[Firehouse Fourteen 01.0] Once Burned Read online

  And even Nick had to admit that it seemed as if whoever had put out the fire did a professional job of it. At least, as far as he could tell. He remembered the tarps someone had tossed over the assorted music equipment and again said a brief prayer of thanks to whichever fireman had thought to add the protection.

  "I know it could have been worse. They said the firemen that responded did a nice job of stopping it from spreading."

  "Isn't that what they're supposed to do?"

  Nick shrugged and glanced at his watch, then hoisted himself to his feet. "I guess. Regardless, though, I thought I'd swing by the fire station and drop off something for them, as a little thank you."

  Chris raised his eyebrows in question, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a smile. "A thank you? Isn't paying their salary enough? They do get paid using tax dollars, you know."

  "I'm sure they do," Nick replied, pulling the briefcase from its perch on the desk. "Probably just like we teachers get paid."

  "Too true, my friend, too true." The laughter echoed off the walls of the empty classroom, sounding loud to Nick's ears. Of course, with Chris, the laughter always was loud.

  The two men left the room, walking in silence down the deserted corridors. The soles of Chris's athletic shoes squeaked on the polished tile floor, muffling the dull sound of Nick's own loafers. He breathed in the mingled odors that were as much a part of the school as the students and faculty, and wondered briefly if it had smelled the same when he was a student. If it had, he hadn't noticed. Then again, what teenager ever did?

  "I heard you got roped into heading up the drunk-driving awareness program this year. How's that going?" Chris's voice seemed out of place in the surrounding silence and Nick inwardly flinched at the sound. Chris was a great friend, but he had no inclination of how loud he could be sometimes.

  Nick sighed and shifted the briefcase from one hand to the other, digging in his pocket for the car keys as the two of them exited the building. He squinted against the afternoon light, flipping through the metal ring until he caught the ignition key between his fingers. "It's not yet. I tried calling the police department, and they transferred me to their public relations department. And then they transferred me to the fire department, who transferred me to their public relations department. I'm still waiting. Apparently, there's supposed to be some kind of pilot program that they're implementing to help with this kind of thing."

  "Hmm. Typical bureaucracy." Chris pursed his lips in concentration. "Sounds different, anyway. Think it'll work?"

  "Well, how often did you pay attention to your teachers when you were in high school? At least it can't hurt."

  "True." They reached the faculty parking lot and Chris paused. "You guys playing Saturday night? I might break down and finally take Melissa to hear you play."

  "Yeah, but I'd hold off on bringing Melissa. We're at a place called Duffy's, and I don't think it's her kind of place."

  "That bad?"

  Nick shrugged, not really knowing how to answer. "I don't think it's 'bad', but it's not like the places we usually play. I've never been there, but I heard that it's more of a local hangout than anything else. That usually means it's a dive."

  "How'd you get roped into playing a place like that?"

  "Who knows? I think Brian's doing a favor for a friend."

  "Hmph. I'm surprised you even had an open night to play someplace different. Aren't you guys pretty much booked solid?"

  "For the most part, but there's always room for flexibility." Nick glanced at his watch and sighed. If he left now, he might have time to swing by the house and change before visiting the fire station. Chris must have noticed the small motion because he said his goodbyes and headed back to the school, no doubt to get ready for the upcoming football practice. And Nick thought he had a full schedule; thinking about the extra hours Chris devoted to sports made him cringe.

  He walked over to his car, a nondescript Volvo wagon that fairly shrieked respectability, unlocked the door and tossed the briefcase on the front seat before climbing in. Nick still wondered what had possessed him to buy the car a few years ago. Probably some psychological need to prove his maturity to the woman he had been seeing at the time. He mentally shook his head at the memory. The purchase didn't accomplish anything more than adding to his monthly bills, and the relationship had fizzled out. But hey, he still had the car, and it was finally paid for. And it did give an illusion of respectability, something that came in handy once in a while.

  Sometimes image was everything, even if it was nothing more than illusion.

  Chapter Three

  Nick pulled into the entrance of the fire station two hours later, doing his best to swallow his impatience as he followed the drive around the square brick building and pulled into an empty parking slot. He was surprised that he had so much trouble finding the place. He was even more surprised that he hadn't noticed it before tonight, considering it was only a few miles from the neighborhood where he had been living for the last five years.

  So much for his keen powers of observation.

  In his defense, though, he had to admit that the building was designed to be unobtrusive. A large but simple single-story structure constructed of pale brick and glass, it sat well back off the road, hidden by an expanse of trees and overgrown shrubbery. The design and location was obviously a concession to the nearby residents who probably wanted protection close-by but didn't want to deal with the potential eyesore.

  Nick stepped out of the car then reached into the back seat for the bushel of steamed crabs, cursing under his breath when he saw the small stain on the floor. Perfect. Now his car would reek like crabs and Old Bay seasoning for the next month. It wasn't bad now, but give it a few days and the aroma would turn into the thick smell of rotten seafood. Just what he needed.

  He slammed the door shut with his foot and tried to remind himself that the crabs were still a good idea, that there was nothing wrong with saying thank you. Unfortunately, the minor disaster that had greeted him at home took some of the zing out his gratitude.

