Loe raamatut: «Braving The Heat»

Chapter 1

Standing at a prep counter in the Escape Club kitchen, Kenzie Hughes stuffed the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth and added her plate to the rack loaded for the dishwasher. She thanked the cook and slipped the strap of her backpack over one shoulder. Pausing at the doorway to the main floor, she scanned the empty stage, looking for Grant Sullivan, owner of the establishment.

The extra personnel Grant had brought on for the summer concert series were resetting for the evening show. Leaving them to cover her workload through the afternoon changeover didn’t sit well with Kenzie, but her landlord had called. She had only a few more hours to clear out whatever she didn’t want exposed to termite fumigation and the dust and debris from the repair process.

If she hustled she could get to her apartment and back again before the doors opened for the evening session. That would please her as much as it would please Grant. It wasn’t as if she had anything better to do with her time, other than finding an affordable place to crash for a couple weeks.

Though her pay from the Philadelphia Fire Department had continued during her current administrative leave, storage units and short-term room rentals added up fast. She’d asked both her union representative and her lawyer if she could visit her mom in Delaware while her apartment was out of commission, and been told she had to stay in Philly. Both the union rep and her lawyer implied that her leaving town could be perceived as an admission of guilt.

“Can’t have that,” she muttered to herself.

If there was anything Kenzie dreaded more than the potential outcome of her current legal trouble, it was having nothing productive to do while she waited out the process.

She had, in fact, been cleared of any wrongdoing during a PFD investigation that followed a complaint from a man she’d rescued from a fire. He’d claimed her incompetence had resulted in minor injuries that could have been avoided. Just when she thought she’d be back on the job, the victim had filed a civil suit against her personally. She knew she wasn’t guilty of any error in the process of saving his life. The victim disagreed. Loudly, publicly and constantly.

Stop, she ordered herself. Dwelling on the negative situation only fouled up her mood. The jerk didn’t have a case at all. If he had, the PFD would have fired her outright weeks ago. Her lawyer assured her most civil cases settled out of court; it was simply a matter of working the case and being patient with the system. Oddly enough, the only place Kenzie successfully exercised patience was while working emergency calls and fires.

Unable to find Grant, she tracked down Jason Prather at the bar. The latest full-time addition to the Escape Club, Jason was the closest thing Grant had to an assistant manager. Tall and wiry, bordering on skinny, he, too, had a few years with the PFD on his résumé. Whenever she looked at him, she thought he could pass as a front man for one of the bands that came through if he’d let his thick black hair grow out.

“If Grant asks, will you remind him I went to clear out my apartment? I should be back in time for opening tonight.”

Jason gave her a long look over the tablet he was using to record inventory. “You need any help? I can send—”

“No, thanks. I’ve got it,” she managed to reply. If she said anything else, she’d probably break down in a puddle of frustration. Grant was doing enough for her already, keeping her busy with this job. She refused to impose on anyone else.

Hurrying out of the club and across the street, she cringed at the sight of her road-weary compact sedan. Though the primer-and-rust color scheme was a fright, it ran, and that was the important thing. And it was paid for. She’d sold her car and paid cash for the rust-bucket sedan so she could redirect her previous car payment to her legal fees for the civil case. When she didn’t have those extra expenses anymore, she could go back to a better car. One with a powerful engine and serious sex appeal, she thought, indulging in a quick fantasy of a classic American muscle car.

As if. Although owning a classic Camaro was on her bucket list, this case meant it would be a long time before she’d be able to make that kind of investment.

After unlocking the driver’s door, she tossed her backpack into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. She turned the key in the ignition, expecting the sputter and catch of the small engine, but hearing silence instead.

“No.” She dropped her head to the steering wheel, almost ready to give in to the threat of tears she’d been fighting off all week. Her apartment closing, if only temporarily, the civil suit claiming she was unfit for firefighting, and now a car that wouldn’t start.

Crying over this heap of metal was pointless, but it was one obstacle too many right now. She ruthlessly swiped away the lone tear rolling down her cheek. It wasn’t the potential expense of repairs, though cash was currently tight. No, what upset her more was the idea of asking another friend or family member for more help. Her independence had taken enough of a beating lately. Here she was at thirty years old, feeling less self-sufficient now than when she’d crossed the stage for her high school graduation. Unlike so many of her peers, back then she’d had clear goals and a clear path planned to reach them.

“This is not happening.” She tried the ignition again, got the same result.

With a colorful oath, she removed the key and pulled the hood release. After slamming out of the car, she raised the hood and stared into the filthy engine. Her father, a car aficionado and passionate weekend race car driver, might have wept at the sight. He’d taught her everything he knew about cars and engines, and when she’d bought this one, it had been functional, if ugly. The new battery she’d installed after the purchase was the only clean thing in view. With a critical eye, she assessed the rest of the machinery, looking for an obvious problem.

