Once Burned (Firehouse Fourteen Book 1) (2 page)

"Mr. Lansing, I had a question about this assignment."

Nick paused in the middle of tossing files in the briefcase and closed his eyes at the sound of the soft voice, searching for patience. He mentally counted to ten, took another deep breath, then opened his eyes and faced the girl leaning in the doorway.

"Yes, Sheila. What is it?"

The girl straightened, a slight smile turning up the corners of a mouth overdone with lipstick, and took a few steps into the room. She perched one hand on her jean-clad hip and stared at him with a look entirely too old for her sixteen years. "For this report, do we have to actually read the book or can we just download the movie?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't even hear that." Nick turned back and added another file to the briefcase then closed it with a soft click, noticing from the corner of his eye that the girl made no move to leave. He sighed again, preparing to usher her from the room if necessary, but was stopped by a deeper voice that boomed with authority.

"Move along, Ms. Curtis, or you'll miss the bus." The girl darted her eyes at the newcomer then turned and left the room with a stomp of one foot, mumbling under her breath. Nick was too far away to catch the words, but apparently Chris wasn't. He rolled his eyes in the direction of the retreating student then quirked an eyebrow at Nick. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Catch the attention of every female between six and sixty. Is there no one immune to your charms?"

Nick stared at his friend and colleague Chris Dalton, opened his mouth for a comeback then thought better of it. He lowered himself into the worn desk chair with a weary sigh. The metal creaked under his weight, sounding nearly as decrepit as he felt. He reached up and tugged at the noose around his neck, sighing again as the knot of the tie loosened.

"Despite your faith in me, I do not attract as much attention as you think. And certainly not as much as you do."

Chris laughed, a deep booming noise that rumbled from his broad chest. Even though he was dressed in khakis, polo shirt, and tennis shoes, he looked exactly like what he was: a football player. Or rather, coach of Buckley High's football team, as well as head of the school's physical education department.

"Yes, well, you can't deny you get your fair share." Chris's laughter subsided and he leaned his massive frame against the desk edge, studying Nick with a shrewd amber gaze. "So, how's the house coming along? Need more help with anything?"

"No, it's just minor stuff now. The drywall guys finished yesterday, and the professional cleaners have been through the place from floor to ceiling. I swear I can still smell smoke on everything, though." Nick suppressed the urge to sniff his shirt in demonstration, knowing that the smell was only his imagination. "Hopefully the painters will have finished today, and I can get back to some sense of normalcy."

"Well, you're lucky. It could have been worse than it was, you know."

Nick muttered a noncommittal grunt, his focus on the pen that he was rolling back and forth between his palms. Chris was right, it could have been worse. The fire itself had been extinguished quickly, according to what he had been told. A few pieces of furniture downstairs had been destroyed and the walls of the room where the fire had been needed to replaced. There were a few walls upstairs that needed to be patched but that was it, other than the smoke damage throughout the rest of the house. Everything was covered by insurance, nothing sentimental had been destroyed, and his music equipment had been untouched and undamaged.

Yes, it could have been worse.

His stomach still clenched at last week's memory of arriving home only to discover that his house had caught fire. A small fire contained to a single downstairs room, he had been assured by the single uniformed man who had met him in the driveway. Nick briefly wondered if more people would have been on hand to greet him if the fire had been more catastrophic in nature, then shook the bitter thought away. It didn't take an army to deliver bad news, after all.

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.

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 thick 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."