Page 33 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

“Have you and your girlfriend ever considered counseling?” Fred asked once he’d lowered himself into the tree. He did a quick assessment of Diego’s condition, but didn’t see anything beyond scrapes and a cut over his eye. “I’m going to fasten this harness around you. Keep holding on to the tree,” he instructed.

“You think that would help, sir? Mi madre says Kelly is just crazy. But you know what they say, crazy in the head, crazy in bed.”

“Sure, but is that the kind of relationship you want?” He secured the harness around Diego, then pulled the line as a signal to the others to pull him up.

“Very good question, señor. I ask myself this, as I sit in this tree, one inch from certain death. Is she worth my life? Maybe I shouldn’t have flirted with her sister.”

“Really, you think so? All right, you’re going to get hoisted up to the overpass now. Hang on. I’ll be right behind you.”

Diego kept getting caught in the branches, and Fred had to do some impromptu chopping with his knife. Sweat was pouring down his face by the time Diego swung free from the branches. The crew pulled Fred up next. As soon as he stepped over the guardrail, Diego grabbed him in a bear hug.

“Gracias, gracias,” he kept saying, tears rushing down his cheeks.

“De nada.” Fred shook his hand, trying to put things on a more professional footing. “Don’t forget the counseling.”

“Sí, señor. Whatever you say.”

Fred turned to find himself face to face with a camera and a smug Ella Joy. “The Bachelor Hero strikes again,” she said into her mic. “Fred Breen, what can you tell us about this life-or-death situation? Witnesses say you saved this poor man from plunging to a gruesome death.”

“No hablo inglés,” he said as he brushed past her.

Some of the other crew members cracked up. He heard Ella address the victim. “What do you have to say to your rescuer?”

“I want to say, Kelly, baby, I love you and I’m sorry, mi amor.”

Fred smiled as he stowed his lines and harness into his bag. Take that, Ella Joy.

When he got back to the station, he found out that several people had called. The messages included the usual flirtatious invitations, a call from Courtney, and one from Rachel. She had, miracle of miracles, actually left her phone number.

He hesitated a moment before calling her back. On the one hand there was that urgent attraction and even fascination. Even the sight of her name on the slip of paper made his blood run hot. On the other hand, he didn’t need any more drama. He’d reached his quota with Courtney.

In the end, there wasn’t really any question. He dialed the number.

“Can you come to my place?” she asked without much preamble. “I really need to talk to you.”

“Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine. I … I’ll explain when you get here.”

“I’m working until tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll have breakfast waiting. Pepperoni pizza okay?”

“Cute, very cute. Fine, I’ll swing by after work.” She gave him the address. He stuffed it in his pocket and refused to think about it until the next morning.

Unfortunately, by the next morning he was a sleep-deprived zombie. The crew had kept busy with call after call. And when he wasn’t out on a call, he was receiving platters of baked goods from the residents of San Gabriel. Oddly, they all seemed to be female.

So when he strode to the front door of 100 Vista Drive, it didn’t register at first that he was looking at a building more suitable for Los Angeles or New York than humble San Gabriel. It was all glass and steel. It even had a doorman, a grizzled African-American fellow who seemed to be expecting him. The doorman guided him to the elevator and pushed a button. The elevator whisked him up on silent, whizzing pulleys, then whispered to a stop at the top floor.

The elevator button panel called it the penthouse. Fred had never been in a penthouse before.

Rachel was waiting for him at the open door of the only apartment on the floor. Even in this state of advanced fatigue, he appreciated the sight of her forest-green leggings, loose yoga-type top, and bare feet.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, her gaze darting behind him. Was she nervous? What did she have to be nervous about? She lived in a mansion, or the apartment building equivalent of one.

“You mentioned breakfast,” Fred said. “I hope that includes coffee, because I’m wiped.”

“Of course. Rough night? I saw you on TV.”

He held up a hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“It wasn’t that bad. They only called you Bachelor Hero twice.”

He smiled, and she beckoned him inside.

For a surreal moment, he wondered if he was still asleep and having some kind of very weird dream. Everything inside her apartment was pristine and perfect and looked like it cost a million dollars. The coffee table seemed to be formed of some rare metallic substance with speckles of glitter embedded in it. The rug was so soft and plush, it was probably hand-woven cashmere from wild goats roaming the Himalayas. Everywhere he looked, something impossibly expensive and luxurious stared back.

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