Flirting with Fire (Hot in Chicago #1) (18 page)

His confidence in her thrilled her to the marrow. With David, his job had always taken priority, and he had never once let her forget it. More worrisome, she had allowed him to diminish her ambitions. Kinsey was starting to think that nurse and her buffalo sextuplets might be the best thing to ever happen to her.

A sly peek found Luke grinning, that knock-her-dead smile the bright relief in his five o’clock shadow.

“What’s so funny?” she whispered into the languorous air.

“I like watching you plan.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, you get this adorable crimp between your eyebrows, and your world domination look takes over. Nothing sexier than a woman who’s got the bit between her teeth.”

Nothing sexier than a man who appreciated it.

He interlocked his hand with hers, so easy and natural, like they had known each other for years. The man certainly knew his way around a palm, another area where Luke was the opposite of David, who was never tactile. Too worried he’d use up his precious surgeon hand mojo on his fiancée.

To think she and Luke had once been enemies. She couldn’t imagine going back to that, but neither could they go any further. Or could they? Why else would she have hesitated when she spoke to Max Fordham? The man had offered her the chance of a lifetime, a foot on the bottom rung of a U.S. Senate campaign. A job with Max would be a better use of her talents, yet here she was all starry-eyed because a gorgeous guy was making up for the attention she’d lacked from her loser fiancé.

Snap out of it, Kinsey.

Luke’s assassin blues imprisoned her in their swirly depths, and she held her breath, waiting for . . . she wasn’t sure what.

“Keep your eye on the MLB butt, sweetheart, and then later I’ll show you why CFD is better.”

Phew.
At least one of them was thinking straight and keeping it at the hormonal level of sizzling sexual chemistry. That catch to her heart was relief, not disappointment.

She was sure of it.

 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

B
rady hadn’t called.

Which should not have been surprising, because Brady had never called. Gage was the one doing all the running in this—whatever it was. Not a fucking relationship, that’s for sure. That surly bastard probably didn’t even have Gage’s number, because Gage had only ever called him at the restaurant. But he knew where Gage worked, at Engine 6 and at the bar. He could call or stop by anytime he wanted.

But he hadn’t. And that pissed off Gage in the extreme.

Looking forward to blowing off some steam on his shift, Gage tightened the strap on his helmet and refocused on the current run: a single-car collision on Western and Division at one in the morning. Probably some drunk on his way home from the Division Street bars or an idiot with an overpacked, rowdy car.

As the truck swung around a corner onto Western about a mile off from the site of the accident, Gage looked up to find Jacob Scott watching him from his spot opposite in back, his eyes as mean as a snake’s. The homophobic prick was always staring at him like he was scared he would catch gayness just from breathing the same air.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, buddy? Careful, someone might call you a homo.”

Jacob colored and looked away.

A sharp elbow nudged Gage’s ribs. He ignored it, but there was no ignoring the slap to the back of his helmet, the one that made his teeth rattle.

“What the hell was that for?” he barked at his sister.

Alex narrowed her eyes. “Want to tell me why you’re acting like Aunt Flo has come to visit?”

“Just in a bad mood. I’m allowed sometimes.” Being the life and soul of the party 24/7 took its toll on occasion. There was no good reason why he should be mad about this Brady situation, or the distinct lack thereof, but he was furious. And not a little sorry.
Sorrious.
It felt like he had lost some great opportunity, when opportunities for easy ass abounded in every bar on the Great Pink Way, aka Halsted Avenue. Well, no more missing out for some silent dude with an ink addiction and zero comm skills. As soon as his shift was over, Gage would grab some Zs and then head out to get well and truly laid. This nonsense ended here.

They pulled over to the scene and jumped out. A blue Lamborghini had somehow managed to jump the median, not crash into oncoming traffic, and was now resting on the opposite side of the street with the driver’s side wedged against another car. Besides whatever damage was done to a parked Camry, a broken headlamp seemed to be the worst of it for the luxury vehicle. The driver was still inside, on his phone, air bag not deployed.

Gordie Sanchez, the EMT who had arrived before
the truck, approached Big Mac with a lazy gait, no urgency whatsoever.

“Driver’s okay.”

“Why’s he still in the car?”

“He’s not injured but the door is stuck,” Gordie said, still in no hurry. “Think he’s trashed.”

The driver pounded on the window so hard that all eyes turned back to the car. The guy had somehow managed to crash his car without injuring himself or anyone else, and he had the balls to get snotty about not getting out quickly.

“Ah, hell no,” Gage heard Alex mutter. “Do you know who that is?”

