Fan the Flames (17 page)

Rory realized she'd been staring at him, brass-collecting forgotten. Flustered, she hurried to stand, wobbling a little as her legs protested. Tucking the bucket beneath the bench, she reached for the gun cases, but Ian beat her to it. She settled for collecting the empty ammo boxes.

“Ready?” she asked, and immediately felt like a socially inept idiot. He'd spilled his guts to her, and she'd not even said a word in support or comfort or
anything
. Sometimes—most times—she really sucked at this human-interaction thing.

They silently walked away from the range, stopping to drop the empty ammo boxes in the bin where she kept her burnable trash. Next, they checked out the property and fixed the hole the burglars had made in the fence before returning to the chicken coop. Rory took some comfort in performing those simple tasks. Although she might not be a good friend or
girlfriend
—she mentally choked on the word—she knew how to take care of her place.

All too soon, though, the chores were done, and she couldn't put it off any longer. It was cold, the light was fading, the chickens were tucked into their coop, and both Ian and Jack were waiting patiently behind her. Although she knew she had to do it, Rory still couldn't lift her hand to the doorknob.

“We don't have to do this now,” Ian said quietly. “We can get ready at my place, work the shift, and then come back tomorrow afternoon.”

“I need clothes.”

“We'll stop by the Screaming Moose and grab you a few things.”

That made her turn her head to stare at him over her shoulder. “Factory-made clothes?”

He blinked. “Uh…aren't they all? Besides the sweaters that grandmas knit and stuff?”

“I make my clothes.” She turned back to her battle with the door. “Except for jeans. My mom used to make our jeans, but they never looked right. I hate sewing denim, too, so I cheat.”

“Cheat?”

“I buy jeans.”

“Aren't they factory-made, then?”

“No. Organic cotton, natural dyes, hand-loomed, and nickel and chemical free,” she rattled off absently, still staring at the door. Why was opening it harder than shooting a man? Gritting her teeth, she forced her hand to grasp the knob.

“Wow. So, no mall shopping for you?”

“No.” Although she didn't tell him, the two times she'd been in a mall, she'd escaped to the safety of her truck within minutes of walking through the doors. The crowds, the overwhelming multitude of stores, even the piped-in music made her panic.

For some reason, thinking about her two futile mall visits distracted her enough so she could turn the knob, and the door swung open.

It was almost anticlimactic to see the room without the bodies or fresh, pooling blood. On the other hand, the remaining dried bloodstains were like a fist to her belly. Her head jerked back as she absorbed the dark red—almost black—streaks and spatters painting her walls and floor.

When Ian's hand closed over her shoulder, she jolted again, pulling free of his gentle grip. His fingers returned, finding the back of her neck this time, and he gave a soft squeeze.

“Rory.” That was all he said, but it was enough. Her exhale shuddered as it left her shivering body, and she allowed him to draw her back against him. When he wrapped his muscular arms around her midsection, she blew out another lungful of air. For some reason, his touch reminded her to keep breathing.

“I can't stay here tonight.”

“Then stay with me.”

“Okay.” It bothered her to leave the place unoccupied, but not as much as the idea of sleeping so close to all this blood—blood that she'd spilled. Rory paused before blurting, “Tell me about Rave.”

“Rory…” This time, his voice was reluctant.

“Please.” When he remained silent, she continued, “All I know is that he was a member of the Riders. Well, that, and he acted like a rude jerk at the shop.”

“That pretty much describes him.”

Although Ian's tone was stiff, she still pressed for more. “Was he married?”

“Divorced.”

“Kids?” There was a pause, and her stomach clenched. She'd killed someone's father. “Ian…”

“Yeah.” It sounded as if the word was dragged out of him.

“Boy or girl?”

“Both.”

“Two kids?” She twisted her neck to look up at him. “How old?”

“I don't know.” Shrugging, he held a hand about three feet off the floor. “The girl's about this tall, and the boy's a little smaller. It's been months since I've seen them, though. The mom has full custody and lives in Durango, so Rave got just a handful of weekends with the kids since he split with his ex.”

Rory was quiet for a short time as she processed that. “Did he live at the clubhouse?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he have, I don't know, any redeeming qualities?”

“Do we seriously need to do this? We have to get going if we're going to get Jack and make it to Station One on time.”

“We have time.” When he still didn't answer her question, she reached back and poked him. Judging by his grunt, she'd managed to hit a sensitive spot.

When the silence stretched, she reached back to physically prod him again, but he grabbed her wrist. “I'm thinking! Quit jabbing at me.”

“Is it that hard to come up with a good trait?”

