The Night Belongs to Fireman (14 page)

“No, I'm not a child,” she said in a husky voice that seemed to communicate directly with his hormones. “But my dad worries, and I can't blame him.”

“How about this. I'll make you a promise. I won't say anything to your father until I say it to you first. If I see something that alarms me, I'll tell you. Then we can both consider what to do. But I won't do anything without you knowing about it. What do you think?”

Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned. Leaning one hip against the door of her specially altered Saab, she raised her eyes to meet his. The wariness in those violet depths nearly broke his heart. The wariness, and the longing to trust. “That sounds fair,” she said cautiously. “Aren't you sending reports to my dad, the way Marsden does?”

“Nope. I'm leaving that to Marsden. I wouldn't want your father to suffer from information overload.”

A smile twitched at her lips. Her full, down-turned lips. The lips he hadn't been able to get out of his mind since their two sizzling kisses. “I wish you could understand . . . what it feels like to have one tiny bit of freedom, and to be constantly worried it might get taken away.”

He touched her cheek, very quickly and lightly, because he just couldn't help it. “I'm on your side. I promise.”

H
e thought about
that promise during the entire drive home. His week of guarding her had made him realize that he'd never choose her life, no matter how much money it came with. Kessler was such a maniac about security that he insisted on vetting everyone who got close to Rachel—or even got close to getting close. No wonder she stuck with a very small, tight group of friends that she'd known since college. She was lucky to have
those
friends.

Rachel had confided that her father hadn't even wanted her to attend college. “You can get the same education or better online,” he'd told her. But she'd stuck to her guns until her father agreed to San Gabriel College because it was so “small and dull.”

As a native San Gabreleño, Fred didn't appreciate that description, but he could see Kessler's point.

With all those restrictions on her social life, Rachel didn't get out much, at least compared to most girls her age. Like Lizzie, for example, who had boys trailing after her like toilet paper on her shoe. But Rachel didn't seem to mind. The Refuge was her passion, and when she wasn't at work, she was reading books about animal behavior and training techniques. Twice a week she took a ballet class at Move Me Dance Studio, where Cherie worked. Marsden told Fred he'd discreetly done a check on every student in the class. Fred thought that was going overboard, unless some ballerina planned to take her out with a wayward pirouette.

Rachel might be content with her existence, but Fred kept thinking about the first time he'd seen her, that giddy, devil-may-care girl who'd waltzed up to his table and snatched his trophy. And he couldn't forget the look he'd seen in her eyes as she'd talked about her lack of freedom.

So that night, after they'd consumed a pepperoni mushroom pizza for dinner, and after Marsden had dropped in for his nightly check-in, Fred decided to spring a surprise on her.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Um . . . the usual?”

“Studying up on three-toed sloths?”

“I think we can create an acceptable environment for it, if we just—”

“I have a better idea.” He strode to the couch and swung her to her feet. “We're going out.”

“Out . . . what? Where? I can't go out.” She pulled her hand from his.

“Why not?”

“Because . . . work and . . . Dad wouldn't . . . Marsden already—”

He gave her a wicked smile. “But you'll have your bodyguard with you. You'll be perfectly safe. That's what they hired me for, right?”

She gazed at him with something dawning in her eyes. Something wild and hopeful, daring and gut-wrenching. “What are we going to do?”

“Whatever you want. Whatever you've always wanted to do, but never gotten the chance. Sky's the limit, baby.” He threw open the drapes, revealing the star-spangled indigo sky and pulsating lights of a busy Friday night. He tilted his head back and pretended to howl at the golden sliver of moon. “The night belongs to us.”

T
he Kesslers hadn't always been rich. Rachel could just barely remember the deliriously manic time of Kessler Tech's IPO, when her father became an overnight billionaire. The next day her mother had taken her to a toy store and said she could buy anything in the place. She'd dashed from Barbies to toy pianos, to a miniature cotton candy maker, finally settling on a sparkly silver bike with blue fringe on the handlebars.