Gage squinted and took a harder look at the driver. Oh snap. They had media mogul royalty on their hands.

Sam Cochrane.

Gage locked eyes with Sanchez, who shrugged. So that’s why they weren’t busting their asses to get the guy out. He wasn’t in any immediate danger, and the code of firehouse brotherhood was at play here. In taking aim at Engine 6 through the mouthpiece of his newspaper, Cochrane had made one monolithic enemy out of the entire Chicago Fire Department. Pissing off the people who might someday hold your life in their hands seemed less than smart but, hey, the world was filled with the stupid.

Gage was not about to join those ranks.

He walked over to the car. “Mr. Cochrane, don’t worry, we’re going to get you out of there as soon as possible.”

Those words spoken by a member of the CFD were usually enough to calm children, dogs, and preg
nant women, but Sam Cochrane was not buying it. Red-faced fury mottled his face as he snarled through the partly open window. “Well. If it isn’t Pretty Boy Dempsey.”

Had Gage heard that right? This guy seemed to have forgotten that he was trapped in a steel cage, and more to the point, that his exit from said cage was dependent on the public servants surrounding his vehicle.

Deep breaths. Keep it professional.

“Get me the Halligan,” he called over his shoulder.

“You’d better not put a dent in this car, Simpson, or I’ll have your fag ass in stirrups at city hall.”

Alrighty, then. No worries, Gage had heard much worse including from his own mother, who on her many psychotic breaks from reality liked to remind him that the only thing separating him from damnation was a bathful of Clorox. An aversion therapy she had been unafraid to use. Nothing this fucker said or did could hurt him.

“That’s okay, Mr. C. I’ll do my best not to slobber my fag saliva all over you while I pull you to safety. You can kiss my homosexual ass later.”

Alex handed him the Halligan, the all-purpose tool that was Gage’s first choice where possible.
The right tool for the right job
, Sean used to say whenever Gage visited his father at the firehouse. The heft felt good in his hand, the perfect extension of his profound dissatisfaction with everything in his life right now.

No, not everything. Just Brady.

“Okay?” Alex asked.

“Yeah, no problem. He’s a bit belligerent. Think he might have had a few.”

Cochrane’s face lit up like the Fourth of July when he spotted Alex. “And here comes the other one who thinks she deserves her place ahead of better-qualified men. Just a dyke using the system.”

Alex blanched. “Whoa, what’s his problem?”

“Just drunk. Ignore him until he pulls a Mel Gibson and starts calling you Sugar Tits.”

Accident sites were usually fairly tense, but the vibrations rolling off Alex were hiking the anger up to red-zone levels. The sooner they got Cochrane out and on his way, the better. Angling the blade of the Halligan into the gap between the door and the frame, Gage pulled, but the door refused to budge.

“Jesus Christ, find me a firefighter who’s not a filthy fag. Even that wetback brother of yours could do a better job,” Cochrane slurred, a nod to Gage’s brother Beck, who was seriously involved with the Big C’s daughter, Darcy.

Beck would no doubt get a kick out of that backhanded compliment about his extraction skills. Provided Gage made it out of this situation with his head still screwed on straight enough to tell him once Beck had returned from his vacation, because all of a sudden everything started to go kind of fuzzy.

Shit, not now . . .

Gage found the muscles in his arm locking up tighter than corded wood. His body felt both too heavy and like he could float away at any moment. Sound fell away in dimming echoes, replaced by Cochrane shouting, bellowing . . . just like the kids in the group home. Bullies he tried to shut out with relentless cheer and an attitude of,
Don’t give a fuck
.

It had been more than ten years since he’d had a panic attack, but he could feel the wave hitting the shore in his chest, each suck of the surf claiming an inch more of his calm. This must be what it was like to get up close and personal with a Dementor.

Someone gently taking the Halligan from Gage’s hand brought him back from the ledge.

“Go over there,” Alex said. Or he assumed it was Alex. Her voice sounded distant, like a flickering lightbulb deep in a cave. “I’ll take care of it.”

Gage moved back—and then way back—needing a couple of lengths of fire truck between him and Cochrane before he did something stupid. Like grab the Halligan back from Alex and smash it through the window. He used deep, wracking breaths to fill his lungs and control the rising panic. Called on good memories, as well. They always worked best. Sean’s soothing words, spoken in that gruff Chicago accent, echoed in his hammering heart.

It’s okay, son. You’re safe with us now. No one can hurt you anymore.

Days like this, Gage missed his father so much.

