“Let’s go!” Melissa yelled to Greg, who immediately dragged his camera off the tripod and shouldered it. To the intern, she said, “Go get Ella. As soon as she’s ready, bring her to City Hall. We’ll take the production truck, tell her to come in her car. We’ll go live as soon as we can.” She and Greg ran for the truck. Normally the cameraman drove, but she wanted him to shoot the entire event, so she took the wheel while he aimed his camera out the window. As she drove, she called into the station to explain the situation.
“We’re on it. Call when you’re on the scene,” said Blaine, the assistant news director. She knew what would happen back in the newsroom. The assignment editors would scramble to gather details on the fire. The chopper pilot would be paged. The studio crew would run to their posts. A backup anchor would throw on some powder. Ella would be the field reporter, and someone else, probably Jeff Jensen, would broadcast from the studio. Every nerve in Melissa’s body thrummed with adrenaline. She loved investigations, but breaking news stories were always such a rush—as long as no one was hurt.
As they drew closer to City Hall, she saw a glowing light on the horizon. My God, the fire must be huge.
“Jesus,” Greg muttered. When they rounded the last corner of Jacinto Avenue, they finally saw the full extent of the disaster. The graceful old mission-style building that had been San Gabriel’s City Hall for the last hundred years was engulfed in voracious, leaping flames. She heard their roar and felt their hot wind on her face. The smell of smoke made her throat prickle.
They pulled up a short distance from the fire engines and Greg immediately raised the mast on the production truck. Good thing there were no line-of-sight issues from City Hall. In the meantime, Melissa dashed out of the truck. The firefighters blasted heavy streams of water at the flames, and she saw the aerial ladder being moved into position. She headed for some bewildered bystanders—they looked like office workers—who stood transfixed by the incredible blaze.
“Hi, I’m Melissa McGuire from Channel Six. Were any of you inside City Hall when the fire started?” It turned out they all were. They’d been working late on a new budget plan when one of them smelled smoke.
“We think it was from a toaster oven. It has this old extension cord . . .”
“We were just making tuna melts. How could tuna melts do this?”
“A spark is a spark, moron. I told you not to mess with that thing.”
“Was anyone else in the building?” intervened Melissa, furiously taking notes.
“We don’t know. We called 911 and got the hell out.”
“So someone else might be inside?”
“Like we told that captain, maybe the cleaning crew. They come at night. I don’t remember seeing them though.”
“I saw them. No, maybe that was yesterday. Holy shit, look at that!”
They all turned. A giant fountain of sparks shot up into the night air. It looked like an exploding volcano, or a geyser of liquid sun. It lit up the entire area, including a man on top of the roof with a fire axe.
Somehow she knew instantly the man was Brody. With an air of complete mastery, calm and steady, he faced the fire. He seemed to be communicating with it, willing it toward its inevitable submission. He hacked at the roof, releasing a billow of smoke into the night air.
Enraptured, Melissa watched him until she remembered she had a job to do. She ran back to the truck. The mast was up, and Greg had shouldered his camera.
“We have to go live, now!” shouted Melissa. Blinking smoke from his teary eyes, he nodded. He gestured for her to stand in front of the flames, and tossed her a mic.
“Studio crew isn’t ready yet. Jeff Jensen went jogging.”
“Where’s Ella?”
Greg shrugged, and focused the camera on her. “It’s gotta be you. Let’s go.”
Melissa stood rooted to the ground. Ella would kill her if she went on the air first. But what choice did she have?
“I’ll do a quick intro, then go right to the flames. Show as little of me as possible.” Melissa switched on the mic. Greg nodded, and after listening to the studio countdown through his earpiece, gave her the we’re-live gesture.
“We’re here outside San Gabriel City Hall, where nearly twenty fire companies are battling a huge, fast-burning fire that has so far destroyed nearly half the building. Firefighters got the call at approximately seven o’clock tonight, when the fire was already well involved. I spoke to several City Hall employees who were inside when they first smelled smoke. So far no definitive cause of the fire has been determined . . .”