Now, with San Gabriel's nightlife spread before her like a buffet of fun, she remembered that kid-in-a-candy-store feeling. It started with her outfit. When she'd first gotten to college, she'd bought a bunch of crazy outfits, but she'd put them away after the frat house incident freshman year. She dove into her closet and came out with skin-tight black vinyl pants and a belly shirt with the words “She's So Vain” written in sequins. She added sparkly eyeliner and shook out her hair into a wild, fizzy black halo.

The expression on Fred's face made her want to turn pirouettes across the floor.

“It's a damn good thing you have a bodyguard,” he grumbled as he set the security alarms.

“Seriously, I don't know why I ever resisted the idea,” she said cheerfully, which made his face go dark.

“It's a good thing you have
me
as a bodyguard,” he corrected.

The possessiveness in his voice made her shiver.

“What's the grungiest, nastiest dive bar in town?” she asked after they'd settled into her Saab.

Fred started up the car. He'd insisted on driving, so she could have a drink if she chose. “That's easy. Beer Goggles. Used to be Katie's bar, Hair of the Dog, but it burned down.”

“
Beer Goggles?
Yes, let's go there. That sounds perfect.”

“No.”

“Why not? You said anywhere I want.”

“Because it's . . . and you're . . .” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, stealing a sidelong glance at her outfit. “Should have kept my big mouth shut,” he grumbled, turning the car around. “The minute I say we're out of there, we're out of there.”

“Fine,” she said meekly.

Inside Beer Goggles, it took crucial minutes for her smoke-induced coughing fit to subside and her vision to adjust to the murky darkness. By then she was seated in a booth, clutching a Sierra Nevada and shrinking under the weight of a bar-full of speculative male eyes.

“I thought smoking in bars was against the law.” She barely managed to hack out the question before another coughing fit struck. She downed most of her beer as if it were water.

“Beer Goggles claims to be on tribal land,” Fred explained. “There's a whole lawsuit going on. Here, have some bar snacks.” He pushed a dirty dish of shriveled pea-like objects that might once have been pistachios. Or gallstones, for all she knew. Her stomach roiled. “Ready to go yet?”

“She just got here.” A giant wearing a black leather jacket and a Cyclops-eye tattooed on his forehead loomed over them. He had the voice of an emphysema patient. “Trying to keep her to yourself, kid?”

“Just giving the lady what she wants.” Fred didn't seem intimidated by the man's bulk, but Rachel sure was.

“We were just leaving,” she said quickly. Fred rose to his feet and faced off with the giant.

“Can you step aside, please?” His manner might be pleasant, but Rachel could sense the tension radiating from him. The man stepped aside a mere half inch, enough so Fred could squeeze out of the booth. He did so, his back to Rachel, his entire focus on the Cyclops-man. The next thing happened so fast, Rachel barely saw it through the smoke. The man reached for Fred, as if aiming to pick him up by the back of his jacket. Fred ducked, used the man's momentum to flip him around, and toppled him to the floor. Then he twisted the giant's arm in such a way that the man couldn't budge without pain.

“Come on, Rachel. Step right over him.”

Just to be safe, Rachel grabbed for the only thing that felt like a weapon, the dish of bar snacks. Gingerly she stepped over the spitting, cursing man.

“Stay close, Rachel,” Fred warned her. “I don't want anyone else getting stupid ideas.” He addressed his immobilized opponent. “Are you going to be good, or do I have to tear a rotator cuff before I let you go?”

“I'll sue.”

“You attacked first. Right now there's no damage, but I can change that.” He gave one more little twist, then released the man.

“You'd better stay away from this place,” Cyclops threatened.

“I can live with that. Come on, Rachel.” Fred took her arm and hustled her toward the door. Everyone was watching them, peering through the haze. It wasn't just cigarette smoke, she realized. Several customers were openly smoking weed. Maybe that's why no one seemed very motivated to get up and make a brawl out of it.

