He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers with the softest, slightest possible contact, which nevertheless shocked him with a third-rail current of electricity. Every single hair on his body stood on end. And it wasn’t just him. She drew in a quick gasp, her mouth softening, luring him in. She tasted like the sunset sky, like wild honey, like that moment of weightlessness on the edge of a rappel. Desire rocked him, made his hand, still framing her face, shake.
Then something hard was jabbing him in the chest. Lara’s emphatic index finger. He took a step back, the taste of her still vibrating on his lips. She looked just as shaken as he was, but also mad as hell.
“No, Patrick. Have you forgotten I’ve known you since you were fourteen?”
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying like hell to pull his wits together.
“The whole time, you were fighting with your father. Making trouble. Playing the rebel. You wanted him to react. Wanted to make him yell and scream. Liam always hated it. But you didn’t care. You did it anyway. And you’re still doing it. That’s why you invited me. You used me to get to him. It’s mean and childish and just plain idiotic.” Lara shook her head, raking him from head to toe with scornful, blazing eyes. “He’s all fired up now, thanks to you. Mission accomplished, Psycho. You haven’t changed a bit. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
She got into her Aveo and drove off without a backward glance. Patrick spun around and slammed his fist against the tanklike door of the Hulk. Damn it to hell. He’d fucked everything up once again. His parents were at each other’s throats and Lara despised him.
He should have stayed in freaking San Gabriel.
He opened the tailgate and found Goldie trying to clamber to her feet. Her golden eyes skittered in a nervous sideways back and forth pattern. “Oh for the love of . . . sorry, Goldie. I didn’t mean to scare you. Better hop out. Potty break. You won’t find a better place to take a crap than right here.”
Goldie crept to the tailgate, then peered out. “It’s okay,” he murmured to her. “I understand why you’re scared, but no one here has anything against llamas. You’re perfectly safe.” When she still hesitated, he reached in and lifted her out. Setting her on the ground, he patted her gently. “Good girl, pretty girl. Poopy-time now.”
He led her to a thick clump of grass at the edge of the circular drive. The place was one giant fire hazard. And he’d never even gotten a chance to mention that to crazy old Big Dog.
“Patrick.” He almost jumped at the sound of Megan’s voice right behind him. He turned to find her facing him, arms across her chest, chin stuck out, glasses speckled with salt, the way they always got when she’d been crying.
He would have ripped his own face off if that would fix anything. “Aw, Meggie, don’t cry. I’m sorry.”
“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “It’s not you. He’s gotten worse. Don’t you think? I mean, look at this place.”
Patrick looked uneasily around the property, which was more unkempt than he’d ever seen it. “Are they short on money? I can send some.”
“No, it’s not that. I don’t know what it is.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her skirt. “Thanks for coming, even if it was a complete disaster. At least Mom and I got to see you.”
He studied her, feeling like the biggest loser on the face of the earth. “I can’t be here. I make it worse.”
“I suppose.” But she chewed her bottom lip, looking unconvinced.
“Will you tell Dad that he needs to get the brush cleared away from the house? The outbuildings too. The more the better.”
“He knows. Some firefighters came by here and warned us about it.” An adorable hint of pink appeared in her cheeks. “One of them said he’d do it, but Dad didn’t want him here.”
“Why? Did he ask you out?”
“Patrick.” Then she smiled suddenly. “Not exactly. But sort of.”
“He’d be a lucky, lucky guy if you said yes,” he said softly, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “Hey, I have an idea. Could you take care of Goldie for me?”
It was either a terrible idea or a stroke of brilliance. Was his newfound pet safe with Big Dog Callahan?
As soon as Meggie’s face lit up, he decided it was genius.
“I’d love to!” She clapped her hands together and bounced on her toes. “I have the perfect spot for Goldie in the stables! I bet she’ll get along great with Angelbaby. We only have three horses left, so Goldie can have her own stall, and in the daytime I can take her out to different fields and she can eat the grass down. She can clear our brush for us.”
