Sex and the Single Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novel

by Jennifer Bernard

  “Not only unnecessary, but unwelcome. I have a job to do here. I’ll do it the way I see fit.”

  Captain Brody met him stare for stare. His eyes narrowed to gray slits as he took Roman’s measure. At that moment, Roman would have willingly died before he blinked first. He held his ground. Brody had no call to question his leadership style. And he wasn’t about to allow it.

  Finally Captain Brody nodded. “Have it your way.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “I won’t come here again.”

  “That would be best.”

  At Brody’s feet, Stan whined. “I can take the dog off your hands, if—”

  “The dog stays.”

  “All right, then.” Brody gave another brief nod, bent down for a quick scratch of Stan’s ears, then left.

  It took several minutes for the tension to leave Roman’s body. Was there some kind of rebellion afoot out there? Was he that harsh in his methods? He didn’t think so. Overall he’d been restrained because these guys didn’t know him. Back in New York, when he’d been a captain, he’d let some real tirades fly. But the guys knew to take it with a grain of salt.

  He looked down at Stan, who looked bereft. Realizing he still held the doggy treat in his fist, he knelt down and offered it once again. Stan gave it a halfhearted sniff, then dragged himself back to his corner.

  “Fine.” Roman sniffed it himself and made a face. No wonder the dog wouldn’t touch it unless he was asleep. What did they put in these things, anyway? He should try making his own doggy treats—dry some veal or marinate some lamb.

  He knew writing up Sabina would make him even less popular. Had he done the wrong thing? Hell no. He could still summon the terror that had shot through him when he realized she was in the hot zone with no face piece. Un-fucking-acceptable.

  “Vader, you’re starting to piss me off. What kind of firefighter would I be if I complained about a perfectly fair notice to improve?”

  Vader dribbled the basketball, hammering it like a yo-yo. He’d dragged her to the backyard for some hoops after they’d spent a couple of hours poring over the section of the manual that dealt with hazmat protocol.

  He shot the basketball, it bounced off the backboard, and Sabina leaped to catch it.

  “It was a love potion. You got reprimanded over a love potion.”

  “I’m not reprimanded.” A reprimand would be in her file forever. Roman had only given her a notice to improve, which would go away in six months.

  “Close enough. The guy’s a prime asshole. I heard Brody came in today to mellow him out and Roman gave him the boot.”

  Sabina shot and missed. The ball hit the edge of the backboard and dribbled into the bushes. Sabina fisted her hands on her hips. “Who called Brody, I wonder?”

  Vader’s strong jaw twitched the way it always did in uncomfortable situations. “A concerned citizen.”

  “Vader, you shouldn’t have done that. Don’t you think we should give the guy a chance?” Why was she defending Roman? He’d shredded them after the mall fiasco, especially her. But for whatever reason, she couldn’t bear to hear Vader talking about him like that.

  “We did. He’s a dickhead.”

  Psycho, who was doing a hyperactive series of laps around the backyard, dove for the ball and came up balancing it on one finger. “I’m in, Vader.”

  “In what?”

  “In on whatever we gotta do to take Roman down.”

  Sabina marched over to him and snatched the ball from his hands. “You’re both nuts. He’s been here, what, a week? Two weeks? Get over yourselves.” She noticed that Psycho was giving her an odd, wicked look. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  His brilliantly blue eyes flicked down to her chest, then back up, so quickly she thought she might have imagined it. A demented smile stole over his face.

  “What is wrong with you, Psycho?”

  “Oh . . . nothing . . . I’m sweating like a pig here. Think I’ll go take a shower.”

  “Fine.” She frowned at him as he turned his back and walked away, whistling a soft tune. It sounded familiar, that song. She was racking her memory, trying to place it, when he slowly raised one arm and pretended to sensuously soap his chest, running his hands across his pectorals as if they were breasts.

  Oh my God.

  Max had done it. He’d gotten her most mortifying on-screen moment into the hands of a San Gabriel firefighter. Not just any fireman, but Psycho, who had no mercy.

