It was a dog. Just a dog. A small, white dog with patches of brown and black. Bummed, he let out a long breath.
Then the dog looked up, and Pete knew, without a doubt, that this wasn’t “just a dog” at all. His mother was terribly allergic to both dogs and cats, so he’d had very little to do with them in his life. But even so, he knew this dog had to be special. He had such bright, intelligent, curious dark brown eyes, the color of the blackstrap molasses his mom gave him for iron. The dog met Pete’s gaze thoughtfully, without blinking, as if any minute he was going to start talking and ask why Pete looked so miserable.
“Hey, boy,” said Pete softly. “What’s your name?”
The dog cocked his head to one side. He had floppy ears that looked like they’d be soft as his favorite old blankie. Pete noticed he had no collar. Did that mean he was a wild dog? Of course not. This dog couldn’t be wild. He looked too nice. But where were his owners?
The dog turned and trotted off, looking over his shoulder as if asking Pete to come play. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. He moved with a tiny hitch in his stride, barely noticeable.
Pete didn’t hesitate. He slipped out of his room, ran out the side door into the carport, grabbed his bike, and pedaled after the dog. He needed to call the dog something. Something special and magical. He’d call him . . . Hagrid.
Chapter Two
* * *
IN HIS DRIVEWAY, Kirk revved his Harley, listening to the odd sound he’d noticed the last few times he’d ridden home from the firehouse. Poor bike needed some work. Especially—he gritted his teeth—if he was going to sell it. Which he was. He had to. Not only did he need the money, but it would be insane to cart a Harley all the way up to Alaska so he could ride for the few months a year that had no snow. He’d considered giving the bike to his younger brother in San Diego, but everyone knew Harleys had to be earned, not gifted.
So his beloved bike would have to go. He’d been putting the moment off, but that was silly. It was just a bike. He’d take it to the shop on the edge of town for a tune-up, then post it on Craigslist or something. Unless Gonzalez, the shop owner, knew someone in the market for an older-style, lovingly maintained Harley.
He strapped on his helmet, mounted the bike, and took off down the street. God, he’d miss this feeling, the powerful machine humming between his thighs, the wind lifting his hair, the road rising before him, chasing away every thought other than throttle, downshift, rev, signal.
Well, not every thought. Maribel still managed to surface, but he’d gotten used to that constant ache of longing. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t get her out of his mind. Sure, she was adorable, like a pink-cheeked fairy in an apron. Whenever he walked into the coffee shop, he knew instantly whether or not she was there. He could always pick up her particular scent, a light fragrance like apple blossom filtering through the thick cooking smells of grilled bacon and hazelnut coffee.
She was so creative, with her photographs and her little craftsy ornaments and beaded bracelets and such. She always had things on display at the counter, and he always bought some, whatever they were. He sent them to his family, who’d finally maxed out on the tchotchkes and suggested he share the wealth with the rest of the world. They just didn’t appreciate art the way he did.
Maribel was kind too. Most of the time when he tried to buy the ornaments, she’d offer them up for free. He’d come back later and give Mrs. Gund the money. And he’d seen her with her boy, Pete. She’d sit him down at a table in the corner and help him with his homework between customers. She had a gentleness about her, something light and airy and dreamy and joyful; she’d never know how thoughts of her had sustained him during bouts of chemo.
That’s why he couldn’t tell her his feelings, no matter what Ryan said. He was damaged goods. A cancer survivor. How could he burden such a joyful soul with his crap? Besides, he reminded himself, she was engaged. Although the absence of her fiancé made that hard to keep in mind.
As the cheerful stucco houses of San Gabriel gave way to the grittier businesses of the industrial part of town, he kept an eye out for the cavernous warehouse where Gonzalez had set up shop. Kirk had been doing his own motorcycle maintenance for a while, but now he was under orders to stay out of the sun as much as possible. It was either build his own garage or bring the bike to Gonzalez. Just one more shift in his life.
