Into The Flames (Firehouse Fourteen Book 4) (11 page)

Angry. Frustrated. Bold.

The colors built, one upon the other. Light and dark. Bright and subtle. Each stroke contradicting the one before it. Each emotion clear and conflicting, staring back at her from the canvas.

Melanie stepped back, her chest heaving with each sharp breath. Her hand dropped to her side, the brush clenched between her sore, stained fingers. She blinked and wiped the tears from her cheek then laughed, the sound almost pitiful. Lonely.

She looked down at the brush, at the twisted and frayed bristles, and laughed again. Just a whisper of sound. Of disbelief and dismay. It was one of her favorite brushes and she had destroyed it, each angry stroke demanding more and more until it had nothing left to give.

Melanie tossed the brush to the work table then pushed the hair off her face with the back of her wrist. A streak of wetness chilled her forehead, just above her brow. No doubt a smear of paint. No matter how careful she was, she was always covered in paint when she was working. One quick glance at her skirt let her know now was no different. Blotches of vermilion and smears of onyx and cadmium orange covered the gauzy material, clashing with the blues and yellows that stained the skirt from the last time she had worn it.

She shrugged then grabbed a small towel, using it to wipe her hands until she could properly clear them. Then she took a deep breath and turned back to study the canvas.

It was…different. Again. Poignant and angry and afraid. The colors lashed out, screaming for release, begging for forgiveness. How odd that she should think of forgiveness when she looked at it, when the thought had never entered her mind while she'd been painting.

But then, she never consciously thought while she was painting. She felt. She saw and smelled and tasted. But she never thought. Her work was pure emotion, a reflection of hopes and dreams unrealized, an extension of fears and wishes and regrets and promises.

But this piece—and the pieces she had been painting for the last several weeks—were different. The emotion was there, but she was very much afraid it wasn't her emotion.

It was
his
.

Why did she have such a hard time with his name? She knew his name. Dale. A simple name for a complex man she didn't quite understand. A man she was afraid to understand.

A man she was dangerously attracted to. A man she had practically thrown herself at last night.

Yes, she really should stop thinking of him as…
him
.

He was Dale. A man who made her want things even as he frustrated her to no end. Like now, with the music blaring through the walls. Nothing like her music, soft and melodic and soothing. Inspirational. His music was hard and loud and almost angry, seething with energy.

Maybe that was the explanation for the fresh painting. Maybe she was channeling the energy from the AC/DC songs she was hearing instead of the man who was obviously blaring them inside his apartment.

If only she believed that.

Now that she was done painting, she became aware of the dull headache throbbing behind her eyes. She had no doubt that part of it was left over from her uncharacteristic overindulgence the night before. And part of it was certainly from the driving bass of the music that hummed through the walls.

Odd that she hadn't bothered to play her own music while she was painting. She hadn't needed to. Except now, she wanted the music to stop. Now that she was done painting, she needed quiet. Time to relax, to rest, to regain the energy she so often expended when she worked.

She thought about banging the wall, much like he did whenever she played her own music too loud. No. That would only result in hurting her hand. But her irritation grew with each passing second, escalating until she thought she'd go mad with it. She wanted the music to stop.

She needed it to stop.

Frustration made her storm out of the apartment, the door slamming behind her as she moved two steps to the left. She curled her hand into a fist and banged on the metal door, over and over, not caring if the neighbors heard.

What neighbors? It was late in the afternoon on a Friday. All the other neighbors were probably working, except for sweet Mrs. Lillian who loved downstairs and across the hall. Nobody else could hear.

Including, apparently, Dale.

Melanie groaned in impatience, the sound more like a growl. She banged the door again then pulled her foot back, wanting to kick the door in frustration. She stopped herself at the last minute, probably saving herself from the indignation of a broken toe.

The music screeched to a halt. The sound of heavy footsteps came from the other side, muffled but loud nonetheless. The door finally swung open with a ruthless force that made her jump.

Dale stood before her, his expression fierce, his scowl dark. She jumped again, but not because of his scowl. It was because of what he was wearing.

Or wasn't wearing.

He stood before her in nothing but a pair of loose gym shorts and shoes. The shorts hung low around his lean hips and her eyes drifted down, following the dark line of hair that moved from just below his navel before disappearing into the elastic waistband of the shorts.

She blinked, her mouth watering. She blinked again and forced herself to stop staring, forced herself to look into his eyes. Except her own eyes seemed to have their own agenda, travelling slowly upward, studying each inch of bare skin pulled tight across hard sculpted muscle. A fine sheen of sweat covered all that bare skin. She noticed the way his broad chest rose and fell, the way his flat nipples puckered as she watched. She curled her hands into fists and shoved them behind her back, very much afraid of the urge to run her palms all over his slick skin.

"What do you want, Smurfette?" His voice was a low growl, deep and rough. She swallowed again and forced her gaze to his, her heart tripping in her chest at the look in his smoldering eyes.

"I—" She stopped, not quite sure what to say. She glanced to her left, at the door leading to her apartment. To safety and sanity.

She didn't want safety and sanity.

"Don't even tell me the music was too loud."

She looked back at him, expecting to see that playful grin teasing his mouth. But there was no grin. His expression was hard, his jaw clenched and his brows lowered over those heated eyes that made her pulse race.

She should leave. Just turn around and go back to her own apartment and leave him to the blackness she could sense swirling just beneath his hard exterior.

