Fire Born (Firehouse 343) (19 page)

“
Wóthe
ȟ
ila
, I’ve played the field long enough,” he said, sighing as he reluctantly withdrew from her and sat on the edge of the cot. “I’m knocking on forty’s door, which means I
ain’t
getting any younger. I’ve wanted to settle down for a long time, to raise a family of my own while I’m still relatively young enough to enjoy them.”

Martie sat up as well and put a hand on his shoulder. “And you’ll have those things someday. Maybe we’ll have them together, who knows? Look, two days is long enough for me to know I want to be with someone. Not sure yet how we’re going to work this out given I live in Billings, and there’s still plenty of getting-to-know-you to be done. But obviou
sly I don’t know how to say no
to you when it comes to this.”

She waved a hand between them, and Chris knew she meant the sex. “Truth is I’ve found I don’t even want to. Despite what I said before,” she went on, a smile lighting up her face.

He returned the smile and reached to brush her hair back. “You might think I’m pulling your leg, but e
xcept for a couple of one
night stands in my misspent youth, I’ve never fallen into bed this fast with a woman.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Oh really?”

Chris held up a hand.
“Firefighter’s honor.
You’re just… I feel like I can’t resist you.”

Martie seemed to like that very much, and she proved it by leaning forward and kissing him deeply. Chris was tempted to push her back into the cot and make love to her again, but he knew it was a bad idea to push their luck.

It was she who broke the kiss, a resigned sigh escaping her lips as she said, “It’s time to get back to reality, I guess.”

He nodded and stood slowly, reaching for his pants and briefs to draw them up.
“Unfortunately.
But after this shift is over, I’ve got the next few days off. We can use that time to really get to know each other.”

“What about Calvin’s funeral?” Martie asked carefully as she reached for her own clothes.

Chris sighed heavily. For a moment, she’d helped him forget all about it. “Well, except for that. I have to help Kara and Tonja…”

She turned to him and took his hand in hers. “It’s okay. I know you do. Family comes first.”

He nodded, giving her hand a gentle squeeze as he said, “Welcome to mine.”

After putting themselves back together, Chris and Martie took turns in the bathroom washing up. She then went into the office while he headed out into the lounge. Her excuse was that she really needed to get back to work, but in truth she wasn’t sure she could face the other men in his platoon so soon after having sex with their boss just a few rooms away.

When she sat down to check her messages, she found she had one from Graham. He’d read her preliminary report and wanted her to bring the evidence into Billings right away. She’d figured he would. Martie knew that time was of the essence—what she had might not tell them who had started the fire, but it would certainly tell them how.

First, she wanted to finish translating her interviews. Making use of the typing skills she’d learned in school
, her 120 words per minute speed helped her make quick work of the task. She’d been at it about an hour before Chris came in, this time knocking on the door before stepping over the threshold.

“Thought I’d do the polite thing,” he said with a grin when she turned a raised eyebrow his way.

Martie snorted
as she pressed the stop button on her recorder
. “Sure you weren’t hoping to catch me with my pants down again?” she said flippantly.

“Nah.
I’d rather just take them off myself,” he returned, moving to rest a hip on the edge of the desk. “Speaking of, though, why were you in the bunk room? Football said you would be in here.”

“Well, I was. But my knee was bothering me, so I went out to ask if there was any kind of muscle rub on the premises. I ran into Terry in the hall and asked him, and he said that you kept it in the cabinet in the bunk room.” She shrugged then. “I just figured since everyone was out in the lounge, I’d be quick about it right where I was
—w
asn’t expecting to be interrupted.”

He leaned closer to her, so she could feel his warm breath on her face as he spoke. “But it was a nice interruption, wasn’t it?”

She grinned in spite of her efforts
not to. “Yes it was.”

Turning away from him, she glanced at her computer screen, where she’d just about finished typing up her interview with Veronica Thompson. With a sigh, she said, “I’ve got to finish this, then I’m afraid I have to head back to Billings.”

Chris started.
“Tonight?”

Martie glanced up.
“Yeah.
My boss wants me to get the evidence into the lab ASAP, and the lab is in Billings.”

“Damn,” he said. “I thought we’d have more time together.”

Placing a hand on top of his, she told him, “I’ll come back as soon as I can, okay? I should be able to get away to be here for Calvin’s service. Just let me know when it is and I’ll be here for you.”

He nodded. “I actually just talked to his family. Cal’s parents made it into town and
they’re with Kara now. Tonja is
supposed to be coming down from Glasgow
tomorrow to help them plan the funeral.
They’ve asked for my input.”

“I gathered from our conversations about him that you and Calvin were close,” Martie observed.

“Meant nearly as much to me as my own dad,” Chris said.
“Cal and I were a lot like brothers, in a way. We hung out together outside the job, he trusted me with his kid—I’ve been an uncle to Kara since she was eight. Hell, I babysat her more than once. Her father was my best friend.”

He stood then, shaking his head. Then Chris looked down at her with a sad smile, saying, “At least come have something to eat before you go.”

Martie nodded. Aft
er putting the laptop in sleep mode so she could finish her work after her meal, she took his hand and
walked with him out of the office.

***

Well now. Trevor
Breckon
was not only suspected of insurance fraud, but of arson as well. He might even be charged with attempted murder.

