Fan the Flames (26 page)

“I don't know if he'll be okay,” she said, figuring she'd probably say the wrong thing yet again but unable not to at least
try
to give him comfort. “If he does die, though, you are
not
alone. He's not all you have left. The entire fire department would lay down their lives for you…well, maybe not Joel Becker, but everyone else would for sure. And uh, me.”

“What about you?” His arms were still hanging at his sides, but she refused to let self-consciousness steal her nerve.

“You have me.”

“Yeah?” His voice was rough. Finally,
finally
, his arms wrapped around her, hugging her back. Although their gear was too thick and bulky to share body heat, Rory felt so much warmer than she had just seconds earlier.

“Yeah.” They stood in silence as Ian's brothers in all but blood fought to save his mother's house. “I still hope Julius doesn't die, though.”

With a shuddering sigh, Ian tightened his grip around her. “Me too.”

“I wish I could kick his a—ah, butt into a treatment center,” Ian grumbled.

Rory grinned at him.

He regarded her happy expression with suspicion. “What?”

“You're switching out your swears again.” She shrugged. “I know you're feeling better.”

After they spent a long, sleepless night in the hospital waiting area, the verdict was that Julius was not going to die—at least not from smoke inhalation. The doctors were concerned about the effects of his drinking, however. After the he'll-live-for-now update, Ian and Rory were able to relax a little for the first time since the previous evening's call had come over the radio.

Reaching over, he took her hand and pulled it into his lap. “Yeah, I am. Although now that I know Julius is going to live, I can be pissed at him again.”

She sighed. “It wouldn't work, anyway.”

“What wouldn't?”

“Forcing him into treatment.” She leaned against his shoulder, looking at their hands rather than his face. “If he's determined to drink, then he'll find a way to drink. It's like when he was suicidal. If he'd really wanted to kill himself, he would've found a way.” Although she felt his gaze, she didn't look up to meet it. Her nerves were too raw and exposed for eye contact.

“Your parents… They found a way, didn't they?”

With an affirmative shrug, she focused even harder on their intertwined fingers. Ian had nice hands, strong hands with enough scars and callouses to prove that he was useful. “They'd made up their minds that the end was near, and that it was going to be horrible. All that training to survive an apocalypse, and they didn't even try to see it through.”

His thumb stroked from the side of her wrist to the bottom of her thumb. “I'm surprised they left you to face it alone.”

Her choke of a laugh sounded pained, even to her own ears. “They tried not to.”

She felt his body jerk, but when he spoke, Ian's voice was even. “How?”

“They tried to make me see reason. For weeks, they talked and talked, trying to wear me down. I didn't get it, though. If the world disintegrated into a mess of misery and horror, then I would take stock and decide if I should continue living. They didn't even wait to see if that terrible event even happened, though. When I wouldn't bend, they decided to force me to bend.”

His arm was like iron under her cheek. Again, his steady voice didn't match the tension in his body. “What did they do?”

“Drugged my venison stew.” She could still taste the bitter edge of the already gamey food. “Luckily, I never really liked venison, so I'd pretend to eat it but end up sneaking most of it to Jack. I barely ate any of it that night, since it tasted especially bitter. When Jack wobbled to his feet, ran headfirst into the table leg, and passed out cold, it wasn't hard to figure out what they'd done—and what they still intended to do.”

“What'd you do?”

“Took Jack's unconscious body and ran.” She still had nightmares about that trip up the stairs and through the steel door into the shop, juggling the dog's dead weight. The locks had stiffened under her shaking hands, and she was certain her parents would catch her and drag her back down the stairs to the bunker they'd intended to turn into a coffin for three. “I didn't go far, just spent the night hiding in the pole barn. By the next morning, I'd talked myself into thinking they hadn't really meant to kill me. They were my
parents
. They loved me—I knew that. It's why I stayed for so long, despite their craziness. I figured the stew had probably just been bad or something.” Her laugh was hard and humorless. “I went back down to talk to them. I found their bodies in their bedroom.”

“Your mini Costco?”

“That's the one.”

“How'd they do it?”

“Poison. Belladonna. Like Belly said, they went old-school.”

Ian gave another little start. “She said that? That seems…not very tactful, even for Belly.”

