“Yes, I went in for a meeting. Chief Renteria saw the whole thing, too. So did Vader and Stud and Double D and Sabina. Sabina, she can tell the story really well.” He turned to go, but Lizzie grabbed at his arm.
“Please! I want to hear it. It’ll distract me.” She tried a winning smile, the one that worked on her brothers. “There’s nothing any of us can do, right? The crew’s still trying to get inside, and everyone else is pulling hoses. Stacy’s over there handing out juice. You’re all here because you can’t stand to be anywhere else, but we can’t do anything.”
“We’re doing something. We’re supporting you. That’s what Mulligan would want.” Ryan slung a friendly arm around her shoulders.
“Exactly. If you want to support me, tell me what happened on Mulligan’s first day!”
Brody gave a heavy sigh, and scrubbed at the back of his neck. “Are you always this—”
“Determined?” She held his gaze. “You have no idea. ”
WHEN MULLIGAN FIRST walked into San Gabriel Station 1, he was having a very bad day. He’d gotten a middle-of-the-night phone call from his mother, who was fighting the battle to stay clean and losing, as she had every previous time she’d tried. When Dottie Mulligan did drugs—her preference was crystal meth, but she’d do anything in a pinch—she got cruel and nasty. As a kid, Mulligan had grown accustomed to violent behavior. He’d become a scrapper, someone you didn’t mess with.
But when it came to his mother, things were different. He couldn’t fight back against his mother. Even though she lost him to foster care twice, and allowed his stepfather to nearly kill him, he still loved her.
For years he’d sent her money, until he became convinced he was just enabling her. Now he’d send her money only for rehab, or if she’d completed rehab and needed rent money. He didn’t want money stress to make her turn to drugs. But he kept his policy clear and strict: the second he believed she was back on drugs, he stopped sending her money. He couldn’t stand the thought of paying to support her habit.
During this morning’s phone call, she’d admitted to doing a hit of cocaine and screamed at him for refusing to send her “grocery” money. The details of her rant weren’t pretty, but he’d gone through it before and her cruel words just rolled off his back.
Or maybe they didn’t, because on his first day of work as a San Gabriel firefighter, he couldn’t even manage a smile as Captain Jeb Stone introduced him around. He shook hands, he spoke his name, he paid attention, but at the back of his mind horrible words kept repeating in a constant loop. “No-good bastard . . . pig-headed ass . . . should have drowned you in the bathtub . . . should have left you with the system . . .”
She doesn’t mean it, he told himself. It’s the drugs talking. But those kinds of words cut deep, and he’d been hearing them all his life.
The C shift seemed like nice guys, and he also met a few of the A shift crew, who were hanging around for a special counterterrorism training session.
Derek “Vader” Brown, who had the physique of a linebacker and the personality of a party boy, shook his hand, looked him up and down, and said, “You work out?”
“Yeah.”
“I know all the gyms in town. I can hook you up with the good stuff.”
“The good stuff?”
“The best equipment. Best power smoothies. That sort of thing.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Never had a smoothie.”
“Never had a smoothie? Dude, I can set you up with a protein powder peanut butter shake that’ll make you cry.”
“Don’t make the new guy cry,” said Captain Stone drily. “Not yet. Give him a chance to catch his first fire.”
After that they talked fires for a while, and baseball. He explained that he’d left the minor leagues to attend a firefighting academy, gotten a degree in fire science, and spent most of his time as a rookie in Porter Ranch.
“How’d you get the spot here?” The youthful-looking Fred asked that question. “A lot of guys want this station.”
“Captain Brody recommended me.”
That spurred a bunch of new questions, to which Mulligan explained that he’d worked a fire where Brody had been the IC. It was his first actual fire, as opposed to car accidents and medical calls, and he’d rescued a baby unconscious in a crib. Brody had noticed, and called Mulligan up when a spot had opened on the C shift.
“Brody recruited you?” Fred and Vader exchanged incredulous glances.
“I suppose.”
