by Dizzy Hooper
"I'm sorry," I grit out. "I really appreciate it, but—"
"Shit." Walker's face falls. "You're not vegan or something are you? If I'd known—"
"No, Jesus, no." I respect vegans, but no fucking way. "I just—I can't. No, thank you, I mean. I."
Fuck. I sputter wordlessly as Walker's expression shifts. His apology about possibly disregarding my non-existent dietary restrictions fades away. As my meaning sinks in, a pinched look overtakes his eyes. A shadow.
I steel myself.
I really can't afford to lose this job. Maybe I should just suck it up and deal with the small talk. Refusing to be a team player is probably reason enough to get me canned.
But they were desperate enough to hire me in the first place, despite the wrath they could have faced from upstate. My free time on shift is mine to use as I will, and if I want to spend it being alone and miserable and safe, then they can't stop me.
I turn. Before they can call me back or call me any of a thousand names, I stalk away.
"Fuck," Sal says from behind me. Everything in me bristles. "You didn't tell me you hired another Street."
My ears perk up at the name of our missing crewmember.
And that's the only excuse I have for not watching where I'm going.
Ten feet down the hall, and I walk straight into a wall.
A hot, hard, muscular wall. My eyes snap wide. I put a hand up to steady myself, and it meets a ripped set of abs through a plaid, flannel shirt. I crane my neck up and up and up.
Only to meet black eyes, set deeply into a hard, chiseled, haunted face.
4
Somehow, I manage to swallow my scream. A thousand nightmare scenarios run through my head, from a serial killer who’s broken into the station to a zombie to a ghost.
But Occam's Razor shouts down all the horror movie nonsense. The simplest answer is usually the best one.
"Street?" I ask.
He nods slowly.
Okay, cool, he is my missing teammate, and not some murderer running around the fire house. That makes way more sense, and yet after the scare he gave me, it's still a relief.
We stand there together, frozen for a moment. Then he licks his lips. I'm riveted, watching the tip of his tongue and the flash of teeth. He raises his brows.
"You Campbell?"
"Uh-huh."
Wow, I'm articulate right now.
But what could anyone expect of me? I just about ran headlong into this guy while fleeing a display of over-the-top friendship and camaraderie.
And he's huge. Both tall and broad. His muscles have muscles, and crap. He may be a bit of a loner, to hear Corey talk about it, but he sure fits in with the rest of the shift, at least visually.
He's gorgeous. Not in that confident, sexy way of Jaquan's or the quieter, simmering way of Sal's. He's not the wholesome, all-American beefcake that Walker is or the cutie Corey seems to be.
He's more…rugged. His black eyes say that he's seen some shit, and his cheekbones look sharp enough to cut glass. His not-quite-shoulder-length dark hair is windswept despite the fact that we're indoors. Most guys go clean-shaven in a firehouse because of the regulators we have to wear, but he's sporting that perfect kind of five-o'clock shadow, and all I can think about is how that roughness would burn the insides of my thighs.
Fuck. Thank God I did go nuts and take the edge off upstairs or I'd probably spontaneously combust. Breathing the same air as this guy has my heart leaping, my swollen pussy throbbing. He smells like cedar and heat, and I want to lean in, to get closer.
But just as I sway forward, his hand wraps around my wrist. One of his brows arches higher.
I look from his eyes to his hand and back, and then I realize exactly how inappropriate this is.
I snap my hand back, stumbling away from him. Shit. I ran into him by mistake, all right. His bulk blocking my path unsettled me, and fine, sure, I had to put a hand out to steady myself. But that doesn't explain standing there like a creep, my palm flat against his eight-pack abs, the barest sliver of space between us.
It doesn't explain the sex-flush rising up my neck or the tingling in my rock-hard nipples. The need humming between my legs or the tightness in my throat.
All of these guys have put my ovaries on high alert, but Street has sounded a whole other set of alarms.
Worse, he seems just as taken aback by the encounter. His huge chest rises and falls, and his eyes are wide. With his one hand still extended toward me, he follows my movements like a predator.
Or… maybe…
Like prey?
No. Impossible. This guy is clearly an alpha male if ever I've seen one.
So why is he staring at me like I'm the threat here?
I straighten my posture, examining him more closely.
That's when I take in the ink covering his exposed forearms where the sleeves of his shirt have been rolled up. It's all black as night, but it's…mottled.
Scarred.
Oh, hell.
Yeah, this guy has definitely seen some shit. Anyone who's been in this line of work for any real time has a few scars. I have a bunch from small burns and scrapes. Hazards of the job.
Plus there are the couple of bigger scars--from that last fire. The one I almost didn't make it out of.
The one they were going to leave me to die in, I'm pretty sure.
But even those have nothing on the mementos Street appears to have taken home with him.
Jesus—to have come away with those kinds of burns, he's probably lucky to still be alive.
I swallow, and my throat grates.
Shit. In and amongst all the ink, I spot an 'RIP'. I can't make out the name following it.
And then I don't have a chance to look any more.