  How could something as simple as repainting turn into such a fiasco? Remembering the off-white puddle in the middle of the floor, Nick was thankful that at least the carpeting hadn't been replaced yet. As he walked around to the front of the building, he grimly wondered what else might possibly go wrong, then forcibly pushed the pessimistic thought away, not wanting to encourage another disaster by thinking about it.

  The cracked sidewalk stopped at a metal and glass framed door. Manipulating the heavy bushel to free a hand, Nick reached out to pull the door open only to mutter under his breath when it wouldn't budge. He peered through the glass but could see only an empty hallway, so he knocked. A long minute passed with no answer. Sighing, he sat the bushel on the sidewalk then walked over to the two huge garage doors and looked through the thick clear plastic panes set inside them.

  Two large fire engines sat side-by-side in the cavernous room. At least it looked like somebody should be there, Nick thought. Unless there was other equipment there he didn't know about. He squinted through the streaked glass, looking for signs of life, and was ready to knock on the oversized garage door when the glass door he had first stopped at was finally pushed open.

  An average-looking man in his late thirties with a drooping mustache peered at Nick, his square face expressionless.

  "Can I help you?" The question was obviously mere courtesy, spoken in a tone laced with barely-restrained boredom.

  "Um, yeah. I was told that this station responded to a fire at my house last week." The statement was greeted by a blank stare and Nick suddenly felt foolish. He cleared his throat and closed the distance between himself and the fireman. "The house is on Benson Road."

  A spark of recognition flashed in the dark eyes that stared at Nick. The man nodded but didn't say anything else. Nick shifted his weight, waiting for the man to say or do something, and again wondered why he thought this would be a good idea. He ran a hand through his t
hick hair then gestured at the bushel on the sidewalk in front of him.

  "I brought these as a thank you. For putting out the fire," he added unnecessarily. The man finally looked down and noticed the crabs on the sidewalk; this time when he met Nick's gaze, there was a wide smile on the rugged face.

  "Hey man, thanks. Come on in. The guys'll get a kick out of this." The fireman opened the door wider, motioning for Nick to come inside. He retrieved the bushel then followed the man, not even surprised that he was the one who had to carry the crabs.

  After walking through a maze of connected hallways that led through a cavernous room, they finally went through a set of swinging doors that opened into a large kitchen. Spacious and utilitarian, it was obviously designed on a local government budget: worn but polished off-white asbestos floor tiles, cinder block walls painted a pale gray, and more metal-framed glass windows that took up the entire outside wall.

  The far wall was converted into counter space with the necessary kitchen fixtures of sink, stove, and three refrigerators, while another wall was covered with a large combination chalk board/bulletin board. Four large wooden tables, their varnished surfaces scarred and yellowed with age, were placed haphazardly in the open space. Around them sat a hodge-podge collection of chairs, all facing the focal point of the third wall: a large flat screen television set. Several of the room's occupants looked up from the local news and stared at Nick in silence as the fireman who had greeted him stopped in front of a man wearing a white shirt.

  "Hey Cap, look what we got. Crabs!" The man motioned at Nick, who was standing stupidly just inside the door. Warm crab juice leaked from the bushel down the front of his khaki trousers. Nick barely noticed, sparing the leak the briefest glance before returning his open-mouthed stare to the woman standing in front of the kitchen sink, who was staring back at him in undisguised horror.

  The bottom of Nick's stomach dropped open with a sickening thud that matched the hollow sound of the bushel when he dropped it on the closest table. Everything in the room disappeared except for the young face eight feet away: oval shaped, framed by long curling wisps of chestnut hair that brought out the deep green of the wide eyes staring back at him. No, that wasn't right. Nick squeezed his eyes closed, reopened them.

  The face morphed, no longer as young as he remembered, no longer as soft or full. Her hair was a little lighter than he remembered, pulled back in a functional ponytail instead of flowing past her shoulders. But the eyes. Her eyes were still the same shade of mossy green, the color rich and vibrant. And they were still focused on him in horror. Nick clamped his mouth shut with a click and swallowed back the guilt that rose like sour bile up the back of his throat. He swallowed again, his voice croaking like an adolescent's when he spoke.

  "Michaela?"

  "Oh shit."

  Chapter Four

  "Oh shit," Mike repeated under her breath, too horrified to do anything more than force herself to breathe. Not an easy task, considering she was literally frozen to the spot. She willed herself to move, to do something, anything, except stand there like an idiot. Her fist tightened around the sponge she had been using to wash the dishes left over from the day shift, her nails digging into the flesh of her palm.

  Unsure what else to say or do, wondering if there was anything she should do, she forced herself to draw another deep breath into her burning lungs then tossed the sponge in the sink behind her. The air was thick with heated tension. The buzzing in her ears made it impossible for her to hear anything.

  Shit, it's Nicky. Shit, it's Nicky. The phrase kept spinning through her mind until she thought she'd be sick with the dizziness of it. Her chest heaved with the effort to breathe and her pulse beat in a crazy tap dancer's rhythm.

