One Fine Fireman (2 page)

“They were okay,” said Ryan, as Vader steered Engine 1 into the stream of Monday-morning traffic. “Not the words I’d recommend. Nothing resembling, say, ‘Would you like to have dinner with me?’”

“Or ‘I’d like to bone the sweet bejeezus out of you,’” added Vader.

“Or ‘I’m leaving San Gabriel and wanted to declare my undying love before I got on the plane,’” said Ryan.

“Or ‘I’d like to lick you like a cherry Popsicle.’”

“Cherry?” Ryan objected. “Why cherry? Where do you even get that?”

“She’s got red hair, is all.”

Kirk finally spoke up. “It’s not red. It’s Titian.”

Vader, not the station’s most dexterous driver, turned the wheel hard as they veered around a corner. All three tilted to the side. “Titian? What’s that? Some fancy word for ‘tit’? I’m not talking about her boobs.”

Ryan let out a hoot of laughter. Kirk shook his head. “Vader, have you ever read a book?”

“What does that have to do with Maribel’s rack?”

Ryan was now laughing too hard to explain, and Kirk didn’t care enough to. He’d come to blows with Vader in the past over his occasional crudeness, and it never did any good. “It’s a shade of red. More like auburn.”

“Huh.” Since the conversation had veered away from boobs, Vader appeared to lose interest.

From the backseat, Ryan, once he’d gotten over his laughing fit, said in a lowered voice, “I’m serious, Thor. You need to talk to her. Are you going to move away without ever telling her how you feel? You’ve been crushing on her for years.”

“I haven’t been crushing.”

“Right. More like drooling. I heard you muttering her name in your sleep during our Big Bear campout.”

“She’s engaged.” It hurt like hell to say it, but he’d learned the hard way that you couldn’t run from the truth.

“So you’re just going to let it go? Disappear into a freakin’ glacier? Seize the day, dude. Take the leap. Follow your bliss.”

“One more affirmation and I’ll shoot you.”

“You don’t have a gun. And she deserves to know.” Ryan sat back with a disgusted air. “For such a tough guy, you sure are a wuss. Strong, silent type, my ass. You’re afraid.”

“Stay out of it, Hoagie.”

Ryan shrugged. It’s not like he was saying anything Kirk hadn’t told himself a million times, lying awake, sick from chemo, his surgical wounds throbbing. He’d formulated the words many times. “Would you please meet me after work? I have something important to tell you.” But as soon as he’d seen her today, with that delicious Titian-red hair in an unruly pile on her head, her dreamy hazel eyes widening with surprise at his compliment, the telltale color coming and going in her apple-round cheeks, he’d gone mute, as he always did.

Maribel left him speechless. Which didn’t give him much of a chance to bare his heart to her.

L
ATER
, M
ARIBEL BLAMED
the shock of Duncan’s announcement. An actual wedding date. An actual plan. One of his “friends”—a client who owed him a favor—had offered up his house in the Hamptons for a weekend. It was all too overwhelming and miraculous. She should have broken the news to Pete carefully, gently. Instead she’d burst into his room and said, with openmouthed amazement, “Duncan wants to actually get married. In July! Holy moly, Pete, it’s really happening. We’re moving to New York!”

Pete was sprawled on his stomach on the floor, surrounded by the drawings and notebooks that comprised his epic fantasy novel. His face had turned red and he’d yelled, “No! I hate him!”

“Pete, you don’t mean that.”

“I do too! I’ve told you a million times!”

True, he had said something of the sort, but she didn’t believe he really meant it. He’d feel that way about anyone she got involved with. He wanted his mother all to himself. It was understandable.

“I shouldn’t have surprised you like that. I’m sorry, Pete.”

That helped a bit. The red flooded from his face, leaving behind a sea of freckles. He looked back at the giant sketchbook he’d been writing in. “You don’t have to marry him, Mom. We don’t need him.”

“But honey, I want to marry him. We’ve been talking about it the last couple of years. Aren’t you, you know, used to the idea by now?”

“I don’t like him,” Pete said sullenly. “He doesn’t talk to me.”

“Sure he does. When he took us to Disneyland, we talked the whole time. It was so fun, remember?”