“It has to get better,” she said aloud, willing herself to believe the words.

Life hadn’t been perfect. She’d experienced her share of sorrows to offset the celebrations and happy milestones of being an independent adult. Overall, she’d been content through both the highs and lows. Until the last fire she’d worked, three months ago, turned into a difficult rescue and ongoing nightmare. Though she tried to ignore it, a small voice inside her head wondered again if that would be the last fire she ever fought.

“All of this will pass.” Just like every other pain, challenge and setback she’d faced. She calmed herself with the assurance that she’d be back at the firehouse, back with her crew on the truck soon. She couldn’t afford to let her mind wander away from anything less than her ideal outcome.

Returning to the driver’s seat, she turned the key again, listening for clues. Was it the alternator or starter? It couldn’t be a broken fuel gauge. She’d just filled up with gas yesterday. “Come on, baby, tell me what’s wrong,” she said to the car. “We’ve got things to do.”

If she didn’t figure this out, she’d leave Grant shorthanded during what was sure to be a packed house tonight. She shook the steering wheel. Sure, Grant might understand, but that wasn’t the point. Letting people down, shirking commitments wasn’t how she operated. Besides, working at the Escape Club distracted her, filling all the empty hours while the PFD kept her off the job.

As tears threatened again, she jerked the rearview mirror around and glared at her reflection. “You are a firefighter,” she said to the moody face in the mirror. She pushed the wisps of hair that had escaped her braid behind her ears. “You’re one of the best,” she said, willing away the doubt in the blue eyes staring back at her.

And if you lose the case and your career is over, who will you be?

She was really starting to hate that pesky negative voice that kept sounding off. Shoving the mirror back into place, she tried to start the car once more. Instead of getting anything out of the engine, she heard a knock on the window. She jumped in the seat, startled to see Mitch Galway on the other side of her open door. Her friend, part-time Escape Club bartender and fellow firefighter, Mitch had suggested she ask Grant for a job to help her through her current crisis. Momentary crisis.

“Car trouble?” he asked, tipping his head to the exposed engine.

“It won’t turn over.”

“Let me hear it.” He signaled her to try again. Mitch knew cars and often helped his older brother with custom restorations at the Galway Automotive shop over in Spruce Hill. At the lack of response, he frowned and walked out of sight behind the open hood.

She silently prayed he could help as she checked the time. If she didn’t make it to her apartment soon, all her belongings would be out of reach for at least two weeks. The last thing she needed was the expense of buying a new wardrobe.

“Any ideas?” she asked as she joined him. “I know it has gas in the tank.”

He frowned at the engine. “In that case, my first guess is an alternator,” he said. “You need a good mechanic?”

“I am a good mechanic,” she reminded him. Or she had been when her dad was alive. With the right tools and time, she could probably sort this out on her own. Too bad she didn’t have either.

“True.” He dropped the hood back down and dusted off his palms. “You know I can hook you up,” he said with a quick smile.

“What I need is a good car.” She explained the dwindling time issue to Mitch. “I never should’ve waited until the last minute to do this.” She didn’t share the still more embarrassing fact that she had no idea where she would stay tonight or any night until she could go back to her apartment. Mitch had offered his spare room to her last week, but she’d turned him down. Newlyweds, he and his wife didn’t need her underfoot.

Mitch tossed her the keys to his truck. “Go get your stuff,” he said. “I’ll call my brother and get your car towed to the shop.”

Dollar signs danced through her head. Maybe she could trade labor for parts or something if his brother was amenable. “I’m not sure—”

“We’ll figure it out,” he said, waving off her concerns before she could name them all. “Get going.”

“All right.” Arguing with him to save a smidge of pride only robbed her of more time. “Thanks.”

She grabbed her backpack and dashed over to Mitch’s truck. She appreciated his generosity as well as his gracious acceptance of her circumstances. Everyone on the PFD knew she was in over her head with the civil suit and working every available hour at the Escape Club to pay for a decent lawyer to defend her.

A former firefighter himself, the plaintiff, Randall Murtagh, knew better than most people what should be done during a rescue. That he’d made it nearly impossible for her to save him didn’t seem to have any relevance to his injuries, in his mind. A card-carrying member of the old guard who believed only men were capable of pulling people out of burning buildings, he made no secret of the fact that he wanted women drummed out of the ranks. If he couldn’t get all the females off the PFD with this case, he seemed hell-bent on making her a prime example against equal opportunity employment.