It made him feel as giddy as a school girl with a
crush, but truthfully things weren’t
work
ing
in his favor.
Breckon
—who really was guilty of insurance fraud in the case of the warehouse and the convenience store—was supposed to be the perfect scapegoat. He
had
been, given that the apartment building was one of his pro
perties; who else would be
suspected given the numerous complaints about electrical problems by the tenants?

The problem was that the objective hadn’t been achieved. Two people were supposed to die, two annoying little thorns in his side. He’d wanted to get rid of
one of
them years ago, but somebody had to suddenly
become clever.
Fucking cunt
.
Who did she think she was, not doing as she was told? If she’d just done what he’d wanted her to do, he might have let her live. But no, she had to keep that pathetic brat of hers, a weak, imperfect copy of herself—proof that her DNA was inferior to his, because his other children weren’t handicapped. They were perfect.

So was his marriage, save for his wife being a frigid bitch. She’d had a hysterectomy due to recurring cysts to prevent cancer, which had worked,
as
she had no
problems
with her health since
—but they took her uterus, not her vagina.
That
was still perfectly usable, ye
t ever since the surgery, she hadn’t been interested in sex.
Only her stupid charities.
He w
as a man, damn it, he had needs. He had
desires. And those needs, those desires, included wanting to fuck the woman he was married to. It was his right as her husband, and the coldhearted bitch was lucky he didn’t just take it from her.
So after she’d started denying him, he’d started looking elsewhere. After all, what was a man to do?

The little cocktail waitress really was very pretty. A slim body, light brown hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and lips that verged on pouty but weren’t too plump. He’d been unable to resist imagining them fastened around his dick as he fucked her face the moment he saw her. But she was shy, too, and getting her to trust him had taken a little work. He knew she found him attractive as well from the way she smiled at him, the
way she tended to linger by his side whenever she served him a drink during his visits to the hotel lounge where she worked. She’d been reluctant to get involved with a married man, a fact that he had never bothered to hide, but the ‘woe is me, my wife won’t have sex with me anymore’ line had eventually worn away her resistance. The first time he got to taste that sweet little pussy, to have it riding his cock as he pounded her, had been in a room at the very hotel where they’d first met.

So had the second and third time, but eventually she’d started letting him come over to her apartment. It was then that he knew why she’d preferred the hotel. Her apartment was on the wrong side of town, in a place wher
e shootings happened on a near-
daily basis. So he’d been the generous boyfriend and helped her
get into a better place, one that, frankly, he wasn’t ashamed to be seen in. Naturally it was still far from where he socialized with his friends, his wife’s family,
and
his children. But it was a damn sight better than where she’d been. His little mistress had been content with their arrangement—the apartment, his money, his gifts—and why wouldn’t she be? She was a whore and he was taking care of her.

Why the
fuck
did she
have
to go and get pregnant? She was supposed to be on birth control, for fuck’s sake. He’d insisted she get on the Pill, because he was “allergic” to latex. He wasn’t really, he just hated condoms. He’d never liked those damn things, because they took away from the feel of a woman’s hot, slick channel around his cock. Her ridiculous excuse was that she’d gotten sick one month, and the cold medicine had neutralized the effects of the Pill.

He thought it was bullshit the moment the words came out of her mouth,
and immediately accused her of getting pregnant on purpose. Trying to trap him so he’d leave his wife and marry her, make her an “honest” woman. She denied it, of course. Swore it was an accident. Then if it was an accident, he’d said, she wouldn’t be averse to getting rid of it. An abortion was the only answer.

The tramp had refused. Said she wasn’t going to kill her baby, that if he didn’t want it that was his problem. She’d raise the baby on her own, without his help. The bitch didn’t want his help?
Fine by him.
He cut her off, completely—no sex, no money,
no
jewelry. And no job—he’d seen to it she was fired by telling the manager she’d been sleeping with guests in empty rooms. Without a job, she wouldn’t be able to afford the nice apartment, which meant she’d eventually have to do as she’d been told. All would be forgiven if she’d just get rid of the problem, though he’d have made her beg for his forgiveness on her hands and knees.

But she didn’t, much to his surprise. His little whore
had simply disappeared
, leaving the apartment in the middle of the night. He knew she had no close family so she had nowhere to go. He’d thought he would find her quickly and force her to get the abortion, because that bitch wasn’t going to come after him for child support, ruining his marriage and his political aspirations. He had goals, damn it, and she was
not
going to fuck his plans up. But amazingly, it had taken him ten years to track her down.

It was just his luck that she happened to be living in another crappy apartment, one owned by a weasel
that bought
up properties sold
cheap and then didn’t bother to maintain them as he was supposed to. He’d sent someone to spy on her, someone who had found it only too easy to gather information about her and the kid. Then the other
day, he’d sent in another of his minions (a fellow he’d hired for just this purpose, who was now a John Doe at the morgue) to take care of the problem.

How the fuck was he supposed to know the bitch would be out when the fire started? Or that those damn firefighters would rescue that fucking brat of hers? He didn’t necessarily want his little piece dead—she’d been one hell of a lay, and he’d be only too happy to take her back, after he punished her for her disobedience, of course. But had she actually been in her apartment, where a good mother should be with a child that weak—had they both gone up in flames—it wouldn’t have been any skin off his back.

After all, he had other mistresses.