Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) (16 page)

The canvas mocked her, staring back at her, glaring in stark whiteness. Melanie glared back, her brows pulled down so low that her forehead ached. Part of her was tempted, sorely tempted, to grab one of the palette knives and start slashing. To just lash out and slice, shredding the canvas until nothing was left.

Sweets! Where had that urge come from? She'd been frustrated before. Worried and angered and full of questions and doubts. But never before had she wanted to do violence, not that way. With a brush, yes. With colors and strokes, absolutely. But never before with a knife.

She sighed and dropped the palette to the workshop table. It made a hollow sound as it hit the wooden surface, its cleanliness mocking her as much as the canvas.

She'd been standing there for so long that her calves ached, the muscles cramped from not moving or stretching. And what did she have to show for it? Nothing.

Complete nothing.

As much as she would love to blame
him
, her neighbor…she couldn't. It wasn't Dale's fault that her mind had been on him for the last two hours. It wasn't Dale's fault that her ears had been straining, listening for the tiniest noise, the tiniest indication that he was awake and walking around.

He was. Had been for the last—she glanced at the clock and frowned—forty three minutes. It was almost three o'clock. He'd be leaving for work soon and she had no idea when she might see him next. She knew he would be busy tomorrow with his sister—his youngest sister, the one she hadn't met. And she knew he was working tomorrow night as well.

Maybe Thursday morning, then, when he got home from his shift. Maybe.

Why was she being so silly? Why was she hiding? Because that's exactly what she was doing. She could at least admit that to herself, if not to anyone else. Not that there was anyone else to admit it to.

She had hid in her bedroom Sunday evening, the small television turned down so low she hardly heard it. But she had heard his knock. No, not just once. Several times, like he knew she was in there and wanted to get her attention. But she had stayed in her room, pretending she hadn't heard him.

She'd done the same thing Monday night, too. But he'd only knocked once, then, not long after he got home from work. He'd gone out after that, somewhere. Maybe with his friends from work? She didn't know.

And now it was Tuesday afternoon, the day almost gone, and he was getting ready to leave for work. And she still hadn't talked to him, hadn't even seen him except for that brief glance when she looked out her bedroom window last night when he left to go…somewhere.

She was such a coward. A lonely pathetic coward. And she couldn't even blame Dale for it, no matter how tempted she might be. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't even her mother's fault. Melanie had been the one to paint the images, had been the one to release her emotions on a blank canvas for all the world to see.

Even if she hadn't meant for anyone to really see it.

But her mother had seen, and had known immediately what those bold angry strokes and bright chaotic colors had meant. Hues of crimson and orange and yellow and smoky black. Her mother had seen, and somehow knew that a man had caused it.

Melanie's hand tightened around the brush as her mother's chosen word rushed to mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Not
caused
.
Inspired
. That was what her mother had said:
inspired
. Like the chaos that stared back at them could inspire anyone.

And when they came home from the gallery and Dale had opened the door, standing there in nothing but a stark white towel and a broad grin, her parents had known. Of course they had. What kind of man would prance around in a towel in front of a woman if they hadn't been together?

It didn't matter, though, not really. He could have been fully dressed and her mother would have still known. Her father too, to a certain extent. But he didn't see colors like she did. Like her mom did. And all it had taken was once glance to realize her mom had seen in Dale the same thing she had. Not just the colors and conflict and guilt and life. No, it was so much more than that. It was his essence. Strong. Powerful. Overwhelming.

Yes, her parents knew, without a doubt.

So Melanie did what she did best: she hid. Even when her mother insisted he join them for dinner, when her father drew him into the conversation—or maybe just endlessly hounded him with questions—Melanie had started hiding. If she hid, she wouldn't have to admit…anything.

Her father knew that, too. He'd always been able to read her moods and fears and insecurities, ever since she was a little girl. And at the end of the night, after Dale had disappeared into his apartment and before her parents were ready to leave, her father had pulled her aside and told her what he always told her: don't hide from life. Embrace it.

But she didn't know how to, not really. She never had. Yes, she could pretend. She could smile and laugh and take pleasure from the tiniest of things. But she couldn't embrace it, not wholly. She'd always shied away from completely opening up and giving in because she was always so afraid of being shunned. Ever since she was a little girl, the one who saw colors and lived in a world full of images and sights that none of her classmates could see. She was the odd one, the one who was laughed at. So she had learned to keep that part of her hidden, expressing it on canvas instead. And she had become so good at hiding who she was, hiding away from the world, that she hadn't even realized what she was doing.

