Four Weddings and a Fireman (9 page)

“It's a little bruise, that's all. Happened a ­couple shifts ago. No big drama, Cherie. Just another day in the life.”

“Let me see.”

“That's not a good idea.”

“Where is it, on your dick?” She knew that would wake him up, since she usually stuck to her religious upbringing and avoided such language.

“Close enough.”

“Fine.” She took him by the hand and dragged him to the men's room, locking it behind her. “The other guys can go pee outside. Now drop 'em.”

“You know how long I've been waiting to hear that from you?” He waggled his eyebrows again, this time with a little more verve.

She put her hands to his belt buckle, which featured a bronze ram's head. Vader was the most loyal of men; when he liked something, he liked it forever. He'd told her he'd owned this particular belt buckle since his grandfather had given it to him for his eighteenth birthday. She'd always found that story very endearing. “You want me to do it for you? Because I have to warn you, I'm not in the mood to be gentle.”

Again, he winced. “Normally, I'd say it was worth it. But this time, I'll do it. It might be a little tender.”

He unfastened his belt buckle, unzipped his pants, and peeled off the left side of his briefs. She tried to ignore the sleek muscles and curving bone structure he uncovered. And then—­she forgot about all that and sucked in a breath at the sight of the biggest bruise she'd ever seen. Raging purple and deepest magenta, with an edge of mustard yellow, it spread the length and breadth of his hip and upper thigh.

It looked horrible and painful, and the thought of how much it must have hurt—­still hurt—­just about broke her heart.

Tears sprang to her eyes. Impulsively she took up his hand and cradled it against her chest. It was either that or whack him, and she didn't want to inflict any more pain on him. “Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you cancel? You shouldn't be dancing around with an injury like that.”

“This is not an injury.” He looked offended. “It's a slight discoloration. If I can handle two shifts, I can handle tango class.”

“Shifts . . . you've been
working
?” Outraged, she dropped his hand. She wanted to shake him like a naughty little boy. “What's
wrong
with you? You need to take care of yourself. You can't just throw yourself around like a piece of . . . piece of . . .”

“Hot man flesh?”

“Don't joke.”

“Cherie. Honey.” He cupped her face in his hands and captured her gaze in the brown warmth of his. “It would take a lot more than a bruise to keep me away from you. They'd probably have to cut my legs off. And even then, my upper body strength is outstanding, and . . .”

“Stop it.” Tears spilled over, running in hot, embarrassing rivulets down her face. She hated how easily she cried. “Don't talk like that. You're a firefighter. Anything could happen out there.”

He froze, still cupping her face. “Is that why?”

“Why what?” She sniffed, trying to call back those tears.

“Why you push me away. Because I'm a firefighter. Because I have a dangerous job.”

A hiccup shook her. That wasn't it, but it was close, in a way. “I hate the thought of you being in danger.” She especially hated the thought of
putting
him in danger. If Mackintosh ever did find her, who knew what he'd do to Vader? “But they train you guys really well, right?”

“Yeah, we got drills coming out our ass. Training bulletins up the shebizzle.”

“And you have a great captain.”

“The best.”

She made herself look at his bruise again, even touch it gently, using no pressure. If only she had healing powers. She imagined white light streaming from her hand to his thigh, erasing the discoloration, easing his pain. But when she drew her hand away, the bruise was still there. So she wasn't magic. The love she kept hidden away couldn't make his wounds vanish.

He ran a thumb across her cheekbone, the warmth of it like a soothing hot stone. “You like helping ­people, don't you?”

“Well, sure. Of course I do.”

He gave her an odd look, then muttered something under his breath. She thought he said, “I'm so dense,” but she couldn't be sure.

“Actually,” he said, then hesitated. Her eyes flew to meet his; it was unusual to see him so tentative. “I could maybe use your help.”

“You want me to ice your thigh? I could make my great-­grandmother's tonic for that bruise, if I can find the ingredients. Works like a charm. I have to find some arnica and some comfrey, I think I saw some right outside of town on the way to the Roadhouse, and boil it up together . . .”

“Don't worry about my thigh.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But if you want to worry about my dick, go for it.”

She rolled her eyes. Only Vader could find a way to turn an injury into a come-­on.

“This is something different,” he continued. “I've been . . . well, I'm going for a promotion to captain.”

