Page 26 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

Tremaine immediately dropped to his hands and knees and began howling. Kip laughed hysterically and started hopping around, yipping like a Chihuahua.

“Okay, that’s it. Everybody out. If you’re not gone in the next two minutes, no lessons this weekend.”

The boys raced out of the kitchen. Fred looked down at the splash of tomato puree on his T-shirt. Very suave. Rachel probably always hung out with men who had food all over their clothes. He left the pan on a low simmer, checked to make sure the pasta water wasn’t boiling yet, and dashed into his bedroom, stripping off his stained T-shirt on the way.

When the doorbell rang, he called, “Be there in a second,” and grabbed a loose black long-sleeved shirt, with a T-shirt already nested inside, off the back of his chair. The arms were still inside out. He’d worn it for only an hour yesterday; it should be clean enough. The best he could do at the last minute. Hurrying back to the living room, he tried to put the shirt to rights as he went. He was still trying to get the sleeves untangled when a laughing voice surprised him.

“I wasn’t sure I had the right house at first. I wasn’t really expecting a doorman.”

He glanced up sharply. Rachel stood just inside the still-open door, a sleek border collie at her side. Kip was standing proudly next to her, his hand on the doorknob. He kept sweeping deep bows as if Rachel were visiting royalty.

“That’s enough, Kip. You can stop now,” he told the boy. “And you can close the door.”

Kip enthusiastically shut the door.

“With you on the outside,” Fred said through gritted teeth. He transferred his gaze to Rachel. She looked mouthwatering in a deep burgundy, clingy kind of top, with her hair loose to her shoulders. One hand held her dog’s leash, the other a grocery bag.

“Hi,” he said, realizing at that moment that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Because, of course, his shirt was still bunched up in his hands.

“Wardrobe assistance!” called Jackson, striding in from the living room. “You said you didn’t need help, dude. Looks to me like you need lots of help.”

“I don’t need help,” he ground out. “You guys are supposed to be gone. Neighbor kids,” he told Rachel. “They, uh …”

Just then something came flying through the air with an inhuman shriek. Fred tossed his shirt over his shoulder and raised his hands to deal with the unknown threat.

In a blur of black sweat suit, Tremaine was sailing through the air, one foot aimed squarely at Fred’s jaw. He must have jumped from the coffee table or something, because usually he couldn’t reach higher than mid-chest. Fred quickly assumed a fighting stance. “Nice move, terrible timing,” he told the kid as he deflected, flipped and set him on his feet. Tremaine stood, dazed, as if he didn’t know what had hit him. He feinted another attack move, but Fred got him in a headlock so he couldn’t do any more damage.

At the same time, he put out a hand to stop Jackson’s somersaulting approach, catching him with a firm palm to the forehead. “Let me guess. You guys are helping me impress Rachel with my martial arts prowess. Have you forgotten you’re only ten? You’re making me look bad, not good.”

He released them both. They hung their heads and scuffed their feet on the floor.

“But I appreciate the effort,” he added, since he couldn’t bear to see them look so downcast.

Tremaine, rubbing his shoulder, revived. “He can beat grown-ups too,” he told Rachel eagerly. “We watched him beat up a guy at the gym, it was sick.”

“That’s, uh …” Rachel seemed at a loss for words. He couldn’t say for sure how she was reacting, because he was afraid to look at her. In fact, he wouldn’t be at all surprised if she ran out the door the second it was cleared of blockading kids.

Instead, he looked around for his shirt. Jackson gathered it up, neatly separated the T-shirt from the outer shirt, and presented them with a bow.

“Thank you.” He pulled on his T-shirt, which made him feel more in command of the situation. “Now can you guys please go? Remember what I said before.”

“That you didn’t need help. That’s okay. You didn’t mean it,” said Tremaine confidently. “Ma’am, you tell him.”

“Um …” she said, looking completely at sea.

“Out,” said Fred firmly, and corralled the boys out the front door. Rachel stepped aside so they could pass.

“Is that ice cream?” Kip yelled. He had an unerring nose for sweets.

“New York Super Fudge Chunk, Chubby Hubby, and Cherry Garcia,” Rachel answered. She looked relieved to finally be on familiar ground. “And I promise that we’ll leave you some leftovers, since you’ve been such good butlers and doormen.”

If anything was guaranteed to cement their approval, that was it. They skipped out the front door, hooting and hollering, and shot across the street to their own house. The last thing Fred heard was “He’s going to get some, for sure!”

Cringing, Fred shut the door firmly, then locked it. Then slid the deadbolt, which he normally never used, into place. “I’m really sorry about that.” He turned to face her, expecting either shock or horror, or some combination. Courtney had been appalled by the Sinclair boys and their nonstop energy.

---