Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) (15 page)

Melanie was afraid to find out.

Her mother turned to her, a small smile on her face, a certainty of knowledge in her eyes. "Who is he, sweetheart?"

Melanie shook her head, in denial and refusal to answer. Maybe she could pretend she didn't understand her mother's question, could convince her parents they were seeing something that wasn't there.

"Who?"

Her mother's delicate brows arched over her eyes. She looked at the paintings once more than back at Melanie. "Why, the man who's causing you such turmoil and frustration, of course."

Dale stood at the door, his head cocked to the side, listening. Yes, those were definitely footsteps coming up the stairs. Were they Smurfette's? He pressed his ear to the door, his eyes closed as he tried to pick up on the different sides. The footsteps were coming closer, not continuing to the third floor. The faint rattle of keys, a soft thud and frustrated murmur as something hit the floor just outside his door.

Not his door, but Smurfette's. That had to be her, dropping her keys and muttering something to herself. He frowned, listening closer. Had he heard another set of footsteps? No, it must have just been the sound echoing in the hallway, or maybe just his imagination.

She was back later than he thought she'd be. He vaguely remembered her saying something about something somewhere—a gallery?— but he hadn't paid any attention to it last night. Actually, he completely forgot about it until he woke up this morning and realized Smurfette wasn't in his bed. There'd been a moment of frustration and disappointment until he remembered she had mentioned she had somewhere to be today. At first, his mind still hazy from sleep and left-over pleasure, he thought about getting up and going next door and asking if she wanted him to go with her. And then he rolled over and looked at the clock, staring at it for a long minute until his mind cleared enough to actually register the late hour.

Technically still morning, but definitely too late to go anywhere with Smurfette.

So he'd spent the day doing mostly nothing, waiting for her to get home. Maybe they could go to dinner again, or out to a movie. Something. And then he'd talk her back into his bed and spend the rest of the night licking and tasting every delicious curve of her body.

He glanced down at himself, a grin on his face, thinking this would be the perfect time to surprise her. A towel was slung low on his hips, his chest and hair still damp from the shower. Yes, this was the perfect time to surprise her. With luck, they could even skip going out and just get straight to the fun part. Even Smurfette would be able to see he had risen to the occasion, with the way the towel was tenting out in front of him. And if she couldn't…well, it would be an easy matter to accidentally-on-purpose let the towel fall away.

He pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, a smile on his face as he reached for the loose knot holding the towel in place. "Hey Smurfette, how about we—fuck! Shit!"

Dale made a mad grab for the towel, catching it just before it fell to the floor. The rest his body froze like a wild animal caught in a bright spotlight a second before the poacher's fatal shot brought it down.

Smurfette stood in front of her door, the key partially inserted into the lock. Her mouth hung open in shock, a wave of red rushing up her neck to spread across her face. A man and a woman stood behind her, similar expressions on their faces. They were older, maybe early fifties, if that. And it only took one quick glance to realize they were her parents. The woman's resemblance to Smurfette was unmistakable. As unmistakable as the protective glare the man shot his way.

Dale straightened, the ends of the towel fisted in his right hand. A cool draft wound its way around his legs and up and he hoped to hell the towel was covering him. He wasn't about to look down to check.

"Uh.." He cleared his throat, wondering if his face was as red as Smurfette's. "Sorry. I didn't realize—I'll just go back inside. Sorry." He pushed on the door, opening it so he could slink his way back into his apartment. The woman's words stopped him.

She stepped closer to Smurfette, gently tapping her on the chin to close her mouth. Then she looked at her daughter and smiled, turning that same smile on him. "So is this him, sweetheart?"

Him?
What the hell did she mean by that? He looked over at Smurfette, hoping to catch a glimpse of a clue or something, but she wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was glued to the floor, her hand tightly curled around the keys.

"Mom—"

"Well I can certainly understand how he'd inspire you to create such energetic work."

Dale blinked, not understanding. Not sure he wanted to understand. His gaze moved between the two women then darted to the man, to her father. Yeah, he was better off watching the women, if the guy's expression meant what he thought it meant.