“For Rave, yeah.” He didn't release her. Instead, he absently stroked his thumb over the skin on the inside of her forearm, just under the hem of her sleeve. “He was a good mechanic.”

“That's it? What about his personality? There had to have been some good in him.”

“He could be funny sometimes. Usually, it was unintentional, but still. He did make me laugh a few times.”

Her gaze fixed on the dark stain covering her tile floor, she remained quiet until he took his turn, prodding her to speak.

“Why did you want to know? You feeling guilty?” He rested his chin on her head.

“A little,” she said, liking the way his body covered her top and back half. It was like having an armadillo's armor. “Not enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“That I don't feel bad.” It felt good to say the words out loud, but scary at the same time. Admitting her feelings peeled away that protective shell, so she was just a defenseless slug, so easily squashed. “I mean, I do, but I always thought I'd be completely wrecked if I ever killed anyone. This is too easy.”

“I don't think it's easy.” Releasing her wrist, Ian wrapped both arms around her, pulling her back tighter against his chest. “Have you been having flashbacks?”

“No.” The denial came out too quickly, and she knew he'd caught the lie in her voice.

“Something else then?”

“A movie plays in my head,” she admitted reluctantly, more willing to say things with her back to him than she ever could have facing him. “Rave is falling, right after I shot him. The film is on loop or something, so it's the same thing over and over. Him staring at me and then falling to the floor. Should we have started CPR?”

“No. There was still a threat. It would've been risky and stupid to try to save those guys.”

The plural reminded her that this wasn't just her trauma. “Do you have flashbacks about Lester?”

“No. I did after the first, though.”

“First? You mean the first person you killed?” Once again, Rory was glad she was facing away from Ian, so she could hide her moment of shock. She knew she should have expected it. Although the Riders were proficient at keeping their members out of prison, they were far from law-abiding angels. They'd approached her a couple of years ago about offering their protection services, which, her stomach roiling with nerves, she'd politely declined. She'd known, even back then, that they'd be the reason she'd need protection.

“Yeah.” His voice had gone rougher, as if he had gravel in his throat.

“When was that?”

“I was sixteen.”

Once again, her eyes widened. “Whoa. That's young.”

“Yeah.” He gave one of his humorless chuckles that she was starting to hate. “Young and dumb.”

“Was it an accident?”

“Sort of. Billy sent me to have a…discussion with a guy who'd been causing trouble for the club. Not sure what kind of trouble—back then, Billy told me when to jump and how high. I didn't ask any questions, just followed orders. The guys were always giving me shi—uh, grief about my looks, so I felt like I had to prove I wasn't just a pretty boy, that I could take care of myself. This guy was in his garage, working on this old red Nova. In my head, I can still see that POS car as clear as day. I meant just to make him hurt, but the guy fought back harder than I thought he would. He got me down on the ground, and I panicked. I grabbed this torque wrench lying next to us and cracked his skull with it.” His chest pressed into her back as he sucked in a deep breath. “What a mess.”

“Did you get arrested?”

“No. Some guys from the club cleaned up and got me out of there. I was really twitchy for a while after that. Couldn't get the guy's fixed stare out of my head.”

There didn't seem to be anything to say to that. Instead, she covered his hands with her own, giving him a quick pat. In return, his arms tightened, squeezing until his grip was just a little short of painful. After a minute of allowing herself to enjoy the comfort of his embrace, she gave him another tap, this one more purposeful.

“Time to move, or we will be late,” she told him.

With a sigh, he released her. Rory carefully picked her way to the swinging bookshelf, not wanting to step in any of either man's remains. It still felt strange to open the bookcase and hidden steel door with Ian watching. Now that he knew about her underground lair, though, it would've been silly to leave him sitting on one of the stools in the front room of her shop while she furtively slunk downstairs.

“Just grab some things, and we'll go,” he said, following her down the stairs.

“I want to shower.”

“My shower's better.”

Since she couldn't really argue with that, she didn't. “Yeah, it is. Fine, your shower it is. Just give me a minute.” After jamming a few clothes and toiletry items into a backpack, she returned to the living room.

“That was fast,” Ian commented.

As she walked into the kitchen, she gave him an odd look. “I grabbed a few things. What did you think would delay me?”

“I don't know.” Looking amused, he shrugged. “Most women would've taken an hour. Don't ask me what they would've been doing that whole time.”

Scowling, she yanked open the freezer and pulled out a container of Jack's dog food.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I hate being compared to normal people,” she admitted, wanting to slam the freezer door but restraining herself. “Especially normal women.”

When she turned around to face him, she saw that Ian was watching her with a curious look. “Why? It wasn't a criticism. I like that you're efficient and don't waste time.”