“She’s just the girl for the job.” He handed her the rope he’d tied to Goldie’s temporary collar.
“And you’ll come back and check on her?” The hope in Megan’s face made him want to drown himself in a bucket of ice water.
“I’ll write. Goldie will appreciate that. She’s always saying how much she regrets the passing of the old epistolary days.”
Megan giggled. Patrick gave Goldie a rough pat on the neck and grabbed her blanket from the back of the truck. One last hug for Megan and he got in, made a tight, high-speed reverse turn that mowed down some shrubs at the edge of the drive, and roared toward the front gate.
Hey, he had to leave his mark.
And he kept leaving it, from Loveless to California, starting with tequila shooters at the Ride ’Em Hard Bar and Grill, which he fled with three bikers in hot pursuit. They caught up with him in Henderson, where they all mutually decided to settle matters with a high-stakes pool game. That’s how he became the proud owner of a Harley. The Harley got dumped around mile 85, when he needed more room because somehow he’d picked up a family of traveling Mormons who kept lecturing him about his immortal soul.
By the time he reached San Gabriel, he’d left a trail of empty bottles, angry citizens, and big tips for hot cocktail waitresses in his wake. He’d spent more hours drunk than sober, but at least only the sober ones were spent on the road, thanks to his new drink invention—espresso mixed with Red Bull with a dash of ginseng. He’d outwitted two Highway Patrol officers, half a biker gang, and a kamikaze porcupine determined to become roadkill.
But he still hadn’t forgotten the scornful look in Lara’s eyes when she’d told him what she thought of him.
Chapter Ten
The firehouse welcomed Patrick back with a few claps on the shoulder, some razzing about the TV footage of him carrying Goldie on his shoulders, and an invitation to a cake-tasting at Chief Roman’s restaurant.
“What’s a cake-tasting?” he asked Sabina blankly.
She was busy checking the pressure on her oxygen tank. “Pretty much what it sounds like,” she muttered. “Feel free to skip it. Roman told me to invite you.”
Normally her attitude toward him wouldn’t bother him, but right now it reminded him a little too much of Lara Nelson’s. “What is it you have against me, Two?” He asked. “Seems like ever since I started here you’ve had a chip on your shoulder about me.”
“You’re imagining it.” She stowed the oxygen tank and began checking her breathing apparatus for air leaks.
“I don’t think so. Did I do something to piss you off? I mean, besides the usual checklist?”
“What do you care? I didn’t know you were such a sensitive soul.”
“Well . . .” Of course he wasn’t sensitive. Was he? Nah. That didn’t mean he didn’t have feelings, though. Lots of them. “Maybe you don’t know that much about me.”
“Maybe I don’t.” She squinted to make sure the “O” ring was in place on the regulator. “Maybe that’s the problem. Who are you, Psycho? I mean, deep down inside. What drives you? What moves you? What makes you want to cry like a baby?”
His mouth dropped open.
“And if you answer that, I’ll throw up on your boots.” She stood up, eyes glinting turquoise.
For a moment he’d gotten totally sucked in and nearly bared his soul. “See, that’s what I’m talking about.
That sort of thing.”
She snorted. “What sort of thing? You tease me, I tease you. That’s the way the firehouse crumbles.” She strode off with that lithe, athletic grace of hers.
Patrick scuffed his Adidas on the concrete floor of the apparatus bay. Nothing she’d said answered his question, and yet he had the feeling the truth was in there somewhere.
“You know me, right, Vader?” He asked the big guy as they lifted weights in the workout room.
Vader grunted. “Yeah. You’re the craziest bastard in the San Gabriel fire department.”
“But besides that.”
“Besides that, you’re a pain in my ass.”
Patrick couldn’t argue with that. “True.”
“I know you,” yelled Fred from the treadmill. “About as much as I want to, anyway.”
Fred exchanged high fives with Ace, the rookie, who was on the next treadmill over. Patrick shot the kid an evil glare, which made him drop the grin and focus on not falling off. “Conversation over,” he said through gritted teeth.
