Playing With Fire

Whiskey Creek Press
www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright ©2005 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

First published in 2005-11-01

2005 by
Cathy McDavid

WHAT THEY ARE SAYING ABOUT

PLAYING WITH FIRE

AND AUTHOR CATHY MCDAVID

"McDavid creates compelling characters whose lives intertwine in the most unpredictable of ways.” Beth Kristin Ott,
West Valley View

Dedication

Thanks to Clinton Summers and the men and women of Station #156. It was a pleasure and honor to meet you and hear your stories of valor and courage. You are true heroes, and I stand in awe of your amazing accomplishments.

Thanks also to Valerie Eddings, Division Chief of Training and Safety for the City of Glendale. You are an inspiration to women everywhere.

Lastly, thanks to Dr. Mark Anderson, a warm and funny man, who also happens to be a top notch veterinarian.

Chapter 1

There are worse things than having to parade half-naked in front of three hundred spectators.

Lindsay Pfeiffer composed a mental list while walking from the parking lot to the fairgrounds behind the historic Old Town Library. Unfortunately, she didn't have to think hard. To date, her career as a firefighter for the City of Glendale had been fraught with personal disasters.

Three weeks into her first rotation as a booter, the term used to designate rookies, she'd turned a valve the wrong way and sent enough pressure through the hose to blast her captain, Emilio Chavez, from one end of the concrete driveway to the other.

Only last month during a fire prevention assembly at an elementary grade school, a student asked her if menstruation ever interfered with her ability to do her job.

And then there was the time she lost control of the engine during training maneuvers and ran over a dozen orange cones, not to mention an entire family of practice dummies. The battalion chief had witnessed that particular debacle. He was here again today, and Lindsay fought a sinking feeling of déjá vu. She didn't need another mishap to distinguish herself. Especially when she was in the middle of testing for the position of engineer.

Probably none of the guys minded sitting on a narrow platform wearing only their swim trunks and a big fat grin. They enjoyed showing off their chests, unlike Lindsay, who had no chest to show off at all. Tall and athletically built, her streamlined silhouette lacked the necessary curves and angles to attract a man's attention. Muscles hardened by strenuous physical labor were great for carrying forty pounds of equipment, but did zero for her self-esteem.

If the battalion chief hadn't made an hour-long stint at ‘Douse the Flame’ dunking tank mandatory for all off-duty firefighters, Lindsay wouldn't be at the fair. She certainly wouldn't be there wearing a single square yard of neon yellow polyester beneath her clothing—one piece, Lindsay didn't do bikinis.

The thought of removing said clothing and exposing herself to a mob of strangers triggered a case of hives, and she scratched the back of her neck as she wound her way through a maze of tents which defied navigation. Her mouth watered as she passed a kettle corn vendor, but now was not the time to be picking kernels from her teeth.

"Hey, Lindsay!"

She stopped short at the familiar voice. Shading her eyes, she peered over a sea of bobbing heads. Patrons, dressed sparsely in order to enjoy the water-theme attractions, wandered about in chaotic disorder.

"Over here.” Melodie Peterson waved, thrusting her entire chubby body into the gesture. The young secretary worked in Fire Administration and organized the various outreach programs sponsored by the department. Proceeds from ‘Douse the Flame’ were slated for Habitat for Humanity, a favorite charity of the battalion chief.

"Hi!” Lindsay waved back, less enthusiastically, and started toward Melodie. Despite the hot weather, the Summer Daze Festival had attracted a record crowd. Lindsay narrowly avoided being trampled.

"Excuse me."

A harried mother pushing an empty stroller with one hand while leading a toddler with the other cut in front of Lindsay. Her unconcerned youngster gobbled a fluffy pink confection, more of it sticking to his face than winding up in his tummy.

"You made it,” Melodie said, grabbing Lindsay's arm and plucking her from the flowing stream of humankind. Without giving her a chance to catch her breath, Melodie propelled Lindsay behind the exhibit to a makeshift dressing room. “Dennis Bigelow bet Emilio Chavez ten bucks you wouldn't show. He said you were too chicken."

"I'm surprised Emilio sided with me."

"Oh, he's not still mad over that hose thing.” Melodie dismissed Lindsay with an exasperated huff. “Will you just forget it?” She pulled the floral shower curtain aside. “You can change in here. You're early, so take your time. Matt still has ten minutes left on his shift."

Lindsay froze partway inside the dressing room. “Matt Callahan?"

"Yes, silly.” An eye roll accompanied the mild chiding. “Do you know another Matt?"

"No."

But at that moment, Lindsay wished she did. It would make staring at his underwear much easier.

Boxers. Grey and white pinstriped. They were slung over the curved rod supporting the shower curtain, along with the rest of his clothes. Not quite what she'd pictured him wearing and to be honest, she frequently pictured Matt in various stages of undress. In her imagination, however, he wore something flashy, sexy, and sinfully snug. Maybe knowing the specifics of his intimate apparel would quash the fantasies she'd been having about him since they met at the academy two years earlier.

After all, she was dating Joey. And it didn't seem right to be seeing one man while secretly lusting after his roommate.

Lindsay glanced over her shoulder at Melodie and offered a weak smile. Her coworker enjoyed gossiping far too much for Lindsay to risk being the subject of yet another juicy story.

