Hot for Fireman

by Jennifer Bernard

  “Hey, Katie.” One of Bridget’s friends tossed her a friendly smile. “Everyone’s talking about the hottie you hired at your dad’s bar. We’re thinking of stopping by later on.”

  “What hours does he work?” Bridget’s other friend, Meredith, asked.

  Katie stared at her. “Aren’t you getting married? Isn’t Bridget your maid of honor?”

  “I’m asking on behalf of all my single friends. He is single, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you ever seen him with a girl?” They closed in to interrogate her.

  “Only about a hundred.” She tried to back up, but she was already flattened against the fridge.

  “Someone special.”

  “I haven’t paid attention.” A lie if ever there was one.

  “Well, I intend to conduct a thorough investigation.” Bridget joined the little cluster, with Doug right behind her. From the sullen look in Doug’s mud-brown eyes, Katie knew talk of Ryan irritated him.

  “That would require actually coming into the Hair of the Dog.”

  Bridget gave a slight shudder, as she always did when anyone spoke the name of the bar. “He sounds like he’s worth it. Is he?”

  Katie’s eyes strayed to Doug. He stood with shoulders hunched, his standard posture ever since he’d shot up a foot in junior year. “You’ll have to ask his groupies. All I know is he shows up on time and doesn’t get too many drink orders wrong.”

  Doug still looked worried.

  “And he probably won’t be there long. He said he was only looking for a job for a few weeks.”

  That piece of intel finally drew a smile from Doug.

  “That does it. I’m coming in,” declared Bridget. “Is it true he beat up four guys who were making fun of a gay kid?”

  Katie rolled her eyes. “Yes, and he lifts pickup trucks with one hand, helps little old ladies cross the street, and, oh, did you hear about how much he likes kids?”

  As if Ryan knew they were talking about him, her phone flashed an incoming call from the bar phone.

  “Katie, we had a little incident,” he said as soon as she answered.

  “What happened?”

  Katie shushed everyone while she listened to Ryan’s calm voice. “Archie tried to light a candle and set his napkin on fire. Then he poured whiskey on it, which made it worse. The fire spread to his jacket.”

  “His jacket?”

  Her mother, with her perfect knack for picking up on disaster, hurried into the kitchen with an armful of glasses. “What’s wrong?”

  Ryan continued, “Don’t worry, it was on the bar next to him. Mr. Jamieson tore off his shirt and smothered the flames before I even got over there. And a girl threw her club soda on it too. No one was hurt. Wet, but not injured. But we have some new scorch marks on the bar.”

  “Scorch marks . . .” Katie’s heart pounded. The thought of the Drinking Crew—and Dr. Burwell with his oxygen tank—that close to a fire horrified her.

  “Scorch marks?” her mother repeated. “Was there a fire?”

  Her father bustled into the kitchen. “A fire? Where?”

  Katie held up her hand for silence. “So everything’s okay now?”

  “Yep, under control. But I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call you right back.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  She hung up and looked solemnly at her parents. “Don’t freak out, but there was a fire at the Hair of the Dog. No one was hurt. No real damage done.”

  Bridget and her friends gasped and began lobbing questions at her. But her parents merely exchanged a long, odd look.

  “So long as no one was injured,” said Frank Dane, with what Katie considered a shocking lack of concern.

  “Yes, that’s all that really matters,” agreed her mother. With a rueful shrug, she took her husband’s arm and coaxed him back to the living room.

  Katie stared after her parents. A fire at the Dog . . . shouldn’t they be reacting in their usual over-the-top fashion? Calling the fire department, rushing to the scene, issuing orders to various family members. But their only emotion had seemed to be a sort of . . . disappointment.

  Doug was trying to catch her eye. He was always trying to catch her eye. Keeping her distance from Doug had been so much easier at grad school.

  She hurried to the bathroom before he could catch up with her. This room had always been her haven back when she’d shared a bedroom with Bridget. She closed the door behind her and dialed the bar.