And why the hell wouldn't it? He'd just come into the hall, ready to expose himself, practically shouting that he'd had sex with the man's daughter. Of course the man was ready to kill him. He was close to wanting to kill himself, figuring something quick would be far less painful than a prolonged death by embarrassment—or by whatever torture her father was clearly planning.

He took another step back, one leg inside the safety of his own place. "You're busy. I'll, uh, I'll just let you go—"

"Why don't you come join us?"

"I don't want to interrupt—"

"Nonsense. We'll see you in five minutes?" Her father may have said it as a question but there was no mistaking the silent demand in his eyes. His dark eyes held Dale's, assessing, sizing up.

"Yes sir." Dale hurried back into his apartment, slamming the door shut before anyone could say anything else.

Before he could dig his grave any deeper than he already had.

Fuck.

He let his head rest against the door, his heart pounding in his chest. How the fuck could he be so stupid? He'd known there had been more than one pair of footsteps. He'd known it! But he had convinced himself it was just a trick of his ears because he hadn't been thinking.

Well, he had. Just with the wrong fucking brain.

He pushed away from the door and hurried back to his room, grabbing a pair of jeans from the dresser and pulling them on. What else? He couldn't wear a plain t-shirt. Something a little dressier, but not too dressy. He flipped through the shirts hanging in his closet, looking for just the right one. He needed to make a good first impression. Or rather, a better second one.

What the hell was he doing? Why the sudden frantic worry? He was acting like he was meeting his girlfriend's parents for the first time.

Sure, yeah. He
was
meeting Smurfette's parents. But it wasn't the same thing. It wasn't like they were a couple and she was introducing him to her family because their relationship had moved to the next level. There
was
no relationship. They were just…

What the hell were they? Neighbors, yeah, but besides that? He was attracted to her. They'd had sex—yesterday, and last night. But that was it. So what did that mean? They were just friends with benefits?

Hell, he wasn't even sure what they had could be called friendship. Yeah, he liked her. But he didn't really know her. Not really. It wasn't like they hung out and talked and all that shit.

So not friends with benefits. Neighbors with benefits?

Denial twisted in his gut, along with a bitterness at what the phrase meant. It was too casual, too cold and callous and distant. Whatever the hell was going on between him and Smurfette, it sure as hell wasn't cold and callous and distant. Not as far as he was concerned, anyway.

A loud bang shook his wall, pulling his attention to the present. He glanced at the clock, not bothering to hide his grin. So Smurfette had thought she could get his attention by banging on the wall, huh? Well, she was right.

He grabbed the shirt off the hanger, a pale green dress shirt. Maybe a little too fancy, but why not? He buttoned it and rolled the sleeves up as he walked out of the bedroom, sliding his feet into the pair of loafers he'd had on last night. Shit, no socks. Screw it, he could put socks on later. It wasn't like he was going to be over there that long, anyway. Just long enough to convince her father not to kick his ass, that was it.

Dale glanced in the mirror above the small table near the door, running a hand through his hair. It was getting a little too long on top, longer than he liked. Well, now wasn't the time to worry about it.

Thirty minutes later, he was wondering if he could use getting a haircut as an excuse to escape. He was sitting at the small table in Smurfette's kitchen—because there was no place else to really sit in her place—squirming under her father's impenetrable gaze and her mother's probing questions.

How long had they known each other?

How long had they been seeing each other?

What did he do for a living?

Did being a fireman pay well?

Wasn't he worried about getting hurt on the job?

Dale shifted and reached for the cup of tea, taking a sip to hide his discomfort and lubricate his throat. He hadn't had a chance to get a word in, unless it had been to answer one of the many questions being thrown at him non-stop. And Smurfette wasn't helping, either. She just sat there, perched on the edge of the stool she had dragged in from the living room, her gaze flitting around the room, landing on nothing in particular.

Especially not him.

What the hell was up with that?

