How to Tame a Wild Fireman

Dedication

To my family, in the widest sense of the word

Acknowledgments

I
’d like to thank wildland firefighters John LeClair and Kristin Dunlap, along with Captain Rick Godinez of the Los Angeles Fire Department, for sharing their knowledge of firefighting. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs. Many thanks to Jenny Bartholomew for her ­insights into special needs children. To my critique partners, Lizbeth Selvig and Tam Linsey, what would I do without you? And finally, grateful thanks to my editor, Tessa Woodward, the entire Avon team, and my agent extraordinaire, Alexandra Machinist.

Contents

Chapter One

Ten years ago

T
here are tattoo
parlors
and then there are tattoo
studios
. The Rusty Needle was definitely the former, thought Lara Nelson as she dismounted from the back of her friend Liam’s dirt bike. Liam’s brother Patrick had already parked his motorcycle and was staring at the grungy back-­alley hole in the wall, which looked even dingier at this late hour. Sailors would love this place; hipsters not so much. Its curb appeal consisted of a broken neon sign and a skull and crossbones decal on the front door. She hadn’t even known the place existed in Loveless, Nevada.

“I’m not getting an infection just because you want to impress your Prince­ton friends,” she grumbled as she caught up with Patrick. Liam glanced her way, and she quickly signed the same sentiment to him.

Seamlessly, they all switched to signing.

“I don’t give a crap about Prince­ton,” said Patrick. “This is for my brother. So he doesn’t forget me when I turn into an Ivy League dickhead.”

“You’re only a dickhead sometimes,” signed Liam, who didn’t understand sarcasm. Lara laughed, giddy after a night spent driving aimlessly around Loveless. There weren’t many night spots to choose from in their town.

“This is for you too, Lara,” Patrick said out loud, which he did when he wanted to tease Lara without upsetting Liam. “A souvenir of Loveless to take to college with you.”

“There’s got to be a better souvenir than an infection,” she said dubiously. She stared at the daunting sign in which half the letters flickered sickly. “The Rusty Needle
?”

“There’s a T in front of Rusty. It’s the Trusty Needle. Perfectly safe.”

Squinting, she peered more closely. “I don’t see any T.”

“It fell off, then. Seriously, who would name a tattoo parlor the Rusty Needle? Anyway, this is the only one that’s open. And we haven’t even gone inside yet. Grow some balls, Lulu.”

“What would I do with those?” she snapped back. She refused, absolutely refused, to protest the nickname. He knew she hated it, but she wouldn’t let him get to her.

Patrick, the older brother and most annoying guy in town, if you asked Lara, was the usual instigator of mayhem. Lara’s role was to make sure her best friend, Liam, didn’t get steamrolled into doing something he didn’t want.

She stood between the two brothers and quickly signed to Liam. “You don’t have to do this, Liam. We can hang out while Patrick gets his tattoo, then laugh when he cries like a baby.”

“I want one,” he signed back, seriously. “If we make sure it’s well-­sterilized, I want to get ‘wild thing’ tattooed on my butt.”

She bit back a smile. Liam was not a wild thing. He was the dreamy one, the offbeat one, always lost in his own world.

Patrick Callahan, on the other hand . . .

“I want a freaking ball of flames streaking across my chest.” Patrick cackled gleefully, his bright blue eyes glinting in the neon light.

“Subtle.”

“Maybe you should get little bunny fou-­fou hopping across your shoulder blade,” he mocked, touching the back of her shoulder.

Fiercely, she tamped down the quick shiver that went through her. This was new, this weird, totally unwelcome attraction that had sprung up since Patrick had come back from college for Christmas break. She didn’t even like Patrick. He was too crazy, too reckless, too . . . unnerving. She always felt on edge around him. But Liam idolized him. Since she and Liam had bonded as fellow misfits the first day she walked into Loveless Middle School, she was stuck with his older brother too.

“Screw that,” she retorted, adjusting her ripped black tunic top, which she’d layered over a black tube top. Black was her favorite color, the only color that made her feel safe. She’d even dyed her blond hair black. “If I’m doing it, I’m getting something weird and different.”

“Dragon?” he mocked. “Chicks love dragons.”

“No. Nothing girlie. Something like . . . I don’t know. A jellyfish.”

“A
jellyfish
?”

“Okay, maybe a squid. Squid. Ink. Get it?”

He shook his head. “Why don’t you at least
try
to be sexy, now that you’re getting out of Loveless? You might be able to pull it off.”