“Simpson.” The lieutenant strolled over to the back of the pumper where Gage stood with arms braced, struggling to get a grip. McElroy had hung back to flirt with Maria, Gordie’s partner on the EMS truck, but was now realizing he should be on hand to do his job of leading the run. “What gives?”

“Nothing. I’m just . . .” Fucking losing his mind in chunks because of a boy. Brady Smith had him all twisted up. “He’s Darcy’s father.” When Big Mac looked blank, Gage clarified. “You know, Beck’s girl.”

“Ah. Doesn’t like his connection to you lot?”

Something like that. But the vitriol spewing from Cochrane was positively biblical. Beck said the guy hated the Dempseys because of some beef with Sean back in the day, but this seemed on the wrong side of unreasonable.

Gage didn’t have time to think on that. A pumping whoosh followed by the screech of splintering metal turned his head, and the visual before him put lead in his feet. The passenger door to Cochrane’s car lay at a broken angle off the hinges. A huge gash halfway through the roof had opened it up to the warm summer air.

Holy fuck.

Somewhere along the way, Alex had swapped out the Halligan for the Hurst tool, also known as the Jaws of Life, though in this case it might be more appropriately called the Jaws of Death. As in your career is over. Standing back to assess her handiwork, which looked oddly like a modern art installation in the middle of Western Avenue, she peeled off her helmet. With a shake of her fire-streaked hair, she flashed those green eyes Gage loved.

“We live to serve, Mr. Cochrane.”

 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I
’ve left messages for Beck and Darcy,” Gage said, his eyes troubled. “Probably too busy partying in Phuket.”

Luke paced the kitchen of the house he grew up in, his muscles knotted in white-hot rage. “Are you expecting Darcy to be able to put a sweet word in? Because last I heard, she and Daddy Cochrane were not on the best of terms.”

Gage grimaced. “I just thought—”

“Thought?” Luke yelled. “Thinking is clearly not what anyone at that scene was doing. Did McElroy have two thumbs or just the one up his ass while Alex was pulling out the Hurst tool and shredding the roof of Cochrane’s car—?”

“Hey, don’t get all pissy with them,” Alex interrupted. “This is down to me, and me alone.”

Luke glared at his sister. He loved her more than life itself, but right now his palms itched with the need to throttle her slowly. “I haven’t even started with you, Alex. Goddamn it, we’re already a target for Cochrane and his paper.”

“And whose fault is that?” Gage could always be counted on to stick his neck out for Alex, and vice versa. As kids the two of them were an inseparable
force of nature, defense of each other beating out defense of anything else, even the rest of the family. “You brought this down on us all with your YouTube Luke-Smash, and now it’s open season on the Dempseys.”

Luke looked to the adults in the room for support. Wyatt sat at the kitchen table, watching the tennis ball exchanges, biding his time before he pronounced judgment. At four in the morning, Luke had been enjoying a postorgasmic sleep with Kinsey pancaked across his body, every curve clinging to him like a cliff face. But then he was wrenched to the cold shock of reality by a phone call from Wyatt. Wyatt, who never called because he despised talking on the phone. Wyatt, who would rather gouge wells under his nails and pour battery acid in them before he would punch out the numbers and go verbal.

But right this second, Luke wanted to hear from Kinsey, who had insisted on accompanying him back home. He was this close to boiling over to ballistic, and her presence was the only thing keeping him at a simmer.

“What did Cochrane say?” Wyatt asked Alex, all reasonable and shit.

Luke’s head felt really hot. Maybe he was having an aneurism. “Who cares what he said? Nothing he said could justify this reaction.”

Kinsey opened her mouth and clamped it shut again. Whatever she had, she may as well get it out now at the family meeting.

“Spill it, Kinsey,” Luke said.

She cleared her throat. “Well, what Cochrane said is important. If it’s considered in any way inflamma
tory to certain segments of the city’s voter base such as gays and women, then it could be used to present a case of incitement. Maybe even hate speech.”

Alex’s face lit up. “He called Gage a fag, me a dyke bitch, and his future son-in-law Beck a wetback.” She finished with her mouth set in a mulish line and glared at Luke as if this was all his fault.

“Hit all the major food groups there,” Wyatt muttered. “Sounds pretty inflammatory to me.”

Kinsey held up her hand. “Don’t get me wrong. The city’s not going to support an employee who destroyed a citizen’s property over name calling, but we might be able to exert pressure on his team when he calls for Alex to be prosecuted for criminal damage. Which he will. He might be content with her termination.”