He looked over at her, silently willing her to look at him. Maybe if he could see her eyes, he would be able to tell what she was thinking. She was almost as uncomfortable as he was, he knew that much. At least, he thought he knew. Or maybe he was just reading too much into her body language and seeing things that weren't there.

"That's an interesting tattoo I noticed, Dale. Was there a reason you chose that?"

He turned back to see Mrs. Reeves watching him, a small smile on her face as she glanced at his chest. Dale automatically reached for the shirt buttons, wondering if maybe he'd forgotten to button them. His hand dropped to his lap. No, his shirt was buttoned, at least enough to hide the tattoo. But she had gotten a clear look at his chest when he'd stepped into the hallway earlier, all but naked.

"Uh, yes. Ma'am." He took another swallow of tea, not quite able to meet her eyes. "I had it done after I graduated the Fire Academy. As a celebration of sorts. Ma'am."

And damn, could her father's look be any more intense? The man had barely looked away from him since he walked through the door. Smurfette had introduced him as laid-back and easy-going but Dale didn't believe it. Sure, maybe the man had a legitimate reason for giving Dale the death-glare, but he thought he'd ease up by now.

Even his own father hadn't given Kenny this much grief when he first met him and realized he was seeing Lauren. Had he?

"Mom, Dad, didn't you say something about a late lunch?" Smurfette finally spoke up, breaking the awkward tension that had settled around them. Dale breathed a sigh of relief, certain freedom was close within his reach. Just a few more minutes…

"Yes, of course, sweetheart. Although it would be dinner by now, wouldn't it?" Mrs. Reeves stood up, gently tugging her husband's arm. "Come on dear. You can finish glowering at Dale over dinner."

"But he's not—"

"I wasn't—" Dale snapped his mouth closed the same time as Smurfette and looked over at her, frowning. Her eyes briefly met his then darted away. He hadn't planned on going with them, didn't even think they would invite him. But did Smurfette really have to look so horrified at the thought of him going with them?

Why the hell did that even bother him? It shouldn't. Hell, he didn't
want
to go to dinner with them. Didn't want to be subjected to Mr. Reeves' glare any longer than he had been. But he didn't want Smurfette to look like the idea of him going with them curled her stomach, either.

"Well of course he's coming with us. We're just getting to know him." Mrs. Reeves smiled down at him, tugging on his arm until he had no choice but to stand and follow them out of the kitchen. He glanced over at Smurfette, wondering why she looked so miserable, why she wouldn't meet his eyes.

Maybe it was just because she was as uncomfortable as he was. He could understand that, after his stunt in the hallway when she came home. He eased a little closer, placing his hand against the small of her back. All he had wanted to do was lean down and whisper in her ear, reassure her it would be fine, that he'd behave. But she stiffened and stepped away, finally looking at him with a mix of panic and irritation in her blue eyes.

He dropped his hand and frowned, not missing the fact that her father had noticed the strained byplay.

What the hell?

The radio squawked to life, loud and sharp, bouncing off the block walls of the kitchen. Everyone paused, frozen like statues in a children's game, heads cocked to the side as they listened. The alarm sounded, a harsh buzzer that was louder than the radio.

"Dammit. It never fails. How do they know exactly when we're sitting down to eat?" Jimmy grabbed a cheeseburger from the platter, tucked a bottle of water under his arm, then hurried from the kitchen. Dave grabbed his own burger then followed, muttering under his breath.

"Have fun!" Pete laughed and pulled out a chair, reaching for the platter.

"Yeah? Don't be surprised if I call for a medic assist." The room filled with groans at Dave's parting words, everyone turning to look at Pete. He paused, a burger half-way to his mouth, and looked around.

"What?"

Jay answered for all of them. "You know he's probably going to call us now, right? Just because you were a smart ass."

"Well, at least we'll be finished lunch before he does."

The words had the same effect on everyone as the sound of a gun signaling the start of a race. Dale leaned across the table, knocking into Mikey as they both reached for a burger at the same time. She rolled her eyes and tossed one on his plate, then took her own.

