The Complete Firehouse 56 Series

by Chase Jackson

  “I wrote you,” he repeated. “Constantly.”

  “What do you mean, you wrote me?!” I asked breathlessly. “You mean like letters? Pen and paper?”

  “Yes,” he exhaled sharply. “Pen and paper, in an envelope with a postage stamp.”

  My mouth fell open, but I was speechless.

  “God, Des…” he said. “I must have written to you at least once a week. Maybe more often than that, at the beginning.”

  “I don’t understand,” I shook my head slowly. “I never got any letters…”

  His eyes flicked up and his lips fell apart.

  “You never got my letters?” he repeated, frowning. “Any of them?”

  I shook my head again.

  Rory took a deep breath as his head rolled back against the passenger seat, then he released it with a heavy sigh. His eyes drifted up, staring blankly through the windshield. His face was totally blank.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” he said slowly. “I double-checked the address, and I dropped every letter off at the post office myself…”

  I was trying to make sense of it myself, and then a horrible thought crossed my mind. My throat tightened and my heart dropped in my chest.

  “My dad must have kept them from me,” I said. “That’s the only explanation. He must have known that they were from you…”

  My father was the kind of man who always needed a scapegoat or a fall guy; someone to take all of the blame. For a long time, that person had been my mother… but when Rory came along, my father saw him as the perfect target for all of his irrational anger and hatred. It didn’t matter that Rory protected me or treated me with more kindness than anyone else had; my father couldn’t see beyond his black t-shirts and shaggy hair. Once my father had decided that Rory was a ‘bad influence,’ there was no changing his mind.

  When my father learned that Rory was gone, he had the gall to laugh and mutter “good riddance.” I thought that that was my father’s lowest moment… but if he was hiding Rory’s letters from me, that meant he had stooped even lower.

  “I should have figured,” Rory said finally. “I just assumed that you weren’t writing back because you were still upset that I had left.”

  “Oh, God…” I choked on my own words and I felt my eyes well with tears. I brushed them away quickly and forced myself to stare into the A/C vent, until the brisk air had dried away any trace of tears and left my eyes scratchy and dry.

  In the years that followed Rory’s disappearance, I had searched desperately for any clue or shred of information that could help me find out what had happened to him. It had never crossed my mind that the answers were delivered right to my mailbox, sent by Rory McAlister himself. And it never crossed my mind that my father would hide those letters or keep the truth from me.

  “How long?” I asked in a soft, shaky voice. “How long did you write?”

  “For years,” Rory said. “Even though you never wrote back, I didn’t want you to think that I was giving up on you. I didn’t want you to think that…”

  He didn’t finish that statement. I felt the tears burning back into the corners of my eyes, and I bit the inside of my lip and shook my head, trying to hold them in.

  “All this time,” I croaked, “I thought you were the one who gave up on me. But really… I was the one who gave up on you.”

  “Des, don’t say that,” Rory said. He reached across the center console and he found my hand in my lap. His fingers tangled through mine, until our hands were knotted together.

  “It’s true,” I insisted, sniffling softly. “God, what must you have thought?”

  I didn’t want to know the answer to that. For years, Rory and I had held each other up; we had supported each other, when we had no one else in the world.

  I thought about Rory writing letter after letter, only to get nothing in return. My silence must have felt like betrayal; like abandonment...

  I shook my head slowly. I knew exactly what my silence must have felt like, because I had felt the same thing myself. For years, I had felt hurt and betrayed and forgotten…

  Suddenly Rory’s gaze wandered towards the car radio, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  Oh, fuck… a bolt of realization tingled through my numb chest.

  Underneath the sound of the rain pattering overhead, I could hear the chorus of Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear us Apart’ humming through the car speakers.

  The track was playing from Rory’s CD; I had been listening to the playlist on repeat since the day I dug the disc out from the box underneath my bed… and I had been listening to it moments earlier, as I tried to build up my courage in the parking lot. When I spotted Rory through the rain, I had completely forgotten that it was playing...