He almost missed the big, metal-sided shop because it was lacking the huge “Gonzalez Choppers” sign with the flames around the edges. Was the G-Man making a new sign? He pulled into the big parking lot out front and knew something more was up. Usually the place had a steady flow of bikers. But now it was empty. Ominously empty. A breeze whispered through the birch woods behind the warehouse. A “For Lease” sign lay on the browning grass, as if something had knocked it over.
Was Gonzalez Choppers no more?
He knocked on the warehouse door, then realized it was unlocked. He opened it and peered inside. Yup, the place was cleared out. No jumble of Hondas, Harleys, and BMWs. No customers shooting the shit with the huge, tattooed Gonzalez. The smell was the same. Grease and diesel and leather. And a few tools were still scattered on the counter that used to be chock-full of them. Even the gumball machine that Gonzalez had stocked with mixed nuts still occupied the near corner.
When he took a step forward, his footfalls echoed in the huge, empty space. Cool air settled on his face, a relief from the typically blazing heat of a May day in San Gabriel. The only light came from small windows high on the walls. Oblique and filtered, it did little to illuminate the space. And would pose no threat to his skin.
An idea struck. Why not work on his bike here? No one was using the place, or was likely to, judging by the useless “For Lease” sign. If anyone objected, he could vacate quickly enough. He could probably make do with the tools that had been left behind. If not, he could fill the gap easily enough.
A noise caught his attention, a clanging sound as if someone had knocked something over.
“Who’s there?” he called sharply.
The noise stopped with suspicious suddenness.
“Hello?” He spoke into the emptiness. “Gonzalez? Is that you?”
At his words, the sound came again, followed by a quick clicking of toenails on fast-moving paws. An animal of some kind. Kirk braced himself. There had been a few wildcat spottings in San Gabriel, not to mention packs of coyotes at night.
But the wild creature that emerged from the shadows at the back of the shop wasn’t too terrifying. In fact, he recognized him right away. A little beagle. Gonzalez’s beagle. What was his name again?
“Here pup,” called Kirk. “I won’t hurt you. What are you doing here, pup? You look like you’re half-starved.”
The dog’s rib cage curved inwards. Poor thing must have gotten left behind. Kirk dug in his pockets for a quarter. Were mixed nuts good for dogs? Dogs ate pretty much anything, didn’t they? Except chocolate.
The gumball machine dumped a handful of nuts into his palm, which he then presented to the dog. The beagle sniffed at his hand, gave him an inquiring look, then delicately nibbled at a cashew. Kirk found himself smiling. This dog had better manners than some of the guys at the firehouse. He spilled the rest of the nuts onto the cement floor so the dog could have at them.
“What the heck’s your name, pup?” He remembered it had two words, and began with a B something. Or maybe it was a J. Jelly Bean? Jiffy Lube? He chuckled. “Here, Jiffy Lube.”
“His name is Hagrid,” said an angry young voice. Kirk jumped up and whirled around. He squinted at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. A boy, wheeling a blue bicycle through the door. Kirk relaxed.
“I don’t think so,” said Kirk. “I would have remembered that.”
The boy came closer. Now Kirk could make out his features. A jolt of recognition shot through him, and his gut tightened. This was Pete. Maribel’s kid. He quickly searched the shadows behind Pete but saw no sign of his mother.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked the boy.
“Checking on Hagrid. No one’s taking care of him, so I have to.”
“The guy who used to own this place must have left him behind.”
“That’s despicable.”
Kirk couldn’t argue with that. He looked down at the dog, who was finishing up the nuts. After he’d gobbled down the last one, he trotted over to Pete and sat on his haunches, licking his chops.
Pete swung a small pack off his back and dug inside it. “If you’re going to give him all that salty stuff, you should give him water too.” He pulled out a water bottle and a bowl. He knelt down and filled the bowl. The dog eagerly lapped at it.
“Good point. Looks like you’re taking good care of . . . um, Hagrid.”
Pete flashed him a pleased smile. He had his mother’s coloring but had missed out on her milky skin. Instead, freckles spangled his face. Kirk ought to warn him to stay out of the sun. Instead, he asked, “Does your mother know you’re here?”
