Samantha, undoing her rope, looked up at him with a sudden hesitation. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re big.”
“Yeah.” He made his own figure eight knot.
“Really big. I mean, what do you weigh?”
“A little over two hundred.”
“You’re sure this whole leverage thing will actually work?”
Hank had seen ten-year-old kids hoisting their adult fathers. “It’s going to work.”
They checked each other for safety. She was good. Thorough. She’d listened to Raul, and she was bringing back every part of the lesson, not forgetting a thing. He moved to the wall and said, “On belay.”
She responded correctly, “Belay on.” She would do well. He wasn’t surprised.
“Climbing.”
“Climb on.”
He started up the wall. This was the best part, whether he was indoors or out. Some people liked the coming down part, that quick rush of falling down the hill, supported by the rope and nothing else. But Hank liked the feeling of using his body and his brain together. He liked the fact that it was harder than anything else. When you were running, you could shut your brain off and just do it. Kayaking, same thing. But every single second that you were climbing, you were thinking.
“Nice view, Coffee,” she called from two stories below.
His hands suddenly got sweaty, and he fumbled for the chalk.
Usually on this particular grade, he could get to the top in less than ten minutes. But this time, it was proving harder. Knowing she was watching was part of it. It made his nerves jangle. But more than that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t that interested in being on the wall, making it to the top. It was more fun, being on the ground with her.
“Take,” he called.
“What?” she yelled back. “Am I supposed to be holding on to the rope right now?”
He swung his head around and stared down at her in disbelief.
“Just kidding! Go ahead!” She laughed.
It wasn’t goddamn funny.
Hank came off the wall. She controlled his descent at a good rate—not so fast the bottom of his stomach dropped out and not so slow that he’d get bored dangling.
But no matter how perfect his descent was, it didn’t take an iota away from his fury.
“That was amazing,” she said, her cheeks pink with excitement. “You went so high! I couldn’t believe it!”
He clawed at the knot and ripped off the rope. “We’re done. Untie.”
“What?”
“Do it. We’re leaving.” His hands shook, not from the difficulty of the climb but from the white-hot rage that pulsed through his body.
“Oh, no. Is it because I teased you? I was just joking. I’m so sorry! I never let go of the rope. I wouldn’t do that. Raul scared the hell out of me with his lesson.”
If Hank had been in a mood to give her any credit, she did look horrified. But he wasn’t. “Just take off the rope.”
“But…”
“Change into your street clothes. I’ll pay and meet you at the car.”
He’d been planning on taking her to the Crab’s Claw. White tablecloths, red napkins, the kind of place a woman liked to be wined and dined, if anything he read in the Yelp reviews were right. He’d planned on plying her with two glasses of wine, and then he’d planned on walking to her door and kissing the breath out of her in front of it.
“I’ll take you home.”
“Wait, you’re punishing me for—”
“Go change,” he growled before stalking away from her, leaving her open-mouthed.
He wasn’t punishing her.
But outside, leaning against the Mustang, he could admit it. He was punishing her. It wasn’t fair—she didn’t know his history. There’d be no reason for her to. It was his history, not hers.
She came out of the gym, her sports clothes in the small green bag she’d brought. “Are you still mad at me?”
“Yep.”
“Well, you’re being an ass.”
Wait a minute. That wasn’t what he expected. “Excuse me?”
“I made a mistake. And it wasn’t even like I made a safety error because I never let go of the rope. It was totally wrong to joke about it, but I apologized. There’s no good reason for you to act like this, and I’m starting to think you’re right to end this date, because I’m not that big on going on dates with jerks.”
She was right. But no way was he going to let her know that. Hank didn’t get upset often, but his grandmother Maureen always said, “when you do, it’s atomic. And it’s always for a good reason.”
It was for a good reason, but it wasn’t one he wanted to talk about.
Maybe it was just easier to let her think he was a gigantic jerkwad and drive her home.
“Let’s go, then.” He opened her car door. She shook her head but got in. Right before he closed the door, she looked up at him with those clear green eyes and said, “You’re fired. Again.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WAS THE only thing she could do. She had to fire him.
But maybe she could have waited until he’d gotten her back to the apartment.
He slid into the driver’s seat, dangerously quiet. He started the car and pulled out, driving smoothly. No fast revs, no quick turns, no slam of brakes. Anger pulsed from his body.
No way was she letting someone who could get this mad so fast near her students.
Outside her passenger-side window, the world passed quietly. At the turn on First Street, the marina came into view, the lights on the pier burning dimly through the fog that had rolled in like a thick blanket of dark wool. The red Closed sign glowed in the bagel shop window. Above it, she could see her white twinkle lights gleaming against her windows.
“You shouldn’t leave those on when you leave.”
“Fine.” She wasn’t going to argue with him. She just wanted him to pull into the parking lot and let her out. The disappointment was thick in the back of her throat. She’d been strangely excited about this date, and now she even more strangely let down. Yeah, she’d screwed up. But this anger of his was apparently coiled like a rattler under a wood pile, just as unexpected and twice as unpleasant.
