Page 3 of Love Songs

“Drunk on syrup, maybe,” I quipped, and Haider barked out a laugh that had half a dozen heads turning toward our table.

“You all suck,” Sam said, but he was grinning, and his blue eyes were shining with mirth. “I’ve been listening to his music. It’s good.”

“Told you,” Ryan said with a note of pride.

Ryan had introduced me to the Dallas Blade Band when we were fifteen years old. We’d ridden our mountain bikes through the woods on the Harmony Lake Grafton trail, jumping over rocks and logs and tree roots, until we’d reached Harmony Cliffs. I’d dared the guys to jump off the cliff and into the lake, a fifteen-foot drop, but Sam’s complexion had paled. Haider and Ryan had run toward the edge of the cliff, hooting and laughing when they launched into the air together.

“Come on, Sam,” I’d said, holding my hand out for him. “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you.”

I’d never let anything bad happen to any of them.

Sam had stood there, chewing on his bottom lip for a full minute. When the echoes of Ryan and Haider’s laughter carried up to us, Sam nodded and reached for me. I’d held his hand tight, given a squeeze of reassurance, and we’d jumped. Sam screamed, not in a fun way, but when we’d come up spluttering for air, he’d laughed his head off and wanted to jump again.

Afterwards, we’d all laid on the cliff under the hot summer sun to dry off, and Ryan had turned to me, pulling his iPod and headphones out of his bike bag. “You gotta hear this new band.”

Laying side by side with one headphone in Ryan’s ear and the other in mine, I’d fallen in love with Dallas Blade.

“COME ON, CAP,”I groused and dropped a stack of fire-smart pamphlets on the table of the CCFD booth at the Founders Day Fair a week later. “Can’t you go talk to them?”

“Sorry, Holly,” Captain Burgess said, using my station nickname as he clapped me on the shoulder.

Holly was short for Holliston, my last name. All the guys at work had nicknames that were their last names abbreviated or were a play on them—Whittaker was Whitty, Shepherd was Shep—or reflected an incident that had us all laughing. Some were better than others. Like rookie Firefighter Jackson. We’d dubbed him Polly, because he’d drawn the short straw—well, he was the rookie, so he got all the short straws—and had to rescue a parrot from a tree. No lie. A bird stuck in a tree. Granted, it was a prized thousand-dollar bird . . . The obnoxious little beast had a serious attitude to boot, and no amount of Jackson’spleading “Polly want a cracker” had helped. But he’d eventually gotten a hold of the winged demon and all had ended well.

We needed the occasional call out like that to break up those that didn’t end happily.

But Polly hadn’t stuck for Jackson’s nickname. Being so close to mine, people were getting confused.

But when it came to nicknames, only my lifelong best friends called me Jedi. By some strange twist of fate, we’d all been born a month apart, each on an unofficial holiday, and we’d nicknamed each other to match. Sam was born on April Fool’s Day, so we dubbed him Joker. Haider was born on Valentine’s Day, so he was Cupid, naturally. He even had the wild curls to match. Ryan was born on St Patrick’s Day, so we called him Paddy. And then there’s me. May fourth wasn’t a holiday, unofficial or otherwise, but the day had become popular thanks to the Star Wars franchise.May the Fourth Be with Youand all. I was just glad the guys settled on calling me Jedi and not Vader. Bad enough, I sounded like the Star Wars villain when I had my full breathing apparatus on at work. Plus, being that I was a firefighter, I was one of the good guys.

“You’re the one whose been dealing with them since the beginning,” Cap continued, pulling me from my reverie. “So, I need you to go over and make sure they aren’t trying to add more than we agreed to.”

I bit back a groan. The last thing I wanted to do was deal with the manager from the Dallas Blade Band over pyrotechnics for their stage performance again, and especially not with Blade himself. I tried not to let it show on my face what I thought of that, but going by the captain’s raised eyebrow, I didn’t hide it as well as I’d thought. I glanced over at the band shell in the park, which I could see from our booth’s vantage point on Main Street, and frowned.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ll finish helping Jackson and Whittaker set up before going over.”

“Good man.” Captain Burgess smiled and wandered off.

My temples throbbed. All the captain had to do was mentionDallas Blade, andhelloraging headache. Eldi padded over and leaned against my leg, sensing my mood change.

She was our firehouse dog, named after the Icelandic word for fire. A dalmatian, of course, because what respectable fire station didn’t have a dalmatian? Or any dog, for that matter.

I petted the soft fur on her head as she looked up at me with her warm brown eyes, and whispered, “Thank you, sweet girl.”

“Want me to come with you?” Jackson asked with his eyes too bright and his voice too eager. “For backup?”

“Nah. I’ve got it,” I said, holding back a grin. “Thanks, though.”

While I appreciated the offer, I had about four inches and thirty pounds on Jackson, and I knew he likely just wanted to meet the rock star and get an autograph and a selfie with him. I got it. I mean, Blade was hot. Who wouldn’t want to meet the man? I was still a fan of the band, after all these years. And okay,maybeI might still have a low-key crush on the lead singer, what with his long, silky, brown-blond hair and smoky eyes and lean, tight body.

But there was a proverb about meeting your heroes in person, and Jackson hadn’t been dealing with the pain in the ass like I had for the past three months. There would be zero pandering to the celebrity ego. Crush or not.

Half an hour later we had the booth all set to rights, and the 1950s fire truck we’d parked next to it shined to perfection. Eldi and the bright red engine were always a draw at events where people often found fire safety boring—until disaster struck and they needed us. The kids loved getting their photos taken withEldi and the truck, as well as the chance to sit in the driver’s seat and turn on the lights and siren.

I glanced at my watch. People were wandering down Main Street now that the parade was over, perusing the offerings from local vendors and artisans. Plenty of time for me to run over and check in with Blade’s manager before the crowds picked up.

“I’ll be back in a few,” I called out to the guys. “I’m taking Eldi with me.”

Whittaker nodded without looking up from adjusting paraphernalia on the table for the twentieth time, and Jackson watched me with a hopeful expression before also nodding.

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