Four Weddings and a Fireman (22 page)

“How do you know?”

“I know him. I trust him.”

“All you know about him is that he gives you screaming orgasms.”

“
Jacob
.”

“Don't ‘Jacob' me. You
promised
. If Mackintosh finds you, he'll just take you back to Arkansas. But you know what he'll do to me and—­” He broke off, as if interrupting himself before letting something else slip. “What's wrong with you, Cherie? I can't believe you would do this.”

He hung up on her. She'd never heard him so angry before. How could she have made such a mess of things? In total despair, she buried her head under the pillows. Vader was furious with her. Her brother hated her. Mackintosh was lurking out there somewhere. What in blue blazes was she going to do now?

Vader approached his
promotional exam with a sense of doom. He'd gotten barely any sleep thanks to the blowout with Cherie. The things she said kept running through his mind, until the answers to questions about fire ops turned into rants about henhouse weddings under the influence of roofies, or whatever the backwoods equivalent was.

Even though he knew he was tanking, he gritted his teeth and finished the exam. He wanted it to count as his first try, pathetic though it might be. After a ­couple of hours hunched over the pages, he called it good, stalked out of the room, and knew he'd been shot down for the second time in twenty-­four hours.

Then he drove his truck to the reservoir where he liked to run. It was a green oasis in the desert, pleasantly shaded with willows and aspens fluttering like girls in green lace. He parked in the gravel lot, cracked the window, and leaned the seat all the way back. A slight overcast filtered the normally blazing sun. The air wafting through his window was warm and smelled of sagebrush and eucalyptus, with an overlay of failure.

Nowhere with Cherie. Nowhere on the captain front. Temporarily homeless. What else could go wrong?

Normally he didn't waste time feeling down. He had no room for self-­pity in his life. But hell, if he was doing something wrong, he needed to figure out what it was and fix it.

He closed his eyes. A little sleep, and he'd be back on his game. He'd take the exam again, and this time he'd pass. It wasn't as hard as all that. He knew that shit cold. And “homeless” might be going too far. As soon as the insurance money came, he and his mom would find a place. No biggie.

Cherie? Yeah, things were a mess once again. So what else was new? At least he'd gotten some details out of her. Now he knew why she kept putting the brakes on. What he couldn't understand was why she wouldn't let him help. For fuck's sake, he was a living, breathing, helping machine. That's what he did at the firehouse and at home. He helped ­people. So why wouldn't she let him do the same for her?

Well, there was one thing he could do. Setting his teeth, he drew out his phone and looked up Ginny's lawyer's number and texted it to Cherie.

There. His big hero act of the day. Texting a phone number.

Sleep dragged at his eyeballs. He had to catch a few Zs before he went home, because God only knew what awaited him there. But before he sank into the mire of sleep, he texted Fred and Joe the Toe and told them to spread the word. Party at Firefly later that night.

Getting shot down twice called for an old-­fashioned blowout.

 

Chapter Twenty-­One

B
efore it was a restaurant, Firefly had been one of the original firehouses in San Gabriel. It had been decommissioned in the late nineties when a newer, larger station had been built nearby. A ­couple of enterprising retired San Gabriel firefighters had taken out a loan and turned it into a bar and restaurant. Vader had been one of its early and loud supporters, and he'd brought lots of business there since they'd opened. The owners, Pete and Jack, had told him he never had to pay for a drink there again, but he did anyway. For the most part. Unless he was having so much fun he forgot. Then he usually came back the next day and settled up.

Pete and Jack had kept many of the original details from Firefly's firehouse days, including the pole, which was the focus of the dance floor. Since, like many firefighters, they were handy with tools, they'd done much of the interior woodwork in the place. The centerpiece was a gorgeous hardwood bar that curved like a spaceship console around the edge of the space. Pete's wife, who had a green thumb, had contributed pots of ficus and even a miniature orange tree, which lit up one corner. Tables were clustered around the edge of the huge space, most of which was devoted to the dance floor, which was always mobbed.

For Vader, Firefly was a home away from home, or, more accurately, a firehouse away from firehouse. He loved every inch of the place. The food was perfect, burgers and salads. The beer was reasonably priced. The music was rocking. And the girls were friendly. Firefighters were always welcome. He even had his own personal tankard, in the shape of a Darth Vader helmet, stashed behind the bar—­a gift from the Station 1 crew.

Tonight, his tankard wasn't getting much action. Vader didn't need to drink to have fun. He wanted to party to oblivion, and that meant throwing himself onto the dance floor and letting the music smash his brain into semi-­conscious bits. He started the evening with a bunch of firehouse guys doing tequila shots, but by ten he was out on the dance floor tearing it up. Fred left by eleven, muttering something about his studio.

