I whimpered. Honest-to-God whined like a puppy but I couldn’t stop it. I now understood the whole “rock and a hard place” thing. I knew in my head that I couldn’t go back inside, but standing out on this tiny fire escape with smoke around us and the wind blowing was like someone had reached inside my head and arranged my worst–case scenario. But when I rubbed two of my oxygen–deprived brain cells together, I knew this was better.
Still clinging to him with one hand, I moved the mask off my face. “I really didn’t want to die in the bathroom.”
His chest rumbled with low laughter. “Most people aren’t real particular about the location. Just the not dying part.”
I peered up at him in the dark but couldn’t clearly see his face with all the safety gear on. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No, ma’am; just trying to distract you.”
“Oh...” I huddled closer to him, shaking uncontrollably. “I can’t stop sh–sh–aking.”
He chafed my arms with his hands, the rough texture of the gloves causing enough friction to warm me up a little bit. He grabbed the oxygen mask and put it back over my nose and mouth, tightening the strap to make sure it stayed on. “It’s shock. They’ll fix you up once we get you to the bus. Just hang on.”
Nodding, I took a deep, shuddering breath to steady my nerves. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
His voice broke across the silence. “What were you doing here on a Friday night? No hot date?”
I coughed again and shook my head, moving the mask to the side in order to overshare. I babbled when I was nervous. Not a good trait when you had to give interviews to rapid–fire, story–hungry reporters all the time.
“I haven’t had a date in over a year.”
“The men you know must be stupid or blind.”
My head was starting to do that swimmy–thing again, but I squinted up at him. “Are you hitting on me?”
He shrugged, placing the mask back on my face. It was becoming a game. Yay.
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“Oh... you’re distracting me again.” I leaned against him as the coughing resumed. The lights from the fire truck that had pulled in below us hurt my eyes as he spoke to his co–workers on the walkie–talkie. My head felt like it was floating—I couldn’t focus. Bone–deep exhaustion was seeping into my muscles. I just want to go to sleep.
“Hey!” He shook me gently and spoke into my ear, “Stay with me; your ride’s here. Don’t pass out on me now—you haven’t agreed to go out with me yet.”
I tried to laugh, but the heaviness was pressing down again and it took all of my effort to stay awake. Through the fog in my brain, I was aware of my fireman securing a belt around my waist and moving me into the metal cage at the top of the ladder. I thought about going into a full–blown panic attack at this new level of craptastic fun, but I just couldn’t muster the energy. The rollercoaster lurch in my stomach as we made our way to the ground was minimized by my epic level of tiredness.
Once it landed on the ground, I was instantly surrounded by a mob of people tugging on me, putting me on a stretcher, and checking my vital signs. I forced my eyes open and looked up into the face of the man who had saved my life.
His mask was pushed completely off his face now and I could see his features clearly. His skin was smudged with black soot that emphasized his strong, angular jaw. His eyes were a deep topaz fringed by thick, black eyelashes.
He was fucking gorgeous. Not movie–star or prettied–up male model good–looking, but real man, works–for–a–living, has–women–falling–all–over–him at the grocery store smokin’ hot. If I could have custom–ordered a man, this is what he would look like.
I slumped against him and groaned. “Oh, no. I’m dead.”
Concern clouded his perfect features as he leaned down to me. “No, ma’am; you’re okay. You’ll be fine.”
“Nope. I’m dead.” I pointed at him with a shaky finger. “Because anybody as beautiful as you must be an angel.”
I thought I heard laughter as everything went black.
2
Max
Let’s be clear. I’m no angel.
I’ve been called many things. Some of the people I rescue call me a hero but I hate that word. I’m just doing my job, but it did make me feel like all my hard work and the risking–my–life thing was appreciated by those I serve. The women in my life called me the name of the Almighty when they were under me and then a son–of–a–bitch when I left—but those were both exaggerations made in the heat of the moment. In truth, I was somewhere in between.
But I have never been called an angel.
When the tiny brunette had uttered those words at the scene, it was cool. But, when Bobby Lane, the firefighter manning the bucket, told the other guys on the A–Shift team, the warm glow of the moment turned into burning irritation.
In the face of the ration of shit they gave me, I wore an expression of nonchalance—as my mom always said, “Don’t give that dog something to chase.” But two weeks of finding little halos and wings in my locker had grated on my last fucking nerve. Add to that the almost constant “411” commentary from the assholes on my celebrity victim and I was about to go out of my ever–lovin’ mind.
I didn’t need the “411” anyway.
I was Kit’s biggest fan.
Now two weeks later, I’m trying to hide my six–foot–three–inch frame behind a fake plant in a random municipal conference room, still unable to believe that I’m going to meet her again. In fact, I’m going to be seeing a lot more of her since her label and my boss decided that the joint–positive PR from a few events was a good idea.
I wasn’t complaining.
In less than an hour, I would walk over to the makeshift stage situated on the other end of the room and receive a letter of commendation—delivered by Kit Landry herself. She was probably one of the few things that could have enticed me to get decked out in my dress uniform and endure the formal ceremony. I love the job, but I can’t stand the press–the–flesh crap that comes with the territory since we got our new director—Paul Bates. He never passed up an opportunity to rub shoulders with the celebrities in Music City, especially if it got him a photo op and some good press for the department.