God, she hated him. And of course she wouldn’t try to be sexy. That was the last thing she wanted, being who she was, living where she did. But Patrick wouldn’t understand. He would never get how it felt to be an outcast, the way she and Liam did.

Liam broke into their conversation. “No fights. Are we going to get the tattoos?”

“That’s a hell yes,” signed Patrick, with a quick, challenging glance at Lara. “I’m in. No fear. Seize the day. We’ll never forget this moment, the three of us getting jabbed with needles and spilling blood together.”

Lara realized things were spiraling out of control, which happened a lot with Patrick around. “I didn’t bring enough cash.”

“It’s on me. Do or die. Together forever.” Patrick put one arm around each of them and shepherded them toward the door of the Rusty, and hopefully Trusty, Needle.

By the time they stumbled out, it was sometime around four in the morning. Night hung still and clear around them. Stars glimmered overhead. Pain throbbed in their various body parts. Only Liam had backed out, unable to get past his fear of germs. He’d watched the tattoo artist like a hawk the entire time to make sure everything was properly sterilized. The smell of rubbing alcohol surrounded them like a toxic cloud. Their eyes were bleary, their senses stunned.

Patrick looked exhilarated. “Whooo-­hoooo!” He howled into the night sky. “Now that’s what I’m talking about! Yeah, baby!” He vaulted onto his bike. “Hell if I can sleep after that. Anyone want to head out to the cliffs?”

“No!” Lara folded her arms across her chest, although every movement of her left arm felt uncomfortable. She didn’t even want to think about the ridiculous goldfish on her upper arm. It was the closest design to a squid the tattoo artist knew how to do. “I’m going home.”

Liam signed. “Do you need a ride?”

“Nope. You know how the Haven feels about motor vehicles. I’d rather walk. I need the fresh air.” Her Aunt Tam, head of the Haven for Sexual and Spiritual Healing, tried to maintain a tranquil atmosphere free from engine noise. Exceptions were made, of course, but not at four in the morning. “But . . . uh, yeah. It’s been real. Drive safe.”

“Safe?” Patrick started his bike. The drone of its engine echoed through the empty, down-­at-­heels street. “What kind of boring-­ass word is ‘safe’? I want to live on the edge! Be wild! Go crazy! Right, Liam?”

He signed the gist of his manifesto to Liam, who gave a worried shake of his head. Lara knew he was fretting about the lateness, even though Friday night was the Callahan brothers’ designated late night out. Lara’s heart ached for her friend. Oh, Liam, with his quiet manner and guileless blue eyes. Always in Patrick’s shadow, though he never seemed to mind. Then again, it could be hard to tell what he minded, since social interactions were challenging for him.

“Whatever,” she signed, flapping her hands against each other. “I’m out. See you whenever.”

Liam gave her an awkward wave. Then he carefully climbed onto his bike. Patrick offered a soldier’s salute. “We who are about to face our father’s wrath salute you.”

She waved good-­bye and turned toward the empty street that would take her home. The last she heard of Liam and Patrick was the receding roar of their two bikes and the occasional war whoop from Patrick.

She had no idea everything would change—­forever—­fifteen minutes later.

Ten years later

News spread fast in San Gabriel Fire Station 1. In the apparatus bay, Fred the “Stud” abandoned Engine 1 mid-­chrome-­polishing and raced to the training room. From the workout room, Vader saw him run past and tossed his fifty-­pound free weight aside. Double D nearly tripped over it, but in his eagerness to see what was happening, managed to leap high in the air, agile as a gazelle.

“What’s going on?” asked a bewildered Sabina Jones as firefighters streamed past.

“It’s Psycho,” someone panted. “He’s gone crazy.”

“Always a relative term when it comes to him,” Sabina grumbled as she followed the general flow of movement.

Captain Brody stepped out of his office, where he’d been trying to distract himself from the imminent birth of his baby with a pile of paperwork. He took in the madness, a faint frown creasing his forehead. “What the hell is this all about?”

“Psycho’s got an excavator!” Fred shouted. “He’s in the backyard.”

The captain looked at Sabina, who shrugged. “You got me, Cap. I heard all the shouting and came running.”

Vader picked up the intercom through which firefighters made general announcements about such things as dinner and handball matches. “Attention, everyone. If anyone’s missing a sweet piece of heavy equipment, you might want to check the backyard. She weighs two tons, she’s painted bright yellow, and she’s a hot little piece of machinery.”

“Get off that thing, Vader,” snapped Captain Brody.

“For more updates, stay tuned to your local channel,” Vader intoned, then quickly dropped the mic at a glare from Brody.