“That's just Belly.” She shrugged. It hadn't bothered her, although she'd been so numb immediately after her parents' deaths that nothing seemed to affect her. “The poison thing was strange, though. It wasn't the original plan. Dad's SIG-Sauer P226 was next to them. I think they were planning to do a murder-suicide, but neither of them could shoot the other, so they went with the backup plan.”

“So they were going to shoot you?” His voice wasn't quite as calm and even anymore.

Her mind flinched away from the question. “I have to believe that they couldn't have done it.” It would hurt too much to think anything else.

His hands sandwiched hers tightly. “I don't think they would've gone through with it, either.”

Narrowing her eyes, she gave him a look. “Thanks for the support, but how could you say that? You didn't even know them.”

“Because I know you.” He met her gaze and held it. “I don't think anyone, much less your parents who loved you, could bring themselves to destroy someone so brave and smart and amazing.”

His logic was faulty, but she was too flustered by his words to say anything. Pressing her forehead against his shoulder, she hid while she regained her self-composure. “Thanks. Rave wouldn't have had a problem putting a big hole in me, though.”

“He was a useless assh—uh, piece of sh—garbage.” He huffed out a quiet laugh. “It's hard not to swear when I'm talking about Rave.”

“Yeah.” The movie of his death began looping in her mind. It had been a few days since she'd last dealt with the bloody replay, and Rory wondered if a lack of sleep and overabundance of stress had left her brain tired and vulnerable.

Breaking into Rory's morbid thoughts, the doctor reappeared—a tall brunette who radiated confidence and competence.

“Mr. Walsh, would you like to see your father now?”

He stood. Since he still held Rory's hand, he pulled her up with him.

The doctor's gaze flicked to Rory. “Family only, I'm afraid.”

Slightly relieved, Rory tugged her hand free. After her last confrontation with Julius, she didn't think seeing her at his bedside would be the healthiest thing for the injured patient. He'd probably have a stroke just at the sight of her. When Ian's lips flattened into a hard line, Rory knew he was about to argue. Shaking her head, she put a hand around his forearm and gave a gentle squeeze.

“It's fine,” she said quietly. “I'm not his favorite person right now, anyway.”

Although he didn't smile, the harsh cut of his mouth softened a little. “And I am?” he muttered, leaning close so only she could hear him.

“I don't think Julius would be happy to see anyone, unless that person had a flask in their back pocket.”

“True.” His eyes emptied, and Rory regretted saying that. In apology, she slid her hand down his arm and tangled her fingers with his.

“Ian. Even if he pretends otherwise, he'll be glad to see you. When I went to see him the other day, he was disappointed you weren't with me.”

His expression remained skeptical, but his fingers tightened around hers before releasing her hand. He turned to the doctor, who gave him a smile that was a little more flirtatious than Rory cared to see.

“I'll call the shop while you're visiting Julius,” she said, a little too loudly. “The
gun
store. That I
own
.” Rory focused a flat, warning look on the doctor, who appeared a touch startled.

Ian, however, seemed to be amused again. He brushed a quick kiss across Rory's cheek before returning to the doctor's side. The doctor kept any more smiles to herself as she escorted Ian out of the waiting area.

Once they disappeared, exhaustion hit Rory hard. She slumped into a chair, allowing her head to rest on the back of the seat. Everything that had happened—the intruders, Rave's death, Ian's arrest, Julius's accident—swirled around her brain, and she didn't have the energy to lock all the bad thoughts away in their assigned mental closets.

The burning behind her eyes and nose grew worse, until tears began to leak from her closed eyelids and draw wet lines down the sides of her face. With an impatient sound, she sat up and roughly scrubbed at her cheeks. Rory didn't cry. It was pointless and weak and wasted time. There was no solution to any problem that could be found in tears.

Taking a shaky breath, she closed her eyes again and mentally began to fieldstrip and reassemble a Ruger Mark III. Her hands moved slightly with her thoughts as she allowed the process to fill her brain, driving out the muddled chaos. Over and over, she repeated the familiar motions, until she was calm again.

“Ror?”

Ian's voice made her jump and snap open her eyes. “Hey.” She tucked her fingers beneath her thighs, a little embarrassed he'd caught her messing with an imaginary gun. “How's Julius?”