When they were almost out the door, she glanced back and saw the gigantic Cyclops-man stumbling after them. “Fred!” She cried, then did the only thing she could think of. She flung the dish of pistachio-peas across the floor, where they made a skittering sound like a hundred tiny marbles. “Run!”

They ran for the door, hand in hand, and the last thing she saw was the Cyclops slipping on the rolling bar snacks, helplessly windmilling his leather-clad arms.

She collapsed into the Saab. Hysterical laughter came bubbling out of her mouth. “Did you . . . see his . . . face?”

Fred, breathing hard, started up the car. “I'm glad those snacks were good for something. Now let's get the hell out of here.”

She bounced up and down on the seat. “That was . . . I know it was dangerous and I hope he didn't hurt you, but that was
totally awesome
.”

“So we can check grungy dive off your list? Please tell me yes.” He pulled away from the curb.

“Oh, I suppose,” she said, still flying from the adrenaline rush. “I don't want to wear out my favorite bodyguard.”

His smoldering glance made her fly even higher. “I don't wear out that easy.” The promise in his voice sent shivers down her spine. “Where to now? Tattoo parlor? Cockfight? Gang war?”

“Is the carnival still in town? I always wanted to go, but my father got an eye twitch every time I brought it up.”

“San Gabriel Fairgrounds, here we come.”

The brightly lit streets sped past. One beer, and she was already entering that expansive, carefree, babbling state.

“You have no idea how sick I get of being Rachel Allen Kessler,” she told Fred. “Sometimes I pretend I'm someone else. Someone who isn't guarded and hunted and watched. I've thought about wearing a disguise so there's no chance of anyone recognizing me.”

“What would you do?”

“Nothing too radical. Go out dancing. Play pool. Play bocce ball with the old guys in the park. Talk to people. That probably sounds dub.” She gave a hiccup. “I mean dumb.”

Fred shot her a sidelong look as he downshifted around a corner. “You're a lightweight, aren't you?”

“Yup,” she said cheerfully. “I really never, ever drink. Hey, do you think the carnival has bumper cars?”

Ten minutes later, Rachel was screaming with laughter as Fred slammed his car into hers. The guy was ruthless. And he liked to trash talk. “Bring it, rich girl,” he taunted as he pinned her car against the wall. “My eight-year-old neighbor drives faster than you.”

“You ain't seen nothing yet, Turbo.” She fought back, ramming her car against his until she won a little breathing room. “They'll have to bring out the Jaws of Life when I'm done with you.” She zoomed off and he chased after her.

“All talk, no action,” he said as he nipped her bumper. “Better change your name to Rachel Roadkill.”

“Freddie Fender Bender,” she yelled over her shoulder. She yanked the wheel to the side and zipped around him, getting in a sneak sideswipe in the process.

“Prepare to surrender.”

By the time she gave in, tears of laughter were streaming down her face. Fred might be kindhearted, but he was viciously competitive when it came to bumper cars.

“You look so normal,” she complained, as they walked across the fairgrounds, sharing a bag of roasted peanuts. “Then you turn out to have this vicious competitive streak. Do you take all games this seriously?”

He shrugged, his wide shoulders rising and falling under his black T-shirt. The bright glare from a cotton candy booth turned his hair shining mahogany. “I'm a guy, I'm a Breen, and I'm a firefighter. You do the math.”

“Surrounded by testosterone,” she guessed.

“More like raised on a diet of one hundred percent testosterone.”

She peered at him as they sidestepped around a group of kids sporting face paint—a pirate, a ninja, a dragon. “Then how'd you end up with a sensitive side?”

“How do you know I have one?” He pulled her close as a teenager zoomed past on a skateboard.

The brush of his warm, solid frame made her throat go dry. His muscled thigh bumped against her hip. She heroically suppressed a whimper. Why'd Marsden have to pick such a cute bodyguard? Was he trying to torture her? “I know you have a sensitive side because I see it every day. I see it with the animals at the Refuge, with your neighbor kids, everywhere except in a bumper car.”

“You should see me on a basketball court.”

“Really?”

