One Fine Fireman Read Online Free

working.” He indicated the two garage doors installed along one wall. “It might take two of us.”
    Pete jumped to his feet. “Sure. But what for?”
    Kirk didn’t answer. He bent to the handle at the lower edge of the door, waited for Pete to grab hold as well, then gave the signal to heave. The door resisted at first, then creaked upward with a rusty shriek. Sunlight poured in.
    “It opened! But why? What do you need it open for?” Pete’s sullenness had vanished in a blaze of nine-year-old curiosity.
    Kirk pointed to his Harley, just visible at the edge of the lot. It glinted cobalt in the late-afternoon sun. “Work on my bike, of course.”
    Pete’s mouth flew open. “That’s yours?”
    “Yep.”
    The kid looked from the bike to him, back and forth, over and over. Kirk didn’t understand why he should be so amazed. Lots of guys had Harleys. But an expression of wonder passed over the boy’s face. He must really love motorcycles. A sudden impulse took hold of Kirk. “Wanna help?”
    “Can I?”
    “You’re here. Bike’s here. Why not? As long as you call your mother first and let her know where you are.”
    He handed over his cell phone. Pete, with a sulky glance, dialed a number and left a grumbling message.
    The next couple hours passed in peaceful male harmony. Kirk brought his bike into the warehouse, they closed the door back up, and they turned their attention to the magnificent piece of equipment that somehow brought the warehouse back to life with its presence. Hagrid the Dog dozed nearby, occasionally opening one eye to check on their progress. Kirk didn’t do much; he needed more tools. But he walked Pete through the basic mechanics of the Harley. The kid ate it up. He chattered a mile a minute the entire time. He talked about his love for Harry Potter, his strong objections to soccer practice, his passionate arguments for more leniency from his mother.
    Kirk wished he’d mention his mother a little more.
    One thing became pretty clear. Pete really, really didn’t like Duncan, a celebrity photographer who had met Maribel at a gallery opening and been a pest ever since.
    Kirk didn’t like him either. But he liked Pete, who learned quickly, liked to laugh, and had a firecracker temper.
    Neither realized how quickly time was passing until they lifted the door again and discovered night had fallen, or nearly so. The sky held deep sapphire shadows and the first twinkling of evening stars.
    Pete looked stricken. “Mom’s going to kill me. I’m not supposed to ride my bike after dark. Is this dark? It’s not completely dark, right? Still kind of light?”
    Kirk squinted at the sky. It looked pretty dark to him. “Do you have any lights on your bike?”
    “No. Just a reflector.”
    “I’ll take you home.”
    “What about my bike?”
    “I’ll bring it by later in my truck. Your mom will never know.”
    But Maribel was waiting on the front stoop when they roared up. A shiver of anticipation made Kirk’s throat go dry. He’d never seen Maribel outside of the café. It always felt as if he was walking into some magical otherworld when they stopped by. Now here she was, on the front porch of an ordinary, rundown, suburban tract house, with the sort of stunned expression any mother would have at the sight of her son on the back of a motorcycle.
    Kirk put his feet on the pavement and waited for Pete to dismount. The kid hesitated, muttering “uh-oh” under his breath.
    “It’s okay,” Kirk called to Maribel, only then realizing he still had his helmet on. He pulled off his riding gloves and struggled with the strap, while Maribel dashed down the porch and strode toward them. Her hair swished around her shoulders, the light from the porch making it gleam like a molten waterfall. Hypnotized, he stood stock-still. He’d never seen her with her hair loose before. Sparks seemed to fly off her.
    “How dare you put my son on your motorcycle? Do you know how dangerous that is? And Pete, where