And there she was dwelling on the negative again. She couldn’t control his issues, only her response, and she wouldn’t let a jerk like Murtagh take any more chunks of her life.

Fortunately, she was soon distracted, packing all the belongings she cared to take as swiftly as possible. She crammed clothing and linens into two suitcases, boxed up her stand mixer and kitchenware, and filled two more boxes with family pictures and hand-me-downs that were irreplaceable. Per the instructions from the landlord, she labeled her bed and dresser, the only furnishings she’d added to the apartment when she moved in, and locked the door.

An intense, inexplicable sadness came over her as she secured the last box in the truck bed. This wasn’t an ending. It wasn’t as if she’d been evicted. That would come later, if she lost her job. This was one more untimely circumstance in a life that had suddenly been filled with high hurdles.

With a final glance at the lovely old building she’d called home, she headed back to the club and a long shift that would keep her mind and body busy for the rest of the night.

* * *

At Galway Automotive the phone rang, a shrill sound interrupting the throbbing pulse of the heavy metal music filling the garage. Under the back end of a 1967 Camaro SS, Stephen Galway used the voice control to lower the volume on the music. At an hour past closing on a Friday, he wasn’t obligated to answer the phone, but a heads-up for what problems might be showing up tomorrow never hurt.

“Pick up, Stephen. It’s Mitch.” His brother’s voice wasn’t nearly as soothing as the heavy metal had been. The oldest of Stephen’s younger siblings, Mitch was the one who consistently refused to let him stay off the family radar for too long.

“I know you’re there,” Mitch pressed.

Where else would he be?

“He’ll come through,” Mitch promised in an undertone to someone on his end of the call.

“Not your job to make promises for me, little brother,” Stephen muttered.

“Pick up,” Mitch said, bossy now. “I’ve got a friend here at the club with car trouble. Tow it out of the employee parking lot and we’ll come by and look it over when I have time tomorrow.” He gave the make, model and license plate number of the car.

Huh. Stephen rolled out from under the Camaro, wiping grease from his hands. His brother knew as much about cars as he did. If Mitch couldn’t get his friend’s car rolling, there was a serious problem. Still, he didn’t pick up, waiting to see if his brother would sweeten the deal.

Mitch swore. “Come on, Stephen. The club has your kind of group onstage tonight. I’ll buy you a beer and help you hook up the car.”

Stephen picked up the handset. “I’ll head over.” He glanced down at his stained T-shirt and jeans. The customer waiting on the Camaro wasn’t in any rush, preferring this rebuild and restoration be done perfectly rather than by a specific date. If only they could all be that patient, Stephen thought. “Give me an hour or so.”

Dropping the receiver back into place, he scowled at his stained hands and T-shirt. Promised beer or not, if he wanted inside the Escape Club during business hours he had to clean up. He put his work space to rights and lowered the bay door. The Camaro would be waiting when he returned.

He walked through the office and around to the refurbished camper he’d parked behind the building. Not that long ago, he would’ve headed to the house he once shared with Mitch, but his brother and Julia, his recent bride, had eventually settled there after their honeymoon.

Stephen had promised his mom he’d find a decent house somewhere near the shop. It was a good neighborhood. Instead, he kept taking on more work, limiting his time to search. The last time he’d gone house hunting had been with his fiancée, Annabeth. Even after three long years he still couldn’t walk a property without hearing in his head how she’d react.

Last year, when his parents had suggested he move back home with them, he’d bristled. He hadn’t taken it any more gracefully when Mitch and Julia swore he wouldn’t be in their way. The newlyweds didn’t need a big brother crowding them. His parents didn’t need him returning home when they could all but taste the empty nest. His youngest sister, Jenny, was almost ready to spread her wings.

Although they meant well, there were days when he was sure he’d drown under all the love and good intentions of his family.

Losing Annabeth before they’d had a chance to experience the life they’d dreamed of didn’t make him an invalid. He maintained a successful business and supported the PFD and other causes in the community that mattered to him. Stephen continued to give special attention to the after-school program where his fiancée had worked, and where three years ago she’d been shot and killed for having the audacity to help kids avoid gangs and drugs.

He’d long since given up on shedding the melancholy that hovered like a storm cloud over his life. What his family wanted for him and what he knew he could handle were two different things. He didn’t bother trying to convince them anymore. Work was all the sunlight he needed. Cars and engines he could understand, fix and make new again. People were too fragile, himself included. In his mind, that was all the rationalization necessary for the old Airstream trailer he’d purchased. After months of work, inside and out, he considered it home, though he wasn’t yet brave enough to use the word within his mother’s hearing.

As the oldest, he really should get more respect for his good judgment, if only by default.