  “Hello, darlin’.”

  “That’s how you answer the phone?”

  “Only when it’s you, darlin’.”

  Darlin’. Just kill me now. She plopped onto the toilet seat, with its comfy lavender covering. “So everything’s really okay?”

  “Everything’s groovy. Archie’s completely recovered and telling the story to everyone who will listen. Right now he’s hitting on the guy from the real estate office.”

  “What? Archie’s gay?”

  “Course. Why do you think I went after that dickhead the other night? Aside from intolerance bugging the crap out of me. Can’t have our steady customers insulted.”

  Oh God, this phone call was a mistake. She’d trained herself to ignore Ryan at the bar, but his voice, with that playful wink in it, got through her defenses in no time. Her nerves fluttered, her insides melted.

  “Well, better get back to the party here. I’ll see you later.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing, boss. What kind of bartender would I be if I let the place burn down?”

  After she hung up, she stood and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked different. Kind of supercharged and electrified, as if she’d put her hand in a socket. Her eyes looked more sparkly than usual, her face more pink. She pulled her straight black eyebrows together into the classic Katie scowl. That was more like it.

  Talking to Doug had never made her face go pink.

  Speaking of Doug . . . she opened the door a crack and peered out. No sign of him. She slipped out of the bathroom and headed down the hall to her father’s study, as her mother had suggested.

  The room was crammed with piles of magazines—National Geographic, Field and Stream, Saveur, Bartender’s Monthly. Rows of baseball trophies lined a shelf her father had put up for the purpose. Her twin brothers had racked up the trophies all through high school, then gotten snapped up as fresh meat for the minor leagues. Framed family photos filled every inch of available space on the walls. A fine layer of dust covered everything—no one had been in here for a while. It smelled of Scotch and old cigar smoke.

  Several black filing cabinets lurked against the back wall. Feeling like a spy, Katie opened each one and rifled through. The label “Sale” caught her eye. The papers inside made her eyes go wide. About a year ago, according to a fax from a real estate agent, her father had tried to sell the Hair of the Dog. But not a single offer had come in. They’d decided to take it off the market until the economy recovered. Katie was starting to understand her father’s heart attack.

  Finally she located the folder labeled “Insurance for HD.” The manila folder contained the complete policy, along with all the various payment options. She read it through carefully. Her father, for some reason, had chosen to insure the bar for a million dollars, far more than it could possibly be worth. Had he been anticipating some kind of disaster? He’d selected one hundred percent coverage with a tiny deductible. That all made sense, she supposed. If there was a catastrophe—a fire, for instance—they wouldn’t have to dig into their savings to pay the deductible. They’d make enough money to rebuild with no problems.

  The one thing she couldn’t understand was why he hadn’t spread the payments out over the year, instead of signing up for the balloon payment option. True, the payment plan would have been more expensive over the long run, so maybe it made sense. Or maybe he’d been foolishly optimistic about the bar’s finances. Most likely he was hoping the sale would go through bef
ore the next gigantic payment was due.

  She looked around the office, at the photos, the trophies, the magazines. Not one of those photos showed the bar. And the Bartender magazines were still in their plastic wrapping. Had her father lost interest in the Hair of the Dog? He hadn’t talked about it in Mexico, according to her mother. He clearly hadn’t entered this office in quite some time. She remembered that strange look her parents had shared when she’d told them about the fire. Did her father even care about the bar anymore? Did he want it . . . gone? For good?

  Chapter Seven

  Ryan squinted at a page in the Rules and Regulations binder. “No firefighter shall leave the station without the permission of the station commander.” Right. He knew that. But he’d come back from EMT recert alone and found everyone out on a call. Then the doorbell had rung, and the pretty girl had said her house was on fire, and he’d jumped in the plug-buggy and . . .

  He kicked back in his favorite piece of furniture, an old, yellowed leather recliner that had fallen victim to a neighbor’s divorce. Ryan had rescued it from the curb before the garbage truck could whisk it away into oblivion. He’d lovingly cleaned it and disinfected it and had enjoyed its relaxing qualities ever since.

