I had so much damn energy, I actually thought about coming out of retirement. Not retirement exactly, but sitting behind my desk. I couldn’t remember why I took the position. It kept me closed off. Safe. Away from anyone that mattered. Shielded me from any kind of relationship as well. How the hell would I meet anyone, if I never left the firehouse? Most of the guys knew to stay away from me. Who in their right mind would bark up the tree of grizzly bear? But I’d done it, agreed to the position of chief after the last failed rescue attempt. Lately, I’d been second guessing that decision.
A half hour later, I heard a clicking noise against the windows. I looked out as the shorter ladder truck, an ambulance, and the Cherokee pulled into the bay on the first floor—rumbling through the fire house as I mixed cocoa, shortening and powdered sugar. Holding the bowl against my chest while I whipped frosting, I caught the surprised expressions of Williams and Garcia shaking off their hats. Apparently a freak storm of hail mixed with snow covered the ground. A few minutes later four men entered the kitchen, their faces etched with quiet humor.
“Hey chief,” said Garcia, a bit guarded. “Is that chocolate frosting. Oh man I’m in heaven.” He lifted a finger near the bowl. When I nodded, he dipped in—coating the fidget with fudgy icing before he licked his finger. “You do know it’s my night to cook, right? Wow chief, this is awesome.” He went in for a second swipe but I pulled the bowl back swiftly.” Garcia’s shoulder arched in admission.
“Dinner’s on you, Garcia. This is all I made this time.”
Glancing to the vanilla cake on the counter, his eyes lit up. “Cake! No complaints from me, chief.”
I heard the unmistakable sound of Williams big feet stamping outside the door before he entered the kitchen. “Mmmm, smells like cookies or something. Oh, cake. There goes my diet again. ” He grinned. “The other day you made lasagna. Man, you haven’t cooked this much in…well, since I’ve known you ole boy.” He patted me on the back. “Who knew you had such talent? Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“What?” I knew he wasn’t referring to my cooking skills.
“Just being part of the crew. Not good to hole yourself up there for days on end. I remember weeks going by without a real conversation.”
“Ah. You don’t know what you’re talking about as usual.”
“Well I for one am glad,” chirped Garcia behind him. “I don’t have to eat Clarke’s cooking twenty-four seven.” He reached inside the fridge for a can of pop and then took a chair by the window. When he popped open the Coke can, exploding foam spurt like a geyser. “What the..!”
He jolted upright as the men burst into laughter.
Garcia gritted his teeth and his hands clenched into fists. His face creased in anger as it settled on Williams, but he knew enough not to address the older man personally. “Which one of you…?”
“You drink too much of that crap,” Williams said. “I’m just saving you from yourself.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Garcia spat back. He poured what was left of his Coke into a glass and took a sip.
I wasn’t getting involved but knew Williams was right. It was all the kid drank. Code Red usually, but we’d run out of that caffeine laced shit a few days ago.
Garcia’s eyes widened. “You shook my soda!”
“Nope,” said Williams. “I shook all of them.”
I glanced at the case of Coke on the floor by the stove. laughing just as hard as everyone else. “Here.” I handed Garcia a towel. Brushing furiously at his face, he glared at Williams.
“Gives new meaning to the word, pop. Don’t you think?” I couldn’t help it. I’d missed this and I’d forgotten how much fun it was being around the men.
“Good one chief,” Robinson said with a half smile.
“What’s wrong with my cooking?” asked Clarke changing the subject.
Garcia frowned. “Not a thing…unless we want to actually chew on our steak. Not use if for soles inside my boots.”
More laughing.
“Fuck you, Garcia,” Clarke shouted. Stomping over to the coffee machine, he took down a cup and filled it with coffee.
Garcia grabbed a cookie from a plastic container on the counter and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. He sat next to Clarke. “It’s not the cooking actually. Know what you need?” he mumbled. “You need to get married. Find yourself a good woman who really knows how to cook.” His face brightened. “ Hey! We could set you up.”