“What’s up with you, dude?” Vader asked as he clenched one powerful bicep in a vein-popping curl. “You’ve been weird ever since you got back from Nevada.”
“Nothing.”
“Breathe too much retardant?” He cackled.
“Probably misses his llama!” called Fred.
“Llama-llama-ding-dong,” sang Ace in a surprisingly good tenor.
The general laughter was interrupted by a loud tone that sent everyone into instant alertness. “Reported traffic accident for Engine 1, Truck 1, Paramedic Squad 3. Highway 30 at the Old Courthouse exit. Passengers trapped with four vehicles involved. Incident 429, time of alarm 2:42.”
They all scrambled to their feet and ran into the apparatus bay to don their gear. Captain Brody was the last to gear up, which was very unusual.
“Melissa okay?” Double D yelled as he hoisted himself into the engineer’s seat.
“No news,” said Brody curtly.
As Patrick settled himself into Truck 1, he realized that Brody was the only guy at the station who knew anything about his history. Only Brody knew he was the son of a former governor of Nevada. Only Brody knew he’d been kicked out of Loveless. Only Brody knew he’d decided to go back anyway.
He’d throw himself into the flames for any single one of his brother firefighters. Their friendship, their loyalty, their bond as fellow warriors on the frontlines meant everything to him. And yet to them, “Psycho” was the beginning and end of Patrick Callahan. Wild man, loose cannon, crazy asshole.
Highway 30 was a mess. The backup stretched for a mile, and the California Highway Patrol was already on the scene, working to divert traffic and clear a lane in time for rush hour. Two of the vehicles, a little white Camry and an SUV, lay on their sides, halfway off the shoulder, billows of smoke rising from their engine compartments. The other two were dented and mangled, but the passengers were already talking to the CHP.
Truck 1 pulled onto the shoulder and the crew jumped out. Patrick grabbed the Jaws of Life from its compartment on the side of the truck, then followed the others to the overturned cars. The engine crew was already blasting the smoking cars with water.
Captain Brody spoke over the tactical channel. “Two female victims trapped inside the white Camry. One may be conscious. Truck 1, you got extraction.”
Patrick ran to the uptilted side of the Camry. The underside would be far too dangerous to approach until the car was secured. Waving the smoke out of his eyes, he peered in. In the driver’s seat, a woman was slumped over the wheel, blood trickling from a gash on her face. Closer to him, a young girl, maybe ten years old, looked back at him with dazed, terrified eyes. She was completely pinned against the passenger side door, which had been crushed by its collision with one of the other vehicles.
Fred appeared next to him. “I’ll get the jaws set up,” yelled Patrick. “You assess her condition.” When people were trapped inside cars, it could be a terrifying experience to have the Jaws of Life cutting into the steel around you. Fred was the go-to guy for talking to victims. He had a friendly manner about him that put people at ease during traumatic situations—the perfect man to talk a young girl through the extraction.
Patrick pulled back to set up the jaws. A sudden hazy memory of the night of the accident flashed into his mind. A wall of metal slamming into his face. The starlit landscape tumbling around him. As usual, the memory ended there. The next thing he remembered was firefighters swarming the scene, and headlights slashing across the motor home that he and Liam had slammed into.
He’d struggled against the paramedic testing his pulse, frantic to get to Liam, but the guy was too strong for him. He could only watch while the firefighters got Liam out of the twisted metal of his bike and into an ambulance. They did it so efficiently and he was so woozy, he thought he was hallucinating. They’d seemed like gods.
Sometimes he wondered if that’s why he’d become a firefighter. That exact night, that moment . . . if he could just make it right . . .
He shook off the memory, focusing on his task.
“Psycho, something’s wrong,” called Fred. “She’s not answering me. I don’t think she understands me.”
“Did you try Spanish?”
“Yup. Nothing.”
The girl wasn’t Asian, which ruled out three of the other languages—Korean, Cambodian, and Hmong—commonly found in San Gabriel. Patrick lugged the jaws to the door and looked at the girl again. Tears were flowing down her cheeks. She kept wiping them away with her fingers but they didn’t stop. One of her hands was bloody but she didn’t seem to realize it. With every swipe across her face, she left a streak of blood.