The dinner crowd left by eleven-­thirty, and that's when the dancing got out of control. The servers shoved the tables to the very edge of the space. Jack cranked the music up and turned on the colored lights, so the writhing bodies on the dance floor were lit with orange and purple flashes. The smell of beer mingled with fruity shampoo and girlie perfume—­sheer heaven, if you asked Vader.

Word of the party must have spread around town, because more girls arrived, crowding the dance floor with bare arms and itty-­bitty microskirts. Vader danced, and laughed, and hooted, and let the wild party break him apart and put him back together.

At midnight, Pete cleared off the bar, blasted Firefly's signature song, and gave the signal to Joe the Toe. “Everyone follow the black guy,” bellowed Joe. Vader threw his head back, laughing until his throat hurt. Then he joined the line of dancers doing the conga onto the bar.

“Boooo-­yah!” he shouted, kicking one leg to the side, then the other, his hands on one girl's waist, another girl's arms tight on his hips.

By twelve-­thirty, Vader's shirt was long gone, lost somewhere in the crowd, and six girls were taking turns gyrating against his body like strippers. At one in the morning, he took a break and fueled up with two gigantic hamburgers slathered in mushrooms and ketchup; Pete had set a plate aside for him before the kitchen closed. The waitress brought his Darth Vader mug filled with dark ale.

Mulligan, accompanied by a pepperoni pizza and three girls, collapsed into the chair across from him.

“What are you still doing here?” Vader asked him.

“Fred left me in charge.”

“In charge of what?”

“The fun.” The way Mulligan said the word “fun,” the police couldn't be far behind.

“Where's Joe?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Some wingman you are.” He waggled a finger at the pretty redhead nibbling at her slice of pizza. She reminded him of Cherie, which made him want to warn her off. “Watch out for that guy. Not to be trusted.”

Mulligan glared and leaned forward on his elbows, shoving his face into Vader's. “You want some of this? You been on my ass since I got to this town.”

“Take it easy, dude. This is family here.” Vader had a buzz on, but not enough to mess up his favorite bar with a brawl.

“Fine. We'll keep it clean, then.” With his wrestler-­tough squint, he glanced around the bar and the packed dance floor. “Dare you to come down that pole like the guys used to do it.”

“You serious?” Vader knew how to shimmy down a pole with the best of them, but Station 1, being of more modern vintage, didn't have one.

“Yess!” The redhead clapped. “Slide down the pole, Vader!”

The two other girls chimed in. “Pole, pole, pole!”

Vader narrowed his eyes at Mulligan, who was cracking up between bites of pizza. The guy was an instigator, no doubt. “The pole's blocked off. Insurance requirement.”

“You know how to get to it, right?”

“Of course I do.” He'd helped remodel the place, after all. “If I slide down the pole, what'll it get me?”

“You mean besides fame and female adulation?”

“I already have that.”

“Pole, pole, pole,” chanted the girls.

“Something else.” Vader pretended to ponder the issue. “I got it. If I slide down the pole, then at the next lineup, you raise your hand and say you have an announcement to make. Then you say, ‘Vader is the captain of my heart.' ”

Mulligan snorted. “You sure about that? That ain't going to help you make captain.”

Vader waved his tankard, and a bit of foam lipped out of the edge of Darth Vader's head. “My chances of making captain are about as good as this beer's.”

“Don't count yourself out, dude. No one passes the exam on the first try.”

“Pole, pole, pole . . .” The chant was now spreading across the room. The crowd on the dance floor had stopped gyrating and started clapping along. “Pole, pole, pole . . .”

Mulligan and Vader exchanged a look, half horrified, half amused by what they'd created.

“Oopsie,” said Mulligan, covering his mouth and widening his eyes, as if he were a schoolgirl caught smoking. “You're in for it now.”

Vader took another swig from his tankard and plopped it on the table. “Do we have a deal?”

“I don't know, Vader. Think about your career.”

“My career can fuck itself. And you too.
Do we have a deal?
”

“If you put it that way, then hell, yes. Just for free, I'll throw in a personal recommendation from a dedicated committee member.”

“No lies. Nothing you don't believe.”

Mulligan lifted his bottle of Corona and toasted him. “That's a guarantee. Lying ain't ever worth the trouble.”

Through his party-­fueled buzz, Vader knew a kinship had finally been established. “Then clear the way.”

Mulligan stood and formed his hands into a megaphone. “This is the fire department speaking. Safety regulations require that we clear the area around the pole. Please step toward the edge of the dance floor. If you really need a pole, I got one right here. In my pants.”

Vader was happy to hear the crowd boo Mulligan's crass joke. While the dance floor slowly and chaotically cleared, he made his way up the side stairs that led to the second floor, which served as a storage area. Since he'd helped Pete and Jake remodel the place, he knew exactly how to access the top of the pole. They'd left the original hatch in place, merely covering it with a specially cut foam donut so no one would accidentally slip through.