“It makes me feel like a freak.” Dropping the container of dog food into her duffel and zipping it, she made a face. “
More
of a freak.”

“You're not a freak.” As she passed him on the way to the stairs, she gave him a get-real look. “Well, if you are,” he added, “then I think there should be more freaks.”

She couldn't help but smile a little at that. Reaching toward her, he grabbed the strap of her bag and gave it a tug. Baffled, she held tighter to the duffel.

“Give me the bag, Ror.”

“Why?”

“So I can carry it and feel manly. Give.” He gave a hard tug as she released her grip, the bag smacking against his legs. She watched as he shouldered the strap, but then she shrugged. If he wanted to haul around a bag she was perfectly capable of carrying, that was fine with her.

“What you did here the other night,” he continued as if they hadn't just had a mini tug-of-war. “That was amazing. You're strong and brave and smart, and I'd take that over anyone or anything else. Plus, you can shoot almost as well as I can.”

With a snort, she glanced over her shoulder at him. “Please. I'm a much better shot than you.”

He laid a hand over his heart, as if he were mortally wounded. “When we were shooting earlier, I was
clearly
the winner.”

Pausing in the middle of unlocking the steel door, she turned and gave him a narrow-eyed glare. “You're just asking for a beat-down, aren't you?”

He grinned, his eyelids partially lowered in a way that made the butterflies in her stomach go on a rampage. The fact that he was standing much too close to her didn't help. “From you? Anytime.”

Frowning, she demanded, “Was that supposed to be flirting or something?”

With a startled, booming laugh, he reached for her and, before she could duck out of reach, pulled her into a fierce hug. “Oh, Ror. I do like you.”

Once again squashed in his grip, she wheezed, “Uh…thanks?”

He laughed again and pressed a kiss to her hair before he let her go.

“You're so strange,” she said as she finished opening the steel door.

“Yeah, I know.” Ian didn't sound too upset about that. “But you like me too. Admit it.”

Her face was burning, so she tried to avoid looking at him. “I don't
loathe
you.”

“That's a start.”

Joel Becker passed them outside the Station One door as he was leaving and they were arriving. Ian and Rory's greetings were met with a surly grunt.

Rory watched the firefighter cross the parking lot and climb into his pickup. When she'd met Joel a couple of other times, he'd acted completely different. “That was kind of rude.”

“If you were here alone, he'd have talked to you.” Ian held the door open for her. “He doesn't like me.”

“Who couldn't like you?” At his teasing glance, she quickly amended her statement. “I mean, who couldn't not-loathe you?”

“Becker.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm hotter than him.”

“I wouldn't say that.” When Ian shot her a truly affronted expression, she had to laugh.

His shoulders relaxed. “Good. You were kidding.” He paused. “You
were
kidding, right?”

It was too much fun to mess with him, so Rory didn't respond except for a noncommittal shrug. “So what's the real reason he doesn't like you?”

“He's never come right out and said it, but I'm guessing it's the club.”

They entered the training room. Soup and Junior were already there, and Rory returned their greetings absently. “I don't get why he'd care about you being a member of the Riders.”

“There are a few who do,” he said, although he didn't really answer the “why” part of her question. Then Soup was there, pounding Ian on the shoulder, and the conversation took a more general turn.

Rory slipped off to the women's restroom. From the dust on the towel dispenser, she could tell it'd had very few occupants. After using the bathroom and washing her hands, she noticed the door on the small cabinet in the corner was ajar. When she tried to close it, the door hit an object and bounced open again, farther this time. In the dimness of the cabinet, something glowed pink.

Apprehension surged through her as she reached into the cabinet and pulled out a glow-stick identical to the one left on Ian's door, except that this one was pink. Her stomach twisted as she glanced around the tiny room, her gaze catching on the window set high in the wall. It was just a dark square, revealing nothing, but Rory suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. She seriously hated windows.

Dropping the glow-stick into the small garbage can, she yanked open the door and hurried to the safety of the crowd. As soon as she entered the training room, Ian spotted her. From his instant frown, she must have looked as hunted as she felt. Clearing her expression with an effort, she made her way over to him.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his voice low.

“Yes.” Her answer came quickly, without thought. She was the one causing all of his problems with the Riders. Ian'd had her back during the burglary, going above and beyond what anyone could expect from a friend. She'd killed Rave and incurred Billy's wrath, and she needed to deal with that. It would be cowardly of her to endanger Ian any more than she already had.

“Sure?”

She firmed her jaw. “Yes.”

“Rory!” Junior bounced over to them, beaming. “I ordered a pocket chainsaw.”

“Good. It'll come in handy.”