  The binder, one of six that comprised the Manual of Operations, was spread out on his lap. He stared at it without seeing the words. Studying brought back so many painful school memories. Trying to make sense out of black markings on the page that seemed to change shape right before his eyes. Sounding like a moron in front of the other kids who all picked it up so much faster than he did.

  Wishing he could ask his father for help, but knowing that would earn him only a scornful cackle or a kick in the ass.

  He hadn’t been diagnosed as dyslexic until later in life, by a junior high teacher who had a crush on him. By then most of the psychological trauma had been inflicted. He’d already been categorized as a good-looking jock type who’d be lucky to get a C in anything except shop or PE. Despite all that, he loved to read, when he could take his time and thoroughly enjoy and process the words on the page.

  But he still hated to study, unless it involved a pretty girl taking off a piece of clothing every time he got a right answer, the way it had when he’d studied for the firefighter exam. No wonder Brody had given him this assignment. His mentor was making him work for his reinstatement.

  He closed the binder with a sharp snap, and coughed at the puff of dust that rose into the air. Brody hadn’t given him a time limit. He’d done enough studying for one day.

  He clicked on the TV with his remote control. Channel Six’s midday newscast, the Sunny Side of the News, was on. Ella Joy’s exquisite face appeared next to a graphic of a gas pump. Since when had Ella Joy come back to San Gabriel? Last he’d heard, she’d gone to Los Angeles to become a superstar. He shrugged. Another in the long list of women who’d gone for him because of his looks.

  In his mind, Katie’s face took the place of Ella Joy’s. He’d like to see Katie read the news. He pictured her, hair shoved behind her ears, eyebrows drawn together.

  In other news, this story is a load of crap, she’d say indignantly. I can’t believe they’re making me read this. Who writes this stuff? And she’d fling off her microphone and storm off the set.

  He chuckled. For some reason, thinking about Katie always cheered him up. She made him laugh. She was so completely herself, without apology. Hostile, unfriendly, clueless about how to run a bar, yet throwing herself completely into it anyway. He could think about her, off and on, for hours on end without getting bored. He still remembered the feel of her eager mouth on his. Still tasted her sweetness, like honeysuckle with a dash of vodka.

  Katie was sticking with her business-only policy, but he had a feeling it was harder than she’d expected. He’d caught her checking out his ass the other day when he’d bent down to pick up a case of rum. And every time he talked to a girl at the bar, he felt Katie get antsy.

  Ella Joy reached the part of the news where she talked about random ridiculous things, in this case a water-skiing squirrel caught on tape. That meant the newscast was almost over. His shift started in an hour.

  Fuck it. Might as well go in early.

  Teasing Katie was guaranteed to be a lot more fun than reading about smoke ejectors and chain of command policies.

  Katie drove up to the front curb of the Hair of the Dog, surveying it with new eyes. The squat little ramshackle building looked so out of place in this neighborhood. All the other buildings looked like they were deliberately keeping their distance from the bar. Milt and Myrna’s Dry Cleaner’s was separated from the Hair of the Dog by the width of two driveways and a cement block wall draped in jasmine vines. An empty lot covered in brown grass and cigarette butts stretched behind the bar. People used it as a parking lot, even though it had never been paved. It doubled as an outdoor smoking room now that smoking was banned in California bars.

  If a fire struck the Hair of the Dog, chances were good that no other buildings would be harmed. After all, the fire station was pretty close. A throng of firefighters would probably show up in minutes.

  Was she actually considering the idea that had come to her yesterday in her father’s study?

  She shivered, picturing flames licking up the outside of the Hair of the Dog’s wooden façade. The boards looked like they were already torched, even though she knew it was just black paint. Maybe she could save the sign that her father had commissioned, with the silhouette of a Great Dane howling the name of the bar. If she took it down before the fire started, would that be considered suspicious? She didn’t know much about these things, but she was pretty sure it had to look like a complete accident.

