EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT: Airhead

Chapter One

November, 1981

Hartigans should come with a warning label. 

No, that wouldn’t be enough. There should also be sirens, alarm bells, six-foot-high razor wire, a full military squadron armed to the teeth, and the scariest nun from St. Bernadette’s School for Girls, all of whom would warn that the end (of your panties) was nigh. 

But not Katie Madigan’s panties. 

Nope.

Her French cut undies were as safe as Fort Knox because she knew better than to ever fall for the charms of a Hartigan—especially Frank Hartigan. 

It was a Friday night in November 1981 at Marinos. The air was a crisp forty-five degrees outside the doors, and a beer-scented eighty-nine inside since practically everyone in Waterbury was packed into the sports bar. Friday nights were for blowing off steam after a long week at work. Saturdays were for taking the train across the bridge into Harbor City to dance like you weren’t’ living paycheck to paycheck. 

No, this wasn’t how Katie had seen her life turning out when she’d graduated at the top of her class and left for an Ivy League college, with big plans to see the world and to never set foot in Waterbury again, but that’s how things had worked out.

That’s why she was at Marinos on a Friday night, despite the dismal state of her bank account balance. She had accepted her fate. No. She’d embraced it. Instead of living a life of adventure, she’d gotten her degree from the state university and had come home to working-class Waterbury. She’d taken a job teaching third graders, shared a tiny apartment with her twin sister, and never thought about what she was missing out on—because she wasn’t missing out on anything. 

She’d learned better. 

Now, her favorite words now were ‘predictability’ and ‘dependability.’

Frank Hartigan was one of those things, but definitely not the other. 

Katie might not be a genius, even if her IQ was as high as her teased-up bangs, but even she knew what to expect from Waterbury’s most eligible bachelor. She’d been watching him since high school. He’d flirt. He’d charm. He’d get her worked up, and naked, and spread wide on the nearest horizontal surface, and then he’d be gone. It was his pattern. Like every firefighter in her experience—except her dad—Frank Hartigan did not stick around. 

Therefore, she should not, would not, could not fall under Frank Hartigan’s spell. 

Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t let Waterbury’s redheaded answer to Robert Redford buy her a beer. She was on a teacher’s salary, and the tread on her Pinto’s tires was worn to almost nothing. Really, she’d be doing it for womenkind.

So, despite knowing better, she couldn’t help but enjoy watching the redheaded walking wall of muscle as he headed straight to her table with two bottles of Bud in hand.

“Why do you have that look on your fash?” Connie asked. Her sister’s words slurred together as she shredded the cardboard coaster promoting the bar’s upcoming Rocking In 1982 New Year’s Eve party that had been delivered along with her second Long Island Iced Tea. 

The coaster was twenty-five percent confetti, while her drink was already half gone. Things were moving along right on schedule. Predictability for the win. 

Connie had a process she followed whenever she broke up (temporarily—unfortunately) with her gag-me-with-a-spoon boyfriend, Blane “The Creep” Adler. 

First: A night of Long Island Iced Teas at Marinos Sports Bar, followed by a trip to Marino’s All-Night Diner next door (no they weren’t owned by the same people, and the grudge between the owners of Marinos-without-an-apostrophe and Marino’s-with-an-apostrophe went back decades). There, they’d order the same thing they always did when Connie’s dirtbag boyfriend cheated on her. The hope was that a greasy patty melt would prevent Connie’s hangover the next day. 

It never did.

Second: Connie would spend the next forty-eight hours bitching about The Creep and pointing out to Katie every shitty thing he’d done during the entirety of their on-again/off-again relationship. There were a lot of things to point out. The man really was an asshole. 

Her hand to God, if Katie had a time machine, she would kill Hitler first, then she would stop Connie from ever asking The Creep to the eighth grade Sadie Hawkins Dance a decade ago. 

Katie had a feeling God would forgive her for both. 

Third: At hour forty-nine of the process, The Creep would call Connie. She’d hang up. He’d call again. And again. And again. And again. Each time he’d promise that, from now on, she was the only girl for him. 

Then the flowers would start. Then DJs on the radio would start playing love songs he’d dedicated to her. (Once he’d sent a singing telegram, but that was the only time he’d switched things up.) In the end, he’d show up outside their apartment and beg until she took him back. 

Rinse and repeat. 

And repeat.

And repeat.

Honestly, it was exhausting and Katie was just an observer.

“Earth to Katie,” Connie said between drinks. “Who made you shmile like thas?” 

Katie schooled her face to something more neutral, because they were still early in phase one and Connie wasn’t yet drunk enough to miss Katie’s reaction to Frank Hartigan’s approach. 

To buy a little time, she fluffed up her spiral curls and shifted her gaze to her sister. “What look?”

The ‘don’t-BS-me’ look that Connie shot Katie was a little wonky, because the gin, vodka, tequila, and Triple sec were starting to work their magic. “The one that says you’re about to do something stupid.”

Katie snorted. “I have never done anything stupid.”

Okay, that lie probably would work on the third graders she taught, but not on her twin.

“Puh-lease,” Connie said, rolling her eyes and then grabbing the edge of the table to steady herself, even though she hadn’t moved from her seat. “We shared a womb. I know you way too well for that.”

Bingo.

Her sister may have grody-to-the-max taste in men but she was otherwise a total brainiac. It really was the best and worst of both worlds. 

Katie, on the other hand, kept things simple by ignoring the fact that men existed. Especially men who were firefighters at their dad’s station house. Most especially, men who were firefighters at their dad’s station house and had the last name Hartigan. 