“Pretty doped up.” He grimaced. “He wasn't making much sense. Kept accusing me of burning his house down and other crazy things. A couple of times, he even thought I was Billy.”

“He's confused. He'll realize you saved him once he's off the painkillers.”

“Maybe.” Sinking into the chair next to her, Ian groaned. “Can we go home now?”

“You tell me.” Rory examined his tired face. “Did you want to stay in Denver so you can be here if Julius needs you?”

“Nah.” Grimness stiffened the lines of his face. “He'll be here at least overnight, and Squirrel said he'd come get him.”

“Okay. I can probably manage two hours of driving without falling asleep and killing us, but you'll need to stay awake to make sure I don't start drifting. You up for that, or should we get a hotel room?” Her face went hot. “Hotel rooms, I meant. Rooms. Plural.”

Although his chuckle was rough, it contained honest amusement. “If you'd kept it at one room, I would've taken you up on it. Let's head back up the mountain. I'll drive, though.”

“Sure?” Rory eyed his face as they both stood.

“Yeah.” He stretched before reaching for his coat.

As they walked toward the exit, Ian kept a light hand on the back of her neck. If this kind of casual touching was part of being in a relationship, Rory decided she could easily get used to it. When he pulled his hand away before they exited the main doors so he could don his gloves and hat, she frowned at the loss. Shaking off her disappointment, she pulled on her own gloves and reminded herself not to be clingy.

“I'm sorry I dragged you into my mess,” she said.

“What?”

“With Billy.” She turned toward the street where the Bronco was parked. Even in the predawn darkness, the temperature in Denver felt almost tropical after being in the frigid mountain storm the previous evening. “I feel like I robbed you of your family.”

Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her against him in a sideways hug. “No, you helped me see who my real family is. The Riders have changed. It's not the same club anymore. I just wish I could protect you better.”

“I'm pretty good at protecting myself.” Rory nudged him teasingly with her elbow, trying to lighten the conversation. “I'm a better shot than you, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” With his encircling arm, he gave her a playful shake. “What I remember is kicking your cute little butt on the range.”

“Uh-uh. Your male ego must be affecting your vision.”

“Didn't you promise me a rematch?”

“Anytime,” she said as he climbed into the Bronco. “Well, anytime if things ever calm down so I can get back to the shop and the range.”

He pulled out into the unusually quiet street. That was the advantage of driving during the predawn hours, Rory supposed—less traffic.

“I'm the one who should be sorry for sucking you into all of the club drama,” Ian said, concentrating on the red light in front of them.

“I started it,” she admitted. “You helped me during the burglary, so if anyone should be apologizing for sucking, it's me.” The double entendre struck her after the words had already emerged, and she was grateful for the sketchy illumination from the streetlights so Ian couldn't see her blush. She knew he'd caught her slip, though, because he was grinning.

“Never apologize for that,” he said, and she reached over to smack his upper arm. That just made him laugh.

“Hopefully, things will settle down and go back to normal soon. We're due for some boring normality.”

“We are due,” he said, his smile slipping off his face, “but that doesn't mean we'll get it.”

* * *

By the time they reached Simpson, the sky was barely lightening in the east, but the sun hadn't made an appearance yet.

“My place or yours?” Ian asked.

With a sigh, Rory said, “Yours. If we stop by the station for my keys, the guys will want to know all the details about Julius. Even though I already told Al the basics when I called him, it'll still take us an hour to get away from that bunch of Nosy Nellies.” Sleep was pulling at her so insistently that an hour seemed like an impossibly long stretch of time.

“Don't sound so excited about staying at my place,” Ian teased lightly, turning the Bronco in the direction of his house.

“It's just”—she made a face—“those
windows
.”

“Did you want the closet again?”

She did. She just didn't want to admit it.

“You do, don't you? That's fine. Your bed's still set up in there.” He grinned at her, and his teeth flashed whitely in the grainy dawn light. “We'll have to put a real bed in there if you keep sleeping over.”

Rory was blushing but not sure why she was embarrassed. It might have been talking with Ian about beds. “The sleeping bag's fine. I'm not picky.”

“Maybe not, but I like a real mattress.”

“So?”

“So”—he drew out the word suggestively—“I'd eventually like to sleep in the same bed as you again. Sometime in the future. When we reach that spot on the timeline.”