Instead of leaving, she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin and did what he would do: she pushed right past him and walked into his apartment. He muttered something, too low for her to hear, then slammed the door.

He walked past her, down the hallway, his voice a low growl. "What do you want, Smurfette?"

Sweets! He was infuriating! How could he ask her a question and walk away at the same time? Like he wasn't even interested in the answer. She stomped her foot then moved after him, following him into the small spare bedroom. Well, not
into
. She stopped just inside the doorway, her gaze sweeping around the room.

Workout equipment filled the room. A weight bench and a treadmill and over there, in the corner, a huge bag suspended from some kind of metal support. A punching bag. Her eyes narrowed as an overwhelming desire to go hit the bag filled her. It would be better than hitting
him
. Well, maybe not.

He sat on the edge of the bench, leaning over to grab a hand weight. She didn't know much about weights but it looked heavy, even if he was raising it up and down with his elbow braced on his knee. She watched the muscles of his arm bulk and stretch, bulk and stretch. It was mesmerizing. Almost hypnotic. Almost…

Oh, he was so infuriating! He was ignoring her, not even looking at her, like he didn't even realize she was standing there, watching him. She stomped her foot again and crossed her arms in front of her, her hands digging into her own soft biceps.

"Why were you mad earlier?" Melanie didn't realize she was going to ask the question until it came out of her mouth. But now that it was out there, she realized she wanted to know. Needed to know. His anger and emotion, his unexpected reaction from earlier—she needed to understand it.

He didn't answer her, just kept lifting and lowering the hand weight, the metal making a heavy clunking sound each time he raised it. One, twice. He let out a deep breath then moved the weight to the other arm, holding it in a loose grip as he finally looked over at her.

"I'm not talking about it."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not, now drop it." He looked away and resumed his exercise, leaving her frustrated and angry. She stormed over to the big bag in the corner then looked over her shoulder. He was still doing his arm lifts or whatever they were called, but his eyes were on her. Watching, wary. Maybe a little curious.

"What is this thing called?"

"A punching bag."

"So it's okay to hit?"

A brief smile flashed across his face, just a small one that died too quickly. "Yeah but I wouldn't. You'd only hurt yourself."

Now he was making fun of her! Well, she'd show him. She curled her hand into a fist, pulled back her arm, then swung it out in a wide arc. Her hand connected with the bag…and bounced right off. She gasped as pain shot through her hand, up her arm, into her shoulder. He had lied! The bag must be filled with concrete, hard and unforgiving. She hopped up and down, cradling her sore hand against her chest as she tried her best not to whimper in pain.

Metal clashed behind her, followed by a thud and heavy steps. "What the hell did I tell you, Smurfette? I told you not to do it. Why didn't you listen?"

Hands closed over her shoulders, turning her around. She opened her eyes, her gaze resting on the bare chest just inches from her. He reached for her injured hand, cradling it in his large one as he bent his head to examine it. His touch was gentle, light and reassuring. And dangerous. So dangerous.

"Wiggle your fingers."

"No. It hurts."

He looked up, amusement flashing in his eyes. He was close, too close. "No shit. Why didn't you listen to me?"

"I don't have to. You're not the boss of me."

"Spoken like a true six year old."

"That's not fair!" Even if it was true. So what if she sounded like a pouting child? It hurt. That allowed for some pouting. And pouting was better than what she wanted to do, which was run her hands all over his slick skin.

And how could she even be thinking like that, when her hand tingled with pain? She was mad at him. Mad at his easy dismissal of her, mad because he wouldn't answer her question. Mad because of what he made her feel and think and want.

He stood there in front of her, the heat from his body searing her, his eyes alight with amusement. Her hand was still cradled in his, held between them, his touch so gentle, like a lover's.

"You confuse me."

"
I
confuse
you
?" He made a little sound, almost like a snort. "Welcome to my hell, Smurfette."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've confused me from the very first time we met, when you tried to paint me blue."

"I did not!"

"Like hell. Or haven't you noticed that streak of paint that's still on my door?"

She narrowed her eyes, ready to argue, then stopped herself. She tugged her hand, trying to free it from his grip, but he wouldn't let her. And the way he was looking at her…she didn't know what to make of it. It was like he was studying her, trying to figure her out. Or trying to make sense of what he saw. She didn't like it, didn't like how it made her feel. Like he was trying to decide if he wanted to kiss her—or toss her out the door.

"Why didn't you kiss me last night?" She hadn't meant to ask the question, hadn't even realized she wanted to know. His hand tightened around hers for a brief second then loosened and she thought he might let her hand go. But he didn't. And he didn't move away, either.

"I did."

"No you didn't. Not really. It was just that one little kiss and then you left."

He released her hand and stepped back. Air washed over her, cool now that he wasn't standing so close. He watched her for a few seconds, his gaze unreadable. Then he shook his head, like he couldn't believe the words that had just come from her mouth. "You were drunk."

"No I wasn't." His brows raised in silent contradiction and she sighed. "Well, maybe a little."

"No maybe about it."

"I'm not drunk now." And gracious, did she have to sound so needy? So eager? But maybe she only thought she sounded that way, because he didn't seem to notice. Well, that wasn't quite true. His eyes darkened and she saw the way his pulse beat heavy in his neck. But he stepped away from her, not toward her, so maybe he didn't really understand what she was saying.

Fair enough, because she didn't quite understand it herself.

"You need to put some ice on that hand."