  He probably doesn’t even remember making this CD, I tried to convince myself. He was always burning CDs and playlists… why would he remember this one?!

  But the look on his face told me that he did remember it. He reached slowly for the console and his fingers tapped the ‘eject’ button. Immediately the music stopped, and the radio churned mechanically before spitting out the CD.

  My heart drummed against my chest and my cheeks burned bright red, no doubt matching the shade of the firehouse walls.

  Rory pulled out the CD, then he narrowed his eyes as he inspected the red heart drawn on the label. I had inspected the same heart countless times, trying to decipher what it meant. Now, it was his turn to look confused as he traced his fingertip around the shape he had drawn in Sharpie eleven years ago…

  “You still have this?” he sounded surprised.

  “Of course I do,” I exhaled. In my head, I added, it was the last piece of you that I had left…

  He smiled and chuckled softly as he inspected the red Sharpie heart that he had drawn on the label, then he fed the CD back into the car radio. The playlist automatically started over from the first track, ‘Lovesong’ by The Cure.

  Goosebumps prickled over my arms as I got deja vu. I had listened to that song hundreds of times, but now it sounded different. I was taken back to the last time we had listened to this song together. It was that night at the park; the last time I ever saw Rory McAlister.

  “Did you ever figure it out?” Rory asked, glancing at me. The corners of his lips were turned up in a tiny smile. “What I made the playlist for, I mean.”

  I swallowed heavily and shook my head.

  “No,” I admitted. But it sure as hell wasn’t for lack of trying...

  “Really?” his eyes flicked towards me, and he frowned slightly. “You mean the red heart didn’t give it away?”

  His eyes burned straight into me, and I felt my own red heart drumming harder and heavier in my chest.

  “I thought it’d be obvious,” Rory said softly. “Too obvious.”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “They’re love songs,” he said. “Love songs for people that feel unlovable.” Then he lowered his eyes, pointing them towards the floor, and added softly, “People like you and me.”

  My shoulders slumped back and my mouth fell open softly. It all made perfect sense, but… how had I not figured that out earlier? How had I not connected the dots, when it was right there in front of me all along?

  “Oh,” was all I could say. Then, “But… why did you make me a playlist full of love songs?”

  He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head.

  “Des… isn’t that part obvious?” he whispered.

  It should have been obvious. I could feel the heat burning from his eyes and pulsing through his skin, igniting a thousand tiny sparks that spread like wildfire through my veins.

  Our faces were inching closer and closer, and when I closed my eyes were right back on that picnic table at the neighborhood park. Our hands were laced together, and I could feel the warm, familiar thud of his pulse twitching through his skin.

  It should have been obvious, but I wanted to hear him say the words; after years of confusion, I
wanted to know.

  And more than anything, I wanted him to kiss me… just like I had wanted him to kiss me all those years ago, when we sat side by side on the picnic table listening to same gloomy love song.

  “Rory…” I said softly.

  “Des,” he said back. His breath was soft and warm, and the words tickled as they dusted my lips.

  All of my reservations and resistance dissolved as his warmth swarmed inside of me. I closed my eyes again as our faces moved closer and closer together, and then--

  The shrill cry of an alarm erupted in the distance, howling louder than the music or the raindrops or the heavy beating of my heart.

  We both jerked upright in our seats, undoing the slow and steady progress that we had made towards each other.

  “That’s the fire alarm,” Rory said reluctantly, glancing back at the firehouse through the rain-stained windshield. “I have to go…”

  “Yeah, of course,” I swallowed, forcing myself to nod as I released my hold on his hand. Our fingers slipped apart, and the warmth of his skin was immediately replaced with the brisk chill of the A/C.

  His hand gripped onto the door handle, but he paused before opening the door.

  “I need to see you again,” he said. “Tonight? Dinner?”