The upstairs was quiet except for the thumping of the music and the continuing chants of “Pole, pole, pole.” He lifted the foam insert away from the hole, releasing a blast of music and warm, beer-­scented air.

He hesitated. What was he doing, making an ass of himself before a bar full of half-­drunk customers? He wasn't captain material. Who was he kidding? No wonder no one ever took him seriously, because he kept pulling stunts like this. He should put the foam back, walk downstairs, slip out the side door, and go study for the fucking exam.

The chant below tugged at him. “Pole, pole, pole.” Laughing faces tilted toward him. Everyone down there was having a good time. But if he came sliding down that pole, they'd have more than a good time. They'd have a story to tell. Their faces would light up when they remembered it. They'd feel special that they were at Firefly the night some big, goofy, shirtless firefighter came down the pole to the tune of . . .

Oh hell. Pete, that son of a bitch, had put on an Elvis song. “Heartbreak Hotel.” Everyone knew he could never resist an Elvis tune. The crowd was clapping again, as if wondering why he was hesitating. “Pole, pole, pole . . .” and “We love you, Vader.”

In that moment, in that deserted, dusty upstairs room, something clicked in Vader's heart. He was, and would always be . . . Vader. An excessively muscled guy who liked a good laugh. A man who didn't mind playing the fool if it brought a smile to someone's face. He wore his heart on his bulging sleeve and he'd lay down his life for a brother fireman, or his mother, or even a total stranger if fate required it. He was Vader, and he'd make a damn good captain and a top-­rate husband. If Cherie couldn't see that, then she was blinder than a bat in a belfry.

Or something.

Casting all second thoughts, second guesses, and last regrets to the wind, he gripped the smooth metal of the pole and wrapped his legs around it. To the tune of a million catcalls and hollers from below, he loosened his grip and glided down the pole. He kept his bare chest away from the metal, letting his legs, in their loose khakis, do the work. The music got louder as he went, the sweaty heat of the dance floor welcoming him like a sauna. Happy, laughing faces greeted him, male and female. When his feet touched the floor, he struck an Elvis-­like pose, holding on to the pole with one hand, turning his head the opposite way, hand over his forehead. Then he switched hands, as if the pole were a tango partner swinging him into a dip.

“Whoohoo!” The crowd screamed with one voice. Several girls clutched at each other, fanning themselves as if he were the real King. Even the guys were laughing and high-­fiving each other. Was this what it felt like to be a rock star?

He did one of his favorite Elvis moves, getting up on his toes, thrusting his hips forward, and scissoring his legs in and out. As the King sang about Lonely Street, he switched hands again, flipping his body to the other side of the pole. This time he twined one leg around the pole and arched his chest backward, moving his hips to the music and deploying his Elvis lip curl on a plump brunette he'd seen there before.

She shrieked, clutching her hands to her chest. “Oh my God, oh my God!” she babbled hysterically. “He kissed me!”

He hadn't done any such thing, but that didn't stop the other girls from going nuts.

He felt hands touching his chest, hot breath fanning his skin. It was hot and crowded, and the music was still blasting, and he couldn't breathe. He saw a girl sag into the arms of her friend, as if she'd fainted. And was that someone licking his shoulder?

He jerked his shoulder away from the strange touch, but right away someone else put a hand on his abdomen. This was bad. Things were getting out of control. He'd been in some wild scenes, but he'd never had girls fainting over him. In the middle of the crowd, he spotted Mulligan, and mouthed the word “help.” But the crowd was so thick Mulligan could make no headway—­Vader wasn't even sure he was trying hard. Mulligan probably thought he was having fun.

This was definitely not his idea of fun.

Then a firm, cool hand grabbed on to his. With some kind of Jedi dance maneuver, the hand swirled its owner into a tight embrace between Vader and the pole. He looked down into Cherie's beautiful gray eyes.

“Hey, hot stuff,” she murmured.

“Where'd you come from?” He blinked at her, as if she'd popped out of a genie's lamp.

“Mulligan texted me. He thought you might need a rescue.” She did another of her magical dance moves, so they were back to back. She must have made some sort of gesture to the crowd, because all of a sudden he had a little more space to breathe. Cherie whirled around again, pushing him into a position next to the pole, holding on to it with one hand, the other hand free to wave to the crowd.

“Give them a nice bow,” she murmured. “And then we're getting out of here.”

Best news he'd heard all night. He bent at the waist in an elaborate bow, then rose again, to cheers from the crowd. Cherie waved and curtsied, despite a few nasty glances from the other girls.

“Unless I got it all wrong, and you want to stay,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.

“Hell. No,” he said, with complete certainty. “My work here is done.”