“I'm not tall, but I play hard. I had to, growing up, or I would have been roadkill. Competitiveness kind of runs in the Breen family.”

The silky hair on his arm whispered against hers as he stepped back to give her space. If that slight bit of contact felt that delicious, what would the rest of him feel like?

“And by the way, if you ever run into my brothers, don't mention anything about my alleged sensitive side. You have no idea what they would do with that shit.”

“Oh, I won't mention a word,” she assured him. “But I might compliment your oldest brother—Trent, right?—on his famous haircutting skills.” She winked at him. Fred was so good at teasing her, and she loved how it made her feel, as if champagne bubbles floated through her veins. But it felt even better to tease him back.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I see your evil plan. Trent won't be able to fight back, because you're a civilian, not to mention a woman. So he'll go after me for ratting him out. Is this revenge for the bumper cars?”

“Oh yes. Better watch your back, fireman.”

“Bring it, rich girl. Ever gone bowling?”

She couldn't help squealing with delight. “Can we go, can we go?”

W
hat kind of
childhood didn't include bowling? It was practically un-American. Even though Fred was too caught up in Rachel to hit a single strike, it was worth it to see the joy on her pixie face, her sparkling smile, the delight in every line of her provocatively vinyl-clad body. Good thing she had no idea he was going through the evening with a constant semi-hard-on.

There were still at the bowling alley, and she'd just collapsed next to him, laughing over her latest gutter ball, when a snide voice cut into his pleasantly lustful thoughts.

“I suppose this is one of those ‘successful women' the firehouse is so crazy about?” Courtney stood over them, holding hands with a guy from her business school program. She gave Rachel a pointed, disdainful look, taking in her belly shirt and black vinyl.

Fred went on full alert. “How you doing, Courtney?”

“Great. Very
successful
. I aced my finals. And did you get my phone messages about how I've moved on?” She pointedly squeezed her classmate's hand. Her gaze kept flickering to Rachel, but the hell if Fred was going to introduce them.

“Congratulations. I knew you would.”

“Haven't seen you on TV lately. Did the press get tired of you?”

“Something like that.”

Courtney dismissed him and turned to Rachel. “I'm in business school. What do you do?”

Rachel said promptly, “Dog groomer.” Fred nearly spurted his Orange Crush all over Courtney's painted-on jeans. “I started with people, but I flunked out of beauty school and now I just do dogs.”

Courtney's eyes narrowed, but Rachel stood her ground. “Do you have any dogs?”

“I'm too busy for pets.”

“That figures.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Fred jumped to his feet, blocking the line of sight between Rachel and Courtney. His bodyguard duties had better not include stopping a catfight. “We have to go. Nice running into you, Courtney.”

“Are you serious, Fred?
Her?
” Courtney hissed. “She's the skankiest thing this side of the Sunset Strip. Look at that top. I mean, everyone else is.”

“Hey!” Rachel yelled from behind him. “Are you dissing my outfit?” Apparently channeling a reality show contestant, Rachel was trying to claw her way from behind his back. He held her off like some kind of bouncer.

“OMG, she's crazy. You're really scraping the bottom of the tramp barrel, Freddie. So sad.” Courtney rolled her eyes dramatically and sidled off, dragging her business-school boy toy like a pet on a leash.

As soon as she was out of sight, Rachel doubled over in laughter. “That was . . . She actually thought . . .” She could barely speak through her wheezes. “That was the most awesome thing ever.”

“I suppose that was on your list?” Irritated, Fred crossed his arms over his chest. “Catfight in a bowling alley?”

“I just . . . No one ever sees me that way!”

“Let's go.” Fred hadn't enjoyed the encounter nearly as much as Rachel clearly had. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. Whirling around, he headed for the shoe rental return. Rachel skipped after him.

“Is she an old girlfriend or something? She was being so mean to you. I was trying to help you get rid of her.”

“Yes,” Fred answered shortly, unwilling to reveal anything more about Courtney. “We dated for bit, then we ended it.”