Pete gave him a startled glance. “You know my mother?”
“Yeah, from the coffee shop. I’m one of the firemen who come in there.”
“Oh. Cool.” He seemed to be attempting an unimpressed attitude, but he didn’t quite achieve it.
“So, back to my question. Does your mother know you’re here?”
Pete looked down at Hagrid—fine, if it made the boy happy—and shook his head. “She doesn’t know I come here, but she wouldn’t care. She’s too busy Skyping her dumbhead fiancé about her stupid wedding.”
Ouch. Kirk felt that one like a kick in the gut. “So they’re actually doing it, huh?”
“I guess.” Pete shrugged.
Kirk felt for him. He recognized that helpless feeling, that knowledge that you had no control over a sudden, huge upheaval in your life. “If it makes her happy, that’s a good thing, right?”
“But it—” Pete cut himself off, biting his lip. Damn, Kirk would give a lot to know what he was about to say. But getting inside information on Maribel from her kid seemed kind of low.
He also didn’t like the idea of Pete being out here alone. Well, except for the dog, who might be some help if a shady character happened to wander through. Still, he couldn’t, in good conscience, leave the boy alone here. Hands in his pockets, he pondered the best way to handle the situation.
“Hey, you want to help me with something?”
“What?”
“I want to see if either of these big doors are working.” He indicated the two garage doors installed along one wall. “It might take two of us.”
Pete jumped to his feet. “Sure. But what for?”
Kirk didn’t answer. He bent to the handle at the lower edge of the door, waited for Pete to grab hold as well, then gave the signal to heave. The door resisted at first, then creaked upward with a rusty shriek. Sunlight poured in.
“It opened! But why? What do you need it open for?” Pete’s sullenness had vanished in a blaze of nine-year-old curiosity.
Kirk pointed to his Harley, just visible at the edge of the lot. It glinted cobalt in the late-afternoon sun. “Work on my bike, of course.”
Pete’s mouth flew open. “That’s yours?”
“Yep.”
The kid looked from the bike to him, back and forth, over and over. Kirk didn’t understand why he should be so amazed. Lots of guys had Harleys. But an expression of wonder passed over the boy’s face. He must really love motorcycles. A sudden impulse took hold of Kirk. “Wanna help?”
“Can I?”
“You’re here. Bike’s here. Why not? As long as you call your mother first and let her know where you are.”
He handed over his cell phone. Pete, with a sulky glance, dialed a number and left a grumbling message.
The next couple hours passed in peaceful male harmony. Kirk brought his bike into the warehouse, they closed the door back up, and they turned their attention to the magnificent piece of equipment that somehow brought the warehouse back to life with its presence. Hagrid the Dog dozed nearby, occasionally opening one eye to check on their progress. Kirk didn’t do much; he needed more tools. But he walked Pete through the basic mechanics of the Harley. The kid ate it up. He chattered a mile a minute the entire time. He talked about his love for Harry Potter, his strong objections to soccer practice, his passionate arguments for more leniency from his mother.
Kirk wished he’d mention his mother a little more.
One thing became pretty clear. Pete really, really didn’t like Duncan, a celebrity photographer who had met Maribel at a gallery opening and been a pest ever since.
Kirk didn’t like him either. But he liked Pete, who learned quickly, liked to laugh, and had a firecracker temper.
Neither realized how quickly time was passing until they lifted the door again and discovered night had fallen, or nearly so. The sky held deep sapphire shadows and the first twinkling of evening stars.
Pete looked stricken. “Mom’s going to kill me. I’m not supposed to ride my bike after dark. Is this dark? It’s not completely dark, right? Still kind of light?”
Kirk squinted at the sky. It looked pretty dark to him. “Do you have any lights on your bike?”
“No. Just a reflector.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“What about my bike?”
“I’ll bring it by later in my truck. Your mom will never know.”
But Maribel was waiting on the front stoop when they roared up. A shiver of anticipation made Kirk’s throat go dry. He’d never seen Maribel outside of the café. It always felt as if he was walking into some magical otherworld when they stopped by. Now here she was, on the front porch of an ordinary, rundown, suburban tract house, with the sort of stunned expression any mother would have at the sight of her son on the back of a motorcycle.