Pete scowled at the last sentence he’d written. He had a vague memory of Disneyland, sure, but it wasn’t a good one. Duncan was so fake. He’d made Pete go on the baby rides like the stupid spinning teacups. He talked only about boring things—mostly himself. He kept bragging about the famous people he’d photographed and giving Pete nasty looks when he had no idea who they were. Privately, Pete called him Dumb Duncan or, in his angrier moments, Flunkin’ Duncan. If only his mother would see the truth about him.

Now his mom was giving him a “be a good boy” sort of look. “Give him a chance, that’s all I ask. Can you imagine? Us in New York City! Think of all the opportunities. Museums, concerts, plays,
exhibits.
So many things to photograph, so much to see and do and eat. The best pizza in the world, Pete! We’ll still be a family, you and me, with just one extra, that’s all . . .”

Pete couldn’t stand it another second. He leaped to his feet and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. His mother didn’t follow him. One of the best things about his mom was that she knew sometimes he just needed to think. Alone.

When he heard his mother banging around in the kitchen, he skipped back to his room and flung himself on his bed. For a long time he stared at the Harry Potter posters on his wall. If only he could come up with a magic spell for getting rid of an unwanted, nasty fiancé. If only he could point his wand and say
Expelliarmus
! If only Hagrid would show up and give Duncan a pig’s tail. That thought made him smile, but it lasted only a second. What was the point of dreaming impossible things? No owl was going to show up with a message luring Duncan off to the Sahara Desert. No giant motorcycle was going to blast through the air and land on top of Duncan.

A rustling sound outside made him jump. Then he went very still. It sounded as if something had landed in the camellia bushes outside his window.

The sound came again. A snuffle. A scuffling sound, like something poking at the shrubs outside.

Quietly, trying not to make a sound, Pete got to his feet. He tiptoed to the window, which was open a few inches, all his mother allowed. Slowly, carefully, he peered out. If it was a magical being, he wanted it to know he was cool with that. Whatever it was, even if it was a troll or an ogre.

It was a dog. Just a dog. A small, white dog with patches of brown and black. Bummed, he let out a long breath.

Then the dog looked up, and Pete knew, without a doubt, that this wasn’t “just a dog” at all. His mother was terribly allergic to both dogs and cats, so he’d had very little to do with them in his life. But even so, he knew this dog had to be special. He had such bright, intelligent, curious dark brown eyes, the color of the blackstrap molasses his mom gave him for iron. The dog met Pete’s gaze thoughtfully, without blinking, as if any minute he was going to start talking and ask why Pete looked so miserable.

“Hey, boy,” said Pete softly. “What’s your name?”

The dog cocked his head to one side. He had floppy ears that looked like they’d be soft as his favorite old blankie. Pete noticed he had no collar. Did that mean he was a wild dog? Of course not. This dog couldn’t be wild. He looked too nice. But where were his owners?

The dog turned and trotted off, looking over his shoulder as if asking Pete to come play. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. He moved with a tiny hitch in his stride, barely noticeable.

Pete didn’t hesitate. He slipped out of his room, ran out the side door into the carport, grabbed his bike, and pedaled after the dog. He needed to call the dog something. Something special and magical. He’d call him . . . Hagrid.

Chapter Two

I
N HIS DRIVEWAY,
Kirk revved his Harley, listening to the odd sound he’d noticed the last few times he’d ridden home from the firehouse. Poor bike needed some work. Especially—he gritted his teeth—if he was going to sell it. Which he was. He had to. Not only did he need the money, but it would be insane to cart a Harley all the way up to Alaska so he could ride for the few months a year that had no snow. He’d considered giving the bike to his younger brother in San Diego, but everyone knew Harleys had to be earned, not gifted.

So his beloved bike would have to go. He’d been putting the moment off, but that was silly. It was just a bike. He’d take it to the shop on the edge of town for a tune-up, then post it on Craigslist or something. Unless Gonzalez, the shop owner, knew someone in the market for an older-style, lovingly maintained Harley.

He strapped on his helmet, mounted the bike, and took off down the street. God, he’d miss this feeling, the powerful machine humming between his thighs, the wind lifting his hair, the road rising before him, chasing away every thought other than throttle, downshift, rev, signal.

Well, not
every
thought. Maribel still managed to surface, but he’d gotten used to that constant ache of longing. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Sure, she was adorable, like a pink-cheeked fairy in an apron. Whenever he walked into the coffee shop, he knew instantly whether or not she was there. He could always pick up her particular scent, a light fragrance like apple blossom filtering through the thick cooking smells of grilled bacon and hazelnut coffee.