“Forget it, Garcia. I’m not taking any of your sloppy seconds. Besides, I don’t have any problem finding…”
“I got an idea.” Garcia grinned across the table at Robinson.
The tall dark Jamaican leaned back in his chair. An amused expression shone from his dark eyes—sharp against the colorful shirt opened at the throat showcasing a gold crucifix. Robinson never said much. He was one of those guys who knew when to join a conversation and when to leave well enough alone. I respected him for that.
Garcia slapped a hand on the table. “Your fiancé got any sisters that are single? Maybe we can hook up old Clarke here?”
“As a matter of fact…”
“I’m not letting you or any other jerk in this station set me up,” Clarke protested. “I can get my own women.”
“Well if that were the truth…”
“Never mind,” said Williams. “He’ll meet someone if he wants to. Lord knows there will be plenty of women at Robinson’s stag party next Friday night.”
“I’m not catching the clap from some goddammed hooker,” said Clarke, sneering.
Garcia threw up his hands, palms out. “Hey, I was just helping.” He turned to face me. “You’re coming chief, right?”
I looked up from frosting the cake, “Um…I hadn’t thought about it to be honest. I…I may have to check…um….” I never went out with the men and they knew it. What excuse would I use this time though?
Williams glared at me. “Shit! Live a little, Brock. When was the last time you went out with us? Try, never. You’re going. It will do you good. I’ve already looked at the schedule and you’re not on the roster so just get yourself a shave, slap on some jeans and let yourself have some fun.”
I’ve been doing just that with my little sex kitten.
“I’ll think about it.”
“I guess that’s as good as I’ll get to a yes,” said Williams.
I slid the cake over on the counter, and threw the knife I’d been frosting it with, in the sink. “Garcia, slap us together some of those killer quesadillas you were planning tonight.”
“Right. If I don’t eat soon I’m going to devour that whole cake by myself.”
“You got it, little chief.”
CHAPTER TEN
Amy
Three days later, I was still on cloud nine after spending the weekend with Brock at his parents cottage. Even Penelope didn’t bother me, and I could tell she was trying in earnest. She’d shrunk my favorite sweater, insisted on vacuuming my bedroom while I was reading—something that normally would drive me insane, and when I told her I’d reapplied to school in the fall she’d sneered at me. Actually, looked down he nose as if to say ‘why bother?’ What the hell did she care if I went back to school to finalize my degree?
It hadn’t been easy, making plans to go back to school. I’d had to save every penny of my tips waitressing every weekend at the Thirsty Turtle while fending off more than a few lecherous advances in the process. But I’d done it. I’d saved ten thousand dollars in four years, all of the money we’d spent for the first six months of Dad’s nursing home existence and replacing my inheritance for college. After that, his insurance kicked in. If my father ever knew I’d used my college fund to pay for his room and board, he’d be devastated. That, and that alone, was the only reason I was glad Penelope had written him off. She barely visited him all, so she couldn’t divulge my secret. I knew it had to break his heart, but he’d never let it show. Not once since the accident that claimed his legs did he ask for her and part of
me wondered why. But hey, why look a gift horse in the mouth, right? This way she couldn’t reveal any of my secrets.
As little girl, dad was always the most upbeat person. “Don’t anticipate trouble,” he’d always say whenever I would complain, “or worry about what may never happen. Stay in the sunlight.” I didn’t even know if he loved Penelope. I sort of had the feeling that he married her, just six months after my mother died of cancer, to give me another mother. I wished he’d saved himself the trouble.
