The Love Series Complete Box Set (121 page)

It’s not unusual for Ray to stop over, but usually Jimmy is there getting ready for a golf outing or a ball game. There’s something about
this
particular visit that just feels . . . wrong.

Her concern only makes him cry more. He’s crying for the loss of his best friend. He’s crying for Lucy, who he’s come to love as his own best friend through the years. He’s crying for the baby that Jimmy will never get to meet—for the baby that Lucy will now have to raise on her own.

Twisting in his seat, he faces Lucy and wipes the tears from his eyes. Lucy’s face pales as all of the blood rushes from it. She can tell that this is not a routine visit on Ray’s part.

“Lucy . . .” Ray’s words catch in his throat, stuck behind the ball of emotion that’s been lodged there since he witnessed his best friend being crushed by tons of steel.

Lucy covers her mouth with her hands, but her gasp is still audible. “No, no, no, no. . . .” It’s the only syllable her brain can manage. She’s shaking her head wildly as if it will keep away the horrific news that is so clearly etched across Ray’s tanned and youthful face.

Ray wraps his arm around her slumped shoulders and pulls Lucy into a tight squeeze. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. There was an accident and . . . it’s Jimmy. He’s gone, Lucy.”

With those words, her world changes instantly. No longer able to contain her anguish, her chest heaves in sobs as tears pour from her eyes.

How? Why? What? All of these questions swarm her brain, but the bottom line is none of it matters. Bits of Ray’s strained explanation filter into her consciousness, but she can’t make any sense of it. Something about a beam, about being in the wrong place at the wrong time, about wanting to come here to tell her himself, about not wanting her to have to drive to the coroner’s office alone, it’s all a garbled mess, because none of it is important. The only meaningful piece of information is that Jimmy, her Jimmy, the love of her life, is gone.

Visions that she will never be able to erase start filling her mind. In a vain attempt to escape them, Lucy shoots up from the couch and begins frantically pacing the room. But she’s too weak to stand for long. As pain, anguish and loss eat her alive, she crumples to the floor and wraps her arms around her round belly. Again, the only words she can form are, “No, no, no . . .”

Unable to let her suffer alone, Ray moves next to her on the floor and pulls her into his arms. Cooing softly to her, he tries to calm her. It’s a vain attempt at peace that will never come.

It’s always been Jimmy. He was her first friend, her first love, and now he’s her first true loss.

Calling on an inner strength that she doesn’t truly feel, Lucy tries to stand, but her body rejects the attempt. All she can do is let the sadness swallow her whole, and hope that when it spits her back out, she’ll be alive and whole enough to take care of Melanie.

Chapter One

October 2, 1995

“You better slow down, old man,” Brody puffs out as he powers down the treadmill. Straddling the machine, he places a foot on each side of the belt as it comes to a complete stop.

I swipe a towel over my face, but don’t stop my run. “Nah, I still got a few miles left in me. And I am
not
old.” My legs are burning, but I can’t stop now. There’s no way in hell I’m letting this probie lay into me for being old.

Brody chugs down his water as he sits on the bench next to the machines. “You’re older than me!”

“Watch it,
kid.
Keep talking like that to an old-timer like me and you’ll be scrubbing toilets for a month.”

Brody chokes on his water and holds up his hands, surrendering to my empty threats. “Okay, okay, you win.”

“Damn straight, I do.” I’d laugh, but now my lungs are burning too. He needs to get out of this workout room now so I can slow down without losing my pride.

Just as Brody turns to leave the room, I get a killer cramp in my side. He must see me cringe in the wall of mirrors lining the back of the room where the weights are set up, because he smirks and turns on his heels, heading back to my machine.

Still refusing to let him win, I straighten myself, even though it hurts like a bitch. Casually, Brody leans his elbow up against the front of the machine and takes a look at the speedometer, which is set to seven miles-an-hour.

“Seven, not bad. Let’s see if you can handle eight though.” He reaches over the control panel and changes the speed.

Prick.

“Oh, it’s on now!” My legs pump faster, muscles ripping through the pain, but after a minute or so, I acclimate to the speed and catch my groove. It’s not so bad, but if I don’t consciously focus on my breathing, I might just keel over and pass out.

“How are those lungs feeling?” he asks mockingly.

Risking any sense of control I have over my body, I ball up my towel and chuck it right at his head. “Fantastic, newbie.”

Okay, maybe they burn a little bit, but I’d rather collapse than admit it.

Brody has a smug look plastered to his face as he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m so glad you find this amusing. Hey, didn’t Ramirez make you power wash the rigs last month for giving him shit?”

“Yeah, but it’s just so easy picking on you, old man. Plus, there are so many around here to choose from.” I flip him off, mid stride and he just continues watching me run, shit-eating grin spreading his mouth open wide.

I want to hate him. Hell, we all want to hate him, but his jokes are always in jest. As far as probies, probationary firefighters, go, Brody Callahan is an all right kid. At only twenty-four years old, he’s a decade younger than me. With only about two months on the job, I have to admit that the kid knows his shit. Like most of us, he pretty much knew he wanted to be a firefighter from the day he was born. He studied hard and trained even harder, and just this past summer, he graduated at the top of his training class.