He was totally in love with me right now. Saving the “Sweetheart of Country Music” had saved my bacon with the brass. According to my captain, they were prepared to overlook some of my less–than–stellar off–duty activities—specifically my “chasing tail, drinking and fighting”.
And I got to spend some quality time with my favorite fantasy girl.
“I can’t believe you didn’t recognize her.”
I glanced over at Dean, my best friend, and shrugged. “Man, it was smoky and my mind was on the job.”
“Uh-huh.” Dean rubbed his lower back. “My back is still out of whack. How did I get stuck with the security guard built like a linebacker and you got the hottie who weighs about a buck ten?”
“Righteous living, my friend.”
Laughing, as Dean gave me the one–finger salute, we both turned as Bobby Lane sidled up to us. Bobby is an okay firefighter. So far, he’s managed not to get my ass killed at a scene but he’s also the world’s biggest douchebag.
He fucks anything that moves and brags about it even though none of us wants to hear it. Don’t get me wrong; I’m all about getting laid as often as possible but I don’t have to brag about it. The fact that my partners usually end up coming back for seconds and thirds says it all for me. Truth be told, a third date is about the limit for the women I typically meet. Once they realize that moving in and buying a new comforter and throw pillows isn’t ever going to be on the agenda with me, they move on, unless they like to keep it hot and casual.
“Is she here yet?” Bobby smoothed a hand over his short blonde hair. “I can’t believe you had the balls to ask her out.”
I groaned. “I told you, I was just trying...”
“Yeah, yeah; you we
re just trying to distract her.” Bobby waved me off. “Just let me know if you actually plan to follow through with nailing your dream–girl, because if you don’t...” He leaned in a little closer and I took a step back. Did I mention that he’s a douchebag and a close talker? “...I plan to.”
Dean choked out a laugh and Bobby looked like he wanted to knock him on his ass. “Why do you think she’d go out with you? If she’s gonna go out with anyone, it would be Max. He’s the one who saved her life.”
“I know.” Bobby placed his hand over his heart and flashed a leering smile. “God bless women at the scene—they’re always so grateful.”
“Bobby, you need help,” I said.
“Hey! Don’t act like you’ve never done it.” Bobby was offended and then accusatory. “You’ve done your share of cashing in on badge–bunny adoration.”
Okay, he was right. I wasn’t one to pass up the best perk from the job—appreciative hot women who wanted to deliver their thanks up close and personally. I just didn’t want to talk about it with Bobby. And I definitely wasn’t talking about Kit with him.
Dean was the first to speak. “Kit Landry is no badge–bunny.”
“And, I’m not you,” I said. And, this was Kit Landry we were talking about. Famous people were a whole other species in this town and I wasn’t interested in dipping my dick or anything else into that gene pool. I’d grown up in Nashville and the celebrity around here was served with a side of fake and a dab of crazy. No thanks.
But for Kit, I would make an exception. At least one night; one very long night.
“Yeah, I know.” Bobby snorted. “You think because you don’t talk about all the fucking you do that it makes you better than me. How many times have I had to deal with one of your women who didn’t get the memo about how quickly you turn them in for the next model?” He had the balls to lean over and poke me in the chest. “And you’re going to do the same thing with your favorite jerk–off fantasy girl, so save the angel act.”
His comment pissed me off and only Dean’s hand on my arm kept me from taking a swing. It wouldn’t surprise anyone around here if I got into a fight—just another one of the things they overlooked because I was good at my job. “Shut the fuck up.”
Bobby had apparently eaten his Wheaties this morning, because he barely glanced down to where my fist was clenched at my side before he kept talking. “Look, we all know you have a thing for her. You have all of her music.”
I shrugged. “So do lots of people.”
Bobby wiggled his eyebrows. “Yeah, but everyone doesn’t have that issue of Rolling Stone with her centerfold in those little Daisy Duke’s and halter top stashed under their bunk.”
I bit back a curse and looked away. Crap. He wasn’t wrong.
I looked around the room, wondering when this was ever going to get started so I could get out of this uniform and away from Bobby. I hate being trussed up like a turkey on Thanksgiving even more than I hate Bobby and his childish attitude, which on a good day puts him on the same level of maturity as a fourteen–year–old.
I needed to walk away before I also acted like a high–schooler and gave him a swirlie in the bathroom.
But still, Bobby kept talking. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks you can’t hook up with her.”
Okay, make that a twelve–year–old.
I turned my gaze towards Bobby as Dean mumbled something that sounded a lot like “what an ass”.
“Are you kidding me? I’m not going to bet that I can fuck a woman—Kit Landry or anyone else. Were you born a dick? In what universe is that cool?”
“Since your dream girl can’t get you motivated, I’ll throw in a little money to sweeten the pot.”
I rounded on Bobby, the effort to keep my voice down in this crowd of bigwigs making my throat hurt. “I’m not crazy enough to take your sucker bet. Kit Landry is a world–famous country music star. She dates movie stars, football players, rock stars—do you see a pattern here?”