Melissa trailed off as shouts rose from the side entrance of City Hall. “We’re going to show you the scene here for a moment, as firefighters struggle to get a handle on this devastating blaze.” She motioned for Greg to keep shooting the fire, while she ran to the side entrance.
A woman covered with soot was crawling out the door on her hands and knees. Part of her blouse had been burned off. Two firefighters ran to help her, but she shook them off. She pointed back into the building. “Mi hermano! Está adentro! Inside. My brother. Please, please!” The firefighters looked at each other. Even though she couldn’t see who they were, Melissa could imagine what they were thinking. No one in their right mind would go inside that building at this point.
“Por favor! Por favor!” screamed the woman in a shaky, smoke-roughened voice.
An ominous crash made them all jump.
“Emergency Traffic! Emergency Traffic! We have a partial collapse on the Bravo side of the building.”
Melissa heard the urgent call on someone’s radio.
“Everyone out, now.” That must be the battalion chief.
“We’re pulling out, but we’ve got a man still inside, Firefighter Blake. Think he spotted someone.”
“Damn it!”
“I’ll go after him.” Melissa recognized Brody’s voice. She looked up at the roof in time to see Brody disappear inside the burning building.
“Stop him!” she screamed as the firefighters around her scattered. No one paid attention.
“No,” she shouted. “No!” She could barely hear her own voice over the roar of the fire and the blast of the water from the hoses. She looked around frantically. The battle against the flames went on as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Shouldn’t someone do something? Get Brody and Ryan out?
She saw Fred dash toward an ambulance and she ran to intercept him. Surely Fred would explain things to her. But he brushed her off as if she were a pesky mosquito.
“Fire department coming through! Get back! Out of the way!” He ran past her with a pile of blankets, a large first aid kit, and an oxygen tank. He stationed himself as close to the entrance as he could get and peered into the leaping flames. Melissa wrung her hands together. Fred was a trained paramedic as well as a firefighter. He would know what to do.
An ominous rumbling caught her ear.
“Melissa!” Greg called. She ran back toward the truck. He gestured at the east wing of the building, which seemed to be slowly warping from the white heat of the fire. No, not warping, she realized, as her brain caught up with her eyes. It was collapsing in on itself. The rumble grew louder, and she clapped her hands over her ears. A huge crash sent clouds of hot dust billowing toward them. Greg staggered, but kept the camera rolling. Melissa covered her head and squeezed her eyes shut until the assault of dust and debris had faded.
When she opened her eyes Greg tossed the mic to her, with the order to go live again. In the next moment she faced the camera again, giving the viewers a brief, poignant summary of what had just happened. She knew the east wing well; it was where San Gabriel’s wedding licenses were issued, where Ask the Mayor sessions were held. A part of San Gabriel’s history had collapsed. She recounted the details in a calm, informational tone, in a voice raw from smoke.
She said nothing about the other
drama taking place. A reckless firefighter was trying to rescue a trapped man, and his obstinate captain had gone inside the building to pull him out. She’d seen it with her own eyes. She could report it right now, leaving out their names until loved ones could be notified. But at the back of her mind, she could still hear Brody’s words on that first date. You stick microphones in people’s faces at their worst moments . . . you get that camera nice and close so you can catch every moment. So she said nothing.
As soon as she’d finished her report and Greg gave her the off-the-air signal, she dropped the mic. “Where the hell is Ella?”
“I don’t know, but you’re doing great.”
“She’d better get here quick. I’m not going on again.”
“You might have to. Jeff’s still getting dressed.” But they were spared an argument by the screeching arrival of a BMW. Ella burst out and ran to meet them. She had changed into another outfit for the Thanksgiving special, a form-fitting burgundy velvet catsuit, completely inappropriate for the current situation. Melissa grabbed a Channel Six jacket from the truck and threw it to Ella while she relayed everything she knew about the fire.
She left out the fact that Ryan and Brody were inside that fiery deathtrap.
Greg handed Melissa a cell phone, and she had a quick conversation with Blaine. He wanted to go live again right away.
“All set?” Melissa asked Ella. The anchor nodded. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but Melissa knew she’d be fine. Despite her silliness, Ella was quick on her feet in a live situation.