Amazed, she scanned his face. She'd never heard him mention anything so ambitious before. He'd always behaved like a live-­in-­the-­moment sort of guy, completely happy with where he was. What she saw in his expression—­vulnerability and a touch of anxiety, as if her opinion really mattered to him—­made her heart somersault. “That's cool, Vader. Really cool.”

“You think I could do it? I mean, I'll have to give up on my promising male stripper career. The one I keep threatening to try.”

“San Gabriel will go into mourning.”

“I'll still be available for private shows, of course.” He winked.

“I don't get it, though. You said you wanted my help. How can I help you make captain? You want me to help you study?”

“It's not that.” His strong jaw tightened. “To make captain, ­people have to see you a certain way. They have to think you're up to it. They can't think of you as a party-­boy muscleman.”

­“People know there's more to you than that.”

“Do they? Do you?” He fixed her with a direct stare.

“Of course I do.”

“Not enough to hitch your wagon to, though.”

She drew away a few steps. Her shoes clicked against the tile floor. In her anxiety over Vader's condition, she'd forgotten they were in the men's room. The unfamiliar, sweaty smell made her suddenly claustrophobic. Digging in her purse, she found a travel bottle of perfume and sprayed a few whiffs into the air. “Please don't start that. If you want me to help, just tell me what I can do.”

He pulled up his briefs and gingerly refastened his pants. “It's like what you did just now.”

“What do you mean?” She stuffed the little atomizer back in her purse.

“You made it smell nice. You fixed it. Improved it. I'm going for a full-­scale overhaul. Top to bottom. I have a three-­point plan.”

“A three-­point plan,” she repeated numbly.

“Oh yeah. I'm not messing around. I've got it all planned out. And when I put my mind to something, it gets done. The guys at the station can tell you that. Everything on the inside is my responsibility. Experience, skills, studying. I need your help with the exterior part of the operation.”

“The exterior?” She frowned at him in the mirror, then turned so she was staring at the real thing, not the reflection. “Are you saying you want me to give you a makeover?”

 

Chapter Eight

H
ell no, it wasn't a makeover, but Vader considered it a stroke of genius. Watching her get so worried over an ordinary bruise had switched on a light bulb in his mind. Cherie had a soft heart. All her mismatched jobs had a common theme—­helping ­people in some way. Her dance classes helped ­people with their confidence. Her hot stone massages helped ­people relax. Movement therapy helped heal emotional problems, or so she said. Babysitting for the Hendersons . . . well, she did that because she loved their kids.

She liked to mother ­people, even irritating ­people like her housemates. So—­why not let her help him? Not that he needed it, of course. But if she wanted to mess around with his appearance, he could live with that.

The next night, she led him into her third floor bathroom. Vader's nostrils flared, his sense of smell alerting him to his entrance into alien territory. Wafts of fragrance floated around them. He spotted lemongrass hand lotion, rose-­petal oatmeal exfoliating mask, ylang-­ylang persimmon body wash, whatever ylang-­ylang was. Along with the jumbles of cosmetics, hair products, hair ornaments, cotton balls, and random assorted essentials, the room was a nest of femininity.

Cherie sure did love her girlie stuff.

Gingerly, he lowered himself to the chair she'd set up for him, his long legs barely fitting between the chair and the sink cabinet. He seemed to take up half the space in her tiny bathroom.

Cherie set her cell phone on the bathroom shelf. He wondered if she was waiting for an important call.

“You seem a little nervous.” Cherie stood behind him and sifted her hands through his hair. It felt so good he nearly moaned.

“Well, the last girl who tried to spruce me up was Danielle, Captain Brody's daughter. I let her put nail polish on my left hand when she was in the hospital. It was hot pink. I couldn't get it off and the guys ragged on me for a month.”

“That's adorable.” A cooing sort of smile, the kind girls gave to babies, came over her face.

“Take that back.”

“Oh stop. Your manhood is safe. It's adorable because you're so masculine. It's the contrast.”

That was a little better. He allowed himself to relax.

“You've gotten haircuts before, right?”

“Of course. Man's haircuts. Vinnie over on Main. Charges me two bucks.” Vinnie didn't fondle his hair the way Cherie was doing.

“Hair tells a lot about a person. Unconsciously, ­people pick up on the signals your hair gives and make judgments about you.”

“Oh yeah? What does mine say about me?”

“That you don't really care about your hair.”

“I don't.”