He sat down as he took a bite, sliding the bowl of pasta salad closer to him when Adam pushed it his way. Another bite as he spooned a heaping portion of pasta onto his plate before sliding the bowl across to Jay.

It still amazed him that he didn't get heartburn after meals at work. There were days when it was a mad race, when they often took two bites in between a dozen calls, not caring that the food was cold when they finally got around to eating it. It didn't matter, as long as they got to eat.

Why could he eat like this and not get heartburn, but couldn't manage to survive one dinner out without having his gut twist into knots? Probably because he didn't feel like he was being interrogated here at work, didn't feel like he wasn't welcome.

He still couldn't figure out what had happened Saturday night at dinner. Smurfette had been distant the entire time, barely looking at him as her parents kept asking him questions. Her father seemed to finally warm-up to him about an hour into the meal. Although maybe
warm-up
was too extreme a phrase. It was more like he no longer wanted to rip Dale's head off his shoulders and use it as a bowling ball. But even after that, Smurfette had been quiet, still acting like she didn't want him there, like she hadn't wanted him to come along at all.

The real pisser was that he didn't get a chance to talk to her about it. About anything, really. Her parents had driven them back to the apartment but instead of dropping them off, they came back inside. Dale had excused himself, telling them he had to get to bed early because he worked the next day. And then he had waited up, listening for Smurfette's parents to leave, hoping that maybe she'd knock on his door.

That maybe she'd want to talk. Or something else. Definitely something else. But he'd fallen asleep, alone in his bed, waiting.

That had been two days ago and he still hadn't seen Smurfette. Even her apartment was quiet. Her car was in the parking lot so he knew she was home, even if he heard no sounds coming from her place. Was she avoiding him? Or was there something else going on? Maybe she was just busy working.

Her parents had mentioned something about an auction coming up, something that sounded pretty important. He had no idea what they were talking about, a fact that made even her mother frown when she realized it. Whatever it was, they both seemed proud, even if Smurfette seemed terrified for some reason. So maybe that was it, maybe she was just busy.

He'd go over tonight and knock on the door, and keep knocking until she answered. And if she wasn't home, he'd do the same thing tomorrow. All day, until he had to leave for night work. He just hoped she would be home tonight or tomorrow because if he didn't see her before his shift tomorrow night, it would be at least Thursday morning before he saw her again because he had to go to court for his sister on Wednesday.

One more thing he didn't want to think about. No, he'd much rather think about Smurfette, even if she was confusing him right now. He didn't like the unease that filled him whenever he remembered the expressions on her face Saturday night. He'd feel better after they talked, after he found out what was bothering her.

Dale reached for his fork, digging into the pasta salad Pete had made, eager to taste it. He put the first bite in his mouth when the radio squawked to life again, immediately followed by the clanging of the bells.

"Dammit Pete!" Jay shoved back his chair, the noise repeated four more times as everyone followed suit. Dale leaned over his plate, shoved one more bite of pasta salad into his mouth, then ran out the door and into the engine room. He grabbed his gear and tossed it into the cab then climbed up behind the wheel and buckled himself in, waiting a few seconds before starting the engine. There was the deep rumble of the powerful engine coming to life, the smell of diesel exhaust, the throbbing vibration of the engine beneath him. He looked over his shoulder, making sure everyone was inside as Pete climbed into the officer's seat. Then he put the engine in gear and pulled out of the station, the siren beginning its low wail as he made a right at the end of the ramp.

Pete leaned across, confirming the address, then pushed the button for the air horn, parting traffic before them. Several minutes later, Dale stopped in front of a house and pulled the engine along the curb. The medic unit sat in the driveway, its back doors open, Dave and Jimmy nowhere in sight.

A young woman ran out of the house, long hair flying, tears streaming down her face as she flailed her arms. Dale and Pete climbed down from the engine at the same time, the heavy doors thudding closed together. Dale moved to the back compartment and pulled the wheel chocks, setting them in place before moving to the other side. The engine crew was already moving in, Adam stopping at the medic to grab some more gear before following.