“You shouldn’t leave those on when you’re home, now that I think of it. Not till you get a better extension cord, a heavy duty one with a surge protector.”
She turned in her seat as she unsnapped the seatbelt. Facing him, Samantha said, “I hate to break it to you, buddy, but you don’t get to give advice on my life.”
“As a member of the local fire protection district—”
“What are you going to do, write me a ticket?”
“You have to—”
“Oh, screw you, Hank.” Angry at herself for having that ridiculous tiny little hope, she pushed open the heavy door.
“Wait.” His voice was low.
Samantha owed him nothing. She didn’t have to wait. But she gave him the second. If he was going to ask for his job back…
“I killed someone.”
She turned toward him again, one leg out of the car, one leg in. “Are you kidding me?”
“Wish I was.” Hank leaned his head back on the vinyl headrest and looked in the rearview mirror as if the car was still moving. “Right before I graduated. Not long after you left, actually.”
“What happened?” Samantha's voice was still curt and she’d lost all ability to figure out what to feel next.
“We were climbing in Colorado, on a trip with some other guys in my paramedic training. We were trying a cliff face none of us had done before.”
“He was going up, I was belaying. His hand slipped at the same time that the foothold he was using gave way. We hadn’t double checked our knots. The rope slid through my hands, and I tried to grab it, but it was like I was moving in slow motion and the rope just twisted away from me so fast. There was nothing I could do.” Hank’s voice was even. Calm. It was as if he wer
e relaying a story about someone else, someone he didn’t know very well. “He twisted in the air when his foot hit the wall and he landed on his back, snapping his neck. I knew he was dead even before I took the twelve steps to get to him.”
Samantha's breath caught in her throat. “It wasn’t your—”
“Oh, it was totally my fault. Our fault, but I was the one who lived, so it’s all mine. I was cocky, and going too fast, and I hadn’t used the right protocol. I wanted to be a firefighter. I wanted to protect people, and I’d done it wrong and killed someone instead. There are rules for everything, everywhere. Protocol for safety in firefighting, in stocking grocery shelves, even in relationships, for cripe’s sakes. And I’d ignored protocol.”
Softly, she said, “What was his name?”
Hank glanced at her. “Jimmy. His name was Jimmy.”
She didn’t remember a Jimmy in the group of people that had hung around with Hank back then.
“He was a redhead. The one who insisted on riding his skateboard everywhere, even if I offered him a ride.”
“Oh!” She remembered Jimmy. He’d given her a piece of Bazooka bubblegum and they’d laughed together at the comic inside the wrapper. That day in the cafeteria of their junior college felt like it had happened last week. She didn’t recall anything else about him, but she remembered clearly how hard he’d laughed at that silly comic strip. “He gave me gum once.”
“Bazooka?” Hank’s voice was heartbreaking, hopeful and desolate at the same time.
“Yeah.”
“His mom had huge bowls of that gum out at the funeral. I still can’t even smell bubblegum.”
“I’m so sorry.” Samantha wanted to touch him, to put her hand on his arm, but she suspected that if she moved even an inch, he’d snap. His body was rigid, as if he were holding himself together with rebar.
“No. I’m the one who’s sorry.” He looked steadily forward through the glass. “My behavior tonight was unforgivable.”
“Nothing’s unforgivable.”
Now he looked at her, and his eyes were dark with despair. “Didn’t you hear the story I just told you? Once you kill your buddy, there’s nothing you can do to get him back. That’s pretty much the very definition of the word.”
It wasn’t, but it didn’t do to tell him that right now.
Samantha twisted in her seat, drawing up her legs so that she was half-kneeling. A gust of wind pushed the car door closed behind her.
Without thinking about it, worried that if she did she would stop, Samantha leaned forward and put her lips on Hank’s. For one long second, their mouths rested against each other’s. Samantha didn’t hear him breathing. She certainly wasn’t. His lips were firm, warm. Just the right shape.
Then, with a jerk, he pulled back. “What the—”
Awesome. “Sorry.” Maybe if Samantha backed straight out as fast as she could, she could get out of the Mustang with one percent of her dignity left. She’d gladly leave the other ninety-nine percent hanging in shreds behind her, if it meant she could go upstairs and push her head under her pillow. “Okay, then…”
And then Hank came out of his seat. At her. In a split second, both his hands were wrapped around the back of her head, and he was pulling her to him, his mouth hot and demanding against hers. She pushed back against him—it was a war as to who could kiss the hardest, and Samantha would do anything to win. And she’d do anything to lose.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she moved forward, bringing her knee over the middle console. His tongue tangled with hers, stroking her at first and then plundering her mouth. He tasted like mint and, faintly, of something sweet, something else that was all him. She wanted more, more. She wanted to kiss his neck, she wanted to nip the skin just under his chin, but she couldn’t tear her mouth from his for even a second. Every time she tried, he kissed her harder. Deeper.
She leaned her upper body against his, and his whole seat shot backward as he hit the release. She grinned against his lips and brought her other leg across so that she was straddling him on the front seat. His hands cupped her buttocks and she tilted so that her jeans pressed into his. She could feel his hardness under the material, hot against her thigh, and she pulled away for a split second to meet his eyes.
