Gunnar's Guardian Read online

  “He obviously found some way to get under your skin,” Ozzy chimed in.

  “Yeah.” Picking up my coffee, I slammed it back in a few swallows. I was done talking about this. I wasn’t the kind of guy who sat around talking about my feelings, even with my brothers. “I’m off. Gotta get to the station and get ready for my shift.”

  Ozzy stood up with him. “Same here. It’s been two days since The Scorcher last struck. I want to go over the fire again in case there’s something I’m missing.”

  In addition to there being all sorts of craziness going on thanks to the full moon, Ozzy and the rest of the Gloucester Police Department had been dealing with a firebug. The blazes had been happening every couple of days or so for the last three weeks. “Let me know if you want me to take a look at your file. Sometimes it helps having a fresh pair of eyes.” I had a feeling the arsonist was the reason for Ozzy’s earlier upset.

  My brother opened the door for me, and I was immediately hit by a wall of heat. It wasn’t that I minded the warm weather so much, but this many days in a row of ninety degree plus temperatures? It was enough to make anyone snap.

  “What if I can’t catch him?” Ozzy’s dark eyes flitted back and forth between the sidewalk, his car, and my feet.

  My first impression of Osborne Graves had been that he was an angry kid who was mad at the entire world. The fact that there was now one extra body in the foster home he’d been living in wasn’t helping his disposition. It turned out my first impression of him was wrong. He’d been a serious boy at twelve years old. Now, twenty years later, that much was still true. He also had a heart of gold.

  “You will catch him.” It sounded like lip service, but Ozzy knew he could trust me. He was something of a prodigy in the fire department. He passed the entrance exam with flying colors the day after he turned eighteen and had spent the last fourteen years working his way up through the ranks of the department. At thirty-one years old, he was the youngest fire captain in the history of the Gloucester Fire Department and was the second youngest in the state of Massachusetts. Some guy out near Worcester beat him by a matter of sixty-four days.

  “There’s something here I’m missing. I’m sure of it.” Ozzy gave his head a shake. His hands were bunched into fists at his side.

  “I’ve got an hour before my shift starts. I’ll come back to the firehouse with you.” Truth be told I had a shitload of my own work waiting for me on my desk. It would keep. Ozzy was more important than a bunch of reports.

  Family was everything.

  4

  Gunnar

  I had never felt more stupid in my entire life. Not only was there no electricity turned on in the house, the same went for natural gas, which apparently fueled my stove and the dryer.

  Hearing the news from Kennedy Lynch, of all people, had only pissed me off more. I always managed to make myself look like a fucking idiot in front of the older man. I knew when he looked at me all he saw was some stupid kid. What I couldn’t admit to him, but could admit to myself, was that he was right.

  I’d never given a second thought about what it would take to live in this house I was renting. I guess part of me assumed everything would be done for me just like it always had been at home. I didn’t think it was possible to be any more naïve than I already was, but then I’d realized there was no food in the house.

  At the local supermarket I’d been tempted to pick up TV dinners and frozen pizza, but now that I was a man out on my own, I figured it was time that I start acting like one. For the first time in my life, I walked through the meat and produce sections of the grocery store. I grabbed the fixings to make salad and some premade hamburgers. How hard could it possibly be to cook up a burger? The people at McDonald’s did it every day. There was no reason at all I couldn’t do it at home.

  Of course, the realization that I could cook a meal for myself at home brought me to the next realization: with what? There was nothing in the house for me to cook with, or to eat off. My trip to the grocery store was followed up with a quick trip to Target to buy the essentials: plates, silverware, and a ginormous box of pots and pans. If I didn’t watch myself, I was going to burn through the money my mother had left me. And then what? I truly would be living out of my car. I might have been nothing but a smart ass for the first twenty-one years of my life, but starting today I was just going to be smart.

  I’d been on cloud nine when I got home. The house had cooled off nicely while I’d been gone, thanks to Kennedy leaving me with the phone number to the electric company. I really did owe him big time for what he did for me today. I’d been a bit of a dick when he’d come over to explain about the electricity.