  She raced after him. With a flying tackle, she toppled him to the ground. “Where’d you see it? Who else saw it?”

  Psycho shook with evil laughter under her. “Who didn’t see it?”

  Vader ran up next to them. “See what? What are you guys talking about?”

  Sabina raged at Psycho. “I’m going to kill you. Strangle you and feed you to Stan. Who has it now?”

  “The Sunny Side of the News, for all I know.” Psycho cackled. “Why didn’t you ever tell us you liked to whistle in the shower, Two?” He whistled the tune again, until Sabina squished his face into the grass.

  “Whistle in the shower? Everyone likes that, what’s the big deal?”

  “Jones, Vader, Psycho.” Roman’s harsh voice made them all jump. Sabina rolled off Psycho and scrambled to her feet. It wasn’t really Psycho’s fault anyway. It was Max’s. How could he be so cruel?

  “Psycho, if you don’t bring me that video in the next two minutes, you’ll be polishing the pumper for the next two months. Vader, do some push-ups, you’re getting soft.”

  Roman sure had Vader’s number. Her muscle-bound best friend instantly dropped to the ground and began pumping up and down.

  “Jones, in my office.”

  Sabina had to call on every ounce of her rusty acting skills to walk through the station with her head held high. Sidelong glances and a few smirks followed her, but Chief Roman’s commanding presence kept outright snickering from breaking out. Sabina knew her fellow firefighters like brothers. Brothers loved to tease. And this . . . this was even more tease-worthy than Vader’s baby-blue truck.

  Roman ushered her into his office and shut the door. She’d spent more time in the captain’s office in the last week than in the previous two years. A sense of utter demoralization swept over her. In one day she’d screwed up at a fire scene and been seen topless by smirking firemen. Everything she’d worked so hard for was falling apart around her.

  And all this humiliation was taking place under the gaze of Chief Roman, the most attractive man she’d ever known.

  He leaned against his desk, which looked tiny in comparison, and folded his arms over his massive chest. His midnight-black eyes took her in, not unsympathetically. “You know, I heard all the chatter and thought it was about me and my dictatorial ways.”

  She felt pink creep up her cheeks. “They’re just getting used to your leadership style. I have no problem getting written up. I made a mistake. A big one.”

  She wasn’t sure if she was referring to the mall fire or to her stupid decision at the age of nineteen.

  “At any rate, it turned out they were talking about you, not me, and a certain video that was delivered to the station this morning and viewed by a certain portion of the crew.”

  Had he seen it? She couldn’t tell from his impassive expression.

  “What can you tell me about it?”

  “Well . . .” Sabina put on her movie critic voice. “Zombie Nights IV is the fourth in the critically panned but commercially successful Zombie Nights series. Some even call it groundbreaking in its depiction of the angst faced by those unfortunate souls turned into zombies.”

  Not a trace of amusement crossed his rugged face. “And your role?”

  “I played a naïve waitress whose last pre-zombie moments take place in a shower. I shot the scene . . . oh, probably eleven or so years ago.”

  He ran one hand through the thick black hair. “The chief isn’t going to like this. If the media gets hold of it, we’re screwe
d. I can confiscate the video. I can forbid the guys from mentioning it outside the station. But it will be like trying to put water back into a waterfall. The damage is done.”

  She licked her dry lips and rubbed her hands, damp from Psycho’s sweat, on her thighs. He was right. She was in for it. Cue umpteen million shower references and renditions of the tune she’d whistled during that brief but everlasting topless scene.

  But she didn’t think Max would take it to the media. Complete exposure would destroy all his leverage.

  “Do you want to take some time off until this blows over?”

  Time off . . . hiding out in her house, curled up in a fetal position, watching talk shows and eating barbecue potato chips . . .

  No. She was not going to let a Hollywood jackass derail her career.

  Snapping her spine straight, she glared at Roman. “Absolutely not. I can handle the guys. A little teasing won’t kill me. They can blab about it all they want. And the scene’s probably online somewhere anyway. I’ll deal with it.”