“That never happens. Guys pull out all the stops to get assigned here. Brody’s a legend around here. If he likes you, you’re in.” Vader’s strong-boned face held no hint of envy, just genuine respect. “You’re a lucky dude, Mulligan.”
Mulligan didn’t know what to say, since he’d never considered himself very lucky. Lucky to be alive, maybe. But the sincere awe of the other firemen chased away some of the bad feelings from this morning. Nothing like some ego strokes to fluff him back up.
“All right, enough of the love fest. Come on, let’s get you a locker.”
Captain Stone showed him into the apparatus bay and pointed him to a locker. Mulligan liked lockers; they reminded him of his baseball career. He unpacked his duffel bag of stuff that he liked to keep with him. Extra change of clothes. His lucky baseball from his very first hit as a professional player. A photo of Bruiser, his golden retriever. Bruiser had followed him from one minor league team to another, until finally Mulligan had found him a home at a nice farm. He still visited Bruiser when he was anywhere near Sacramento.
Once he’d gotten his locker squared away, he wandered down the corridor to the training room, where he met Sabina, the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen. Her turquoise eyes flicked over him, then moved on without a spark of interest.
Damn.
He knew his looks weren’t to every woman’s taste, with his broken nose and tough-guy attitude. But most girls gave him at least a second look. It was humbling, to say the least.
Captain Stone gestured to him. “I have to talk to the training officer before he starts the session. Captain Brody’s on his way in. Why don’t you go meet him out front and say hello. He wants to touch base with you on a few things.”
“Sure, Cap.”
On his way out of the training room, he glanced at Sabina again, in case she noticed his departure. Nope. He might as well be a block of cheese for all she cared.
Smarting from that rejection, he walked down the corridor that led to the apparatus bay. By the time he reached it, he realized he’d gone the wrong direction, and either had to go back through the dorms or exit the building and walk around to the front entrance. Deciding he’d rather not look like an idiot, he walked outside into the bright sunshine, then across the lawn, past the geranium-filled planters, to the front door.
The door had a pane of glass laced with chicken wire. Automatically, he glanced through it, then stopped just in time before turning the knob. A man stood with his back to the door, facing off with three firefighters in the small reception room. All three had their arms raised in the air. He recognized Captain Brody, but not the other two, one younger, the other a higher-ranking officer. The intruder held a weapon of some kind—Mulligan couldn’t see clearly through the murky glass—along with a semiautomatic slung over his back. He was yelling something Mulligan couldn’t quite hear. Every time he waved the gun, the younger fireman flinched.
Mulligan calculated quickly. If he opened the door, he could jump the guy from the back. But he might get off a shot before he reached him, or the sound of the door might tip him off. He backed away, as quickly and quietly as possible, and then pelted toward the apparatus bay.
He dialed 911 and explained the situation. The dispatcher told him to stay away from the standoff and wait for the police to arrive.
“He looks unstable,” Mulligan said as he stepped inside the deserted apparatus bay. “That gun might go off at any moment.”
“We’re on our way. Ten minutes at the most.
”
Ten minutes? “If he hears sirens, he might shoot.”
“Repeat, do not engage with the situation.”
Mulligan hung up. He didn’t want to argue anymore, and his gut was screaming at him that waiting wasn’t an option. He ran to his locker and grabbed his lucky baseball. He’d always been known for his accurate arm, and from one end of the reception area to the other wasn’t even half the distance from first to home. He slipped off his shoes to make as little noise as possible, then loped down the corridor to the hallway that led to the reception area. A quick glance at the training room showed him that everyone was listening intently to the counterterrorism expert.
Ironic, when you thought about it. Which he didn’t, since he gave himself no time to think. Instead he motored down the hallway, plastered himself against the wall, and pushed the hallway door open with his foot. The man looked over, his gun still aimed at the other firefighters. In one swift motion, Mulligan took aim, reared back, and nailed the most important throw of his life.
The baseball hit the armed man square in the forehead, jerking his head backward. He kept a grip on his weapon, which Mulligan didn’t have time to identify. “Down,” he yelled, as he launched himself through the air.