Wanting in on all of the action, Brody requested to be placed here at Squad 18, right in the heart of Manhattan. In the twelve years I’ve been part of the FDNY, I’ve seen my fair share of new kids. Brody is by far the biggest wise-ass punk we’ve ever had join our crew.

We loved him instantly.

When I reach eleven miles, and my heart feels like it’s about to jump out of my chest, I hit the power button and Brody tosses my towel back at me. His chest is all puffed with pride.

“What’re you all happy about over there?” I have to angle my neck up to look at him because I’m currently bent over, hands braced against my knees as I try desperately to seem unaffected by his little game.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that I made you sprint an extra mile. That ought to help your marathon next month.” He slaps my back and adds, “See? Maybe a vet like you could learn a thing or two from the new guy.”

That gets a more than a chuckle from me. And hell, he’s probably right. It sure as shit isn’t going to hurt my pace.

I glance up at the clock above the door and finish off my bottle of water. “Day tour is about to start. Better get ready so we can relieve the overnighters.”

Standing by the door, Brody props it open with one foot while he extends his hand, allowing me to walk past him. “Age before beauty,” he laughs sarcastically.

“I doubt you’ll be laughing like that with a toilet scrubber in your hands.”

“Ehh, pissing you off is
so
worth a few weeks of bowl detail.” He takes a few steps ahead of me and pauses at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the showers. Peering over his shoulders, he says, “I’ll race ya, old man!” And then, he’s off, taking the steps two at a time.

Even if I did want to prove a point, there’s no way in hell my rubber band-like legs could possibly do any kind of sprinting. So, instead of accepting his challenge, I make a mental note to pick up a brand new toilet scrubber when we do the daily meal shopping later in the afternoon.

Holding down the button for the PA system, I call out, “Food’s on!”

Mealtime at the firehouse is pretty much like any meal at home. After all, this is our home. We laugh while we eat and catch up on any and everything that’s going on in our real homes—new babies, middle school concerts, high school graduations.

The one thing that’s missing from our meals is usually manners. It’s a first-come-first-served mentality, and since the alarms could go off any minute, you really do need to eat quickly. When the other five men have their plates filled, I scan the room and realize Brody is missing.

“Manny, where’s the kid?”

Around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, Manny mumbles, “Studying, I think.”

He might be a pain in the ass, but that right there is the reason I can tell Brody is going places. I like that he’s motivated, but after our workout this morning and then a long day of running a few drills, he needs to eat.

I use the PA system to get his attention. “Callahan, get your ass down here, kid. The dishes aren’t going to clean themselves.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Brody sliding down the pole. He pops up on his feet when he hits the bottom and pokes a thumb over his shoulder while facing the full dining room. “That never gets old.” With a smile of a five-year-old boy who just arrived at recess, Brody fills his plate before sitting next to me.

“Dishes? I thought I was on shitter patrol.” He stuffs his face with a chunk of steak, chewing with his mouth open.

See, no manners necessary.

“That was before you were late to dinner.” Reaching under the table, I pull out the plastic bag and hand it to him. When he pulls out a toothbrush and a bar of soap, he pulls a ‘you’ve got to be kidding me’ face.

While everyone else is laughing in an uproar, I lean in to him and whisper coolly, “That’s what you get for calling me old,
kid.
”

I laugh a full-bellied chuckle. Besides, thirty-four is not ancient like Brody makes it out to be. He’s just a wise-ass twenty-four-year-old.

Our laughter is cut short by the blaring tinny sounds of the alarm bells ringing. Muffled static filters through the room and everyone shuts the fuck up, waiting to hear the instructions.

“Two-alarm fire. Empty warehouse. 2415 Park cross at West Broadway. Squad 18.” The loudspeaker cuts out and we all push back in our chairs, racing toward our gear, which is always laid out and ready to go.

Manny, the chauffer, is in and ready to go first as usual. Beeping the horn and wailing the sirens, he slaps his hand on the side of the door, “Giddy up, boys! Let’s go. We got a fire to put out!”

Fitzy, the captain slides in next to Manny and gets on the radio to dispatch our ETA. Brody and I sit next to each other in the rear-facing seats behind the front of the engine. Hefting the weight of our oxygen tanks over our shoulders, we slide the masks into place, leaving the oxygen off until we arrive on the scene. Brody hasn’t been on too many calls in the two months since he’s started. Luckily, it’s been a little slow recently.

We twist and turn through the streets of lower Manhattan, speeding as quickly as the traffic will allow us to. On the way over, we hear over the dispatch that the fire has been escalated to a three-alarm blaze. Another company is called in; more information is called out over the speaker.

When we pull up in front of what’s supposed to be an abandoned warehouse, I see a bunch of kids, covered in smoke and soot, off to the side of the building.

“Donovan!” Fitzy calls to me as we both get out of the rig. “Go get those kids away from the building and find out if they know if there’s anyone else in there.”

“Sure thing, Cap.” Grabbing my helmet, I run over to the three boys hunched over, coughing their lungs out.

“You guys okay? Is anyone hurt?” No one answers as a look of fear flits across each of their young and dirty faces. As one of them is about to speak, he starts coughing like crazy, so I hold up my oxygen mask and tell him to take a few deep breaths.

When he stands upright, he seems better—and a little less afraid. “We were just hanging around. I swear. We didn’t do nothing.” He seems to be about fifteen-years-old, innocent enough, but it’s not my job to figure out
how
the fire started.