And then she had met her neighbor. Her infuriating, teasing, wonderful and conflicted neighbor who had no inkling of what he did to her. Who made her laugh and smile and called her by a silly nickname without making fun of her. Who took her out to a hockey game and to a honky tonk. Who made her come alive and not feel ashamed of what she felt when she was with him.

And all she wanted to do was hide again. Because she was afraid.

She tossed the brush to her workbench and made an angry swipe at her damp face. For once she didn't have to worry about smearing paint on her cheek or forehead. The realization angered her, almost as much as the realization of how big a coward she truly was.

A sound caught her attention, tugging her from her morose thoughts. A door opening then closing, the sound a little too loud, as if someone was slamming the door. A jingle of keys, a small cough.

Dale, leaving for work.

She hesitated only a second then leaped the two steps to her own door, pulling it open with a breathless rush of air. Dale was at the top step, dressed in dark blue uniform pants and a dark blue t-shirt. The sleeves hugged the muscles of his arms, the material pulling tight across his broad shoulders and back. A garment bag, the kind they gave you at the expensive stores, was slung over his left shoulder. He reached for the railing, getting ready to walk downstairs. He hesitated and looked back at her, barely more than a brief glance. But he didn't say anything, just gave her a curt nod of acknowledgement.

Melanie realized he wasn't going to say anything, nothing at all. Not even hello. She stepped into the hallway, her hand twisting the knob to make sure the door was unlocked before it closed behind her. She didn't think, just called his name, her voice sounding funny to her own ears. Rusty and hoarse, like she hadn't used it recently. He stopped again and turned, his hand still on the railing as he looked at her, his brows raised above his dark eyes. "Did you need something, Melanie?"

The sound of her name falling from his lips in a flat voice cut through her, slicing deep. It was wrong, so terribly wrong. She didn't want to be Melanie, not to this confusing man in front of her. She was Smurfette, not Melanie.

She shifted, her hands twisting in her skirt, bunching the material in her fists. She cleared her throat and tried to smile. "Are you heading into work?"

He looked down at himself then back up at her, not answering. Of course not. It was obvious he was going to work. Silly, stupid question. She knew he was, dressed as he was in his uniform. Why had she even bothered to ask?

"I need to get going."

"Wait!" Melanie moved closer to him, wanting to reach out and touch him, to keep him from leaving. She didn't want him to leave, not yet. "You, uh, you have your sister's thing tomorrow, don't you?"

A shadow passed through his eyes, his jaw clenching hard enough she thought she saw the muscle tick on the left side of his face. He took a deep breath and blew it out, his face clearing.

No, not clearing. Becoming blank, completely expressionless. "Yeah."

"Oh. I…good luck."

He laughed, the sound short and bitter. "Luck. Yeah, sure."

"Will you be home tomorrow?"

"Probably not." Now he sounded impatient, like he was in a hurry to get away from her. Melanie stepped closer, close enough she could make out the gold flecks in his eyes, feel the heat of his emotions rolling off him.

Heat, not cold.

"Will you be home on Thursday? I thought maybe we could—"

"Melanie, I need to go."

There it was again. Her name. Anger and impatience bubbled inside her, pushing away her fear. She made a sound, low in her throat, and stomped her foot. Then, before she could think, afraid she'd stop if she did, she closed the final few inches between them. He didn't move, just watched her with detached curiosity. So she grabbed him by the shirt, her hand fisting in the soft material, and leaned up on her bare toes.

And kissed him.

He didn't move. He didn't react at all. Melanie cracked one eye open, wondering why he wasn't kissing her back. She pressed herself closer and ran her tongue along the closed seam of his lips, holding her breath as she waited.

She breathed a small sigh when he moved, then moaned in disappointment when she realized he was moving away from her, not toward her. His fingers closed around her wrist and she thought he'd pull her hand away but he didn't.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm kissing you."

"Why?"

"Because—" She stopped, frowning. Had he really asked her why? Yes, he had. And now that she was looking closer—really looking—she saw that he was frowning, his brows pulled low over serious eyes. Watching her, studying her.

Then he moved, lightning fast. And before she could blink, before she could catch her breath or ask herself what he was doing or even wonder at the odd dark light in his eyes, he leaned forward. His mouth crashed against hers. Hard, hot, wet. Unforgiving and demanding. Her heart slammed against her chest and she moaned, low in her throat. Melanie leaned in, her fist once more gripping his shirt. His hand cupped her cheek, the flesh of his palm warm and rough against her skin. He slid his hand past her ear, his fingers wrapping in the strands of her hair as he deepened the kiss even more.