As soon as Ella was ready to go live, Melissa ran to the side door. She found Fred there, hopping from foot to foot.
“You haven’t seen them?” He shook his head, too worried to remember that she shouldn’t be there. “We have to do something!”
“They’ll be okay,” he answered, as if trying to convince himself. His eyes, straining for any sign of movement, didn’t shift from the doorway. Beyond it, an incandescent inferno raged, an orgy of orange and red. An occasional rat-a-tat of sparks burst out at them like fireworks gone astray. Melissa had never been this close to a working fire before, and its sheer primal energy overwhelmed her. If only she could forget that Brody, Ryan, and a stranger were inside, she might simply stand in awe at its magnificent, mindless fury. But she couldn’t forget, and she stared at the doorway as if by willpower alone she could make them appear. From Fred’s tense posture beside her, she knew he felt the same. She felt a sudden deep kinship with him.
A sudden burst of flames made them both jump back. What looked like a ball of fire blew open the door. And then—there was no door. She squinted through the almost unbearable light at the empty space filled with flame and splintered wood. No more door. How could they get out? How would they know where to go? Despair sickened her. She bent toward the ground, thinking she was about to vomit. But instead, she forced herself to stand up again. They still had a chance. They had to. Black smoke poured out of the gaping hole where the door had been, and she had to squint to make anything out. Please, please, please, she found herself chanting. Please, please.
A dark shape finally stumbled out of the thick fiery cloud. At first she thought she’d imagined it. But she couldn’t have conjured up this strange shape, almost like a deformed monster. As it limped closer, the shape dissolved into identifiable forms. One man carried another over his shoulder, helped by a third man. They weren’t walking so much as falling, one step at a time, hoping their feet would hold them just a few more yards.
As they reached the edge of the building, they stopped. Fred yelled at them to keep coming. Melissa opened her mouth too, but she never knew if anything came out. All she heard was the rush of the hot wind and the roaring, mocking flames. Maybe the firemen heard, because their next step was stronger, and the next. Then they reached their limit. Lurching forward, they fell to the ground in a heap. Fred ran forward, with Melissa following. Fred reached first for the man on top of the heap. It must be the janitor, unconscious. Melissa could see patches of horribly charred flesh through his tattered work clothes.
Together, they lifted him and carried him to the edge of the grass where Fred had laid down some blankets. He yelled into his helmet mic, “Two firemen and one civilian injured, need an RA!” Melissa heard sirens getting closer, and then a rescue ambulance slammed to a stop next to them and paramedics poured out. She and Fred dashed back to the fallen firemen. Both were coughing as they struggled to get on their feet. Fred went to Ryan to help him up, and Melissa ran to Brody. He didn’t seem to be aware of who she was as he clutched at her. It took all her strength not to collapse under his weight, which seemed twice as heavy with the tank on his back. But she dug in her heels, and after a few moments he stood upright next to her. He tore off his helmet and face piece, hacking and gagging. She put her arms around his chest and made him lean his weight on her. When he resisted, she yelled at him.
“Lean on me! Damn it, Brody!” He stiffened—maybe he had just then realized who she was—but then relaxed against her. In this way, half stumbling, half lurching, they made their way to the treatment area that the paramedics had managed to set up in an astonishingly short time. Paramedics buzzed around Ryan, taking his blood pressure and administering an oxygen mask. Several more paramedics ran toward Brody and whisked him away from her. Melissa looked around for the unconscious janitor, but couldn’t find him. Maybe he’d already been taken to the hospital; she hoped so. She shivered at the memory of that charred flesh.
The next long period passed in a blur. At some point she spotted Ella interviewing a paramedic, and it occurred to her that she’d just participated in a major news story. Not reported—participated. But it didn’t feel like a news story to her. It felt personal, and she didn’t want it on the Eleven O’Clock News. What she wanted was to stay with Brody, to hover over him, hear his voice, look into his eyes, and know he was okay. But Greg needed her, Loudon kept calling, and the thousand demands of a breaking news emergency took over.