She was so creative, with her photographs and her little craftsy ornaments and beaded bracelets and such. She always had things on display at the counter, and he always bought some, whatever they were. He sent them to his family, who’d finally maxed out on the tchotchkes and suggested he share the wealth with the rest of the world. They just didn’t appreciate art the way he did.

Maribel was kind too. Most of the time when he tried to buy the ornaments, she’d offer them up for free. He’d come back later and give Mrs. Gund the money. And he’d seen her with her boy, Pete. She’d sit him down at a table in the corner and help him with his homework between customers. She had a gentleness about her, something light and airy and dreamy and joyful; she’d never know how thoughts of her had sustained him during bouts of chemo.

That’s why he couldn’t tell her his feelings, no matter what Ryan said. He was damaged goods. A cancer survivor. How could he burden such a joyful soul with his crap? Besides, he reminded himself, she was engaged. Although the absence of her fiancé made that hard to keep in mind.

As the cheerful stucco houses of San Gabriel gave way to the grittier businesses of the industrial part of town, he kept an eye out for the cavernous warehouse where Gonzalez had set up shop. Kirk had been doing his own motorcycle maintenance for a while, but now he was under orders to stay out of the sun as much as possible. It was either build his own garage or bring the bike to Gonzalez. Just one more shift in his life.

He almost missed the big, metal-sided shop because it was lacking the huge “Gonzalez Choppers” sign with the flames around the edges. Was the G-Man making a new sign? He pulled into the big parking lot out front and knew something more was up. Usually the place had a steady flow of bikers. But now it was empty. Ominously empty. A breeze whispered through the birch woods behind the warehouse. A “For Lease” sign lay on the browning grass, as if something had knocked it over.

Was Gonzalez Choppers no more?

He knocked on the warehouse door, then realized it was unlocked. He opened it and peered inside. Yup, the place was cleared out. No jumble of Hondas, Harleys, and BMWs. No customers shooting the shit with the huge, tattooed Gonzalez. The smell was the same. Grease and diesel and leather. And a few tools were still scattered on the counter that used to be chock-full of them. Even the gumball machine that Gonzalez had stocked with mixed nuts still occupied the near corner.

When he took a step forward, his footfalls echoed in the huge, empty space. Cool air settled on his face, a relief from the typically blazing heat of a May day in San Gabriel. The only light came from small windows high on the walls. Oblique and filtered, it did little to illuminate the space. And would pose no threat to his skin.

An idea struck. Why not work on his bike here? No one was using the place, or was likely to, judging by the useless “For Lease” sign. If anyone objected, he could vacate quickly enough. He could probably make do with the tools that had been left behind. If not, he could fill the gap easily enough.

A noise caught his attention, a clanging sound as if someone had knocked something over.

“Who’s there?” he called sharply.

The noise stopped with suspicious suddenness.

“Hello?” He spoke into the emptiness. “Gonzalez? Is that you?”

At his words, the sound came again, followed by a quick clicking of toenails on fast-moving paws. An animal of some kind. Kirk braced himself. There had been a few wildcat spottings in San Gabriel, not to mention packs of coyotes at night.

But the wild creature that emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop wasn’t too terrifying. In fact, he recognized him right away. A little beagle. Gonzalez’s beagle. What was his name again?

“Here pup,” called Kirk. “I won’t hurt you. What are you doing here, pup? You look like you’re half-starved.”

The dog’s rib cage curved inwards. Poor thing must have gotten left behind. Kirk dug in his pockets for a quarter. Were mixed nuts good for dogs? Dogs ate pretty much anything, didn’t they? Except chocolate.

The gumball machine dumped a handful of nuts into his palm, which he then presented to the dog. The beagle sniffed at his hand, gave him an inquiring look, then delicately nibbled at a cashew. Kirk found himself smiling. This dog had better manners than some of the guys at the firehouse. He spilled the rest of the nuts onto the cement floor so the dog could have at them.

“What the heck’s your name, pup?” He remembered it had two words, and began with a
B
something. Or maybe it was a
J
. Jelly Bean? Jiffy Lube? He chuckled. “Here, Jiffy Lube.”