And then he pulled away, abruptly, without warning. His eyes were even darker now, his brows still pulled together in a dark frown. His voice was rough when he spoke, low and husky with an odd edge she didn't understand.

"I have to go, Melanie."

He turned and hurried down the stairs, the sound of his steps loud in the empty hallway. She watched as he pushed through the door without looking back, was still watching minutes later, staring at the door long after it closed behind him.

How could he kiss her like that and then just walk away? How could he kiss her like that and still call her
Melanie
?

And then she realized: he hadn't kissed her out of passion or need or desire. No, his kiss had been something different. Almost…punishing? But why?

Heat filled her, rushing to her limbs, causing her hands to curl into fists. Something ragged and harsh filled her ears, the sound almost foreign. And her lungs burned, her chest rising and falling in a short choppy motion that confused her at first.

She was angry, she realized. Not upset, not merely irritated but really, truly furious. Fuming. Enraged. She looked down at her clenched fists, noticed the way her fingers paled and the way her hands shook. A sudden, overwhelming urge to hit something seized her. To really hit something, over and over, until this strange feeling left.

She moaned, the sound growing louder, frightening her.

How could he do what he just did? How could he drive her to this brink of madness? To this urge to do violence? With something like shock, Melanie realized she had never been this angry before. Not angry enough to physically lash out.

She clamped her mouth against the strange sound coming from her throat and stormed back into her apartment, slamming the door behind her. It felt so good, the act of doing something, of hearing the loud noise, that she did it again. And again.

Then she turned to her workbench and grabbed several tubes of paint, squeezing sloppy ribbons of color onto the palette. She didn't pay attention to the colors, didn't care, just let emotion guide her as she mixed them.

Then let emotion take over as she grabbed a brush and attacked the canvas, her conscious mind blank as an odd possession claimed her soul.

"Where have you been?" Lauren's voice sliced through the hallway, a sharp echo against the marble floor and walls. Dale slid to a stop, the soles of his shoes squeaking. He glanced around, his eyes skimming over the small groups scattered here and there, then reached down and adjusted the sleeves of the dress shirt. 

"We had a fire this morning and didn't get relieved until late." And then he had to rush through a shower, hoping he got most of the soot and grime and sweat off before getting dressed.

Lauren frowned, her lips pursed as she looked him over. She didn't say anything. How could she? It wasn't like he had control over their runs, or control on when they got back to the station. Never mind that she had suggested he take off last night, just in case this exact thing happened. That hadn't been an option he was willing to take and she knew it, just as she knew he really didn't want to be here.

He was here for her, that was it.

She shook her head and brushed his hands away, reaching up to straighten his tie. He noticed the slight trembling of her fingers, the paleness of her face and the way her skin seemed to tighten and pull around her eyes. It made her look vulnerable and delicate, a look so at odds with her inner strength.

"You okay?"

Lauren took a deep breath then dropped her hands, her eyes not quite meeting his. "I'm fine."

"She's a mess." Kenny stepped next to them, his arms sliding around Lauren's waist. She leaned back, resting against him, her eyes briefly closing. Dale didn't miss the way she seemed to breathe a little easier, the way her face smoothed out as some of the tension left her.

Equal parts jealousy and protectiveness surged through him. Protectiveness because Lauren was his sister, it was his job to protect her. Never mind that he liked Kenny and knew he was good for her, just like he knew Kenny would do anything for her. He'd already let one sister down; he wasn't going to make the same mistake with Lauren.

Except Lauren wasn't the sister who needed him.

And he wasn't jealous, not really. Lauren was happy, happier than he'd ever seen. Kenny was good for her, Dale had known that from the very beginning. But he couldn't help but wish he had the same thing they had, that maybe, one day, he'd find—

An image of fiery red hair and ocean blue eyes popped into his mind, followed by the memory of yesterday's searing hot kiss. He pushed both the image and the memory from his mind. He couldn't think about Smur—Melanie—now. Wouldn't think about the way he'd kissed her or why, like he was trying to punish her for something. He couldn't afford to think about it. Not here, not now.

Dale took a deep breath, trying to steady the tangle of knots in his gut, then looked around. "Where are Mom and Dad?"

