumped out of the SUV and circled around to the back to release Jack. Ian had made it there first.

“Was Lester a member?” she asked as he opened the hatch to let Jack jump out of the Bronco.

“No. Just a dumbass Rave pulled into his scheme.” Despite his even tone, Ian's mouth was flattened into a hard line, making Rory wonder whether he had a movie of Lester's death playing on a loop in his head, too.

“Have you talked to Billy again?” They headed for the station door with Jack bounding circles around them.

“Briefly.” Opening the door, he held it for her. The gesture threw her, and she wondered if she'd ever get used to Ian's courtesies. Jack brushed past both of them, making a beeline to the training room. Her dog, obviously, had no problem with men holding the door for him.

As soon as she entered, there was a small shriek.

“Rory!” Lou ran over to grab her in a hug. Although Rory tried to step back to avoid the embrace, there was nowhere to go with Ian right behind her. She had no choice but to accept Lou's hard squeeze. Luckily, the hug was quick. “I heard about the break-in at your shop. I'm so sorry!”

“Why?” When Lou looked at her, obviously puzzled by the question, Rory elaborated, “Why are you sorry? It wasn't any of your doing.”

“No, I'm just sorry you had to go through that.” Although Rory was instantly embarrassed she'd missed the obvious meaning, Lou didn't seem annoyed about explaining. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. How'd you hear about it already?” A quick glance around the group of firefighters and dive-team members showed that everyone knew. Rory could tell by their expressions, a mixture of avid curiosity and awkward condolence. Jack had zeroed in on Soup, who had gone down on one knee so he could rub the dog's upturned belly. Jack was always able to pick out the biggest dog lovers in the crowd.

Lou snorted. “With this group of gossipmongers? I'm sure they were glued to their radios early this morning, listening to the play-by-play, and then they activated the phone tree.”

“There's a phone tree?”

Although she grinned, Lou said, “Nope. Well, not to my knowledge, anyway. I was just kidding about that part, although I wouldn't be at all shocked if they did have one in place.”

Obviously, Rory needed more sleep, since she couldn't seem to carry on a conversation without missing social cues left and right. Usually, she could at least
pretend
to be normal. “Right. Of course there's not.”

“Sparks!” Callum barked. When both women looked over at him, he was scowling and tapping his watch. Even though she wasn't even a part of the dive team, Rory had to restrain the urge to fall into line. Lou, however, just rolled her eyes.

“I'd better get over there. Looks like training is starting.” Lou gave Rory another quick hug. “Let me know if you need anything. I have an idea of what you're going through, and I know it sucks. Even if you just want to talk, stop in to The Coffee Spot some afternoon.”

“Okay.” Rory was touched but not sure how to respond. She settled on a stiff nod. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Like I said, I've been there.” With a warm smile, she headed toward the group of dive-team members. A simmering Callum looked about ready to go nuclear. Within less than a minute, his scowl had disappeared, and he even smiled at something Lou said. Rory sighed, wishing she had even a fraction of Lou's easy way with people.

“Who are you looking at?” Ian's voice in her ear startled her, and she jumped and flushed. Her reaction immediately made her irritated with herself. What was it about the man that regressed her back to her tongue-tied, twelve-year-old self? Ian must have followed the direction of her gaze, and his grunt sounded displeased. “You won't have much luck with that. He's completely gone on Lou.”

“What?” Confused, she turned her head to look at Ian. He was leaning down a little as he looked over her shoulder, so their faces were close—really close. Her blush flamed brighter.

“Callum.” He sent a dark look in the other man's direction.

“What about him?” Rory didn't know if her flustered state made it hard to understand the conversation, or if Ian was just not making any sense.

“You were eyeing him like he was a gold-plated shotgun,” he grumped.

“What? I was not!”

Still glaring at Callum, Ian just made a sound of disbelief.

“I wasn't! I was watching Lou.”

“Oh. Why?”

It would've been a good time to stop talking, but Rory was flustered, which brought on babbling. “I was just wishing I had Lou's social skills.”

“Why would you want to be like Lou?”

“She makes interacting with people look so effortless.”

Ian threw an arm over her shoulders and steered her toward the back of the room. “You interact with people just fine. I've seen you at your store and at Levi's.”

Although she stiffened initially at the unexpected contact, she relaxed after a few moments. The weight of his arm actually felt good, comforting even. “At the store, maybe. If the topic isn't about guns, though, I'm hopeless.”

“No, you're not. Everyone was coming over while we were eating last night to talk to you, not me. You know people.”

She just shrugged as he ushered her into the storeroom.

“I like Lou, but I don't know how Callum deals,” he said. “Her brain and mouth are always going at a hundred miles an hour. She'd tire me out.”

“They seem to work well together,” Rory said, looking around the storage area. Gear and equipment were piled everywhere, with only a narrow path of floor showing. “She loosens him up, and he keeps her focused. What do we need from here?”

“Yeah, I can see that. He definitely seems happy with her—they both do. And we're getting you some bunker gear to go with that blue helmet of yours.”

“Okay,” she said doubtfully, eyeing the unkempt piles. “I don't suppose they're arranged in any kind of logical fashion—maybe by size?”

His snort killed her faint strain of hope, and she sighed, wading into the stacks.

It took some digging, but they eventually found some pants and a coat that fit fairly well. Her boots were a size too large, but they'd work. The gloves, though, were hopeless if she wanted to perform a task that required any dexterity at all.

“I feel like a Muppet,” she complained, trying to move her fingers in the huge mitts. “These are really the smallest available?”