Total Rush (19 page)

The boy stirred.
Please wake up. Please.
But he was only shifting position in his sleep. Sean sat beside him another half hour. Then he made himself go. Were it up to him, he'd sit here all day and night. He'd stay until the boy was discharged. Crazy, but he couldn't help it. He felt responsible for the boy's condition. He was responsible.

It wasn't until he was back outside in the sunshine that he remembered he was supposed to meet Gemma and her friend at the street fair. He checked his watch. He was over an hour late. They'd probably left by now, so he headed for home. Now that he'd seen the boy with his own eyes, maybe he'd be able to catch some sleep. Maybe. Gemma would just have to understand.

 

 

At the sound
of locks being clicked back, Gemma flew off the couch. She and Sean had given each other keys to one another's apartment, and Gemma took advantage of the privilege, using her key to let herself into Sean's place to wait for him. An anguished cry slipped from her lips at the sight of him walking through the doorway, weary but clearly all right. Running to him, she crushed him to her, hugging him, kissing him, frantic, grateful.

“Hey.” Troubled, Sean gently disentangled himself from her grasp and looked down into her eyes. “What's going on?”

Gemma began to cry. “That brownstone fire—you were there, weren't you? And when you didn't show at the fair . . .”

“Sshh, come here.” He took her in his arms. “I'm sorry I missed the fair. I had to go visit someone in the hospital.”

Gemma swiped at her eyes. “Who?”

Sean swallowed. “A little boy.”

“The little boy from the fire?”

“Yeah.” He drifted from her embrace and sank down on the couch. “I'm exhausted.”

“Is the little boy okay?”

“He's fine.”

Gemma approached the couch. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

Gemma wrung her hands helplessly. “I was so worried.”

“You always are.” There was annoyance in his bloodshot eyes. “You know, if you're gonna freak out every time I get called to a fire—”

“I can't help it,” Gemma interrupted quietly. “I care about you.”

Sean rubbed his eyes vigorously with the heels of his palms. “I know you do, Gem, but it makes me feel pressured. I've got enough shit to worry about without worrying that you're losing it every time I go to work.”

“I'm sorry.”

She knew Sean was right, but his testiness still hurt.

“I'm sorry, too.” He held his hand out to her, and Gemma joined him on the couch. “Does your friend hate me?”

“Of course not. You'll just meet her next Saturday night, that's all.”

Sean's face was a blank.

“Dinner? My apartment? With my friends?” Gemma prompted.

“Right, right.” He let his head drop back, staring up at the ceiling. “That's next week?”

“Yes.” Gemma tensed slightly. “It's not a problem, is it? I thought we agreed—”

“It's fine. I'm just tired and my sense of time is off.”

“Are you sure you're okay?' Gemma asked, smoothing his brow. She knew she was pushing. She could feel it. But she couldn't help it. Maybe it was in Sean's mother's nature to let things go. But she was a Dante. She couldn't. If her man was in pain, she wanted to know. She wanted to help.

Sean slowly lifted his head from the back of the couch to look at her. “I could have sworn I already answered that question.”

Gemma backed off. “You did. I'm sorry.”

Sean rose with a heavy sigh. “I'm sorry, babe, but I have to crash. Now.”

“I understand.” Gemma slid off the couch. “Want me to tuck you in?”

Sean shook his head. “Nah, you go on downstairs. I'll call you when I wake up, okay?”

Gemma stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I'm very proud of you, Sean.”

“What do you mean?”

“Proud of what you do. And that you're the kind of man who goes to visit kids in the hospital. He wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for you.”

Pain cracked behind Sean's eyes. “Right. I'm a real hero.”

Without another word, he kissed her forehead and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Urging himself down
the one flight of stairs to Gemma's apartment, Sean was in no mood to socialize; hadn't been all week. Part of it was insomnia: Every time he closed his eyes, he was back at the brownstone, and if there was one thing that made him ornery, it was lack of sleep. But mostly, he just had an overwhelming urge to withdraw—from people, from places, from all the vicissitudes of daily life.