Distress cut up Alex’s features and her shoulders slumped in defeat. Despite his fury, Luke’s heart clenched. “So I’m definitely going to lose my job,” she said in a quiet voice.

Kinsey shrugged helplessly. “I can talk to Eli, but he’s relying on Cochrane for the endorsement and campaign donations. With the election not so far off, it’s too risky for him to go to bat for you.”

“And why would he?” Alex said bitterly, her anger reigniting. “He’ll probably be thrilled to see another unqualified female firefighter get pushed out. He’s no different than Cochrane.” Alex’s phone pinged at that moment with an incoming text, and a blush bloomed on her face. She blinked up at Luke. “The mayor wants to see me at his house now. How did he get my number?”

How about,
He
’s the fucking mayor, sis
. “Probably
from Larry.” Luke had already spent a bust-your-ass ten minutes on the phone with his godfather, trying to shield Alex from the worst of it. Cooper’s urgency did not bode well.

“Can he just fire me on the spot?” Alex asked, her unsettled gaze flitting around the room.

“Nope,” Wyatt said. “Union won’t allow it.”

Kinsey’s phone buzzed. “I’ve been summoned, as well.” She shot a glance at Luke, and he saw the worry etched there.

Over the last few weeks they had been finding common ground with every new intimacy. Her touch was a magical balm. The chemicals in her kiss were a drug he couldn’t get enough of. He was exercising patience because she claimed she didn’t want anything serious, but the timing of this was, well, shit, to be honest.

“Gotta do what you gotta do,” he said, and then winced at how wounded she looked. They were back on opposite sides, it seemed, no matter how sexy and personal the truce had been. In unspoken agreement, everyone stood and made moves for the door.

“You can’t all come with me,” Alex said. “As much as I’d like to have you there, I have to face this alone.”

“I called Petie Doyle, the union rep, but he’s out of town on vacation,” Gage said. “You have to go in with a second, Alex.”

“I’ll go with her,” Luke said.

“No fuckin’ way—”

“You’ve got to be kidding—”

Luke gasped a lungful of air while his siblings made the vociferous case for his sitting this one out.
Christ, family, tell me how you really feel.

Alex rubbed his arm. “Thanks, Luke, but you won’t be able to keep your temper on a leash, and right now, I need cool heads around me. Especially if I have to talk to him.”

Meaning the mayor? Since when did his sister have a beef with Cooper? Luke was about to ask a follow-up when Wyatt cut his query dead with a stony stare. “I’ll take care of her.”

Luke nodded. “Just don’t let her be bullied, Wy.”

Gage hugged his sister. “We’re going to fix this.”

Alex remained silent, just let Gage hold her tight to his chest. Then she nodded once and walked to the front door, looking like she was heading for the firing squad at dawn.

“Need a ride, Kinsey?” she asked over her shoulder.

“I probably should arrive separately.”

Didn’t that just say it all? Hard to reckon which aspect of this pissed off Luke more: the fact that his sister was up shit creek, paddle in smithereens, or that whatever he and Kinsey had started seemed to be slipping like sand from his grasp.

Alex headed out with Wyatt, leaving Kinsey and Luke standing in the hallway.

“Guess we’re back to opposing corners,” Luke said, knowing he shouldn’t blame her but needing to say it aloud.

Kinsey looked hurt. “We’re on the same team here. We all work for the city of Chicago and now it’s under threat from an outside force.”

That was one way of looking at it, he supposed. “But when push comes to shove, Alex will end up trampled.”

“Luke, she fucked up. Big time. I’ll do what I can, but the city cannot afford to fight a lawsuit against the likes of Sam Cochrane. Someone has to pay here, and it’s not going to be the mayor.”

“She’s got a temper. She’s loyal beyond reason. This family means everything to her.” He pounded the wall. “Usually I’m on that shift, but schedules have been changed up with vacations. If I’d been there, none of this would have happened.”

“Or maybe we’d be erecting the tombstone on your career instead.” She opened the door.

“Kinsey . . .” The words stalled in his throat. Their time together so far had been amazing, every minute a precious gift. Now it was like there was a rip in the fabric between them. “Just . . . later.”

With lips pressed together and a curt nod, she walked out.

E
arly morning traffic was light, making Kinsey’s cab ride to the mayor’s house in the upscale Lincoln Park neighborhood short. Too short. Though she had stopped off for coffee first to give them a head start, she still arrived at the same time as Wyatt and Alex. Not good. Her professional allegiance was with the city of Chicago, but her heart was with the Dempseys.

