Just One of the Guys(69)

“Jesus, Dad, stay out of it. She overreacted, as usual,” Mark grumbles.

“I overreacted,” I repeat. “That’s rich, Mark.”

“Mark, get off firehouse property,” Dad says in captain mode. “Go home and cool off, whatever the hell it is you’re mad about this time. I’ll be over when I’m done here.”

Mark obeys, muttering, shoving his way past the guys who just watched his sister slug him.

“Chastity.” Dad sighs. “Maybe you should go.”

“Okay,” I whisper, my throat suddenly tight. Dad walks toward the firehouse, says something to the guys and disappears inside.

“I was planning on hitting him, you know,” Trevor says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “You didn’t have to. But thanks for defending my honor.”

“It’s not funny,” I say. In fact, my eyes are stinging with tears. “Don’t let them make fun of Mark, okay? This should’ve been a great day for him.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Trevor says. He takes my hand and looks at it, then looks back into my eyes. “Let’s get you an ice pack.” His voice is gentle.

“Remind me never to pick a fight with the O’Neill girl,” Santo says admiringly as Trevor and I go inside.

Angela and Matt are in the kitchen, laughing at the stove. They both start when we come in. Trevor grabs an ice pack, wraps it in a paper towel and puts it on my hand. “I got it,” I say, holding it in place. My heart feels sore and too big for my chest, and any more sweetness from Trevor and I’ll start bawling.

“You okay, Chas?” Matt asks.

“I’ll fill you in later,” Trev says quietly. “Hi, Angela. I didn’t know you were here.” He smiles, but it’s forced.

“Hi, Trevor,” she answers. “Um, sorry, I was interviewing Matt. For an article. Firehouse pizza.”

“We need to go, Ange,” I say. My throat is still constricted with anger and sorrow.

“Okay,” she says, frowning at the look on my face. “Matt, thank you so much. This was great. I’ll e-mail you if I have any questions.”

“Sure. Nice meeting you.”

Angela blushes and grabs her things. Trevor and Matt say goodbye and we walk out to the parking lot.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, opening the driver’s door.

“Yup. Just a little spat with my brother,” I answer.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry, Chastity.” We get into the car, and Angela starts the engine. “Matt is really nice, at any rate.”

“He’s great,” I agree, then turn my face away and rest my forehead against the window.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE REST OF THE DAY IS SO BUSY—the Yahoo pictures cause all sorts of coverage, including me interviewing Carl himself—that I don’t have a chance to tell Penelope about the nasty e-mail. I call her when I get home that night and fill her in, tell her about Aragorn’s beheading. It sounds so bleeping dumb when I say it aloud.

“Call the police,” she says. “See if there’s anything they can do. This sucks, Chastity.”

“It’s not a huge deal,” I say, stroking Buttercup’s sensitive ears. “But yeah, I’d feel better.” And so I call the computer crimes specialist at the police department, who seems to take a lot of notes and says they’ll send someone in to run some diagnostics on my computer.

“Nothing’s happening anywhere but work?” the cop asks.

“Correct,” I answer. “I feel dumb bothering you with something so small.”

“Better to report it than not,” she says. “You never know what whackos are out there, prowling on innocent people.”

Gee, thanks, lady. “Right,” I say.

Matt is working that night, so Buttercup and I are alone. I stick The Fellowship of the Ring in the DVD player. Just as I’m settling in, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in one hand, the phone rings.

“Hello, there,” Ryan says. “How are you?”

“Oh, hey, Ryan,” I say. “I’m okay. I had kind of a crappy day, actually.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he says. “What—damn. Chastity, I’m being paged. Can I call you later? I’m really sorry. You’re all right, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m fine. You go. I understand.”

“Love you,” he says and hangs up.

I squinch my right eye shut and grit my teeth. He loves me? Since when? That didn’t sound very convincing. We’ve been on five dates. Slept together three times. He loves me?

“Shut it, Chastity,” I say aloud. It’s not impossible that a man could fall in love with me in the space of a few weeks. “I guess I’m a very loveable person, Buttercup,” I say. “Don’t you agree?”

She does. She licks my face and lays her head back in my lap with a sigh.

I’m just at the Prancing Pony scene where we first meet the dark and delicious Aragorn when a knock interrupts me. It’s Mark, a box of Twinkies under his arm, a bouquet of irises in his hand. “Hi. I’m sorry,” he says, thrusting the gifts at me. Any residual anger I might have had melts away at the sight of his tormented face.