Burning Love

by Cassandra Car

  Jude climbed into his truck, the whole-grain toast and fruit he’d eaten earlier doing a salsa dance in his stomach. The training ground was a familiar place to him and he found it easily, sliding his truck into a parking space in front of the cavernous structure. He took a deep breath. It was now or never.

  The test actually consisted of several smaller ones to assess his physical strength, agility, and stamina.

  The chief approached and shook his hand. “Do the best you can.”

  “Yes, sir. Always.”

  “Good man.”

  Several people were on hand to administer and monitor various parts of the test. Some were from his own company, like the chief, while others belonged to neighboring districts. Jude nodded at two men. One was holding a stopwatch and the other a clipboard.

  The chief went and stood next to them, and Jude felt a bead of sweat work its way down his spine. His upper lip was moist and his heart was pounding out of his chest already. He needed to get a grip, and he needed to get it right the fuck now.

  The dummy drag was first and thank God for that, since it was hell on his knees and quads. It involved him walking backward, pulling a two hundred pound dummy along with him. He got through that without any major catastrophes and then went through a series of equipment tests, which he passed with flying colors. Jude knew this equipment inside and out. That had never been a problem.

  Next up was the hose-pack carry. He strained some and feared his knee would come out from under him a couple of times as he lumbered up the stairs of their training structure, but the joint held and he made it to the top. Immediately he looked over at the captain with the stopwatch.

  “Did I make it?” Shit, he was definitely sucking wind more than he should be.

  The man nodded. “Just barely, but yeah.”

  The chief, who was stationed at the top of the structure, put a meaty hand on Jude’s shoulder. “Only a few more to go. You’re doing well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  They made their way out of the concrete building and over to the aerial truck. Jude looked up. Fully extended, the ladder reached a hundred and twenty feet high. He wasn’t crazy about heights and only did time in the aerial lift when necessary, but had to do the test to pass.

  The captain handed him an ax. “You know the drill. Make it up to the top in five minutes or less, fully geared. Ax in your dominant hand. If you can’t make it to the top, run into a problem, or have to be helped back down, you don’t pass.”

  Jude wiped the sweat off his brow as the other man regarded him with what looked suspiciously like pity, which pissed him off. He’d done everything so far, hadn’t he? So why the look?

  Facing down the truck, Jude gave himself a quick pep talk.

  You’ve made it this far. You can do this. You’ve got this.

  With a nod, he put his left hand and right foot on the ladder and began to climb. He had no way of knowing exactly how much time had elapsed, but tried to take things easy at first. They would give him a warning with one minute remaining, and he could always step it up then.

  It quickly became apparent that the ax in his right hand was a problem. He’d shattered his left kneecap, and without his right hand to help, he basically had to drag the left leg up each rung. He hoped like hell no one noticed. Only a couple of times had he even been up this high, mostly in training. Usually the guys who didn’t mind heights took point on it, so he figured if he could get through this, he’d be golden.

  “One minute,” the captain called up.

  Seriously? Does he mean one minute gone or one minute left? Must be one minute left. How did four minutes go by without me noticing? Get your thumb outta your ass and move.

  He glanced up. About a third of the ladder remained, and Jude would have to haul ass to make it. Looking up again, he tried to calculate how many rungs he needed to climb so he could count off.

  Then his left foot slipped as his knee buckled and he fell through the rungs of the ladder, his lower half dangling between two of them. Only his upper-body strength kept him on the ladder at all, but in his wild swing to safety, he’d been forced to drop the ax. Once back on the ladder, Jude laid his forehead on his hands. It was over. No way would they pass him with a blunder like that.

  “Fuck!”

  The chief called up to him. “You okay? You need help?”

  “No.” Jude’s voice cracked and he cursed his damn knee. Would he ever be able to return to the job he loved? His eyes filled and he wiped at them as best he could with his gear on. It was not the time to become a blubbering mess. There would be plenty of occasions for that when he got home and could drink himself into a good stupor.

  “Come on down, son.”

  At least the trip back down was a little easier with the lack of the ax, but Jude kept waiting for his knee to betray him—again. It held and he reached the ground.

  “I failed.” He heard his own emotionless voice. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d separated himself from the pain of losing everything he’d worked for, everything he’d ever wanted, refusing to look it dead on. Not now. Not here.

  “Yes.” The chief shifted his weight from foot to foot. “No point in putting you through the rest of it. Keep rehabbing that knee and we’ll see where we are a couple of months from now.”

  More endless days of physical therapy stared Jude in the face. It didn’t matter, though. He knew his days as a firefighter were over. Stacey had warned him he might always have a trick knee, but he’d hoped with a lot of hard work and a little prayer she’d be wrong. Looked like she wasn’t.

  He stripped off his gear, handing it off to one of the captains to bring back to the firehouse. Once back in his truck, he unlocked his phone and sent a text message to Michaela.

  Failed.