Now she was testing different lengths, squinting at him from one angle, then another. He watched her in the mirror. She was dressed about as casually as he'd ever seen her, in a V-­neck T-­shirt and what looked like loose, silky pink pajama bottoms. When she bent over to pick up a comb, he saw the shadow in the deep crevice between her soft breasts.

He yanked his attention away from her much-­too-­tempting cleavage, back to the words she was speaking.

“But ­people might also think you don't really care about anything else either. We can't have that. From now on, you do care. You care about getting that promotion. You care about the department.”

“Of course I do. I always have.”

“And now you're going to look like it.”

He screwed up his face. “My hair is going to say all that? More than showing up for work and risking my life?”

She abandoned his hair, turned aside, and grabbed her best towel, made from thick, creamy cotton. “Of course not. It's more like . . . an exclamation point.”

Warily, he ran his hands through his hair. “You're going to make my hair into an exclamation point? Like some kind of Mohawk?”

She buried her face in the towel to stop her giggles. Smiling to himself, he watched her in the mirror. God, he loved making her laugh. Almost as much as he loved making her . . .
Don't go there, Vader
. Not the right time or place—­hell, he'd end up breaking every perfume bottle in the joint if he tried to make love to Cherie in here.

She wiped her eyes, then draped the towel around his neck. “No Mohawk, I promise. Now, you'd better not make me laugh while I've got scissors in my hand.”

She prowled around him, examining the shape of his head.

It occurred to him that he'd never get a better opportunity to ask a few questions. She was relaxed, maybe even distracted. “How'd you get into cutting hair?”

“Oh, I've been doing it my whole life. I cut all my brothers' and sisters' hair,” she answered absently.

Yes!
Good call, Vader
. Now to see how much more he could pry out of her. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

Cherie paused in mid-­snip. Vader's eyes were half closed, and he'd asked the question in an almost lazy manner. Normally she never talked about her past, because she was afraid she might let the wrong bit of information slip. But it was an innocent question. Jacob wouldn't mind if she answered it, would he? She glanced at her phone. No more calls from Jacob, and nothing from Humility. It was a little bit like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Thirteen.”

“Thirteen?” He swung his head around; she pulled the scissors away just in time to keep them from jabbing him. “
Thirteen
brothers and sisters? Where do they live?”

What harm would it do to tell him that? “A homestead in Arkansas.”

“With your parents?”

“With my father and stepmother. My mother's dead. Now can we change the subject? Keep your head still. What about you? How many siblings do you have?”

“None.” It sounded so empty and sad, the way he said it. “I wanted some. Someone to play with, make forts with. Fight with. Whatever. I used to bug my parents about it. But they . . . I don't know what happened. Then my mother—­” He broke off with a helpless gesture. “None,” he repeated.

She wondered what he'd nearly said about his mother, but decided not to press the issue, considering she didn't want any more questions herself. “What about your firehouse buddies?” she asked instead. “They're almost like brothers.”

“They are. They're the brothers of my heart.” A husky edge roughened his voice. “And sisters. I'd die for them. And them for me.” In the midst of trimming the hair behind his right ear, she caught the movement of his Adam's apple. Vader was the sort of man who didn't mind being swept away by emotion. She'd seen it a few times, and it always made her want to throw herself at his feet.

She glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He was looking down, his square-­jawed, open face as serious as the statement he'd just made. It was so matter-­of-­fact, the way he'd said those words, as if it was unquestioned truth, some kind of bedrock belief. And just like that, something about Vader shifted into focus for her. All joking and partying aside, this was a man with an enormous capacity for love, but even more than that, for sacrifice. She had no doubt that he would do exactly as he'd said, and lay down his life for someone else.

The thought made her heart practically split in two.

Oh, Vader. Why couldn't he be the goofball she'd originally thought he was? Why did he have to turn out to have so many more . . .
layers
?

It was getting harder and harder to keep her distance.

She cleared her throat. “Be still now. No more talking. This is the tricky part. Don't move a single muscle, especially anything involving your jaw.”

Vader had to
admit that Cherie's haircut did something to his appearance. It made him look—­not older, exactly. Stronger. Like someone you didn't want to mess with. She'd cropped it shorter, so his face stood out more. Or something. He didn't have the vocabulary to describe it, but he liked it.