The sun shone through my window warming me on the quilt. Our quilt! Mine and Brock’s. Just recalling his warm breath upon my cheek, the way he worshipped my naked body had me breathless and missing him like crazy. It had been three days and nothing. No phone calls. No texts. Just silence. Part of me wondered if it had been a dream. The other part of me worried. I was proud that he was a fireman, but it scared me even more. What if something happened? Would the other firefighters know to get in touch with me? Had he told them about me at all? Not wanting to face those very personal questions, I picked up a photograph of my mother on the bedside table. “I’ve met someone,” I told the image of my mother. “Oh mom, you’d love him. I know you would. He’s sweet and kind and guess what? He’s a fireman like grand dad!” I kissed the frame and then placed it back on the stand. I straightened the scarf beneath and centered the tiny porcelain angel beside it. Some people talked to grave stones, but not me. No, pictures were so much nicer. My heart ached to hear her voice, ask her what I should do about Brock. It was easy for me. I’d been following his career for so long that I already knew he was all I wanted in a man but what if he didn’t feel the same way? What then? Did we stay on as friends? Keep fucking each other’s brains out? Date other people? The thought of Brock with another woman, their bodies in a heated embrace, his lips upon her tits, drove a hole inside my heart.
It was times like these that I missed mom most. She was the best listener. Because I was so far ahead of my peers in academics, I’d skipped eighth grade, the year they talked about sex. Not to worry. Mom filled me in at home. What she didn’t spell out for me in detail, I read about in books going as far as Kama sutra and sex customs in other countries. It wasn’t that I was a pervert. I simply chose to learn all I could. About everything. I was still that way.
“I think I’ll bake some cookies,” I said aloud. “Yes, I’ll make cookies. Gobs and gobs of them. Enough for all the firefighters at Brock’s station.” Baking cookies with my mother had always been magic between us. It took away the pain of scraped knees. It soothed my shattered heart when I was ridiculed for being teacher’s pet. Baking made me forget all that.
I sat up in the bed, grabbed my phone off the nightstand and dropped it in my pocket. Then I made my way to the kitchen.
Trying to remember if I’d bought any chocolate chips the week before, I placed my cell on the counter. I slid a finger along mom’s Kitchen Aid mixer. Like most of the appliances, it was pink, the room decorated retro 50s like a Donna Reid show. The cabinets were robin’s egg blue, the doors made of glass. Tiny pink tiles gleaned behind the stove and sink.
I pulled out my favorite cookbook, a Betty Crocker with gold embossed lettering. I turned to the first page, and read the hand-written inscription, To Amy on your fifteenth birthday. Sweets for my sweet, love Mom. Tears pricked behind my eyes and I closed the book.
After searching the cupboards and realizing that yes, I was indeed out of chocolate chips, I decided to make sugar cookies instead. Scouring the refrigerator for butter, my eyes landed on a small glass pitcher of cream reminding me of retrieving the same from Brock’s housekeeper next door. I pictured Brock standing there bare legged wearing a rich burgundy bathrobe, hair all mussed with low sleepy eyes and grinning like a Tom cat. God, he had the most beautiful smile. Especially when aroused. And he was smart too and damned funny when he let his guard down. He’d worked in that firehouse for as long as I could remember, not far from where I lived. How was it that I lived this close without even talking to this brilliant man? He was defiantly a hottie but a keeper as well.
Brock was the complete package. Six foot four of long lean muscle. He looked like he could bench-press a truck without breaking a sweat, yet he could be so gentle—it was as if he thought he would break me sometimes.
I didn’t want to let him go. All my life, I’d known what I wanted. Never hesitating. Never having second thoughts. And Brock? I craved him like a drug.
What was it that made Brock tick though? And why hadn’t he dated? I wasn’t sure I understood. He looked so…sad sometimes. A sadness wrapped so tight around that strong firm exterior, I felt like he was the one made of glass. I saw pain in his kind eyes. Lips that had frowned way too much, and tiny crinkles in the corner of his fine chiseled jaw. Naturally, the cottage brought back memories. It was such a special place. I would have thought happy memories filled the house, a huge Christmas tree underneath that twenty foot ceiling, lots of relatives gathered, hunting parties perhaps.
I took the ruffled apron my mother always wore out of a side drawer in the hutch, and tied it around my waist. Then I flipped to the page with the sugar cookie recipe.
I froze as a familiar scent wafted over my shoulder, my nose wrinkling in disgust.
Jasmine.
Penelope always wore jasmine.
“Whatcha doin’?” Penelope drawled in a fake cartoon voice.