“We all know she’s got a bad girl inside who loves to come out and play, and I’m betting that even rehab didn’t calm down Miss Kitty.”
I would never admit it, but I think he’s right. Until a year and a half ago, she’d been the poster child for the kind of girl you took home to your parents and then put a ring on it. But then, she’d taken a turn—a sexy, bad girl turn—and then a nosedive. I hadn’t liked watching her spiral into rehab but I hoped that the new, improved Kit kept some of the edge from her walk on the wild side. While she hadn’t been hitting the party scene lately, she’d kept the crimson red streaks in her long brown hair, added a new tattoo on her arm and the bootleg versions of her new music circulating the local scene showed an entirely different sound. They weren’t the carefully executed songs that stayed with the good girl image, but raw and honest—with maybe a glimpse at the real girl behind the guitar.
And that was a girl I would love to meet up close and personal, and preferably naked.
Bobby moved my finger off his chest and flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. That’s the thing about Bobby—deep down he had a streak of mean and I wanted no part of it. “I’ll make it five hundred.”
The crowd behind us started getting loud, the buzz of excitement rumbling through the small space. I turned around just in time to see Kit come through the door. Flashbulbs were going off all around her, but they were completely unnecessary—she lit up the room all by herself.
Today she was dressed in a modest black dress instead of her usual jeans, sexy top and boots. With her glossy black curls trailing down her back and her petite frame, she was the living and breathing version of my dream girl. And, as usual, my dreams were definitely drifting into the X–rated section of the mental video store.
Bobby leaned over to me and stuck out his hand. “Five hundred. Are you in?”
“Fuck off.”
“Gentlemen.”
I turned to look down at the man who’d slipped up behind us without our noticing. The press pass hanging around his neck was the last thing I wanted to see. Fuck me. What had he heard?
The newcomer glanced around the group, but his eyes finally settled on me. His eyes were hard and assessing and, although I didn’t know exactly what the guy was selling, I knew I wasn’t buying.
“Firefighter Butler.” His lips pulled back in a smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Congratulations on your commendation.”
“Thanks.” I crossed my arms over my chest and waited him out.
The stranger chuckled softly, reached into his pocket, and fished out a business card which he held out to me. I didn’t take it, didn’t even look at it. This dude was the worst judge of body language, otherwise he’d be long gone.
“I’m Earle Foster with the Daily Scoop and I’m prepared to offer you one thousand dollars for an exclusive interview with you about Kit Landry.”
“It isn’t much of a story. Everyone knows I rescued her from the fire. No big deal.”
I was done. I turned my back on him. The reporter reeked of sleaze and lies and suddenly I needed a shower.
“I don’t want a story about the rescue. I want an exclusive on the time you’re going to spend with her during these PR events your boss and her handlers have cooked up.”
I looked down into the shorter man’s face. “You need to go. I’m not interested.”
The guy smiled, as persistent as he was butt–fuck ugly. “I can go up to five thousand dollars if you get me a story that will put her on the front page again.” He looked over his shoulder to where Kit was standing on the stage before turning back to me. “She’s been such a good girl lately, we haven’t had any juicy stories to report.”
“And you won’t get any from me.”
I felt his hand dip into the pocket of my uniform and withdraw without the business card. When I fished it out and tried to hand it back to him, he backed up and shoved his hands in his own pockets.
“Mr. Butler. Don’t worry. If you call me I’ll be discre
et. Ms. Landry is extremely touchy about her friends talking to the press.”
“I said no.”
“I’m a good reporter. Maybe I’ll just poke around and find out what will persuade you to cooperate.”
“Knock yourself out.”
I was now officially over this conversation. I shoved him aside and walked towards the stage. I was within a few feet of Kit when another man decided to block my way—my boss, Captain Price. He was the only guy who was going to stop my progress right now.
“Butler.”
“Captain.”
He looked me over and I stood at attention, holding my breath until he gave the nod that said I’d passed inspection.
“Congratulations on your commendation.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Saving Ms. Landry pulled your ass out of the fire with the Department.” I looked at him to see if he was cracking a fireman joke, but his hard glare told me he wasn’t. “This is your shot to erase all the bar fights and the Christmas party incident from their minds when they review your application for promotion.”
Holy shit. Were they ever going to stop bringing up last year’s Christmas party? It was like no one had ever had sex in a supply closet before.
“I understand, sir—”
“Let me be clear. There’s lots of press here today, people with video cameras. The whole goddamn city will see this on the news as they eat dinner tonight.” He nodded at someone across the room. “Don’t fuck this up.”
“Yes, sir.”
He barely looked at me before he walked away. I was a good firefighter, but when you were trying to get promoted, your extra–firehouse activities mattered—especially when they landed you in jail and in between the wrong woman’s thighs.
I shoved all that to the back of my mind and looked back to where Kit sat on the stage. I had a few moments before the ceremony started and I had a surprise for our special guest up my sleeve.
But first, I needed to properly introduce myself to Kit Landry.
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