Simply put, he wanted to be left the hell alone.

Still, he knew it was important to Gemma that he meet her friends. He was determined to push himself through the evening, the same way he was pushing himself through life these days. He knocked on the door. The sight of Gemma, radiant in her purple sari, made him smile. He was pleased to note he could still feel. He leaned in for a quick kiss.

“Am I late?”

“Perfect timing,” she murmured, leading him by the hand into the living room. The quiet buzz of conversation slowly faded as a tall, gangly blonde with a patch over her left eye; a slight, platinum-haired man clad all in black; and a handsome young man who looked like a Hispanic Errol Flynn all watched him approach.

“Everyone, I want you to meet Sean.” There was excitement in Gemma's voice as she led him to the blond woman, who looked like Heidi turned pirate. “This is Frankie.”

Sean extended a hand, flashing his most charming smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” Frankie tapped the eye patch. “Scratched cornea. David Crosby threw a paper airplane at me in the studio.”

“Does this mean your cataracts have cleared up?” Gemma inquired sweetly.

Frankie flashed Gemma a scowl.

Sean thought it was pretty cool that Frankie got to rub elbows with rock stars. He made a mental note to ask her about it later.

Still holding his hand, Gemma led him next to the man in black. Sean toyed with making a Johnny Cash joke, then thought better of it. This guy didn't seem like someone you could rib.

“Sean, this is Theo.”

“Tay—oh,” he corrected crossly.

Gemma put an apologetic hand over her heart. “Sorry, I mean Tay-oh. I can't keep track of your ever-changing names. Theo's a performance artist.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sean said again, reaching out to shake Tay-oh's hand. He couldn't wait to get this guy's story.

“Last but not least, this is Miguel. He's the fashion editor at
Verve.
”

“Enchanté,”
Miguel purred, dark eyes flashing. “You're the fireman, right?” Sean nodded. “Mmm, I love a man in uniform.”

“Behave,” Gemma chastised affectionately. She squeezed Sean's hand. “What can I get you to drink?”

“A Guinness would be great.” He settled down on the couch beside Frankie.

“Oh.” Gemma seemed at a loss. “Sweetie, I forgot to get beer.”

“No problem.”
You know that's the only alcohol I drink, but hey, that's okay.
“I'll drink what everyone else is drinking.”

“You won't regret it,” Miguel assured him. “Gemma's mixed up the most divine margaritas.”

“A margarita sounds great.”

Gemma flashed him a happy smile as she scurried into the kitchen, leaving Sean to wonder whose responsibility it was to pick up the conversational ball. He decided to take the bull by the horns.

“I know you and Gemma have been friends since you were kids,” he said to Frankie. He turned to the two men. “But how do you guys know her?”

Theo sighed. “We met many, many moons ago when we were in the same coven.”

“Really.”
Just what I wanted to hear. File that under “Info never to be repeated.”

“Yes, but it wasn't her cup of tea, though we all adored her. She's clearly a solitary.”

Sean nodded. “And are you still—er—”

“Pagan? Dear God, no. That was just a step in my evolution as an artist.” Miguel snickered and Theo turned to him furiously. “Up your hole with a Mello roll.”

Miguel rolled his eyes dramatically. “Theo's very touchy about his art.”

“I'd like to hear about it,” said Sean, trying to sound friendly and encouraging. He was having a hard time getting a handle on these guys.
Are they a couple? Did they used to be a couple?
Gemma hadn't said. His fingers itched for a drink.

Theo's expression was earnest. “My performances explore the oppression of man in an increasingly gynocentric society.”

Sean's brows knit together so hard it hurt. “Excuse me?”

Miguel chuckled meanly. “He wishes he had a hoohoo.”

Before Sean could respond—not that he was sure there was a response to that—Gemma swept back into the room and handed him his margarita, saving him. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” He held his cocktail glass aloft. “To friends.”

