Page 90 of The Night Belongs To Fireman

For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe he’d been too hard on her.

He dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “I think I fucked up, Vader.”

“Let it out, dude. Let it out.”

If only he could talk about Rachel. But he couldn’t, not without betraying her privacy even more. Anyway, he was the problem, not her. “My whole life, I always looked up to my brothers, and guys like Captain Brody. They’re heroes, you know? Fuck, I’d put you on that list, and Chief Roman. Now everyone’s saying I’m the hero and it just feels wrong. Like I haven’t done enough to deserve it. I’m just a fireman, doing the job.”

Vader tossed a paperweight from one hand to the other. “Aw, poor baby.”

“What?” Fred’s head swung up.

Vader pushed his lower lip out, pouting like a two-hundred-fifty-pound infant. “Is a little media circus too much for widdle Fweddie? Are those big meanies giving you a rough time after school? Want me to make those big bad reporters leave you alone? Want me to beat them up for—”

Fred hurled himself across the desk, and suddenly Stan was barking and Vader was on his feet, shoving his face right up against Fred’s. “Did you ever think just doing the job is what it’s all about?” he growled. “You come in here every shift knowing you might have to do something crazy, like kick open the door on a house that might explode. So does everyone else in this firehouse. You saying they aren’t heroes?”

Alerted by the yelling, the rest of the crew was pouring into the office.

“What the hell’s going on here?” demanded the new battalion chief. “Breen, is that you? Mind letting go of your captain’s jugular?”

Vader stood, brushing Fred’s hands away from his neck as if they were cobwebs. He forced a big grin, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “Firefighter Breen and I were just reenacting his kidnapping. I was playing the part of Kale. How’d I do, Stud?”

Fred took a big step back, clenching and unclenching his fists. Even though Vader’s words were still tearing into him like bullets, he knew that his friend had just thrown him a lifeline. The battalion chief would not appreciate a firefighter attacking his captain. “You did awesome, Vader. Might want to keep your day job, though.”

“Planning on it. We also agreed that Breen needs a few more days to recover from his injuries. Right, Stud?” Fred nodded meekly.

Then Vader added quietly, “Breen doesn’t have anything to prove to me. Or anyone here.”

Fred stared at him for a long moment, then wheeled out of the office.

Breen doesn’t have anything to prove … You saying they aren’t heroes? The words kept flashing in his brain like a neon strip-club sign.

Vader, in his in-your-face way, had managed to pound a crazy new idea into Fred’s head. Was the big guy right, and it really was all about doing the job? The job he’d been doing all along?

He jogged down the dim corridor that led to the exit. Pushing open the side door that bypassed the apparatus bay, he blinked in the May sunshine.

Maybe he wasn’t not-quite-good-enough. Maybe he didn’t have anything to prove. Maybe Fred the Fireman didn’t have to take a backseat to anyone. Maybe he needed to get rid of the fucking monkey on his back.

Especially if it made him lash out at a wonderful girl who cared so much that she’d tried to rescue him. And he’d thrown that gift back in her face. Because he was an idiot. He remembered his crazy ideas about how to win a girl like Rachel. Feats of strength. Quests. Rachel had performed a goddamn feat of strength, and look what it had gotten her. A bunch of crap from him.

Could Rachel ever forgive him? He pulled out his phone to send her a text. Sorry, he wanted to say. I’m a moron. But that wasn’t enough. There was so much more to say. Too much for a text. Or a phone call. He had to see her. Had to tell her …

Hot damn. He had to tell her he loved her.

That moment in the elevator, the moment when he’d realized he loved her, came back to him with searing intensity. It was still true. Truer than ever. The whole thing with Kale had messed him up. Messed everything up. He’d acted like such an ass at her apartment. Would she even believe him?

He put a hand to his head, which had begun throbbing dully. The doctor was right; he needed to be back in bed. Putting away his phone, he shielded his eyes from the sun and headed across the parking lot. He had to get this right with Rachel. He’d already screwed things up enough.

Before he got into his car, he took a detour to the backyard to check out the hose tower. A bedsheet—yellow with ruffles, for Chrissake—stretched across the upper exterior portion of the tower. He couldn’t tell what ties they’d used, but they were frilly and elastic and resembled garters. In curling letters, traced in purple paint, he read the words, “Call us, Freddie!” along with a giant phone number. He was still mesmerized by this embarrassing work of art when the rumble of an engine made him glance toward the sky.

The Channel Six News chopper hovered overhead. Was that ridiculous banner going to be on the news tonight?

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