One Dempsey, in particular. She had not enjoyed how Luke had assessed her in his kitchen, as though sizing up the enemy, and now she had to put on her game face for the mayor. Straddling these two worlds was getting harder and harder.

Before Wyatt and Alex emerged from their car, Kinsey bounded up the steps to Eli’s ivy-covered
brownstone and rang the doorbell. The door opened and Eli stood there, looking weary, sullen, and more casual than she had ever seen him, in a hunter green tee, board shorts, and running shoes.

“Kinsey.” His expression turned as dark as a pocket at the sight of the Dempseys.

“Is this all there is?” he asked Alex. “I thought the situation would be considered serious enough to warrant a visit from your entire family, Miss Dempsey.”

“We didn’t want to overwhelm you,” Alex said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Wyatt’s here to make sure there’s no funny business.”

Out of nowhere, a huge ebony-coated dog jumped on Alex, standing on hind legs that made him almost as tall as her. Laughing, she rubbed his ears and settled him down to the ground. “Who are you, big boy?”

“That’s Shadow,” Eli said in a voice brimming with pride. “He makes a terrible guard dog because he likes everybody.” The mayor offered his hand to Wyatt. “Mr. Fox. I understand you’re late of the 3/5. Darkhorse.”

Coming from a military family, Kinsey knew that was a reference to Wyatt’s Marine battalion and its nickname. The two men shared an understanding glance over their handshake before Eli turned and strode ahead, the assumption being that they should all follow.

Kinsey had never been to the mayor’s house before, but she knew it had been his childhood home and the site of his parents’ murders. Their path into the kitchen was flanked by photos, mostly of Eli as a kid, proudly displaying trophies and game fish, his parents on either side. Happy memories all sliced to
ribbons by a senseless act of violence when Eli’s father, then Cook County state’s attorney, was targeted by a mob boss he was prosecuting at the time.

How he could still live here blew Kinsey’s mind. An exchanged glance with a goggle-eyed Alex confirmed she wasn’t alone in that opinion.

“Sit down,” Eli ordered, with a flick of his hand to a large farmer’s table in the pleasantly appointed kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the window blinds, bathing the room in buttery stripes.

Everyone sat, including the dog, who stretched out companionably at Eli’s feet. The mayor went back to what he had been doing before they arrived—making coffee. Only when he had measured, apportioned, and pressed the start button on the maker did he return his attention to the merry little band.

“So you’ve switched sides, Kinsey,” he said in a dangerously low voice.

This is what she had been afraid of. “There are no sides, Mr. Mayor. Only a need to minimize the damage caused by this situation and make sure the city has zero liability.”

“Spoken like a true spin doctor.” He sharpened his fierce gaze on Alex. “What the fuck were you thinking, Alexandra?”

In Kinsey’s limited experience, she had surmised that Wyatt Fox had two looks, Cool Indifference or Mighty Pissed Off, and the expressions for both were pretty much the same. But with Eli’s very familiar address of Alex, Kinsey encountered a new expression from the eldest Dempsey: surprise. Gray-blue eyes flew wide as his gaze ping-ponged between Eli and his sister.

“Is this an official interview?” Wyatt asked the mayor.

“Do you think I usually ask people who screw with my city over to my house at 0600 if I want to discuss official business? I invited you here because I’d rather get her side of it before the shit hits the fan later today. I’ve spent the last two hours talking to Commissioner Freeman, Media Affairs at CFD, and Sam Cochrane. That car cost four hundred thousand dollars!”

“Take it out of my wages,” Alex said petulantly, biting down on her lip.

“You mean the wages you’ll no longer be earning?” Eli inhaled deeply, palming the counter like he could draw on an inner calm from some deep-seated place. “Okay. Tell me what happened.”

Alex’s cheeks flamed. Eli’s conciliatory tone had not gone unnoticed. “He was rude. He called Gage a fag, Beck a wetback, and me a dyke.”

Eli threw up his hands. “The world is rude, Alexandra. It’s filled with incredibly rude and shockingly bigoted people.”

“Oh, I know,” Alex said pointedly.

He arched an expressive eyebrow, the jibe not lost on him. “But we’re public servants, and those rude people pay our salaries.”

“And fund your campaign.” Alex stood, the effect of her height nothing short of staggering. “That asshole chose to insult the people who were sent to extract him from a single-car collision which he caused. He was drunk and could have killed himself or others.”

“There was no evidence of DUI.”

Alex’s mouth fell open. “He smelled like a brewery! He was about to be Breathalyzed by CPD as we were leaving the scene.”