"They're in a conference room somewhere with Lindsay and her attorney."

"Why?"

"They're trying to talk her into taking the plea bargain."

"Isn't it too late for that?"

Lauren chewed on her lower lip and shrugged. Kenny was the one who answered.

"Apparently not. And if she doesn't, Lauren might have to testify."

The tangled mess of knots in Dale's gut tightened. "What? I thought they said she wouldn't have to. That none of us would have to."

"I don't know. Things change, I guess."

"Then what about us? We were both there. I'd think they'd call us first."

"I don't know." Kenny's frustration and worry were clear in his voice and on his face. His arms tightened around Lauren's waist, holding her close as she looked at him over her shoulder.

"I'll be fine. I don't want to do it but if I have to…" Her voice trailed off and she shrugged, acting like it was no big deal. But Dale saw the worry on her face, saw the anxiety in her eyes. Maybe she thought she was fooling them, but Dale knew better. From the look on Kenny's face, so did he.

"This is such bullshit. Why is she being so stupid? Doesn't she realize she's not going to get off on this? She admitted it to a rink full of people. Hell, she admitted it to the cops! I don't understand—"

"Dale, lower your voice." Lauren placed a hand on his arm, squeezing. Could she feel the tension running through him? Feel the way his muscles bunched and tightened with it?

Yeah, probably.

He sucked in a deep breath of air and let it out slowly, trying to calm himself. But the anger and fear and worry and guilt clung to him, each fighting for dominance, their claws buried so deep in his chest he wondered why his heart was still beating.

"She still won't take responsibility for it, acting like it was a harmless prank." Kenny's voice was tightly controlled, his anger held back. Lauren sighed and looked at each of them.

"She didn't mean to—"

"Bullshit!" The word came out in a harsh whisper instead of a furious scream, but there was no mistaking his anger. "Stop making excuses for her, Lauren. Even now, after everything that's happened, you're making excuses. Why?"

"Because in her mind, it was just a prank. And because I refuse to accept the fact that she deliberately tried to kill me. If she knew what could have happened—"

"Stop making excuses for her! She's had plenty of time to think about what she did. Christ, she's spent the last six months in jail because of it! She knows what she did and she still won't accept responsibility!"

"Enough." Kenny edged in front of Lauren, his expression hard. A glint of danger and warning flashed in his eyes as he stared at Dale. The message was clear: Kenny might agree with Dale, but Lauren came first, no matter what.

Dale stepped back and ran a shaking hand through his hair. His hand was actually shaking! Hell, his whole body was shaking. From frustration and anger and a lethal mix of other emotions, too dark to examine.

It should have never gotten to this point. Never.

Yet here they were, and there was nothing any of them could do. Nothing at all. The time for action had come and gone long ago, back when Lindsay had first started acting out. Back when doing something could have made a difference.

Lauren stiffened, her face paling even more as she looked at something behind Dale. He turned, his gaze landing on his parents as they exited a room with Lindsay's attorney. His mother looked suddenly older, an expression of grief on the face that was so much like Lauren's—and in the eyes that were so much like Lindsay's. That same grief clung to his father, in the dejected slump of his broad shoulders and the detachment in his brown eyes—the eyes that Dale and Lauren had inherited. His father's hand was wrapped around her mother's, his grip tight. Dale briefly wondered who was supporting who. Did it matter? No, it didn't.

His parents approached them, defeat silently screaming on their faces. He looked over at the attorney, not daring to breathe as he waited for the words he knew was coming.

"She refuses to take the plea deal."

Lauren stepped beside him, her hand closing around his wrist. Dale didn't think she even realized she was doing it. She was so focused on the attorney that she probably didn't even feel the heavy weight of Kenny's large hand resting on her shoulder, offering his strength and support.

"So what does that mean? What happens now?" Lauren's voice shook, a quiver softening the edges of each word. The attorney looked at each of them and Dale thought he saw something like frustration in the man's eyes.

"We go to trial as scheduled. The prosecutor will present his case and he may or may not call each of you as a witness." His gaze rested on Lauren, softening for a brief second. "Of the three of you, I think he'd probably call you, Lauren. Yours would be the most damaging testimony. Your sister opted for a bench trial, against my recommendation. I could have played to a jury's sympathy, made it more personal in the hopes of an acquittal. With a judge, I doubt that will happen."

The muscle in Dale's jaw twitched, an ache throbbing just below his ear from clenching his teeth together so hard. He forced himself to relax, forced himself to take a steadying breath. "So this is it, then?"