  It had still been raining cats and dogs when he’d come over to knock on my door. He’d changed out of his tightfitting police uniform and had been dressed in a tight white T-shirt and a pair of shorts. He was soaked to the skin, which made his white T-shirt mold perfectly to every muscle. Boomer or not, the man was a work of art.

  Giving my head a little shake, I’d gotten down to the business of unpacking my purchases. It turned out the one thing I forgot to buy at the supermarket was dish soap and some kind of scrubby. I supposed it didn’t much matter, at the moment. I could leave my dirty dishes in the sink and go out again tomorrow morning. It had been a long-ass day, and all I wanted to do was eat something.

  Twenty minutes later, I was feeling rather proud of myself. All of the dishes and pots and pans had been put away but for the small frying pan I would need for my burger. I tore open the cellophane package holding the patties, and dumped cooking oil in before throwing one of the burgers into the pan. Turning the heat up to high, I went about making my salad.

  The house was so quiet. More than anything, I’d wanted to go out and buy myself a television, but with my financial situation in dire straits, I couldn’t afford one. Thankfully my phone was paid up for the next month and I would be able to stream anything I wanted. It was going to stink watching it on such a tiny screen, but I would suck it up for now.

  I got lost in the rhythm of cooking for myself. I washed a head of romaine lettuce, leaf by leaf, the way I’d seen Mavis do a thousand times before. I scrubbed the cucumber before stripping off its skin and cutting it into circles. Last, but not least, I threw a handful of grape tomatoes into the bowl. A sense of pride which I’d never felt in myself before warmed my entire body. I needed to memorialize this moment so that I would always be able to look back and remember what I’d been through to get here.

  Reaching for my phone, some kind of siren sounded. Whirling around toward the stove, I could see it was on fire. In that instance, I froze. What the fuck did I do now? Stop, drop, and roll? Call 911? I shut off the burner in hopes it would stop the fire. That didn’t happen, but grease spilled out of the pan onto my wrist when I bumped it with my shaking hands. I wiped my burning arm on my pants.

  The fire quickly captured my attention. I could feel the heat radiating from it. My brain shouted at me. I needed to call 911. Where the hell was my phone? I started patting myself down looking for it, but it wasn’t in my pants. Shit! Had I left it out in the car?

  I raced toward the front door, yanking it open to the sound of more sirens. The neighborhood was lit up with red and white twirling lights. How the hell had the fire department gotten here so quickly? I hadn’t even called them yet. Maybe it was Kennedy? As I ran out of the house, I noticed his police SUV wasn’t in the driveway. Another neighbor must have called 911.

  “Help! Help! My house is on fire!” I screamed when the first fireman climbed out of the red truck. He was a big man, tall and bulky. A long scar stretched from his ear across his cheek.

  “What happened?” the man shouted. A tiny smile curved his lips. According to his helmet, he was the captain.

  “I was cooking, and my stove caught on fire.” Why was this man smiling at me? Shouldn’t he be hauling a hose into my kitchen?

  “Chasten! Grab the extinguisher!” The captain shouted.

 
“On it!” the call came back.

  I watched in fascination as a younger man opened a panel on the side of the fire truck. He grabbed a fire extinguisher and ran toward my front door.

  “Wanna tell me what happened?” The captain was biting his lip in a failed attempt to keep from smiling.

  “I was making a hamburger and salad. The next thing I knew, my stove was on fire.” My eyes moved back and forth between my front door and the fireman.

  “Mmm, hmm,” he nodded. The name Graves was on his helmet.

  “All set, Captain!” Chasten shouted, closing the front door behind him. He held the extinguisher in one hand. His free hand was raised and fisted like Judd Nelson at the end of The Breakfast Club.

  Just then, flashing blue and white lights joined the fire department light show. It didn’t take a genius to figure out it was Kennedy. I was having that kind of day. The unmarked SUV parked in his driveway and Kennedy stepped out. There was a blue bubble light on the dashboard twirling soundlessly. He wasn’t wearing his blues, but instead looked like a pimp. Wife beater, skin-tight black pants, and a huge gold chain. What the hell was going on?