"I thought he was scheduled for Sunday.” The fair lasted all weekend, and Lindsay had made sure to sign up for a different day than Matt.

"You know Matt. Always trading shifts with somebody."

"Yeah.” Of all the rotten luck.

"I've got towels for you up front. You'll need several, trust me."

"Thanks. I'll be right out."

Lindsay ducked behind the shower curtain and waited for Melodie to retreat before groaning with frustration. Her morning was nose-diving at an alarming rate. First there was her impending bathing suit exhibition and now Matt Callahan. What next?

The answer came to her in flash when she realized the only place to hang her own clothes was right next to Matt's. Her throat constricted, and the groan became a gurgle.

Her despair didn't last. “What's the big deal anyway? I'll just leave them on the ground. A few grass stains are nothing compared to the alternative."

Bending over, she attacked her sneaker laces. Once undone, she stood up. Leveraging the toe of her left foot on the heel of her right foot, she pried off a sneaker. With no room to move about, she lost her balance and automatically grabbed for the nearest handhold.

Matt's boxers.

There was a small tearing sound as they came off the rod, bunched inside her closed fist. Lindsay's heart sank, and she dropped to her knees.

"Oh, dear."

"Are you okay?” Melodie's bare toes appeared under the hem of the shower curtain. The nails were painted jade green.

"I'm fine. I slipped."

"Sorry. There's not much room in there."

"That's an understatement."

"Let me know if you need help."

"You don't by chance have a sewing kit handy?"

"A what?"

Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut. Not to staunch the flow of tears but to contain the hysterical laughter threatening to erupt. “Nothing. I was joking."

"Okay.” The toes disappeared.

Lindsay released the breath she'd been holding and listened to Melodie's retreating footsteps. Only when the secretary was a safe distance away did Lindsay unfurl her fingers. Matt's boxers fell open, soft, buttery, and slightly faded from multiple washings. She spread them out on her lap, ostensibly to examine the tear. Matt had been inside these boxers a short time ago, nothing separating his skin from the material except a few molecules of air. She tentatively touched the tear, which wasn't much, then traced her fingertips down the length of one leg seam.

The results were immediate and electrifying. A surge of desire ribboned through her and headed straight to a place low in her belly. Lindsay's heart beat hard and fast, knocking into her ribs like impatient knuckles on a steel door. She inhaled sharply, bit her bottom lip, and dared to imagine the impossible. She and Matt alone in a dark, secluded place and her removing the boxers inch by slow, torturous inch.

"Lindsay, you're a pervert,” she whispered. “Handling a man's underwear and getting a thrill from it."

Realizing how far over the edge she'd slipped, she stood and replaced the boxers, neatly hanging them back in the same place. She wouldn't tell Matt about the tear. If he even noticed it, he'd likely make some sort of assumption as to the cause.

What was wrong with her anyway? She had a perfectly good boyfriend in Joey, yet here she was, fondling another man's underwear, drool spilling down her chin. All right, maybe not so perfect. Joey's white cotton briefs were sadly uninspiring.

In all fairness, she'd been helping him fold his clean laundry, not stripping him bare before having sex. That in itself was a joke since she and Joey did no more than kiss. Ever. And the most ardent of those kisses hadn't elicited a fraction of the carnal response as one small and slightly weird encounter with Matt's boxers.

Lindsay finished undressing, taking her annoyance out on her clothes. She ripped off her ball cap, Arizona Diamondbacks tee-shirt, and gym shorts, then tossed them haphazardly in a corner on top of her sneakers. She had no concerns that Matt would pick them up when he returned to change. If he ever learned how Lindsay really felt about him, he'd choke on his own laughter. No, Matt didn't go for the stick figure type. She'd seen enough women flocking around him to know he favored the three P's: pretty, perky, and petite.

Glancing down at herself garbed only in the yellow bathing suit, Lindsay gritted her teeth and thrust the shower curtain aside. One hour. Sixty little minutes and she'd have performed her civic duty. Hopefully, Matt would be done by now and she'd miss him in passing.

"Look out dunking tank, here I come. Innocent bystanders, beware."

She crept to the front of the booth and poked her head around the side of the tent. Matt didn't see her, but she had an unobstructed view of him sitting on the platform suspended above the tank, his feet dangling inches from the crystalline blue water. Attached to a short post beside him was a red and white target. When struck in the center, a lever released and the platform collapsed like a trapdoor, dumping the occupant into the water.

"Just you wait!” A buxom blonde in a halter top and Capri pants stood at the front of the line. She held up a bucket of baseballs. “I've got a dozen chances to make this guy fall for me. And if that's not enough, I'm buying a dozen more."

Her remark was met with hoots, hollers, and one or two jeers.

"Come on, darling,” Matt called out in a teasing drawl, tilting his head at the target. “Show me what you've got."

"I'll show you what I've got.” The woman smiled wickedly at Matt, then at the crowd. “Ladies, this hot shot is all mine."

Lindsay didn't blame the woman. Matt was gorgeous. She half considered buying her own bucket of baseballs. The surge of desire returned tenfold, and she had to concentrate to keep from mooning like a school girl deep in the throes of her first crush.