Kirk put his feet on the pavement and waited for Pete to dismount. The kid hesitated, muttering “uh-oh” under his breath.
“It’s okay,” Kirk called to Maribel, only then realizing he still had his helmet on. He pulled off his riding gloves and struggled with the strap, while Maribel dashed down the porch and strode toward them. Her hair swished around her shoulders, the light from the porch making it gleam like a molten waterfall. Hypnotized, he stood stock-still. He’d never seen her with her hair loose before. Sparks seemed to fly off her.
“How dare you put my son on your motorcycle? Do you know how dangerous that is? And Pete, where have you been? I called all your friends and—”
“I’m sorry, Mom!” Pete looked wretched. “Didn’t you get my message at the café?”
“You know I didn’t. I never get those messages. That’s why you’re supposed to use my cell phone.”
Kirk shot Pete a sharp glance. Crap! He’d let the kid get away with deceiving his mother. Maribel was going to hate him now.
“I forgot. Besides, I didn’t mean to stay that long. I didn’t see how late it was. I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to ride my bike after dark, and he offered me a ride and—”
“You’re not supposed to take rides from strangers! It’s like candy! Same thing! You know better, Pete.”
“But he’s not—”
“And you!” She whirled on Kirk again, who took a step back, holding up his hands to show he meant no harm and in the process nearly knocking over his bike. “I ought to call the police. Giving a kid a ride on a motorcycle. What were you thinking? What’s next? You’re going to buy him a beer? Take him club-hopping?”
“Mom!”
If Kirk could only explain, set her mind at ease, but the strap of his helmet refused to come off. He must look terrifying to her, hiding behind his helmet and black leather jacket.
“Pete, get in the house. Now.” She gave Kirk one last, scathing look and turned away. His eyes swept across her pert little rear, encased in a pair of shorts, and her long, deliciously sleek legs. She was barefoot. Her feet were . . . well, kind of big and clunky. For some reason that flaw clutched at his he
art. She couldn’t leave. Not until he’d explained himself.
He gave the helmet strap one last yank. This time the buckle finally burst open. The helmet bounced to the ground, but he barely noticed, thanks to the pain shooting through his head and the stars dancing in his vision. Had he just punched himself in the face? He had. He felt his jaw, working it to make sure it wasn’t broken. He packed a hell of a punch, if he did say so himself.
“Mom! Kirk’s hurt.”
“Who’s Kirk?”
“Kirk! The fireman. The man with the bike.”
MARIBEL FROZE, THEN slowly turned. Sure enough, the tough-looking man in the motorcycle helmet was no longer an intimidating stranger, but a wincing silver-eyed Kirk. He seemed to be weaving a little on his feet. “Sorry to scare you,” he said. “Pete didn’t have any lights on his bike, and it didn’t seem safe for him to ride home like that. I’m a very experienced rider. There was never any danger. But I’m real sorry to worry you.”
She stared. Was this really the strong, silent Kirk? She’d never heard so many words out of him at once. Maybe that bonk on the head, or whatever had happened, knocked the quiet out of him.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah. I just . . . had some trouble with my strap.” He moved his jaw from side to side.
“You should put some ice on that. Why don’t you come in?”
He didn’t seem to grasp her meaning, gaping at her blank-faced. Poor guy must have really done a number on himself. She went to him and took his hand, which felt very warm and big. At his touch, a little sunburst seemed to light up her insides. “You’d better come in and sit down. You shouldn’t get back on that bike yet. And you definitely need ice. Pete, run ahead and get a pack of frozen corn.”
“Peas,” Kirk said.
“What?”
Had he said something about having to pee? Unusual thing to mention. He must really be out of it. She paused and looked back at him curiously. But he was looking ahead at Pete—who had just zipped in the doorway—or maybe at her house, or maybe he was just seeing stars. Who knew? At any rate, he didn’t notice that she’d stopped walking. He plowed right into her.
One Fine Fireman Page 2