  Did anyone else notice the sudden change in the room? Mike forced herself to look away from that face from her past and quickly glanced around. Five sets of eyes fixed on her with varying degrees of bewilderment. She could still feel his eyes on her, too, filled with stunned disbelief.

  Feeling like she was trapped in a nightmare where everything moved with the speed of molasses, Mike pushed away from the counter and walked across the room, straight past the frozen figure of Nicky Lansing and through the swinging door. She turned a corner and rushed through a second door that opened into the engine room, not stopping until she reached the engine on the far side, where she promptly collapsed on the back step.

  Heedless of the dirt and grime, she let her head drop against the back compartment door, ignoring the length of hose line in her way. Her breathing came in shallow gasps that did nothing to help the lightheadedness causing black dots to dance across her closed lids.

  Hyperventilating. She was hyperventilating. The calm, rational part of her—she was surprised she still had one—told her to lean forward, to get a grip on herself and her breathing. Now bent over, sitting with her head between her knees, Mikey grabbed the running board with both hands and concentrated on the feel of the diamond plate cutting into her palms.

  The spots faded away and her breathing slowed to something closer to normal. One last deep breath and she straightened, only to choke on a scream when she came face-to-face with Jay, his brows lowered in a frown as he studied her with concern.

  "Jesus! Don't scare me like that!" She pushed him away then stood, only to sit back down when she realized how bad her knees were shaking.

  "Scare you? What is wrong with you? Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine. I couldn't be better! Don't I look fine?"

  "You look like you're ready to pass out. What the hell is going on? Do you know that guy? He looks like he's seen a ghost!"

  "He probably thinks he has." Mike moved over and motioned for Jay to sit down, ignoring his scrutiny as he twisted sideways and continued staring at her.

  "Are you going to explain that?"

  "No." She ran her hands through her hair, muttering when she pulled a thick hank of it loose from the ponytail. Sighing, she reached back and pulled the elastic band loose, then quickly rearranged her hair into a more secure hold. Jay watched her intently then nudged her leg with his when she continued to ignore him.

  "Well?"

  "Well nothing. He's just somebody I used to know, that's all."

  Jay snorted. "Bull."

  "Okay, fine," she conceded. "He's also somebody I never wanted to see again." Mike reached down and gingerly touched her right side, trying not to remember but unable to forget. If Jay noticed the motion, he didn't say anything.

  They sat in silence, the familiar background noises of the station virtually unnoticed. A few minutes went by before Jay spoke again. "You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

  Mike shook her head, ready to make a sarcastic reply when the sound of footsteps echoed through the engine room. The steps paused then changed directions before walking around the side of the engine, coming closer. Mike knew without looking who it was: the steps were those of a stranger, someone who didn't know his way around.

  Nicky stopped at the back of the engine, not saying anything as Jay slowly stood and positioned himself slightly in front of Mike, shielding her. She touched his arm briefly, in a gesture both of thanks and of reassurance that she was alright. Jay looked back at her, one brow cocked in question, then reluctantly walked away at her nod. Mike didn't see where he went but she knew he would be close by in case he was needed.

  She stood slightly, changing her position on the running board so she was leaning on it instead of sitting, then crossed her arms in front of her, covering the jagged scar that ran along her left forearm. The stance was as close to aloof and detached as she could manage considering her insides were making a milkshake of her early dinner. Too late, she remembered the sunglasses hanging around her neck, and wished she would have thought to put them on to hide any emotion in her eyes.

  With an effort that took more strength than she wanted to admit, she let her eyes slowly, coolly rake the man in front of her from top to bottom.

  Dammit. The Nicky Lansing from he
r past had been ruggedly handsome with dark looks and boyish charm; this Nick Lansing was dangerously gorgeous. A little taller than she remembered, he stood just over six feet, and was definitely broader through the shoulders and chest. The boy she remembered had finally filled out, to all the best advantages.

  The long hair of his past was gone, cut to a length that brushed just past the collar of the light blue shirt he wore. Still too long to be squeaky clean, but short enough by today's standards to be rated as professional. His eyes were the same, though. A dark chocolate brown framed in sinfully long lashes, they invited a person to swim in their depths and lose their soul without a second thought.

  She would know, since she had done just that.

  Those eyes were watching her now and she briefly met his direct gaze without meaning to. They had changed, she realized. There was an inner depth now, a maturity that had been missing those many years ago. And in that brief second when their eyes had met, she thought she glimpsed something else. Guilt? Regret? Somehow she doubted it.

  Nicky shifted his weight from one foot to the other and jammed both hands into the pockets of his trousers. Mike watched his nervousness with a sense of satisfaction and refused to do anything to ease it. He cleared his throat, looked around, then finally returned his gaze to her. The corner of his mouth twitched in a forced smile, showing a glimpse of that damned dimple, then abruptly died.

  "I, uh, I wasn't expecting to see you here," he finally said. His voice was deeper than she remembered, smooth and mellow. Probably soothing to the listener, too, if it had been anyone but her.

  She didn't move, didn't respond, just stood there watching him as she fought the twitch she could feel building in her eye. He shifted again, removed one hand from his pocket and ran it through his thick hair. His eyes met hers then darted away.