But Brody and the higher-up were more used to giving orders, and they both dove at the intruder too. He was crazed, yelling and kicking—Mulligan would put money on some kind of drugs being involved. Brody wrestled the gun out of his death grip, and the other firefighter got him in a headlock. Mulligan sat on his legs to keep him from kicking.
A stream of Spanish curse words poured from the mouth of the higher-up, who wore a name badge that read Chief Renteria. Brody didn’t swear, just got the job done with his usual intense, Zen-like focus. He disarmed the rifle, then turned the man onto his stomach and took possession of his semiautomatic.
“Any other weapons?” he asked the man.
Mulligan had already scanned him from head to toe. “Check his boots.”
The intruder started yelling again.
“Shut the fuck up!” Renteria yelled back. But Mulligan knew there wasn’t much point in yelling at someone in that state of mind. He hauled back and socked him in the jaw, hard enough to knock him out. Quiet descended.
Renteria sat back on his heels, his bronzed, Aztec warrior face coated with sweat. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
Mulligan, still straddling the intruder’s legs, stuck out his hand. “Dean Mulligan, sir. New topman on Truck 1, C shift.”
“I had a feeling we’d be glad we hired you,” said Brody, wiping an arm across his forehead. “Sergeant, you okay over there?” he called to the kid behind the desk.
“Yes, sir.” The young fireman’s voice shook.
“That was a hell of a throw,” said Renteria. “Looked like a missile shooting through the air.”
“I played in the minors for a while.”
“Dean Mulligan is a man of many surprises,” said Brody. “He reads smoke like an old-timer. How’d you know what was going on in here?”
“Lost my way, was about to come in the front door. Called 911. The police told me to wait, but . . .” He trailed off. Maybe explaining to your superior officers that you’d disobeyed orders wasn’t the best thing to do on your first day at work.
The sirens sounded as several police cars screeched to a stop at the curb outside. Brody gave a dry laugh. “I see. Little problem with authority?”
“It’s been mentioned.”
Renteria extracted himself from the tangle and stood up. “I think you’ve earned yourself some leeway. That guy was about to go off like a rocket. You did the right thing. But I want to keep this story out of the news. Public confidence and all that.”
Mulligan thought Renteria was probably embarrassed, but he didn’t argue the point.
“I’ve got nothing to say to the media, sir.”
“Good man.” He went to open the door for the police, while Brody and Mulligan stood up and dusted themselves off. The young sergeant joined them. He handed Mulligan his lucky baseball.
“Can we keep this as a souvenir? We can put it in the glass display case with other items of historical interest.”
Mulligan was about to say “Hell no,” but he didn’t. Maybe it was time his lucky baseball got a permanent home. Maybe it would be a good omen for his new life as a San Gabriel firefighter. “Sure, why not? It isn’t going to Cooperstown, that’s for sure.”
“Cooperstown’s loss, San Gabriel’s gain,” said Captain Brody. “Welcome to Station 1.”
Chapter Six
MULLIGAN SNAPPED BACK to his Under the Mistletoe predicament.
“Lizzie, I can’t believe you made me relive that one,” he grumbled. “What was the point? I get it, if I hadn’t been there that day, that crazy bastard might have fired on the crew. My crew. You’re right. I’m glad I was there, Mulligan being crazy Mulligan. I’m glad I joined Station 1, and I love those guys. They’d probably say the same thing. That’s what you want me to admit, right?”
No answer.
“Lizzie?” he whispered, the bottom dropping out of his stomach.
No one was there. Of course no one was there. Because he was trapped in Under the Mistletoe. Alone. Lizzie wasn’t here, and neither was anyone else. Again, he tried to shove the bulky tree off his body, but it was far too heavy and he’d lost so much strength. The air inside the shop vibrated with dust. Something had changed. Something must have collapsed. He didn’t hear any other PASS devices, but that could be either good or bad, or simply that the sound wouldn’t travel from there to here.