Having washed off the pungent smells of the shop, he debated briefly about clothing. He’d prefer shorts on a summer night, but since he was going to hook up a car, he opted for jeans and a red polo shirt. When he finally reached the club, he found room for the tow truck near the back of the employee parking lot across the street. With the Escape Club perched at the end of the pier, few cars were granted the prime spaces on busy nights. No one emerged from a parked car or otherwise expressed any interest in his arrival, so he walked down to the club.

On the rare occasions his brother got him here, Stephen couldn’t help but admire what Sullivan had made out of his forced early retirement and an old warehouse. He’d never heard anyone question Sullivan’s choices, or express worry over what he was or wasn’t doing with his life. Though admittedly, a club naturally was a more social environment than an auto shop. People came from all over for the bands the Escape Club drew to Philly.

Striding straight to the front of the line, Stephen realized maybe he had more in common with Sullivan than he thought. Galway Automotive was building a solid reputation and people were calling from all over the region to get their cars on his restoration schedule.

“Unless you hire a female mechanic, you’ll never meet a nice girl under the hood of a car.” His mother’s voice broke into his thoughts. Myra Galway had a way of saying things that slid right past his defenses and lingered, mocking him with her maternal logic. If only his mom would admit there was more to life than filling lonely hours with pointless chatter with women who sneered at his stained fingernails and the rough calluses on his palms.

At the burly doorman’s arched eyebrow, Stephen gave his name and was quickly waved inside.

The bold, heavy sounds of the metal band onstage slammed into him and battered away at the discontent that persistently dogged Stephen since his fiancée’s death. He leaned into the music, weaving through the crowd until he reached Mitch’s station at the service end of the bar, closer to the kitchen.

His brother eyed him and popped the top off a bottle of beer, setting it in front of him between serving other patrons. Good. Stephen wasn’t in much of a talking mood. The delayed conversation was no surprise, considering the sea of humanity supporting the band from all corners of the club.

“Took you long enough,” Mitch said at the first lull between customers. “You might be here awhile.”

Stephen checked his watch. He’d said an hour or so and had hit the mark precisely. “How come?” he asked, though he didn’t care about the time, since the band was as good as Mitch had promised.

“No way I can get out there right now. This set just started.”

Stephen shrugged and swiveled around on the bar stool to watch the band. They were good, from the sound to the showmanship. He was enjoying the music, the process of being still and people-watching. Waitresses in khaki shorts and bright blue T-shirts emblazoned with the Escape Club logo brushed by him with friendly glances and quick greetings as they exchanged trays of empty bottles and glassware for the fresh orders Mitch filled with startling efficiency. From Stephen’s vantage point everyone in the club seemed to be focused on excellent customer service. Sullivan had definitely created an outstanding atmosphere.

“Do you always ignore the signals?” Mitch asked when another waitress walked off, tray perfectly balanced.

“What are you talking about?”

Mitch shook his head. “Signals from interested women,” he said. “If you’d pay attention, you’d see it for yourself.”

“Please. Not you, too.” Stephen glared at his little brother. “You know I’ve got too much work to spare time for dating.”

“Uh-huh.” Mitch slid another city-wide special across the bar to a customer and marked the tab. “Then I’m sorry I called you. Another beer?”

“Water,” Stephen answered, then checked his watch again. The band would probably take a break soon. He drained the glass of water Mitch provided and pushed back from the bar. “Tell your friend I’m waiting out in the truck. No rush. Thanks for the beer.”

“Stephen, wait.”

Not a chance. What was it with married people? His parents and married siblings were ganging up on him lately, and being relentless about it. Was there some statute of limitations on grief he didn’t know about? He’d tried believing that crappy philosophy of it being better to have loved and lost, and couldn’t pull it off. He’d loved, he’d lost everything and it sucked.

They kept wanting him to be happy, checking in on him week after week, never letting it rest. Was he happy? He didn’t know. At this point he wasn’t sure he cared about happiness. Business was good. Booming, in fact. If that was enough happiness for him, his family should back off. Not everyone got a happy ending. He’d accepted that hard truth; why couldn’t they?

“Hey! Stephen Galway?”

Nearly to the truck, he turned at the sound of his name. Recognizing the waitress uniform, he was tempted to ignore the slender blonde jogging his way with a long, ground-eating stride. His brother earned points for tenacity. Stephen made a note to punch him at the earliest opportunity.

“You are Stephen, right?”

“That’s right. And you are?” The lamp overhead cast her features in shadow, illuminating pale hair pulled back from her face. He remembered seeing her in the bar. She was the one with the long braid that fell to the middle of her back, and great legs anchoring that willowy body.