“To friends,” everyone echoed.

“What did I miss?” Gemma asked brightly as she cozied up to Sean.

“I was just getting the lowdown on how everyone knows you,” Sean explained. “It's Miguel's turn.”

Miguel peered at Gemma quizzically. “Sister woman, how did we meet? Do you remember?”

“Yes. We both wanted that royal blue boa at Screaming Mimi's. We nearly came to blows over it.”

“Thaaat's right. I won, if I recall correctly.”

“Only because I let you.”

“So generous.” He blew Gemma an air kiss.
Pretentious twit,
thought Sean.

“Screw boas, I want to hear about firefighting!” Frankie exclaimed.

Sean instinctively stiffened. “What about it?”

“It must be interesting.”

“It is.”
But please don't ask me if I've ever saved anyone's life.

Miguel flicked a piece of lint off his trousers. “You must get dirty a lot.”

“Yup.”

Miguel pursed his lips. “I don't think I'd like that very much.”

Theo snorted. “Oh, puh-lease. You go into cardiac arrest if you're within ten feet of dirt.”

Miguel shuddered. “That's why I hate the country.”

Sean concentrated on his drink. What the hell did you say to something like that? You could challenge the guy, sure, but where would it lead? To some bitchy witticism that would leave him feeling like a schmuck. Not worth it.

Putting down her drink, Gemma reached forward to grab the tray of crudités and hummus from the coffee table and started passing them around. “Did I tell you guys Sean was on Wall Street before he was a firefighter?”

Theo looked bored. “About a hundred times.”

Sean shot Gemma a questioning look.
What, being a firefighter isn't good enough?
He reached for a carrot and, swiping it in the hummus, popped it in his mouth. “Great hummus, babe.”

“I love when men call women ‘babe,'” Miguel sighed. “It's so Neil Diamond.”

“Neil Diamond wears so much cologne he could choke a train car,” cracked Frankie.

Finally, a line of conversation Sean could get interested in. “You've met Neil Diamond?”

“She's met 'em all, honey.” Miguel smirked.

“Yeah?” Sean turned to Frankie. “Mick Jagger?”

“Swears by Elizabeth Arden.”

“Steven Tyler?”

“Borrowed my favorite scarf and never gave it back.”

“Bruce?”

Frankie groaned. “What is it with firefighters and Bruce? They all love Bruce.”

“He sings their pain,” mocked Theo.

Sean felt a rush of anger but he beat it back. “Tell me about Bruce,” he urged Frankie, consciously ignoring Theo.

“Bruce is really nice, really down to earth.”

“He needs a makeover,” Miguel opined. “I mean,
hello,
men over fifty in tight black jeans? Pa—the—tique. And that cross he sometimes wears around his neck? So 2003.”

Time to tune out,
Sean told himself, practically chugging his margarita. He stayed that way for most of the evening, dinner included, which was vegetarian, of course. It was the best way for him to cope with conversation about designers he'd never heard of and defacing Tampon ads and calling it art. He did tune back in once in a while to hear what Frankie had to say about radio and the music business. She was the only one of Gemma's three friends who seemed genuinely interested in him. A little weird—what's with the eye patch?—but friendly and clearly devoted to Gemma. The other two? Stuck-up, self-absorbed assholes. As he watched Gemma laugh and chat with them over the course of the evening, his guts churned a little.
Who is she? What is she doing being friendly with them? And what is she doing with me?

 

 

“
You were quiet
tonight,” Gemma observed as she put the last of the leftovers into the fridge.

Sean shrugged. “I guess.” He handed her the glass he was drying, glad the cleanup hadn't taken too long. He was exhausted. What little energy he'd started the evening with was completely drained by having to feign cordiality toward Tay-oh the A-ho and Miguel.

Gemma touched his arm. “You okay?”

“Why do you keep asking me that?”

Gemma looked stung. “I don't.”

“You do. Constantly. Is there something I'm saying or doing that would lead you to think I'm not okay?”