Page 50 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

“Come on, Rachel. Step right over him.”

Just to be safe, Rachel grabbed for the only thing that felt like a weapon, the dish of bar snacks. Gingerly she stepped over the spitting, cursing man.

“Stay close, Rachel,” Fred warned her. “I don’t want anyone else getting stupid ideas.” He addressed his immobilized opponent. “Are you going to be good, or do I have to tear a rotator cuff before I let you go?”

“I’ll sue.”

“You attacked first. Right now there’s no damage, but I can change that.” He gave one more little twist, then released the man.

“You’d better stay away from this place,” Cyclops threatened.

“I can live with that. Come on, Rachel.” Fred took her arm and hustled her toward the door. Everyone was watching them, peering through the haze. It wasn’t just cigarette smoke, she realized. Several customers were openly smoking weed. Maybe that’s why no one seemed very motivated to get up and make a brawl out of it.

When they were almost out the door, she glanced back and saw the gigantic Cyclops-man stumbling after them. “Fred!” She cried, then did the only thing she could think of. She flung the dish of pistachio-peas across the floor, where they made a skittering sound like a hundred tiny marbles. “Run!”

They ran for the door, hand in hand, and the last thing she saw was the Cyclops slipping on the rolling bar snacks, helplessly windmilling his leather-clad arms.

She collapsed into the Saab. Hysterical laughter came bubbling out of her mouth. “Did you … see his … face?”

Fred, breathing hard, started up the car. “I’m glad those snacks were good for something. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

She bounced up and down on the seat. “That was … I know it was dangerous and I hope he didn’t hurt you, but that was totally awesome.”

“So we can check grungy dive off your list? Please tell me yes.” He pulled away from the curb.

“Oh, I suppose,” she said, still flying from the adrenaline rush. “I don’t want to wear out my favorite bodyguard.”

His smoldering glance made her fly even higher. “I don’t wear out that easy.” The promise in his voice sent shivers down her spine. “Where to now? Tattoo parlor? Cockfight? Gang war?”

“Is the carnival still in town? I always wanted to go, but my father got an eye twitch every time I brought it up.”

“San Gabriel Fairgrounds, here we come.”

The brightly lit streets sped past. One beer, and she was already entering that expansive, carefree, babbling state.

“You have no idea how sick I get of being Rachel Allen Kessler,” she told Fred. “Sometimes I pretend I’m someone else. Someone who isn’t guarded and hunted and watched. I’ve thought about wearing a disguise so there’s no chance of anyone recognizing me.”

“What would you do?”

“Nothing too radical. Go out dancing. Play pool. Play bocce ball with the old guys in the park. Talk to people. That probably sounds dub.” She gave a hiccup. “I mean dumb.”

Fred shot her a sidelong look as he downshifted around a corner. “You’re a lightweight, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” she said cheerfully. “I really never, ever drink. Hey, do you think the carnival has bumper cars?”

Ten minutes later, Rachel was screaming with laughter as Fred slammed his car into hers. The guy was ruthless. And he liked to trash talk. “Bring it, rich girl,” he taunted as he pinned her car against the wall. “My eight-year-old neighbor drives faster than you.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet, Turbo.” She fought back, ramming her car against his until she won a little breathing room. “They’ll have to bring out the Jaws of Life when I’m done with you.” She zoomed off and he chased after her.

“All talk, no action,” he said as he nipped her bumper. “Better change your name to Rachel Roadkill.”

“Freddie Fender Bender,” she yelled over her shoulder. She yanked the wheel to the side and zipped around him, getting in a sneak sideswipe in the process.

“Prepare to surrender.”

By the time she gave in, tears of laughter were streaming down her face. Fred might be kindhearted, but he was viciously competitive when it came to bumper cars.

“You look so normal,” she complained, as they walked across the fairgrounds, sharing a bag of roasted peanuts. “Then you turn out to have this vicious competitive streak. Do you take all games this seriously?”

He shrugged, his wide shoulders rising and falling under his black T-shirt. The bright glare from a cotton candy booth turned his hair shining mahogany. “I’m a guy, I’m a Breen, and I’m a firefighter. You do the math.”

“Surrounded by testosterone,” she guessed.

“More like raised on a diet of one hundred percent testosterone.”

She peered at him as they sidestepped around a group of kids sporting face paint—a pirate, a ninja, a dragon. “Then how’d you end up with a sensitive side?”

“How do you know I have one?” He pulled her close as a teenager zoomed past on a skateboard.

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