A minute later, Adam poked his head out of the open door, waving to Dale. "We might need a little help in here."

Dale moved forward, wondering what was going on and why they would need help. It was a medic assist, it shouldn't be anything they couldn't handle—not with six of them already inside.

He understood why Adam had called him in as soon as he entered the house. His nose wrinkled against the sour smell of decay and rot from the piles of clothes and old food that spilled out from the kitchen. The crew was in the living room, shuffling back and forth as grunts and the sound of bare flesh smacking bare flesh filled the crowded room. The woman who had run out was in the far corner, still screaming, her hands twisting in the tangled knots of her hair.

"Help him! You need to help him!"

Somebody, maybe Jay, tried to tell her they were trying but his voice was lost in the noise. Dale moved closer, trying to take in the entire scene, trying not to let his gaze get lost in tunnel vision.

Now he understood why they called him in. The patient, a large man of maybe thirty and weighing at least three hundred pounds, was crouched in the middle of the room, swinging wildly with his large arms and beefy hands.

And he was completely naked.

Sweat covered his pallid skin, his eyes round and bulging with fury and fear. The man's gaze darted around, each movement of his eyes choppy and unfocused. Jimmy tried to grab one arm, to stop him or calm him down, Dale didn't know. But the man flung Jimmy to the side as if he was nothing more than a ragdoll then lunged for Dave.

Mikey shouted a warning then jumped on the man's back, trying to pull him away from Dave. The man shook her off then lunged forward again, swaying and staggering, off-balance. Dale hurried forward, reaching for the man the same time as everyone else. If they could get him calmed down, or at least subdued, the medic crew could treat him.

Or at least get him secured to the stretcher so he could be transported to the hospital.

It wasn't just the man's size that was hindering them. Yes, he was big, with apparent strength behind his size. But he was also sweaty.

And completely naked.

There was nothing to grab but damp limbs, which immediately slipped from their hold. Dale wasn't sure how much time had passed. It could have been sixty seconds or it could have been ten minutes. The police had arrived, two officers joining them in the overcrowded filthy room. As outnumbered as he was, as much as he had been fighting, the man had to be getting tired. There was nowhere left for him to go.

All they had to do was get a secure hold on him. As if realizing what was going to happen, the man bowed his arms and charged forward, resembling a desperate wrestler moving in for one last round. Dale moved forward, caught between Jay and Adam just as the man lunged toward them. Jay caught one arm and Adam caught the other, Dave and Mikey moving in behind him. Pete grabbed the restraints, heading toward them.

The man's arm slipped from Jay's hold, throwing all of them off-balance. Dale reached out, trying to grab the flailing arm as everyone tumbled to the floor. Dale's hand closed around something just as he landed on his side, the man sprawled partly across him, his pasty white ass dangerously close to his face.

And it wasn't the man's arm Dale held in his hand.

"What the—dammit!" Dale let go and freed his arm, his face twisted in appalled disgust. Jay and Dave were having a hard time smothering their laughter. Mikey didn't even try, just turned around and hurried outside, muttering about getting something from the medic. Even the cops were turning red from suppressed laughter.

Dale grimaced and hurried backward, freeing his legs from the man's heavy weight. Pete leaned down, his hand extended to help him up. He pulled it away at the last minute, his mouth twitching as he stepped back.

"Yeah, never mind. You can get up yourself."

"Christ, I hope not," Jimmy mumbled next to him. Dale frowned then pushed to his feet, pausing only long enough to wipe his hand over the back of Jimmy's shirt. Shit. He would never live this down, not for the next year, at least.

Once the excitement of finally getting the man under control died down, it only took a few minutes to get him on the stretcher and into the medic. Adam climbed into the back with Dave to help during transport to the hospital. The engine would follow, just in case they needed help getting the man out of the medic.

Dale glanced at his watch, grimacing when he saw the front of his shirt was stained with sweat and…he didn't want to think what else. With any luck, they wouldn't catch any calls after leaving the hospital and they'd make it back to the station so he could take a shower.

With alcohol. Lots of it.