  Her composure nearly faltered under his long, thoughtful scrutiny. But it was worth it to see grudging respect dawn in his eyes.

  “If you need some help—”

  “I don’t.”

  He nodded, then gave a gesture of dismissal. At the door, she turned.

  “But . . . um . . . thank you. I do appreciate it.”

  A nod of acknowledgment.

  “And just so you know, it was only that one time, and you don’t really see anything, no nipp—” She snapped her mouth shut, knowing she’d turned bright red.

  He’d seen her nipples, after all. And he was remembering them right this second—she could see it in his eyes. “No need to explain anything to me, Jones.”

  “Right.” She wheeled toward the door again, then hesitated, bracing herself. On the other side of that door lay endless teasing and mortification.

  But for once, luck was with her. A loud tone rang throughout the station as the dispatcher announced a structure fire. To Sabina, it might as well have been the voice of an angel.

  Roman left the station in a terrible mood the next morning. He’d never forget the look on Sabina’s face when she fled his office. And even though he’d confiscated the video, it was a pointless move. Zombie Nights IV was available in any video store. And Sabina was right, the shower scene was probably viewable online somewhere.

  Worst of all, as soon as he’d caught a glimpse of that shower scene—Sabina’s sleek, wet, naked back, her pretty profile when she turned her head, the way her nose perked up at the very end—memories of that night in Reno came flooding back.

  He needed to unwind. Forget about the station. Forget about everything.

  “Lukey, you feel like crappy Italian food tonight?” he asked when Luke slid into the passenger seat of the Jeep. Picking Luke up at school was one of his favorite things to do when he was off shift.

  “Only if you make your sauce.”

  “Deal.”

  Anu was only too delighted to have him back in the kitchen of La Piaggia. Luke set himself up with his math homework in a corner while Roman lost himself in dicing onions and simmering tomatoes. Nothing relaxed him like cooking. The sharp scent of garlic, the heady fumes of the red wine bubbling from the pot, the sensual slide of the green peppers under his fingers . . . for the first time all week, he could breathe freely.

  “Papa, what does it mean when you can’t stand someone, but when you see them you feel funny?”

  So much for relaxation. “What?”

  Luke, usually so bouncy, sat at the counter with his head propped on one hand, a shadow across his face. “It’s just weird. Usually I either like someone or I don’t. But now I’m just confused.”

  “This isn’t . . . a girl, is it?” Roman asked cautiously.

  Luke lowered his head. “Kind of,” he grumbled. “Not a girly girl like at school.”

  He must be talking about Carly, the girl pitcher, Roman realized. According to the coach, the two of them managed to avoid physical combat, but jabbed at each other in every other possible way. On the bright side, both of their batting averages were up and their earned run averages were down. Their team was the talk of the league.

  “Well . . .” Roman cleared his throat. “What was the question again?”

  “Never mind.”

  Roman cursed himself. A mother would have a much easier time with a conversation like this. But that was no excuse.

  “I think you just go with it. Roll with the punches.”

  Luke pushed aside his calculator. “I didn’t punch her.”

  “I didn’t say you did, I meant—”

  “Never mind. You don’t understand.”

  Luke seemed to be saying that more and more often lately. Roman gritted his teeth and stirred the pot so hard that the thick red sauce splattered up the sides. “I’ll tell you this much. When it comes to women, throw the rule book out the window and hang on for the ride.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sabina jogged around the San Gabriel Reservoir as if ten thousand zombies were chasing her. Hollywood zombies like Max Winkler. She’d spent too much time in the down-to-earth world of firefighters. She’d forgotten the shameful depths to which someone like Max would stoop.

  She’d known Zombie Nights IV was a mistake, but after she’d signed all her earnings over to her mother, she’d been flat broke. Giving all her money to her mother had been an easy choice—it was the only way she could free herself from her guilt over leaving You and Me, and effectively ending the show. Signing on for an uncredited performance on Zombie Nights had given her enough cash to put herself through the academy and get a job as a firefighter.