Hank’s gaze was so dark he looked like the devil. He looked like her salvation, too.
He pulled her head down to his again for another kiss. She was liquid inside, quaking with the need. What his tongue was doing to hers, the way it made her writhe against him, out here in the parking lot for all to see—she wanted that tongue to go other places. All her places.
“Come inside.”
“Honey,” he drawled, pulling her hips against his again, “I like to use protection.”
She laughed. “Inside the apartment. Please.”
He sobered suddenly, pushing his forehead against hers. “I can’t.”
“Why?” She ran her fingers up the line of his jaw, under his ear, reveling in the strength of the muscle she felt there. She put her thumb to his bottom lip and he groaned.
“You just fired me,” he managed, lifting his hand to hers. “For the second time.”
She slipped his finger into her own mouth and sucked for a second. She felt him get even harder. “You’re unfired.”
“That’s emotional whiplash. I should sue or something.”
“Then we’ll call it even,” she said. “You got mad at me, way too mad, but now I know why. Let’s split the difference and go inside where you can take off all my clothes.”
He laughed, but it sounded choked. “You are the hottest thing on two legs.”
It wasn’t the most romantic line she’d ever been handed, but she’d take it. He was a firefighter, not a poet. “Thanks. I like your legs, too. And I like this.” She tugged on his belt, drawing his hips to hers again. She leaned over and kissed him. When she came up for air, she said, “I like that, too. I know, we’ll do this a different way. Come upstairs, and I’ll take off all your clothes.”
This time it was a real laugh. But he twisted, putting her away from him with a smooth lift and turn. “I’m not going to take advantage of you like that.”
She flopped back into her seat with a groan. “I want you to.” That was the whole point.
“Samantha.” He scooted his seat forward again and looked her straight in the eye. “I want you. Honestly, I’d love to try to get you out of my system.”
Samantha smiled. She felt the same way and liked his honesty.
Hank went on, “I reckon you felt just how much I want you. But I can’t.”
“Why?” No, she didn’t get this. “Yeah, you got angry, but—”
“That.” He gripped the steering wheel. “That’s the problem. I’ve been trying to make it up to Jimmy since the day it happened by being the guy he wanted to be—we both, we were so into being firemen. Protecting. Saving. Instead, I scared a woman. I scared you. You were right to fire me.” He reached forward and touched her cheek. His hand was warm.
It made her feel safe while doing absolutely nothing to relieve the feeling of need deep inside her.
“I have to go.”
She growled in the back of her throat. Then she jammed open the car door again, kicking at it with her foot like she would an assailant. “Fine. But I need you at the community center at nine a.m., day after tomorrow. You said you were off, right?”
Hank nodded, his eyes narrowing. “But…”
“Look. I need your help, Hank.”
As she slammed the Mustang’s heavy door behind her, she felt a grim satisfaction. At least, putting it that way, he might show up.
But it was going to do nothing for the fire she still felt inside her body, low and deep. The firefighter had started that flame—that was the problem. No one but him could help her put it out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
OF COURSE HANK’S grandmother would come by at eight in the morning. Hank hadn’t been able to sleep, not even after he got up and went for a r
un in the middle of the night, battling his way through the freezing night-time air, his lungs heaving with something he hoped would turn to tiredness. He’d come back and gotten into bed, and instead of dropping into sleep, his head had spun with thoughts of her.
The taste of her.
The feel of the nape of her neck in his hand. The way her body molded to his, the way when he kissed her she responded with the perfect heat before she took it even higher.
No fire he’d ever fought, not even the one at the magnesium plant seven years before, had ever burned hotter than she did against him.
After a cold shower followed by a hundred push-ups, he’d finally started getting tired. He dropped off to sleep sometime after five a.m., so when the doorbell shrilled, Hank shoved his head under the pillow and cursed.
The doorbell rang again. Gramma Maureen had a signature way of doing it—she pushed the button once, quickly, and then, always unsure it had rung inside since her hearing was going, she’d lean on it for a long minute. Before his old dog Samson had died, that particular method of ringing the doorbell had driven his dog right over the edge. He’d howl for a good ten minutes after Maureen left, scared that she’d come back and do it again.
Get up.
The doorbell rang again. There was no ignoring Maureen.
“Dear boy.” Maureen, wearing a red knitted sweater with the image of a large banana embroidered into the front, a black skirt that looked frayed at the edges, and big clompy black men’s shoes, lifted herself to her very tiptoes to kiss Hank’s cheek. Hank still had to bend down to receive it. “Look at you. You look like you just rolled out of bed.”
“I did.”
As if she hadn’t heard him—and perhaps she hadn’t—Maureen went on. “But it’s past eight in the morning—”
“Two past.”
“And a boy like you doesn’t oversleep.”
Sometimes Hank wondered how old Maureen thought he was. She’d treated him the exact same way since she’d taken over raising him when his parents had died. She treated him like a child who needed to be coddled, while at the same time, maintaining an implicit faith in him to do everything the way a good man would.
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