Street snatches his hand back. In two deft motions, he rolls down the sleeves of his shirt, covering the tattoos and the scars. I snap my gaze to his to find his eyes blazing, and something in my heart hurts.
"Sorry," I manage.
I was staring. I got in his space and then I stared at his scars, and I feel like an asshole. He put them out there for the world to see, but they clearly have meaning to him.
But it's not a meaning I'm going to find out a damn thing about. Not today, and from the stormy expression on his face, probably not ever.
"Save it," he growls.
Can I blame him for wanting to hide whatever's happened to him?
Suddenly, a lot of missing pieces click into place.
His loner reputation. His isolation from his crew.
The ache in my chest redoubles.
He got hurt. Maybe just like I got hurt.
Isn't that what Sal said to Walker when I turned down their offer of a home-cooked meal? You didn't tell me you hired another Street.
The spark of pain that lives behind my ribs flares, recognizing something in this man that calls out to me.
"Look," I say, and Lord help me, because I have no idea what comes next.
Wanna be grumpy, reclusive buddies?
Wanna go fuck some of the anger out of our systems in a supply closet?
Fortunately, before either offer can escape my lips, he saves me from myself.
"No, you look." His eyes burn. "Go back there. Eat Walker's grandma's casserole."
"Is that where you're going?"
He laughs, and it's an ugly, grating sound. "Fuck no." He gazes in the direction of the kitchen, wisps of regret swirling like smoke behind the darkness. "But it's not too late for you."
What the hell does that mean?
He refocuses his eyes, directing their smoldering heat at me. "Go. It'll be better, for the both of you."
Is he serious?
I shake my head. I just made a huge scene in there, turning them down.
I did it for a reason.
One I haven't forgotten, no matter how much literally running into this mountain of a man has distracted me.
"I can't," I start.
His face hardens. "Fine. Suit your
self."
He glances toward the kitchen once more, and is that actual longing softening his gaze?
If it is, it's there and gone in an instant.
"But don't say you didn't have the chance," he adds.
A wall comes back up over his eyes.
And with that, he turns. As he strides away down the hall, I watch him go.
My head spins.
Because yeah, that was the final, missing member of my new crew.
But meeting him hasn't solved a single thing. I'm just as confused and alone and horny as I was before.
Only now, it's with the extra weight of beholding those haunted eyes. Those deep scars.
That loss living inside that incredible man.
5
The first time the alarm blares, it's seven o'clock that night.
I'm eating a sad salad by myself on the steps out back of the garage, and I come this close to spilling the whole damn thing on my lap.
The bitter tang of adrenaline floods my mouth.
Amazing—it's been months since I've been on-duty for one of these. I've never been out with this rig or this crew before. But it doesn't matter. The reaction is baked into my bones.
Standing, I'm through the door in seconds. My sad salad winds up on a shelf; hopefully I'll remember where it is when we get back, if we even get back tonight at all.
Excitement and dread swirl in my gut. A big fire is a tragedy. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.
And at the same time, I'm ready. This is the job I trained my whole life for. I've known I wanted to do this since I was ten years old, cowering in the wreckage of my childhood bedroom, fumes and smoke so thick I couldn't see, could hardly hear…
I've been standing still these past few months. I'm ready to move.
And I'm not the only one.
As I hit the turnout room and grab the gear I was assigned this afternoon, Walker is striding through the space. He's got his radio out.
A crackly voice says, "Kitchen fire, the old Dunham place on 133. Engine 402, please respond."
My pulse kicks up another notch. That's Walker's engine. We're going.
Or he is, at least.
Almost too late, I realize my presumption. This station has been working with a skeleton crew since my predecessor cleared out his locker. Only the one engine and the one truck. Once I'm up to speed, we'll be getting the other engine going, but for now I'm unassigned.
I stop, my suit pulled up to my waist and my boots in my hand. I meet Walker's piercing blue gaze.
And he could give me any reaction at all right now. I can still hear his disappointment when I turned down his casserole this afternoon. I can hear Street telling me to go back there, basically calling me out for breaking the lieutenant's heart.
Walker could tell me to sit the fuck down and wait until I'm given an order. He could remind me I haven't earned this yet.
Or he could smile, big and broad. Tip his hat to me and say, "You ready?"
Relief floods my lungs. "Damn right I am."
"Gear up, then. You ride with Street and me."
That means I'm taking Corey's spot. I hesitate. Walker catches it.
"Corey knows what's what. Don't you worry about him. Worry about yourself."
"Yes, sir."
Sure enough, when Corey skids around the corner a second later, Walker just nods at him. Corey catches my gaze, smiles, and gives me a two-finger salute.
"Good luck," he calls, and he's off, back the way he came.
I was worried he might be envious or put out. But nope. He knows what's what indeed.
Street appears out of the shadows at some point, seemingly magically already geared up. Walker gestures at him, and he's off, getting in the driver's seat. I pull on the last of my equipment and sling myself on in.
And then all I can do is hold on.
Street drives like a maniac, but that is basically in his job description. Our sirens wail.