  “O-ok,” I stammered, nodding. “Tonight. Dinner. It’s a date.”

  “It’s a date,” he smiled.

  Rory popped open the door, and immediately the rush of rain and wind howled into the car as he slid out into the stormy parking lot.

  “Wait!” I called after him, suddenly remembering the coat draped over my lap.

  He poked his head back into the car, and for a split second I contemplated stretching across the seat and kissing him right then and there.

  Instead, I held up the coat.

  “I think you’ll need this,” I said.

  He smiled, taking the heavy jacket from my outstretched hands. Then he slammed the door and ran back towards the firehouse, disappearing in a blitz of raindrops and grey.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN | RORY

  In a dress shirt and slacks, I almost passed for normal… which was a good thing, considering I had made dinner reservations at the ritziest joint in town, Maynard’s Steakhouse.

  I guess my freshly-pressed duds did the trick, because the maitre’d barely gave me a second glance as he brought me to the table I had reserved at the back of the restaurant.

  “Enjoy your meal, sir,” he nodded politely after I had taken my seat.

  Seconds later, he was replaced by a waiter who filled my glass with ice water and called me “sir” as he offered me a leather-bound copy of the menu.

  These little gestures weren’t lost on me. After a lifetime of sticking out like a sore thumb, it felt surreal to blend in. It felt even more surreal to be treated like I belonged at a place like this.

  The last time I had lived in Hartford, the closest I had ever gotten to ‘fine dining’ was indulging in the 2/$1 hot dog combo at the gas station and loitering on the curbside until the manager called the cops on me. Even as a public nuisance, I hadn’t really ‘belonged.’

  If you had told my fifteen-year old self that someday I’d be sitting at the best table at Maynard’s, browsing through a menu of $50 steaks, I’d probably fall flat on my ass from laughing so hard. But here I am.

  Here I fucking am…

  “Can I bring you something to drink besides water, sir?” the waiter asked.

  “Not just yet,” I said. “I’m waiting on my date.”

  Date.

  That word sizzled on my tongue like a bacon on a hot skillet. Desiree’s face flashed through my head, and my heart immediately started thumping in my chest.

  “On second thought,” I glanced up at the waiter, “I’ll take a scotch on the rocks.”

  “Excellent choice, sir,” the waiter grinned approvingly. “Do you have a preferred vintage?”

  “Uhh…”

  Fuck. Of course a joint like Maynard’s wasn’t going to serve a $10 glass of Johnnie Walker. What was I thinking?

  Seeming to sense my hesitation, the waiter smiled diplomatically and suggested,

  “May I recommend the Dalmore twelve-year single-malt? It would make a superb pairing with any of our dry-aged steaks.”

  “Sounds great,” I nodded.

  The waiter bustled away, leaving me to stare at the empty seat across from me at the table.

  I was just starting to imagine what Desiree Leduc would look like in that seat, when I caught a flash of black in my peripheral. I glanced up, and that’s when I saw her.

  Even though I had already seen her twice since returning to Hartford -- once in the burning high school, and the second time in the firehouse parking lot -- I felt like I still hadn’t gotten a good look at her. Now, from across the restaurant, I let my eyes feast on every tantalizing inch of Des.

  She looked all grown up in a tight black pencil skirt and white silk blouse; like the object of every teenage boy’s ‘hot teacher’ fantasy. She was still short -- something I used to tease her for -- but she had grown into her curves, and something about the way that black skirt hugged her ass made my dick twitch inside the brand new slacks that I had bought just for her.

  Part of me had already decided that I would rather devour her than any bullshit hunk of overpriced meat on the restaurant’s menu… but another part of me was overwhelmed by the same protective instincts that I had felt for Des years ago. I had always wanted to keep her safe… especially from guys like me.