There were three Hartigans on the Waterbury Fire Department, but only one who worked at her dad’s station. He was the worst—the absolute totally to the max worst. 

For her better judgement anyway.

He was also fast approaching their table, with two beer bottles and the cocky self assurance of a man who had to constantly bob and weave to avoid women throwing themselves at him. Even now, Sandy O’Shea had stepped directly in Frank’s path. She was acting as if she’d accidentally Cabbage Patched her way off Marinos postage stamp sized dance floor, but anyone with two brain cells would know that wasn’t the case. 

Fine. Sure. Whatever. Katie could admit she understood why most of the women in Waterbury made a play for Frankie Hartigan. He was mountain man tall, professional wrestler ripped, and the knowing smile he sent a woman’s way promised all of the best things. And yes, Katie had spent some time wondering how he’d deliver on that promise. 

In detail. 

At night. 

With her hand down her cotton, days-of-the-week panties. 

She was a grown woman after all, and one time the mailman had delivered her neighbor’s copy of the International Male catalog to her apartment by accident and it had given her ideas. 

Lots. 

Of. 

Ideas. 

And that had happened the same day she’d stopped by the firehouse to say hi to her dad. And when she’d been left momentarily alone, and was gripped by nostalgia, she’d done something she hadn’t since she was a kid—she went down the fireman’s pole. But instead of her feet landing safely on the ground below, she’d slammed into Frankie and had nearly knocked him off his size twelve feet. Any other guy would have ended up kissing pavement, but not him. He’d done some James Bond spin move and ended up cradling Katie to his broad, hard chest. 

It was, hands down, the hottest moment of her admittedly boring life. 

So, she did the only thing she could. She’d squeaked out an apology and run home as fast as she could… where the mis-delivered International Male catalog was waiting for her.

Honestly, she was surprised she’d made it until after lights out to get some relief.

But that had been two weeks ago. This was now, and she’d long since thrown away the men’s lingerie catalog. 

Was that even the right word for sexy men’s stuff? Did they call it lingerie? She had no idea, and it wasn’t like she could pop over to Randy next door and ask about the catalog she’d kinda sorta stolen from him. 

No matter.

She was a stronger woman tonight. All she wanted was a free beer, and nothing else. Fine. Yes. She was lying to herself, but that was her right. If only she could lie to herself well enough that her sister would believe her. But judging by Connie’s questioning expression, Katie’s face wasn’t playing the part. .

Before Katie could say anything to mitigate her face-that-held-no-secrets, Connie turned in the direction of Sandy O’Shea’s perfect pert ass and let out a shocked gasp. She pivoted back around to stare at Katie with a look of pure horror. Even Jamie Lee Curtis fighting off what’s-his-name in a mask couldn’t have done it better. 

“Do not tell me you’re making that face,” Connie hollered, in what her pickled brain probably thought was a whisper, “because of that man.”

Katie looked down at the scarred wooden table and tried to play it cool. “What man?”

Her sister snorted. “The one ignoring Sandy’s bad impression of a Solid Gold dancer and staring right at you.”

Katie jerked her head up. “He is?”

“Ha!” her sister squawked. “You’re the worst liar in the whole world. Of all the guys in Waterbury, why would you ever pick him? I mean yeah, he’s got stellar reviews on the bathroom stalls, but you aren’t really into guys like him.”

“I’m not,” Katie said, maybe a little too fast, but Connie wasn’t likely to pick up on that in her current state. “I’m just out of beer money until payday, and he offered to buy me one.”

“Uh-huh, shure Katherine Allishon Madigan,” Connie said, slurring just enough to warn that the countdown to the second part of phase one (emotional breakdown waterworks) had begun. “Whatever you shay.”

Sisters. No one allowed a person to get away with less bullshit than a sister. Katie was a half a second away from reminding Connie that she was here to drown her sorrows over that preppie poser asshole who, for reasons unknown, she kept going back  to not point out the flaws in Katie’s love life (or lack of one), when the redheaded wall of muscle stopped at their table. 

Frank Hartigan set one bottle of beer down in front of Katie, and the other in front of Connie.

“Heard about Blane,” he said to Connie, with a commiserating grimace that held enough sincerity that Katie couldn’t help but wonder who’d screwed him over. “You ever want me to take him behind the firehouse and knock a few of his teeth loose, you just let me know.”

Connie blinked at the mention of her ex, and then stared, wide-eyed, up at Frank. She looked at him as if he were some sort of god, rather than the guy she’d just been warning her sister off of. Her fuzzily focused eyes went watery, and her chin trembled.

“That’s…the…nicest…thing,” she said between tipsy hiccups, “anyone…has…ever…said…to…me.” 

Connie whipped around and grabbed her sister’s hand. “This man is one of the good ones. You know you like him. Don’t let him go.” Then she burst into tears, flopped her head down onto the table, and wailed loudly enough to cut through the jukebox rendition of Physical by Olivia Newton-John. 

Katie loved her sister, but she was going to kill her.

First, however, she had to get them both away from this man and his boneheaded (but honesty very sweet) offer to beat up The Creep before she started to like him. Or something worse than like him. Her and Frank Hartigan? It was impossible. It was unthinkable. It was the last thing in the world she should ever consider.

So she wouldn’t.

She. 

Would.

Not.

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The Hartigans - Recommended Reading Order

(standalone stories with interconnected characters)