Slowly, over hours, the City Hall fire burned itself out. The firefighters, with a heroic effort, managed to keep the nearby buildings from catching fire. The Channel Six news team stayed on the scene until after midnight. Then Ella signed off and the news crew packed up their equipment. Through an exhausted haze, Melissa heard her coworkers congratulate one another. “We beat the crap out of Channel Two . . . did you see that shot I got of that freaking explosion? . . . Ella, you rocked, babe!” And so on. Too tired to say a word, Melissa sank down onto the ground to put her head between her knees. She closed her eyes, feeling them sting in the welcome darkness.
“Melissa! Come on, let’s go.” She heard Greg, but made no move to respond. She heard another voice say something, then Greg said, “All right, man,” and then came the sound of car doors slamming. Dimly, she knew she ought to get up before everyone left without her.
A hand appeared in front of her face, and she grabbed on to it. Pulling herself up, she staggered, and strong arms caught her. She lifted her head and saw charcoal-gray eyes burning into hers. Though bloodshot and watery, their tender expression made her smile through her exhaustion.
“You’re coming with me,” Brody stated. She didn’t argue. A swarm of questions came to her. How was he? Had he suffered any injuries? Why was he now wearing his regular clothes? How had his truck gotten here? But she said nothing as he put his arm around her and led her to his truck. As if in a dream, she got in, and they drove away from the still-smoldering City Hall. They drove across town, through streets oddly calm and silvered with moonlight. The rest of San Gabriel, free of fire, seemed so fresh and innocent.
Brody parked next to his silver Airstream and led Melissa inside. He made her drink a huge glass of water. It felt like heaven on her raw throat. She looked down at herself. Her clothes were black with soot. When she touched a hand to her face, it came away covered with grime. She pulled a disgusted face, which made Brody chuckle
. He beckoned to her, and she followed him into the Airstream’s tiny bathroom. It was barely big enough for the two of them. They pressed up against each other, two dirty, smoky, exhausted bodies.
For reasons having nothing to do with the smoke she’d inhaled, Melissa suddenly couldn’t breathe.
With an intent look, Brody pulled her shirt up over her arms. He tossed it aside, then unbuttoned her black jeans. She stood in front of him in her underwear. She couldn’t have spoken if a gun had been at her head. Frowning slightly, Brody unhooked her bra, then pulled down her panties. He lifted her arm, and showed her a long scratch down it.
“Oh!” she said, startled. Her voice sounded like a stranger’s.
“Save your voice,” Brody said in a croak.
He turned the shower on, tested the temperature, then guided her under the stream of warm water. She sobbed in gratitude as her tired, aching muscles reacted. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and let the water flow through her hair. She lost herself in a kind of primitive pleasure, intensified by the feeling of gentle hands massaging shampoo into her hair. Her groan of delight mingled with the sound of water hitting the shower walls. The lavender scent of the shampoo soothed her frayed nerves. Their mutual silence, after all the verbal sparring, felt like a blessing.
Opening her eyes a slit, through the steam she saw Brody standing naked outside the shower stall, leaning in so he could wash her hair. Maybe he didn’t want to crowd her. Maybe he needed an invitation. She reached out a hand and pulled him gently into the shower.
Now they stood skin to naked skin. She felt the hot press of his erection rise against her thigh and twitched her hip to get closer. His breath came faster, tickling her ear, and his touch turned more urgent. His hands left her head and smoothed the curve of her back down to her buttocks.
“Wait,” he whispered. One hand left her for a moment, then returned with a bar of soap. He slip-slided it over her body as she shivered with delight. Across her nipples, along the slope of her shoulders, the line of her throat. With one hand he held her hips steady while he rubbed the soap between her legs. She squirmed as the soap’s smooth hardness probed her inner folds, pressing against the growing core of her excitement. Her legs parted helplessly. Then he turned her around to smooth the soap along her inner thighs, down her calves. He lifted her feet, one by one, and carefully lathered them. She leaned against the shower wall, bracing herself with her hands, as the pleasure coursed through her.
The Fireman Who Loved Me Page 15