  One thing was certain. She needed to talk to someone first, someone she trusted.

  She got out of her Datsun, slung her backpack over one shoulder, and walked toward the bar, her feet dragging. The bar was such a staple of her life. For years it had been there in the background, along with her tormenting older sister and her teasing twin brothers. It was part of the underlying static of irritation that she associated with her family, much as she loved them.

  She stepped inside, squinting as always to prepare for the low light. Except this time she had to shield her eyes from the blinking fluorescent glare. Someone had turned on the overhead lights. Maybe the cleaning company hadn’t gotten the message that she couldn’t afford them anymore.

  And what was that smell? Disinfectant? It smelled like strong bleach. And that strange sound? Music. Rolling Stones, as a matter of fact. Someone was blasting the radio and singing along at the top of their lungs.

  A male someone. Then she spotted him.

  Ryan, wearing his usual worn jeans and T-shirt, an apron wrapped around his middle, was pushing a mop across the floor in time to “Satisfaction.”

  He sang along, moving his hips and swirling the mop into the far corner. She watched in utter, slack-jawed fascination. He encountered something too sticky for the mop and whipped a tool from his pocket, clicked it so a knife popped out, and bent down to pry the gunk off the floor. As he did so, his T-shirt stretched across his wide shoulders and she caught a vulnerable sliver of untanned skin just under its top edge.

  The sticky thing gave up easily, and Ryan stood and flicked it into an empty industrial-size pickle relish container.

  “What are you doing?” she shouted over the music.

  He jumped and turned to face her. He reached over to an ancient boom box on the nearest table and turned down the music. A smile lit his summer-blue eyes. “Can I carry your books for you, boss?”

  God, he was cute. “Very funny. Why are you cleaning the floor?”

  “Because it’s outright disgusting. You should see some of the things I found.” He kicked the relish container toward her.

  She shuddered. “I believe you. But why mess with it? No one’s giving us the white glove test.”

  “Where I come from, it’s important to keep things orderly. Clean and orderly. A mess can c
ost lives.”

  She frowned. “I thought you were from Fresno.”

  “Yeah. Well, it’s what I’ve learned since then. I’ve been meaning to do this since I started. Today I got inspired and decided to come in early and knock it out.”

  “Well, knock it off. It doesn’t need to be clean.” Not if she was going to burn the place down.

  A puzzled look crossed his beautiful face. He leaned on the mop and gazed closely at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She gripped her backpack and stepped carefully across the floor. The last thing she wanted to do was fall on her ass in front of Ryan.

  “Watch your step, floor’s still wet in spots. Seriously, what’s up?”

  “Nothing. Is the coffee started?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “You can knock that off too.” She hopped from one dry spot to the next.

  “But what about that boss-employee relationship of ours?”

  She shot him a scathing look. She didn’t buy his innocent act for a second. The man enjoyed teasing her far too much. “Don’t forget the firing aspect of being a boss.”

  He ducked his head, looking wounded. “You’d fire me for mopping the floor? I thought you’d like it. I thought it’d be a nice surprise for a Thursday.”

  She waited for him to break into that playful laugh of his. But his shoulders drooped, his foot scuffed the floor. She’d hurt his feelings. Why did she always have to be so harsh?

  “It’s a great surprise, Ryan. I really appreciate it. I don’t think anyone’s mopped the floor in years, not even the cleaners, back when we had them.” She took an impulsive step toward him and in the next instant realized two things.

  First, he wasn’t hurt—he was laughing at her, the jerk. Second, she was now airborne.

  The room spun around her head like a fluorescent kaleidoscope. She spotted a couple limp balloons left over from Doggies’ Night. And then Ryan’s face filled her field of vision. She felt his hand grab her arm with a grip so strong it reversed her course through the air and plopped her on her feet. He didn’t let go until she’d stopped swaying and could stand on her own.