“Don’t do that,” said Patrick, shaking his head. Her gaze landed on him, then veered off into the distance.
“Where are you hurt?” he asked, more loudly. Maybe she was in such a state of shock that she couldn’t hear him over all the noise—firefighters shouting, horns honking, engines running.
He said it again, even louder. Staring into nowhere, she didn’t respond at all. He stared at her, frustrated, then gave up and turned away. One unconscious victim and one unresponsive one. What the hell. They’d just have to start up the jaws and hope for the best.
Then it struck him. She’d looked at him when he shook his head but not when he’d spoken.
A chill shot through him and his throat went tight. The girl was deaf.
“Hang on,” he muttered to Fred, shouldered him out of the way and waved his hand in front of the window. He ripped off his padded firefighter gloves. When her gaze fluttered back to meet his, he pointed to her and made the sign for “hurt”—his two index fingers jabbing into each other.
A spark of interest lit up her eyes. She lifted one hand and signed back. “A little. Is my Mom going to be okay?”
His ASL was rusty after ten years, but it came back pretty quickly. He signed back rapidly: “We have to get into the car so we can help her. We have to use a special piece of equipment.” He lifted it to show her. “It’s going to cut through the metal. It makes a loud, horrible noise.”
She smiled. Her amused grin lit up her face and made his stomach clench from emotion. “No problem for me.”
“That’s right,” he signed back. He clapped a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “This man will run the jaws. I’ll keep signing with you the whole time.”
He turned to Fred, whose jaw looked as if it were about to hit the ground. “Are you okay with that?” he asked him. Remembering that he’d signed the whole conversation with the girl, he explained, “You take the jaws, I’ll keep talking to her.”
“You know sign language?”
“My brother’s deaf.”
“You have a brother?”
“Yeah, I have a brother. He’s mildly autistic and never mentioned that his ears were hurting and so he went deaf. Now can we get this girl out of there?”
Fred was still staring at him as if he’d grown a dick on his head. “He�
�s autistic?”
“Stud, I swear to God . . .”
“Okay, okay . . .”
Fred maneuvered the jaws into position. Patrick positioned himself so he could still communicate with the girl while staying out of Fred’s way.
“What’s your name?” he signed.
“Isabelle.” She spelled it out, then gave him her signing name too. “Jump rope girl. What’s your name?”
Patrick hesitated. Maybe Psycho wasn’t the best name to offer a traumatized deaf girl who’d just been in an accident. He’d been “Psycho” since he joined the San Gabriel Fire Department. But he couldn’t go backward. Didn’t want to.
He shrugged, and signed. “My name is Patrick.”
The story of Psycho and the deaf girl reached the station before Truck 1 did. The other firefighters clustered around him as they stripped off their gear.
“Can you read lips too?”
“What’s the sign for ‘I gotta pee like a sonofabitch’?”
“How do say ‘MILF’ in sign language?” That was Vader, holding his helmet under one arm.
Patrick scowled at him. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Personal reasons.”
Captain Brody’s calm voice cut through the chatter. “Psycho, come see me in my office when you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.”
An ominous quiet descended after Brody left.
“What’d you do now?” asked Vader. “You saved that girl.”
As Patrick put his turnouts back onto the rig, arranging the pants around the boots next to Truck 1, try as he might he couldn’t think of a single thing that would have angered Brody. Ever since he’d gotten back from Loveless he’d been on his best behavior. Not on purpose, but because he was licking the wounds Lara had left on his ego—and because he’d been hung over the first few days.
Until Lara had ripped into him, he hadn’t realized how much respect he had for her. He’d always known she was a good person—a brave person—who had stood by Liam when everyone else thought he was weird. He’d always appreciated what a loyal friend she was to his brother. But it had never occurred to him that her good opinion might matter to him.
How to Tame a Wild Fireman Page 11