“Yeah, you convinced me it was a necessity for the survival bag.”

Soup groaned. “So
you're
the one encouraging his crazy.”

“You won't call me crazy when you're desperate for a drink of my purified water after the water supply is tainted,” Junior said.

“Tainted by what?” Ian asked.

“Do not get him started,” Soup ordered. “Once he starts on his conspiracy theory bullshit—”

“It is
not
bullshit!” Junior interrupted. “If you would do a little research, you'd see—”

There was another interruption, this one from the radio. Everyone went quiet as the dispatcher relayed the information for the medical call, a forty-eight-year-old man with nausea and shortness of breath at the gas station on the south end of town. Everyone dashed for their bunker gear, and the night began.

As the EMTs were giving the man oxygen to help with his altitude sickness, another call came over the radio—this one a two-vehicle accident on Highway 36. The firefighters piled into the trucks and headed in that direction.

“Fucking full moon,” Soup muttered from his spot in the passenger seat of the rescue truck.

“Watch your mouth!” There was a snap to Ian's voice.

Sending Rory a sheepish look, Soup apologized.

“Swearing doesn't bother me,” she said.

“Hey, I'm just saving you from the trauma of Maya's tears when she visits the station and you drop the f-bomb. Learn from my mistakes, Soup.” Ian increased the truck's speed, only to have to slow again a moment later. If he hadn't made that promise, Rory was pretty sure he would've been swearing about Lieutenant Al's driving.

“Does a full moon really make a difference?” she asked.

“Seems to.” Soup seemed relieved at the change of subject. “People do the nuttiest things during a full moon. Remember Lars Sojn?”

Ian gave a pained groan. “Unfortunately.”

“Yeah, I wish I could erase that image from my brain, but it's burned there permanently.” Soup shook his head. “This old guy got drunk, stripped naked, and climbed onto his roof. In
January.
Said he was waiting for the aliens to come and get him. As if any self-respecting alien would want some wrinkly, scrawny old dude when there are hot chicks to abduct and probe.”

Rory choked on a laugh that died when the truck in front of them started to slow. Their view was blocked, but she assumed that they'd arrived. This was confirmed by Junior's urgent voice on the radio.

Once they jumped out of the truck and approached the scene, Rory slowed, taking in the horror in front of her. An SUV and a sedan were both mangled, crushed into almost unrecognizable shapes.

“Rory!” Ian's shout jerked her out of her daze. “You're with Junior!”

It took her a few moments to spot him. She finally saw Junior next to the remains of the SUV, and she hurried over.

“What do you need?” she asked when she reached his side. He had the driver's door open and was placing a cervical collar around the neck of the woman inside. A cut along her hairline streaked her temple and the side of her cheek with blood. Her eyelids fluttered open and closed, and she was moaning—a steady, eerie drone.

“Child-sized c-spines, but we're going to have to wait for Med to arrive for those.” He moved quickly to the rear and opened the back hatch with one hand while digging in his coat pocket with the other. It looked as though most of the damage had been to the front of the SUV, so the door opened easily. He held out a pair of purple latex gloves. “Put these on and then get in here.”

She pulled the too-large gloves onto her chilled and trembling fingers, and then climbed in next to him, kneeling behind the backseat.

“Hey, Buddy,” Junior was saying. “My name's Junior. I'm a fireman, and we're here to help you. We're going to hold your head still, okay? It's just for a little while, until the doctors can check you out and make sure you're okay.” He jerked his head at Rory, and she shuffled closer.

Leaning over the top of the seat, Rory saw that Junior had been talking to a little kid.

“Support his head and neck like this.” He moved behind her and demonstrated on Rory.

Her hands shook as she wrapped them around both sides of the small neck. “Got it.”

“Great. You stay with him.” He started to exit the rear hatch door.

Rory glanced to the side and yelped, “Wait! Junior!”

“What?”

“There's a baby!”

“I saw. Relax. I'm just going to the side door.”

“Okay.” Reassured that she wouldn't be left alone with a possibly injured baby and no usable hands, she gave the infant a final worried look and then focused on the little person in her grip. He was trembling and gasping every so often, so she tipped forward to see his face, worried that something was wrong.

To her relief, her upside-down view showed that the boy was crying, which explained the shaking and funny breathing. His eyes widened when they stared at her face.

“Hi.”

He didn't answer, just watched her suspiciously, but his crying abated a little. Junior, as promised, had circled to the side door. He was leaning into the backseat, checking the baby's brachial pulse. The infant wasn't crying, which worried Rory a little. It seemed like a situation that would make a baby wail, so the silence coming from the car seat was a little unnerving.

