“Some guy with more money than he can burn,” Murphy added. The morning anchors were babbling on about some unnamed philanthropist who had come to the aid of burn victims from a local warehouse fire, then mentioned another incident last month where the same donor may have contributed $100,000 to help victims of an unexpected October ice storm.
Every head in the fire station turned to stare at him. “What?” he hollered, trying to get the attention off him. He was just here as a lowly volunteer, looking for something to do.
Murphy laughed, the first good belly chuckle anyone had heard from him in months. Dylan had recently, quietly, funneled a substantial five-figure sum to him to pay for a caretaker for his wife and father. With good care, she was expected to have a strong chance of survival. His father, though, was fading fast. The money bought some peace and space for the family, and isn’t that all anyone could ask for?
“A torn AC/DC shirt and jeans? You are the strangest fucking billionaire I ever met, Dylan,” he said.
“Only fucking billionaire you ever met, Murphy. You probably don’t even know any thousandaires,” Joe cracked. Everyone chuckled, Murphy included. The chief shooed them off to do work.
“You slumming?” he asked Dylan.
“Nah. Just covering a volunteer shift.” Truth be told, he was bored and lonely with Mike gone. But he couldn’t say that at work. The guys might be good at heart, but a few were as enlightened as a lamp post.
“You can do that from home, you know. Scanner.”
“Mine’s broken.”
Joe’s eyebrows flew up. “And you can’t afford a new one?”
“So sue me. I just want to hang out here.”
“Poor little rich firefighter?” Joe’s voice wasn’t mean. Just inquiring. It put Dylan on edge, made him ball his hands into fists, temper rising.
“Something like that.”
“Grab one of the scanners from here on your way out, then. There’s a big training going on in New York and a bunch of guys are there, so we can use all the volunteers we can get tonight. You OK with being on call through the night?”
A warmth spread through him, making him stand taller. He remembered this feeling. Happiness. Purpose. Power.
Action.
“Hell, yeah! Thanks, Chief.”
“Let’s just hope it’s a quiet one.” He always said that. Superstition. If he didn’t, one of the guys would jump in and say it. You don’t fuck around with bad luck in a station crowded with firefighters. They need every drop of help from whatever forces in the universe help out, from God to Jesus to the Flying Spaghetti Monster to Mother Nature. Even Mayor Menino, who wasn’t divine—yet. One more election win and he’d be damn close.
“As quiet as a church mouse,” Dylan answered. Secretly, though, he wanted to do some good. Help someone. While he’d never actually hoped for a fire or a medical emergency, the thrill of the run was always in his blood. Helping people was exactly why he’d gone into this business, and it gave him purpose.
If someone needed him tonight, he’d be there.
Stuffed like the turkeys that had popped up in grocery stores everywhere, Laura lurched into her living room and plopped down. In a few months, she wouldn’t able to get up on her own. Time to start training Snuggles to offer her a hand getting out of deep, overstuffed chairs.
No one else would.
“Oh, stop,” she muttered to herself. After dropping Josie off, she’d thought long and hard on the drive home. Picking up her phone and texting Mike and Dylan would be the hard part. Four months. Four long months. This wasn’t a reunion outreach, though.
It was business. The business of, well, this. Her hands cupped her belly with pleasure, willing love through her palms to the baby. So much love. Only nineteen weeks along and now little Naomi—no, Claire—no, Elizabeth—no, Caitlyn—ah, whatever!—was part of her heart.
This child was a Michaels-Stanwyck, or Michaels-Pine, creation. Time they knew about the baby. Guilt settled in just as her sciatica flared up, the painful nerve running from hip to toe making her rub her muscles to no relief. Walking helped, so she grudgingly lifted herself up and hobbled to the kitchen.
No need for food, but a glass of water and her prenatal vitamin would do for an excuse to move. Sheri said hot showers sometimes helped. Waddling down the hall, she turned on the spray to warm and grabbed a towel. On second thought, she also grabbed a new toy, a sleek little vibrator that couldn’t go too deep, but that had turned out to be just enough to take the edge off her horny second trimester.
Too bad vibrators couldn’t slap your ass and tug your hair. If someone made one, they’d be filthy, smutty rich.