"I'm afraid so. I don't expect it to take long. Your sister admitted what she did, and there's very little I can offer in the way of defense."

"And sentencing?"

"That will be up to the judge but considering the charges against her, I wouldn't say that five years is unlikely."

Their mother gasped, a short wail of grief and disbelief cut off too early. Dale looked over at her, at the tears in her eyes and pasty hue on her face. His gaze moved to his father, at the stony expression and clenched jaw, as if he refused to allow himself to feel any emotion. Only his damp eyes gave him away.

Dale shoved his hands into this pockets and turned back to the attorney, asking a question he should have already known the answer to. "And if she takes the deal?"

"A year. With time served, she'd be out in eight months."

Dale clenched his jaw again. Anger and confusion warred within him, fighting and scraping until he felt raw inside. Why wouldn't she take the deal? What the fuck was wrong with her?

"I want to talk to her." The words, cold and demanding, left his mouth before he knew he was going to say them. Lauren stiffened beside him again, her hand tightening around his arm. He looked over at her, saw the worry in her eyes. His stomach tightened and lurched and he had to swallow back the acid burning his throat. What the hell did Lauren think he was going to do? Did she really think he was going to make things worse? That he was going to go in there and lay into Lindsay?

Yes, that was exactly what she thought. He could see it, a reflection of fear so clear in her eyes. He pulled his arm away and looked back at the attorney. "I want to see Lindsay."

The man didn't say anything for a long minute. None of his thoughts were reflected on the smoothness of his face, in the cool emptiness of his eyes. He glanced down at his expensive watch then nodded. "We have a few minutes."

Dale followed him up the hall, back to the room his parents had just left moments before. The attorney opened the door then stood back, motioning for Dale to enter. Only then did he realize that the man had no intention of following him in. What the hell? Did he think Dale could accomplish something the rest of them couldn't? Or did he realize it was a hopeless battle and didn't want to waste his time?

Dale hesitated on the threshold, wondering what he was doing. He hadn't seen Lindsay since her bail hearing, hadn't wanted to see her. Why the sudden urge to see her now? Was it to talk some sense into her, or for some other reason?

He took a deep breath and stepped into the room. The door closed behind him with a quiet click and he almost jumped, then swore to himself as he looked around. It was nothing more than a conference room, with fluorescent lighting attached to aged and stained ceiling tiles. The walls were painted a sober industrial gray, the floor tiles a lighter shade of the same color.

He'd been expecting something different. Something a little fancier maybe, a little warmer. The room didn't even come close to what he'd pictured, like something from one of the many crime and court dramas on television now.

It looked more like the kitchen at work, minus the wall of windows and television set. Strictly designed for basic function and nothing more. A long table took up most of the room, surrounded by a handful of sturdy chairs. But Lindsay wasn't sitting at the table. She was standing in the corner, leaning against the wall, her arms folded across her.

Had he imagined the lost expression on her face? Or was that only what he wanted to see, behind her mask of defiance?

He moved over to the table and pulled a chair out but didn't sit in it. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the table and braced his foot on the seat of the chair. He faced his sister, his own arms crossed in front of him in a mirror image of Lindsay.

They stared at each other as time stretched around them, vibrating with tension. She looked different. Thinner. The dress pants were too loose, the blouse a little too big as it hung from her shoulders. Her perpetual tan was gone, long ago faded to reveal paler skin. Even her hair was different. A little shorter, he thought, although maybe that was just from the way her hair was pulled back into a neat clip at the base of her neck. The color wasn't the same, though; the blonde wasn't as bright or vibrant and no longer looked as if it had been kissed by the sun.

But her attitude was the same, all pure Lindsay. Like it was just her against the world and everyone else be damned. As long as she got what she wanted, everyone else could go to hell.

She hadn't always been like that, though. When had it changed? When had the impish laughing child turned into the hard woman standing in front of him, meeting his glare head-on? He didn't know, couldn't remember. There was a seven-year age difference between them. Dale had been headstrong, determined, independent. He hadn't had the time or the inclination to worry about a baby sister who always seemed to get in the way when he was a teenager. Then he had moved out, started working for the fire department, focused on living his own life. And he had drifted even further apart from the sister he had nothing in common with. It wasn't like it was with Lauren, who shared his personality, his love of sports and action and adventure.

Had he even tried? He couldn't remember if he had or hadn't. And did it make a difference?