And he really liked the feeling of closeness they shared now that he'd put himself at her mercy. And she'd actually revealed a morsel of personal information. Was her family the key to her problem with him? He filed the moment away. He hadn't gotten as far as he wanted, but it was something.

He rose and dusted bits of hair off his clothes. “You did a good job. Nice exclamation point.”

Delight made her eyes glow like moonbeams. Two dimples appeared on either side of her curvy mouth, one accenting her cheek, the other gracing the side of her chin.

“You could be a hotshot hairstylist if you wanted to. You know, for magazines and models.”

“No, thank you.”

“Seriously, if you could quit all of your jobs except one, which would it be? Which one is your dream? Do you want to be a dancer? A baker? A hair genius? What?”

Cherie stuck the scissors in a leather pouch and meticulously rolled it into a tight little bundle. “Nothing like that.”

He persisted, frowning down at her. It was a harmless question, for Pete's sake. “What then? What's your dream?”

“I'd like to work with kids,” she blurted. “You know I teach movement therapy at the studio. I'd like to do the same class for traumatized children.” She snapped her mouth shut, as if forbidding herself to say anything more.

Bewildered, he shook his head. “Then why don't you? Sounds like a great idea.”

“Because . . .” She stared at him with a hopeless expression that he found completely incomprehensible.

Just then, the front door opened and footsteps clattered into the hallway. She started, and for a quick second he spotted that look he'd seen before—­that hunted, afraid look. Her pupils dilated, her face paled.
What was going on?

Soren called out, “Cherie? You here?”

And the look disappeared. Color flooded back to her face. “Upstairs,” she called out.

“We're going out for a drink. You in?”

Great. Count on Soren and Nick to ruin everything. But then she surprised him and picked up one of his hands, which looked enormous in hers.

“Come out with us.”

He made a face. “With the death-­ghoul duo?”

“They're annoying, but harmless. Come on. I want to see how everyone reacts to your new haircut. I want to show you off.” Her smile sent a sneaky tendril of sunshine into his heart. How could he say no to that? He could handle Soren and Nick. He had so far.

The four of
them settled into a booth at the corner bar, which had the unfortunate name of Beer Goggles. Vader, who loved most nightspots, despised this particular bar. It had a meanness to it; the bartenders were rude, the patrons sarcastic. No one seemed interested in having a good time. Why bother, when they could look down on each other instead? Neon beer signs provided the only decor, along with two dartboards and an ancient foosball table.

Neither Soren nor Nick had any noticeable reaction to his haircut. If anything, it might have made them more obnoxious, since Cherie looked so pleased with herself. Honestly, they were like spoiled kids when it came to her.

Deciding the only way to endure the evening would be with a drink in hand, Vader ordered a Guinness. Cherie opted for red wine, Soren and Nick for bourbon, neat.

Soren slanted a half sneer at Vader. “Where's your balls, dude? Why don't you go for a real man's drink?”

Vader had no idea what that was supposed to mean and didn't care. “I don't drink much hard alcohol.”

Nick settled his elbows on the table. “Now see, I don't mean to call a big strong firefighter like you a pussy, but—­”

“Cut it out, Nick,” said Cherie sharply.

“He knows I'm kidding around. Right, big guy?”

Vader took a swig of his beer, hoping it would drown the strong sense of dislike spreading through his system. Since he didn't usually feel that way about ­people, it disturbed him. “Let's just drop it. How about those Dodgers? Think they have a chance?”

“Is that football?” Soren asked, with a shrug that meant he really couldn't be bothered to care.

Vader shook his head and fell silent. He'd tried. Now it was their turn.

His cell phone, which he'd set on the table, beeped with an incoming text message from his mother. He dropped his head, scanning to make sure it wasn't urgent.

“Firehouse?” Cherie asked.

He shook his head. Soren leaned over and peered at his phone. “
We ran out of paper towels
,” he read aloud. “Holy hell, it's from his mother. You live with your
mother
?” Soren's eyes, which he'd rimmed with black eyeliner, lit up with glee.

Vader's jaw tightened. “Yes.” Technically, his mother lived with him, since he owned the house. But he saw no need to explain anything to these assholes.

“How old are you? Over twelve, right?”

Oh, how he wanted to rip the guy's sneer right off his face. Then he felt Cherie's hand squeeze his thigh, which had gone as tense as rebar. “We're leaving,” she said, glaring at her housemates. “If you can't manage to be polite for one lousy drink, we're out of here.”