  “There was a half empty bottle of cooking oil on the counter near the point of origin. I’m guessing the other half of the oil was in the pan.” Chasten slapped a hand down on my shoulder. The name “Coyne” was on his helmet. “Next time you decide to cook, YouTube it.” He shrugged and headed toward the firetruck.

  “Everything okay here?” Kennedy asked. He was also biting his lip like the dickhead fire captain.

  “Yup!” Graves was laughing. “Your boy tried his hand at cooking.”

  “Oh, yeah? How’d that go?” Kennedy’s eyes were on me.

  “Crispy would be my guess. Just a little grease fire. Your nosy neighbor, Mrs. Flanagan called it in.” The captain laughed out loud. “Later, bro.” He headed back toward the fire truck.

  “Later, Ozzy.” Kennedy watched the fire truck until it was out of sight.

  What the fuck was going on here? Why the hell was Kennedy here and why the hell had the fireman called me Kennedy’s boy? Anger churned in my gut, making my blood boil. I sucked in a lungful of air, ready to launch into a tirade. Meltdown, more like.

  “You hungry?” Kennedy asked softly. Without waiting for an answer, he headed toward his front door. “C’mon, let’s eat.”

  My mouth dropped open. I’m sure I looked like a fish out of water gasping for air. In that instant, all the anger passed out of me. I followed behind him like I was his boy.

  Kennedy’s unit was set up just like my own. The front door opened into the living room, then the dining room. At the end was the kitchen. The only difference between my house and his was that his house looked like a home. A large, overstuffed sectional dominated the living room. There were pictures on the walls above the sofa. Directly across from it was a large television.

  “Are you okay? Did you get burned?” Kennedy’s questions pulled me out of my head. He was carrying a first aid kit. Just one more thing I had forgotten to buy today.

  “My arm.” I held it out to him. It was shaking. My entire body was.

  “Ouch,” Kennedy muttered. He set the kit on the coffee table and started unpacking its contents. “What happened?” His voice was gentle, as were his hands, as he treated my burn.

  It was on the tip of my tongue to lie to him, but what was the use of that? I’d made a promise to myself that I’d grow up. “I tried to cook a burger and the pan caught on fire.” I sounded pitiful. That was honest enough. I felt pitiful.

  “Have you ever cooked before?” Kennedy’s eyes stayed on my hand. It was as if he knew I couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.

  “Nah, just stuff in the microwave, popcorn, mac and cheese.” I sighed. “It’s time for me to grow up, so I figured cooking for myself would be a good place to start.”

  Kennedy looked up at that. “You are grown up. It doesn’t matter if you can’t cook. Taking care of yourself is a state of mind.”

  “You mean it doesn’t matter if I burn my house down.” Shit, now I was whining.

  “Your house didn’t burn down. According to Ozzy, it was a grease fire. A little spray from the extinguisher and it was out.” He was back to doctoring my arm. I watched, mesmerized as the gauze was wrapped around my wrist.

  Snorting, I couldn’t help but think I looked like a mummy. “Ozzy?”

  “Captain Graves. He’s my brother.”

  That explained a lot. No wonder Kennedy had come home when he had. I looked up at him “Wait. Your last name is Lynch and he’s a Graves.”

  Kennedy’s light eyes sharpened on me. He looked as if he were debating something internally. “We’re foster brothers. Grew up together.” He went back to my wrist, securing the gauze with tape.

  Damn… I’d heard of kids growing up in the system, but I’d never met anyone who’d lived through that. I had a feeling I was about to realize that kind of poverty first-hand. My mother’s money wasn’t going to last forever. I needed to find some way to get back on my feet and fast. I only had enough money to survive for another few months or so.

  I was so out of my league here. Twenty-one years old and just barely getting a taste of what real life was all about. I’d spent my life being sheltered from the world. I had so much to learn.

  “I don’t have a lot of time left on my break. Sandwiches will have to do.” Kennedy was up and walking back toward the kitchen. “You know how to make a sandwich, kid?”

  My eyes rolled of their own free will. “Of course I know how to make a sandwich.” It was a lie. I imagined I could figure it out.