“Making cookies. Why?”
“Just asking. I can go to the store if you need anything,” she said sweetly.
What is she up to?
“No. I’m fine.”
She bit her lip, leaning against the counter while fiddling with her hair. “Huh. Um, do you need any help with those?”
“I got this.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t mind helping. Really.”
I reached around her for a bowl in the back of the counter, but she didn’t move. She actually followed me. I moved to the other side of the room where the cookie sheets were stored below the cabinets, then pulled open the cabinet door, careful not to bonk her in the head. If she really wanted to help, why was she getting in my way? I sighed. “Penelope?”
“Huh?”
“Is there something you want?”
“No, no. I just thought we could have a stepmother daughter kind of chat? That’s all.”
Is she fucking kidding me?
“Penelope, we don’t chat. We co-exist in this house. My father’s house may I remind you. Listen, I don’t know what you’re up to but I’m kind of busy here.”
“Oh. Cookies. Right. Yeah.” She tapped a finger to her lips like she was about to say something and then crossed her arms over her chest looking the devious bitch that I knew her to be. “I’ll leave you to it then,” she said sweetly, and walked out of the room.
What the hell was that all about?
Twenty minutes later, just as I was about to set the first batch of cookies in the oven, Penelope strolled back into the kitchen. “Hey, would you mind if I borrowed just a tiny bit of cash from the account you share with your father? I’m late on my car payment. It would only be for a couple days. I get my money from Daddy on Thursday so I can definitely pay you back pronto.” I always thought it strange that she was still getting an allowance from her elderly—and very rich father. She was biting her nails looking at me expectantly like it was the last thing she wanted to do was ask my for money. Penelope was extremely independent. I was sure it took a lot for her to ask me such a thing. Part of me thought what the fuck!, you can’t even visit your own husband in the nursing home you put him in, and you want to borrow money from the two of us? The other part, the willing to give people the benefit of the doubt part, thought, what harm can it do if she’s going to repay my bank account so soon. I should just suck it up. Whether I liked Penelope or not, what harm could it do? “Sure, Penelope,” I heard myself saying. “Just make sure its back in the account Thursday. I have to pay the mortgage next week.”
“Oh right! Absolutely,” she gushed. “You
’re a doll, Amy Lynn. Really you are. I just need your password and I can go to the ATM and pay the bank all at once.”
I stared her down, shocked that she would ask me such a thing.
“What! Don’t tell me you don’t trust me. You think I would rip off the only family I’ve ever had in this world? Come on, Amy. Give me some goddammed credit. I promise I’ll bring the card right back. I just want to get the bank off my ass, okay? Is that too much to ask?” She burst into tears. Actually started crying and I looked at her sharply, unbelieving.
“Fine!”
I let out a groan, grabbed my purse from a hook on the wall and took out my wallet. I held the card just out of her reach. I tried to think of a reason not to lend her the money but I was in such a fine mood today, I couldn’t think of anything negative. Penelope was right. We were her family. Besides, her father, whom as far as I knew, never saw her, we were her only family. Besides, she was still pulling a very lucrative salary from some investments, so I knew there was little risk. A poor money manager, yes, but she definitely wasn’t broke. “Bring it right back, Penelope. Today. Got it?”
“Of course, Sweet Cheeks.”
Sweet Cheeks? Really
Smiling and batting those long fake lashes at me, she took the card.
Again, I had the feeling there was something she wanted to say but didn’t or couldn’t. Then she surprised me with a thank you. She stuffed the card inside her pocket. Adjusting the leather Coach purse on her shoulder, she strolled out without a word.
Before I could second guess my decision, my phone vibrated on the counter. My heart leapt, thinking it was Brock. Then, after kicking myself for answering a stupid telemarketer call, I put Penelope out of my mind.
****
Seven days later
I’d just about given up on ever seeing my hot fireman again when my cell pinged nonstop inside my pocket. What the fuck! Did he think he could ignore me for a fucking week and then just expect I would answer is call? Okay, that was a yes but still. I was sorta pissed. Sorta.
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