Of course they’d be trying to rescue him. Not because he’d saved their asses from that gunman, but because he was a fellow firefighter, a fellow San Gabriel firefighter. At Station 1, he’d found his brothers, and he knew they wouldn’t leave him behind. Not if they could help it.
Yeah, that was the catch. No one ever wanted to abandon a fellow firefighter in trouble, but if a rescue mission put more people in danger, the IC might call off the effort.
He started to give a holler. If they knew for sure that he was alive, that might change the calculus. Then he snapped his mouth shut. Did he want to put others at risk for his sake? The other firefighters had families. Wives. Children. He had . . . a hopeless passion for Lizzie Breen, who deserved so much better.
Keep your mouth shut, he told himself. Better to go out in the line of duty than all the other ways he could have gone. Beaten by his stepfather. Sucked into drugs like his mother. Gang crossfire. Bonked in the head with a baseball. So many potential fates could have claimed him. This particular end wasn’t too bad.
“You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?” Dream Lizzie spoke so close to his ear that he jumped.
“You’re back!” A goofy grin spread across his face. He spoke out loud, his voice roughened by smoke and dust.
“Yes, because you’re so thickheaded.” She flicked him on the skull, and he could swear he actually felt the sensation.
“You know, Lizzie, with all these magical powers of yours, couldn’t you figure out a way to get this tree off me?”
“I’m not magical.” She leaned over him, her merry little face upside down over his, her dark hair sweeping against her cheeks.
“Yes, you are. I mean . . . not just now. You always have been magical. To me.”
A smile curved her lips. “Why, Dean Mulligan, that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“If I get out of here, I’m going to say so many nice things to you you’ll be blushing twenty-four hours a day.”
She blushed then, her vivid face filling with color. “Does that mean you want to get out of here? A minute ago you didn’t seem so sure.”
He inhaled a lungful of dusty, smoky air and began hacking helplessly. When he was done, she was staring at him with a worried look.
“I guess I’m selfish,” he admitted. “I do want to get out of here. I want you, Lizzie. I want to see you agai
n, the real you. And then there’s the San Gabriel crew. I want to get back to them. They need me. I didn’t really see it that way before, but they do.”
“And what about me? Don’t you think I need you?”
He thought about that. “You have your family. All your friends.”
“But they aren’t you,” she said softly, lowering her cheek so it pressed next to his, her mouth close to his ear. “No one’s ever made me feel the way you do.”
His heart raced, because he could say the same thing, a million times over. “Is that so?”
“You know it is. Have you forgotten our first time?”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
“I think you’ve forgotten.”
“I could never forget. After all those weeks of dancing around each other, I was as hard for you as this tree.”
She laughed softly, warm breath fanning his cheek, and damn, it felt so real he wanted to cry. Of course it couldn’t be real; he still wore his face mask. No one was touching his cheek. “Then prove it, Mulligan. Survive this, and come back to me. I never gave up on you, so you better not give up on yourself. Promise me, Mulligan.”
He shook his head ruefully. “You sure are something. You’re a lot tougher than you look, aren’t you, Lizzie?”
“Yes, I’m pretty tough.” Her lashes lowered against the flushed curve of her cheekbones. “Tough enough to handle the maximum-strength, full-throttle, one-hundred-percent Dean Mulligan experience.” She brushed her lips against his jaw, the same spot Real Lizzie loved to nuzzle. A kiss, then another, the soft touches landing like airy, illusory snowflakes.
He laughed, almost painfully, because those imaginary kisses were making him remember that first time—and more. “I guess you got that, all right.”
FRED BREEN AND Rachel Kessler held their Thanksgiving engagement party in the penthouse suite of San Gabriel’s priciest apartment building. Mulligan whistled as he rode the silent, perfectly oiled cherrywood elevator to the top floor. So this was the kind of lifestyle Rachel was used to. Even though she and Fred now lived in his house, this had been her apartment before her father reclaimed it.
It's a Wonderful Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novella (The Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel) Page 7