  Since neither her stage name nor her real name had appeared on the credits, and they’d given her a long blond wig for the role, no one would ever link Zombie Nights and little Taffy McGee. Her biggest secret was still safe.

  So, no regrets. The guys had been pretty easy on her, probably because Roman kept throwing hazmat drills at them. Vader had actually seemed impressed.

  “You’re like, a scream queen. And you never told me, Two. What the fuck? That was one of the best zombie killings ever shot. Did you see how that blood spurted? How’d they do that?”

  Her mood lightened as she reached the three-mile mark, which was a willow tree that drooped graceful branches into the still water. Maybe everything would be okay. Max had exposed her embarrassing shower scene to the crew and she’d survived. They’d all seen her naked back and a slight bit of the under curve of her right breast. So what? She’d seen more of Vader during his workouts. She was still a proud member of San Gabriel Fire Station 1. Nothing had really changed.

  By the time she got to work the next day, she was absolutely sure the worst was over.

  “Morning, Zombie,” Double D greeted her.

  So she’d acquired a new nickname. Big deal.

  “Cute, Doo-doo. But you don’t want to piss me off. I haven’t had breakfast. I might go for some scrambled brains.”

  His belly laugh followed her to her locker. She hid a smile. That was how to handle the guys. Give it right back. Don’t let them see they got to you.

  Vader, a few lockers over, hissed at her. “We got Saturday night off this week. What are you doing?”

  “You mean after I buy every DVD of Zombie Nights in Southern California and destroy it?”

  “What are you talking about? That shit’s classic. I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I tell you everything.” His deep-set brown eyes looked a bit moist. “Even . . . you know.”

  “How’s Cherie?” asked Sabina, desperate to change the subject.

  “She made me watch some documentary about bullying.”

  “Good for her. I’m starting to like that woman.”

  “At the end she let me touch her boobs. But the damn movie had me so freaked out I didn’t even enjoy it. Give me Zombie Nights any day.”

  So much for a subject change. She ducked into the bathroom to get into
her uniform. So far, so good. Her first post–Zombie Nights shift wasn’t going too badly. She brushed out her hair and braided it with quick fingers.

  Everything would be okay, she told herself for the millionth time. She’d weathered the storm. She hadn’t caved in to Max. Her world hadn’t been completely destroyed. Sure, a few things had changed, and part of her longed to turn back time to when Brody was still captain, Carly had the prime spot on the team roster, and no one had seen her half naked.

  But then she wouldn’t have met Roman.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, she paused. Something was different. Something was happening. A hyperactive, excited buzz of voices came from the training room, as if a bunch of guys were all talking at the same time.

  Not an unusual phenomenon, but she also detected a low female voice in the mix. Ella Joy, the Channel Six anchor? Melissa Brody, the captain’s newly pregnant wife, along with her little girl, Danielle? Smiling eagerly, she hurried down the corridor to say hi. Danielle was a cutie, and she hadn’t yet congratulated Melissa on her big news.

  In the training room, the guys were all gathered in a tight knot in the middle of the room. She caught snatches of what they were saying.

  “Can you sign one for my mom? . . . My little sister loved your show . . . I liked the episode with the pet ferret . . . What was that phrase you always said . . . Why Taffy McGee, what were you thinking?”

  A throaty voice echoed that last phrase, along with a husky chuckle that sounded like skilled fingertips stroking velvet.

  Sabina stood rooted to the floor of the corridor, completely unable to make sense of what was going on here. Had someone put on one of Annabelle’s movies? She hadn’t heard that voice in so many years, thanks to her nearly complete avoidance of TV.

  Then Double D shifted to one side. There stood Annabelle Hatfield. She looked the same, but . . . tighter. Like a jewel that someone had been polishing for ten years. Her dark red hair—Annabelle always told her colorists to make it “Merlot”—cascaded in tumbling waves down her wiry form. She crackled with energy, as she always had. A firecracker of a woman. She’d always drawn attention without even trying, as if the spotlight was her natural habitat.