Pulling out a knife and flipping it open, Junior cut the straps securing the baby seat. He closed the knife and lifted the seat.

“I'm going to put her in the rescue truck,” he said, obviously feeling the panic coming off of Rory in waves. “It's cold out here and warm in there.”

“Should you move her?”

Junior gave her a reassuring smile. “A car seat is a great infant backboard. I'll be right back to check on their mom.” With that, he was gone, and Rory was on her own with a little patient who was still staring at her. At least his crying had stopped completely, so that was good.

They looked at each other in silence for a little while. She racked her brain for a child-appropriate conversation starter.

“What's your name?” she finally asked.

He remained big-eyed and quiet for so long that she figured he wasn't going to answer, but then he finally spoke. “Jack.” His whisper was so soft that Rory could barely hear him.

“Jack?”

He tried to nod, but she was holding his head still, so he mouthed, “Yes,” instead.

“That's my dog's name.” He smiled a tiny bit at that. Encouraged, she added, “My name is Rory.”

“Like a lion?” His words were actually audible now—barely, but she still took it as a promising sign.

“Uh, sure.” She was back to not having anything to say to this kid.

“Are you scared? You look scared.”

She blinked, not sure how to answer that. It didn't seem like the most reassuring thing for a firefighter to admit she was freaked out of her mind. She didn't want to lie to him, though, especially because she was pretty sure he'd know it wasn't the truth. “Yes.”

His already huge eyes widened even more, and she mentally swore at herself for not lying. “Why?”

“It's only my second day with the fire department,” she admitted, although she fully expected her confession to make things worse. “I don't want to do anything wrong.”

“Oh.” He paused before asking, “Like what?”

A dozen possible horrific scenarios flashed through her mind, but even she knew not to share those with a traumatized kid. “Um…how old are you?”

“Five.”

Junior's reappearance by the open driver's door made her jump. Instantly glancing down at Jack—whom she was mentally calling boy-Jack, as opposed to dog-Jack—afraid she'd jostled him, she asked, “Did that hurt?”

“No. Is my mom okay?”

From the quick glance Rory had gotten of the woman, she definitely hadn't looked okay. She decided to let the expert field that question. “Hey, Junior? Is Jack's mom okay?”

“She will be, Buddy,” Junior said, tucking a blanket around the boy. “Looks like the ambulance just got here. How would you like to ride in it with your mom and little sister?”

Jack's response was lost when the back door next to him opened, and Ian stuck in his head. He gave Rory a quick, appraising look, then turned to the boy, moving so Jack could see him without moving his head.

“Hey, there. How's Rory treating you?”

“Good.”

“Good, huh?”

“Yeah, even though she's scared 'cause she's new and is afraid she's gonna make mistakes.”

“Hey, now, Mr. Loose-Lips.” Rory frowned at him. “Remind me not to tell you my secret plan to take over the world.”

Ian chuckled, even as he snuck a quick glance toward the front seat, where the EMTs were getting Jack's mom out of the SUV. He quickly refocused on the boy. “What's your name?”

“Jack.”

“Boy-Jack, though. Not dog-Jack,” Rory added, and then immediately flushed. That had sounded all kinds of dumb.

“Thanks for setting that straight.” Ian smirked. “I wouldn't have figured it out, otherwise.”

“Rory's dog is named Jack, too.”

“Yeah.” Ian sounded a lot less sarcastic with the five-year-old than with her, Rory noted. “I've met dog-Jack.”

“Is he a good dog?”

“A very good dog.” Ian smiled at the boy while gently holding his wrist, and Rory realized he'd been discreetly taking Jack's pulse.

“Okay?” she asked, tilting her head to their joined hands.

“Great. Right around ninety.” He grinned at the boy again. “You're doing great, staying calm and cool under pressure. I bet you'll be a fireman when you grow up.”

“No. I'm going to be a soldier.”

“You like guns?” Rory asked, making Ian snort.

“You've found the key to her heart,” Ian told Jack solemnly.

The boy's eyes darted between the two of them. “I like guns. I want a BB gun, but Mom says I have to be twelve before I get one.”

“I have a gun store,” Rory told him. “When you turn twelve, have your mom bring you there, and I'll get you a nice BB gun.”

His eyes widened again. “Really?”

“Really. You can meet dog-Jack there, too.”

“He lives at the gun store?”

“Yep.”

The EMTs returned, and Ian retreated, getting out of their way. Once they put the c-spine on the boy, she tried to move away, as well, but Jack wailed her name, his tears starting again.

“Hang on, kid,” she said, moving to the back hatch. “I'll come around to the side so I don't have to look at you upside-down anymore.”