  After turning the thing off completely, he tossed it on the passenger seat. He wasn’t in the mood to hear his buddies from the station tell him he’d do it next time or whatever other bullshit they decided to throw his way. Jude didn’t want to talk to anyone. Watching bad movies, eating junk food, and drinking until he forgot his own name sounded way better.

  Stopping off at a convenience store, he picked up a case of beer and some munchies and then continued home. When he got there, he stripped down to boxers and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He knew he should ice his knee, but fuck it. What did it matter?

  Jude twisted the top off his first beer, throwing it in the general direction of the kitchen. After taking a long pull, he picked up the remote. Might as well get used to living like this since he had no freaking clue what he was gonna do now.

  The next thing he knew, pounding jerked him awake. Someone at his front door. Jude nearly toppled the bottle of beer next to him as he attempted to achieve a sitting position. What the hell?

  “Jude, open up. I can smell the alcohol from here. Open the door.”

  Michaela.

  He sighed. Looking around, he took note of the empty bottles and various containers of snacks, but did nothing to clean them up. Rising unsteadily, he trudged over to the door and opened it.

  “Jude. Good God, are you all right?” Michaela was still in her chef’s coat and checked pants.

  “’Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Because you failed your test and now you won’t answer your phone? Geez, Jude, you scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry. As you can see, I’m fine. Broke and with no job prospects, but otherwise couldn’t be better.”

  Michaela frowned, but said nothing, instead moving further into the apartment and grabbing several empty bottles. She took them into the kitchen and he heard an odd scraping noise.

  “Really, Jude? Leaving the caps on the floor where someone could split their foot open on them?”

  “You’re wearing shoes.”

  “Yes, but you’re not. And you’re drunk.” Heading back into the room, she began to throw the empty containers directly into a trash can she carried. That done, she turn
ed and looked at him, assessing him from head to toe as Jude fought not to fidget under her gaze. She rubbed her forehead. “I know how disappointed you are—”

  “How can you possibly understand this? I’ve got nowhere to go. Nothing else I can do.”

  “Not true and you know it. I’ll let you have your pity party today, but I’m not going to allow you to sink into some pool of despair. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Yeah, right.” He poured himself back onto the couch and Michaela frowned again.

  “Have you had anything real to eat lately? Did you ice your knee?”

  “Are pretzels real?” The scathing look she sent back gave him his answer. “Then no. And no. What’s the point?”

  “I never figured you for a quitter.”

  Jude stood unsteadily, cursing. “You have a plan! You have your restaurant. I have nothing.”

  Michaela didn’t back down. “Like I said, you and I both know that’s not true.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “You got any actual food around here? I can make you dinner.”

  For the first time, it really registered that she was standing there still dressed in her chef’s clothes. He closed his eyes in shame and dismay. “Did you come here right from the café? You’re not open for dinner on Thursdays, are you?”

  “No, but we’ve got a private party coming in.”

  His eyes popped back open. “What the hell are you standing around here for, then? I appreciate the sentiment, but I’d like to wallow for a day or two in peace. I’ll call you.”

  She poked his chest just hard enough to make her point, and her not taking his shit oddly aroused him. What did that mean? “No drinking yourself stupid, do you hear me? Go ahead and feel sorry for yourself; I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be. But I’m coming back to check on you in a couple of days, and if you’re still like this, you’ll have a fight on your hands.” Her expression softened. “You know I care about you. Probably more than I should. I hate seeing you like this. I want my strong, confident Jude back.”

  “Yeah, well, your ‘strong, confident Jude’ nearly killed himself on the aerial ladder today.”

  “We will figure something out.”

  He waved his hands toward the door. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She left, and he slumped down in his recliner. Now he couldn’t even get a good pity party going without thinking about disappointing Michaela, not being the man she believed him to be. He closed his eyes. Maybe if he slept more, the hole in his chest where his identity used to live might close up a little.

  The next time Jude rose to consciousness, the sun blinded him. Squinting at the clock, he groaned. Six in the morning, and it didn’t appear he’d be getting any more sleep. What had woken him, though?

  His cell phone chirped and he remembered turning it back on out of guilt after Hurricane Michaela had left. As he clutched his head, he remembered why he never drank more than one or two beers. Hangovers were a bitch.

  Reaching over, he picked up the phone. A text message.

  Hi. I’m a friend of Leo’s. I represent fitness talent—basically models, but with a few differences. He showed me your calendar page, and I’d like to talk.

  Below the first text came another with his name and phone number. Was this guy serious? And who the fuck texted people at six in the morning?

  The phone beeped again.

  Shit. Sorry. I’m in London on a business trip and totally spaced on the time difference. Hope I didn’t wake you. Call me soon, please.

  Tossing the phone on the table, Jude went to the bathroom to scrub the fuzziness out of his mouth. He’d need to remember in the future how much he hated hangovers. That hadn’t crossed his mind when he’d decided drinking would help ease the pain.

  He waited a couple of hours, flipping through the channels endlessly, until the time arrived that it didn’t seem patently cruel to call someone. : He started with Lyle so he could get the whole picture before he called this guy back.

  “Anderson, here.”

