Skating Over the Line by Joelle Charbonneau

thief had set a recently stolen car on fire or how he’d managed to save the field from going up in smoke, but I wanted to find out.
    For that, I needed a fireman.

 
    Nine
    The Indian Falls Fire Department was located five blocks from the rink, right next to Dr. Truman’s office. Given this proximity, I guessed that Dr. Truman wasn’t just the local doctor and coroner; he was also one of the paramedics.
    The heat index was climbing as I parked across from the station. Music was pumping from a small but powerful CD player while the faded red fire engine sat parked on the long and currently wet driveway. Big Red was getting a bath.
    A half-naked man with a garden hose danced around the engine, spraying water. The guy didn’t see me, which was probably a good thing, since my mouth was hanging open in horror. Not that I was a prude or anything. Most of the time, twenty- or thirty-something shirtless men in shorts were the best part of summer.
    This wasn’t one of those times.
    The fireman did a stripper impersonation with his hips while his ample gut undulated in time to the music. The man gave new meaning to the words belly dance . Add to that the dark curly hair crawling up his chest and down his legs like moss, and suddenly you had a picture that would never appear in any of the sexiest-firemen calendars.
    When the song ended, the guy turned off his hose, scratched his hairy stomach, and yawned. Then he turned. I could tell he’d spotted me when his uncovered mouth turned from a stretched yawn into a come-hither smile.
    Oh joy!
    I gave him a little wave and strolled up the drive. “Hi. I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”
    The guy winked. “I don’t mind being interrupted by a hot chick.”
    I mentally rolled my eyes and stopped next to the truck. Now that I was closer, I realized the guy was barely out of high school. I tried to decide if I’d ever seen him before. Nope. He might have been at Pop’s two months ago when the scarecrow went up in flames or at Jimmy’s car fire. Either event would have warranted wearing a shirt and pants. Without those, I was too distracted to say for certain.
    â€œHi, I’m Rebecca Robbins. Are you the only one manning the station today?” I was hoping to find a more experienced firefighter to answer my questions.
    My new friend nodded. “Robbie Bellson. The other guys went to get coffee. I’m the new guy around here, which means I get to wash the truck and baby-sit the station.”
    His disgruntled frown made me smile. “Not exactly the exciting job you signed on for, is it?”
    â€œIt has its moments,” he said, leaning down to tie his shoe and giving me a great view of his ample butt crack.
    â€œLike someone setting fire to Jimmy Bakersfield’s car?” I asked while feigning interest in the fire truck. Butt cracks weren’t my thing.
    â€œYeah, that was cool. I never knew a car could light up so fast.” I braved a look at Robbie. He was standing upright, with his hands jammed in his pockets. A glee-filled smile spread across his face as he reminisced, “You should have seen those flames. They were truly excellent.”
    â€œI saw them. I was the one who reported the fire.”
    â€œThen you know what I’m talking about.” Robbie shifted from foot to foot, almost dancing with excitement. “The guy who started it used a lot of gasoline. I guess he didn’t want to risk the fire going out.”
    â€œIf that much gasoline was used, why didn’t the hay field go up in flames?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t know much about setting fires, but I was wondering how the car burned so fast and the dry field was barely singed. Isn’t that unusual?”
    Robbie stopped dancing. “I don’t know,” he said, walking over to the CD player. With a whack, he turned it off. He grabbed the red T-shirt sitting next to it and shimmied into it.