  Kennedy burst out laughing.

  “What?” Damn it, why did he have to be so fucking hot when he laughed?

  “I’ve been a cop for ten years, kid. I know a lie when I hear one.” Kennedy reached into the fridge. He came out moments later with his arms filled with sandwich meats, lettuce, and condiments. Lastly, he grabbed a loaf of bread. “Everyone has to start somewhere. Grab some plates.” Kennedy pointed to the top of the microwave.

  I found myself obeying again. I even managed to keep my mouth shut over Kennedy calling me a kid. I suppose to him I was, not only chronologically, but maturity wise as well. Looking around the house, it was easy to tell Kennedy was a man who had his life together. He had no wife or kids. I reasoned I would have seen them in the various pictures hung all over the house. What he did have was a roof over his head and a job he obviously loved.

  Step by step, I watched and then copied Kennedy as he made a ham and swiss on rye. I’d never eaten rye bread before, so this should be an adventure.

  “Sit. Eat.” Kennedy pointed to the kitchen table.

  Again, I obeyed him. I still wasn’t sure about the bread until I took my first bite. It was heaven. Christ, how was I my age and had never tried rye bread before? Probably because I was a picky white bread kid. Shit, now Kennedy had me calling myself a kid.

  I couldn’t help wondering if he was going to join me at the table. Instead of eating his own sandwich, he was making more and shoving them into plastic sandwich bags. He grabbed a reusable grocery bag from a nearby cabinet and started packing the bag.

  Damn, there must have been three sandwiches in there. I watched as he added two apples and some small bags of chips. Lastly, he threw in an entire package of Oreo cookies. Damn, how the hell did eat that much and stay in such fabulous shape?

  “Here you go.” Kennedy set the food-laden bag down in front of me.

  “Wait! This is for me?” I couldn’t believe my eyes. None of the sandwiches he made were for himself. They’d all been for me.

  “Unless I miss my guess, you’re not going to burn the house down with these meals. Just make sure they end up in the fridge.” Kennedy winked at me.

  It was a good thing I was sitting, otherwise I would have fallen down. His words made me go weak in the knees. A new feeling for me. I ducked my head and kept eating, not wanting him to see the effect he had on me. I might be gay, but there
was no way of knowing if he was or not. A lot of men were waiting later and later to get married nowadays.

  “You want to tell me about what happened to you?” Kennedy took a seat across from me at the table. He swigged from a bottle of water.

  The last thing I wanted to do was tell him my sordid story, but since he’d been brave enough to tell me that he’d grown up in foster care, I figured I was brave enough to tell him about the pooch screw that was my life. “My father owns a string of car dealerships. I guess you probably know that.” I looked up at Kennedy. He nodded but stayed silent. “He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. I said no. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I didn’t want to spend my life selling cars.” I shrugged, taking a deep breath. I was waiting for him to roll his eyes or wave me off.

  Telling him my story, the way I’d gotten by the first three years of college by the skin of my teeth, before blowing off my final semester of my senior year, I felt lower than I ever had in my life. I’d thrown this information at my father like a drink in his face. I’d wanted to hurt him. Kennedy was a different story. I wanted him to respect me. Maybe. Or like me. Both would have been nice.

  “What’s next for you?” The question was casual, as if we’d been friends for years instead of minutes.

  “I don’t know.” I met his unreadable gaze. “I need to figure it out fast or…” I didn’t want to think about what life would be like for me if I couldn’t keep a roof over my head.

  “Let’s not think about that,” Kennedy interrupted, as if he didn’t want to hear how my story would end. “A job is the most important thing. Be up early tomorrow morning working on it. Nothing is above you, fast-food, housekeeping, retail. A job is a job. Understood?”

  Nodding, I felt my heart sink. If I’d just manned up and finished my damn degree, I wouldn’t be reduced to the jobs Kennedy named off. He was right about one thing; beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  5

  Kennedy

  Another day. Another scorcher. Or, as they say in New England, scorcha. Either way, it was hotter than Satan’s asshole. The blood moon was up to its usual tricks again last night and making matters much worse, there was another fire.