  “Hey man, it’s Jude.”

  His friend’s voice instantly took on that note of pity Jude despised so much. “How are you, bud?”

  “Wonderful. No idea what I’m gonna do with the rest of my life, but other than that, no complaints.” He tried hard to keep the extra edge of bitterness out of his tone, but he knew Lyle would understand. “Anyway, I called because I had a couple of text messages from some dude about the calendar.”

  “Yeah, I gave Leo your number to give to him. I, um, was gonna call you yesterday to okay it with you, but….”

  Jude sighed. “That’s fine. Do you know anything about this guy?”

  He could almost see Lyle’s shrug over the phone. “Just that he’s gotten Leo some good deals. Seems like an okay guy. Leo trusts him, so that says something to me right there.”

  Marines didn’t tend to be overly trusting, in Jude’s experience, so Lyle had a point. “I’ll give him a call. Why the hell not?”

  “Hey, you might as well work that pretty face while you’ve got it.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Later.” He hung up and looked at the number he’d scrawled on a pad.

  The call went through with a crackle and Jude waited, curious despite himself.

  “Mason Douglas, at your service.”

  “Um, Jude Fisher, calling you back.”

  “Jude!” The man said his name like he was a long-lost prodigal son, and Jude resisted rolling his eyes. “Thank you for calling me back. Great shot in the calendar. Were you happy with it?”

  “Sure. I mean, what’s not to be happy about?”

  “Exactly. You speak to the camera, Jude, and I need some guys like that.”

  “Speak to the camera?”

  “Yes. Some models—there’s just nothing there. It’s like you’re staring at dead air. Then there are other models, like what I saw on your face in the calendar, who look like you’re daring us to come talk to you, or screw with you, or whatever. Very powerful stuff.”

  Was this guy blowing smoke up Jude’s ass? Only one way to find out.

  “Thank you. I enjoyed doing it. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I’d like to represent you. I want to see you in full color on the covers of Men’s Health, GQ….” the guy’s voice trailed on and Jude wondered if he would have been able to see the stars—or dollar signs—in the man’s eyes if he had been standing in front of him.

  Jude rubbed the back of his neck. “GQ?”

  “Oh yes. The world of the fitness model has exploded.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Look, I can tell I’ve overwhelmed you.”

  Jude snorted. “Just a little.”

  “Go on my Web site. Read the testimonials both from clients and from casting agents. Ask Leo about me. He’s worked with me. If you’re interested in pursuing this, give me a call.”

  “One thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know I’m,” he searched for the right word, and not finding one, spoke through clenched teeth, “crippled, right?”

  “Leo told me about your accident. It won’t be a problem.”

  He scoffed. “How can it not be a problem? I’ve got scar tissue all over my leg.”

  “So we won’t do anything that would show your leg.”

  “And it’s as easy as that.”

  “It really is.”

  Jude chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Is there money to be made in doing this? If I decided I wanted to?”

  “As long as you keep up your end of the bargain and stay in top form, yes. You let yourself go,” Jude glanced at the carnage of snacks before him with a guilty eye, “and they’ll move on to another guy. You’ve got a good look. Clean cut. All-American. Advertisers love that shit.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Look
at the Web site.”

  “Okay.” Wasn’t like he had any better prospects.

  After getting off the phone, Jude fired up his laptop and went to the guy’s site. True to his word, there were dozens of testimonials, both from people he’d represented and some pretty big-name companies, too. Jude’s nature ran toward the suspicious, but no red flags were raised from this guy, other than that his stupid leg wouldn’t matter, which he found hard to believe in a freaking fitness model.

  Sitting back, Jude thought about the time he’d spent in the studio—before the dressing incident—and smiled as he remembered the look on Michaela’s face when she’d looked up at him. He’d had fun during the shoot. Maybe not all photographers were as cool as Pedro but, really, how bad could it be? Standing around flexing his muscles all day didn’t sound like a bad way to make a living. If he could make a living doing it.

  It was money, if Mason could find him any work. And right now, Jude couldn’t afford to be too picky about how the income came in. He called Mason back. His next call was to Michaela.

  “Hello?”

  “Michaela? Hey, it’s Jude.”

  “Hey, Jude.” She giggled and he rolled his eyes.

  “Ha-ha. Yeah, I’ve never heard that one before.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Hung over as fuck. But listen, if I tell you something, you have to promise not to laugh. Wait, do you have a second? Shit, you’re at the café, aren’t you? I’m sorry—”

  “Jude.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I have a minute. But only a minute, so spit it out.”

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I got a call from a talent agent and he’s gonna try to get me some fitness modeling jobs.”

  “Oh my God, Jude, that’s great!”

  “I only just talked to him. He might not even be able to do anything.”

  Michaela made a derisive noise. Her voice dropped. “I’ve seen the goods, baby, and they’d have to be nuts to pass you up.”

  “So you don’t think it’s weird?”

  “Why would it be weird?”

  He blew out a breath. “It’s just so different from fighting fires. This feels….frivolous.”