  Desiree Leduc deserved better than me. She deserved someone who was clean cut and polished; someone with a safe little 9-5 office job. She deserved someone she could introduce to her friends, or feel proud to bring to Christmas parties and summer barbeques. She deserved steak dinner dates and a limitless gold AMEX card. She deserved someone who knew which whiskey to order…

  That guy wasn’t me. I couldn’t give Des any of those things… so what the hell was I doing here?

  Before I could answer that question, her eyes landed on me from across the restaurant. As soon as I saw her face lit up, all of the doubts disappeared from my head.

  Suddenly she wasn’t all grown up anymore; suddenly, she was the same shy girl that I used to share my headphones with on the school bus. Her cheeks turned rosy pink and she raised her hand, waving awkwardly at me from across the restaurant.

  I felt my own cheeks swell, and I had to sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stop myself from smiling as I returned the gesture.

  I pushed myself up from the table and my eyes tracked her as she made her way across the room.

  “Hey stranger,” I said. My voice came out raspy and dry… maybe because I was thirsty for that damn scotch, or maybe because I still couldn’t stop thinking fucked up thoughts about her ass in that tight little skirt.

  “Hey yourself,” she whispered back. Her cheeks were still bright pink, and she was wearing a Julia Roberts smile -- dimples and all.

  I pulled out her chair and we both took a seat, just as the waiter returned with my drink.

  “Here’s your Dalmore twelve-year single-malt, sir,” the waiter said as he placed a square-shaped whiskey glass on the table. A pair of oversized ice cubes clinked in the shallow bath of amber-hued liquid.

  “Scotch?” Desiree’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as she eyed the drink, then glanced up at me. “Rory McAlister, you really are all grown up!”

  “I could say the same thing to you,” I winked, and as I did, I couldn’t stop my eyes from making a quick slip down to her blouse. The top buttons had been left undone, granting my eyes access to the smooth contour of her clavicle. I forced my eyes away.

  You don’t deserve her, I reminded myself.

  “Anything to drink, miss?” the waiter asked, turning his attention to Des.

  “Umm…” she was caught off guard, and she flicked her eyes down at the menu. “Could I get a glass of your house red--”

  “No house wine,”
I insisted. Then I glanced up at the waiter and said, “Bring us the best bottle you’ve got.”

  “Right away, sir,” he smiled with an affirmative nod, then he bustled away again.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, I felt Des kick me under the table.

  “Rory!” she hissed. Her eyes were wide, but her cheeks were bright pink and there was a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “The best wine they’ve got?! God, I don’t even want to think about how much that’s going to cost…”

  I wanted to tell her that she deserved nothing less than the best, but my tongue tripped on the words. Instead, I shrugged and said, “It’s a special occasion.”

  “Oh it is, huh?”

  “Of course it is,” I said. “We’ve got eleven years to make up for.”

  “Speaking of eleven years…” she traced her lips with her tongue and cocked her head, resting her chin on her shoulder. “What have you been doing with yourself all this time?”

  I sighed, easing back into my chair. There were a lot of ways that I could answer that question… and none of them were simple.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “Well, you just ordered a bottle of wine,” she smiled back. “So I’d say we have plenty of time.”

  “Yeah, well I’m not sure this makes for good dinner conversation,” I shrugged. “Besides, I’d rather hear about you--”

  “No way! You’re not getting off that easy!” she shook her head. “I want to hear everything.”

  “Everything?” I raised my eyebrows. She just smiled and nodded.

  Des had never shied away from the ugly parts of me. Even when we were kids, she was never scared off by my bruises or scars. Everyone else saw me as a freak or a misfit… but not Des. Des saw something deeper than my faults, long before I could even see it for myself.

  “Let’s start from the beginning,” she suggested. “Where did you go when you disappeared, Rory?”

  Good question…

  “Boston,” I said. “I moved in with my dad and his other family.”

  “His other family?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “The family he started after he left my mom and me.”

  By the time the waiter returned with the bottle of wine, I had gotten out the basics, living at my dad’s house, graduating high school, leaving home, living on the streets, cage-fighting for money…