“Vader, go out there and find out what’s going on.” He’d go himself, but these days he liked to stay as close as possible to a phone—­to two phones, in case his cell decided to drop reception.

“Jones, when’s the last time you saw Psycho?”

Sabina rolled her turquoise eyes toward the ceiling. “To tell you the truth, Cap, I try to block it out when I see him. Anyway, he’s off shift today.”

He fixed her with a stern stare. “Anything I should know?” All his crew members knew what that meant. He liked to stay out of firehouse drama until his presence was absolutely necessary.

She shrugged. “It’s a heat wave. Everyone’s going a little nuts. And Psycho’s Psycho. What more do you need to know?”

Brody groaned. The brass had begged him to fill in temporarily at his old position until they could settle on the perfect replacement. The authoritative and powerful Chief Roman had recently left, after becoming engaged to Sabina, and his shoes were hard to fill. Brody had warned them that he’d be taking paternity leave as soon as Melissa went into labor. But it wasn’t happening yet, so Psycho’s latest adventure would be his problem to solve.

“Stan,” he muttered to the firehouse mutt, a beagle mix who sat patiently by his right ankle. “What am I going to do with him? He’s liable to blow this place up.”

Stan gave him a wise look, but kept whatever insight he had to himself.

“Fine.” Brody checked to make sure his cell phone was on, stuck it in his pocket, and strode out to the backyard to see what havoc Patrick Callahan IV was wreaking now.

In the cab of the excavator, Patrick took another long slug of vodka-­spiked Arizona iced tea and sang the words to “Once, Twice, Three Times a Lady” as he lowered the bucket toward the crackling dry grass of the back lawn. He didn’t ever drink on the job, but he happened to be off shift at the moment, as he’d switched with Brent on the A shift.

Alcohol wasn’t permitted on the premises, but then again, he wasn’t technically
on
the premises. The way he looked at it, he was a ­couple yards
over
the premises.

And the premises weren’t much to speak of. It hadn’t rained in eight months and temperatures had been stuck over 100 for the past two weeks. The grass was probably dead. For sure, no one would miss it.

“She’s once . . . twice . . .” He hooted at the top of his lungs. Why couldn’t he remember more than that one line? He scowled at the bottle of iced tea. Too much poison. He really had to straighten out one of these days. As soon as he got this thing dug, he’d do it.

New leaf. A new life. A clean, relaxed new life.

Vader appeared in front of the excavator, waving his arms over his head.

Patrick stomped on the brake and the machine lurched to a halt. He leaned out and shouted over the noise of the idling engine. “What’s the rest of the words after ‘Once, twice, three times a lady’?”

Vader cupped a hand behind his ear. “What?”

“Once. Twice. Three times a lady. What comes next?”

Vader’s forehead creased in thought. He sang the tune, tracing the rise and fall of the notes in the air. “La la la la la . . .”

“There’s gotta be more words,” Patrick yelled.

But Vader apparently now remembered why he was blocking the excavator like some tree-­hugging protester. “Captain wants to know what the fuck you’re doing!”

“Tell him don’t worry about it. He’s going to love this.”

“He said to find out what’s going on. Right now it pretty much looks like you’re digging up the backyard.”

“Shhh.” Since his shushing was hard to hear over the sound of the engine, Patrick put a finger to his lips to emphasize his point. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Vader gazed skeptically at the dent Patrick had already made in the lawn. “I think they’re gonna notice.”

“It’s okay, ’ts okay,” Patrick reassured him. “Everyone’s gonna love this. Big hero, that’s me. I figure we’ll name it after me.”

“Name
what
after you? The grave Captain Brody’s going to bury you in?”

Patrick cracked up at that, bending over the controls, shaking with big heaves of laughter. “No,” he gasped, when he finally got his breath back. “The Psycho Memorial Swimming Pool and Hot Tub. You’re welcome.”

The next morning
Patrick stood in an at ease posture before an extremely serious Captain Brody. “At ease” didn’t describe his mood one bit, but it was better than at attention. “At attention” would be hard to manage with a hangover this bad.

“If,” said Brody, “and it’s a big if, we decided the station ought to have a hot tub in the backyard, funds would have to be appropriated, bids submitted, contractors hired, so on and so forth.”

Patrick nodded. It hurt. He didn’t show it, of course. He prided himself on his ability to withstand pain.

“Of course, some might argue with the need for a hot tub, considering our current heat wave.”

“It was supposed to be both,” muttered Patrick, knowing it was the wrong direction to take.