Walker meets my gaze through the dimness, his face lit by the yellow of the street lamps as they go by. "Follow our lead, okay? I know you know what you're doing, but we haven't had much time to drill."
"I won't get in your way," I promise.
"I know that. Just keep yourself safe. No heroics to prove yourself or anything."
"You don't have to worry."
He shoots me a look that says he damn well does and will. It hits too close to a tender place in my chest. I look away.
Fortunately, thanks in no part to Street's driving, we arrive about three minutes later. The rig screeches to a halt, the whole engine lurching with how fast he takes the final turn, and then we're there.
As instructed, I follow Walker onto the scene, surging out of the engine right after him. Street materializes at his flank. Another truck and an engine from a different company are already there, their flashing red and white lights piercing the darkness. Familiar shapes of firefighters in full uniform move across the scene, barking orders. Walker joins right into the fray.
I look past him to the building we're here to save.
From where we're standing, the situation doesn't look too bad, but these things can get out of hand fast. The structure appears sound, and the only signs of visible flames are in a single corner of the structure.
My attention darts automatically to the other windows in the house. A lit Christmas tree stands in front of one of them. I work my jaw, calculating. If that thing is real, it'll go up like kindling once the flames start to spread. That adds some urgency. The radio says it was a kitchen fire; if we do our job right, maybe we can keep it contained there.
I throw my gaze farther afield. Two women are standing by the curb—probably a mother and her adult daughter. The younger one has a baby in her arms, and there's another small child toddling around them. None of them seem injured, and they're as calm as anyone could hope for, considering their home is currently ablaze.
"Chapman. Street."
Street and I turn as one to Walker. He gestures to the hydrant someone's already cracked open. "Connect up."
And I've never worked with Street before. I've never worked with any of these people before.
But it doesn't seem to matter. The both of us nod, and we're off.
As one, we hit the engine and get the line unhooked. Street gives me basic directions, and I follow them, and it shouldn't be this easy, this seamless. Firefighters get in each other's way all the time, but we've got this.
We connect up and reel the whole assembly into place.
While we've been at it, a team has already headed in. Over Walker's radio, I hear, "Building's clear."
Walker signals to us.
Casting a confirming glance over his shoulder, Street asks, "Ready?"
"Let's do it."
He takes the tip position. I've done this a hundred times, I know what to expect. The sudden onslaught of pressure, the seemingly uncontrollable flailing of the line, but we control it. Street gets the stream of water directed at the flames licking through the windows. Smoke billows, turning the sky black. The other engine company trains its line at the other side of the fire, and we match them with all of our strength.
Before I know it, it's over.
There wasn't any grease involved. Everything was textbook, honestly. We get the signal, and we kill the line.
I sag in relief.
The house is still there. The kitchen is a mess. The family is going to have a lot of rebuilding to do. They're probably going to have to find someplace else to stay for a while. But they're going to be okay.
We did our job. We saved the day.
It feels amazing.
And it hits me all over again--I almost lost this. I did lose it, for months.
I gave it away, and I would do it again. There are some things that are too important to stay silent about. There are some things it's worth sacrificing everything for.
Only I didn't. Not in the end.
I'm here. I'm doing what I dedicated my life to do, and the rush of endorphi
ns paired with the fading adrenaline are leaving me high as a fucking kite.
I keep going, though, finishing the job. We salvage what we can and comfort the victims. I fall into step with Walker and Street, which is saying something. The two of them are a well-oiled machine. They barely need to speak to make themselves understood.
How long have they been serving together?
The mournful look in Walker's eyes when Sal compared me to Street. The way Street gazed toward the kitchen and warmth he thought it was too late for him to be a part of.
The way they move around each other now…
Idle speculations flit through my thoughts. I don't have time to indulge them beyond that, though. All my will is bent toward continuing the work.
Until finally, it's done.
Exhausted, soot streaked across his face, Walker tips his head toward the engine. "Go get her started up." He looks to me. "Have a breather."
A part of me chafes that he would think he has to tell me that. Another part remembers what Corey said about him being protective around his crew.
And it’s not as if he’s wrong. I can handle anything, but getting thrown back in the saddle like that wrung me out. I should take my rest while I can get it.
With a quick nod of acknowledgment, I follow Street over to the engine. He doesn't look at me as he grunts, "You did good out there."
I glance at him, but he's taken off his headgear. His long tangle of hair falls in a curtain around his face, obscuring his expression.
I barely know this man, but already I can tell. His praise is a rare, precious thing.
So I grasp onto it and hold it to my chest.
He peels off as soon as we get to the engine, heading for the driver's seat. I go around to the back and strip off the heaviest of my gear. We could have to go again at any second, so I don't remove too much, but I'm sweating like a pig, despite the snow on the ground.
The night is pitch black at this point, but the scene casts enough light for me to see by. Swiping at my brow, I dig into the compartment in the back for a bottle of water. I twist off the cap and resist the urge to splash it on my face and over my hair. All across my overheated skin.
