by Dizzy Hooper
"Sorry." I start to continue past him.
He steps aside, letting me go. "No problem. LT just sent me to tell you, there's leftovers from dinner in the kitchen. He's warming them up." He hesitates. "No pressure, or anything. But you should eat."
Fuck. The idea of a hot meal makes something inside me want to roll over in pleasure and show its soft, vulnerable belly.
But a group meal? Especially after Walker gave me that talk earlier…
I hate the part of me that chafes so hard at the very idea.
This is just Walker again—the care-taking that Corey said was simply his way. I shouldn't read too much into it. I shouldn't turn down the chance to let them take care of me.
But my defenses are so worn down. I'm so tired.
Not just from the fire we put out tonight but from this whole day of trying to be strong and keep myself apart.
From these last six awful, awful months.
"Okay, yeah, thanks." I wave Jaquan off. But I at least try to do it in the least dickish way I can manage.
He shoots me another soft, sexy grin. He reaches out, and I'm not ready for it when he touches my hand with his. It's warm, reassuring. It feels like home.
Only I'm not ready to make a new one of those, yet.
I accept it for what it is, though. I don't jump his bones or draw away. I soak in the warmth, and then I turn.
He lets me go. His footsteps retreat away from me as I face the kitchen. My back stiff and my guard up, I continue down the hall.
The common space is dimly lit when I arrive there. A couple of bulbs over the sink illuminate the kitchen area.
They cast Walker in yellow light with sharp shadows. He sits on a bar stool at the counter, digging into a steaming plate that looks so good my mouth literally waters.
He looks up from the paperwork he's filling out to meet my gaze.
"Help yourself, if you want." He nods toward the stove.
The remains of whatever the team was having for dinner is sitting in a glass baking dish that must be straight out of the oven. I glance between that and Walker a couple of times, rooted where I stand, indecision holding me back. I chew on the inside of my lip, and I'm going to wear a hole in the damn thing if I'm not careful, I've been biting down on it so much today.
The sound of the TV switching to a commercial draws my gaze to the other side of the room. I hadn't even noticed it; the background noise it provides seems to be a constant around here that I've already learned to tune out.
But something draws me to look a little closer.
I blink a couple of times, surprised to find Street parked in the recliner in the corner, a plate just like Walker's balanced on the arm of the chair, a fork in his hand.
Like he can feel me staring, he shifts his attention from the television to me. He raises his brows. It's an indifferent gesture, like he truly doesn't care if I stay or go.
From him, that practically feels like a written invitation.
And I'm starving.
As I finally take a step toward the kitchen, Street looks away. Walker studiously keeps his focus on his work. My movements have never felt so utterly ignored and yet so carefully observed at the same time.
All the hairs standing up on the back of my neck, I make my way over to the stove. A plate and fork have been left out. Gratitude wells up in me. They really are trying to make a place for me, without pressuring me to take it.
With my hands trembling ever so slightly, I grab the plate and the serving spoon sitting in the dish. It's some sort of chicken and rice thing, and it smells like heaven. I scoop a big helping onto the plate.
Holding the food, I turn.
Sitting at the counter next to Walker feels way too close. Hell, with him working the way he is, it feels like an interruption. The big kitchen table is shrouded in darkness, and the overhead lamp would be too bright for the quiet intimacy of the night.
In the end, the choice isn't even that hard.
I take my food with me to the lounge area. Setting the plate down on the end table, I plant myself in the corner of the couch that's farthest from where Street is sitting.
The shuffling of papers tells me Walker is getting back to work; it's the only sign that he'd been faking as he'd waited for me to make my choice. Good lord, I can almost feel his smug little smile from over here, with my back to him.
Street just keeps slowly demolishing his meal, his gaze on the old sitcom rerun that's resumed on the TV. Without looking at me, he holds up the remote as if in offering.
I wave it away. I don't need to pick.
Settling into the soft, worn-in leather of the seat, I take my first bite, and goddamn. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in months. Maybe whoever cooked tonight is really that good, or maybe it's just how hungry I am.
Maybe it's the quiet company.
The gentle presence of these two big, strong men who are asking nothing of me. Who are offering so much.
Who are pulling me into their fold, quietly, unassumingly.
And tonight, I don't have the strength to hold myself apart. Falling into this evening, sitting here with them, sharing food and a little comfort…
It's easy. Too easy.
But that's something to worry about another day.
8
Turns out, the next morning, I have plenty of other things to worry about.
After eating and watching mindless television with Street and Walker, I eventually headed up to the bunks to crash for a little while. Corey and Sal were already passed out up there, while Jaquan lay in one of the bunks near the front, reading a book. He gave me a nod and an appraising look, like maybe he would have been happy to find other ways to pass the darkest hours, but I kept on walking.
Lying there on that mattress where I had already touched myself and come to the idea of getting fucked by the members of my new team was precisely as awkward as expected. I didn't sleep well, roused by my own arousal more than once—then by Corey's snoring, and later by Street dropping into the bunk across from mine at some ungodly hour.
The alarm going off at a quarter to five didn't help.
Instinct dragged me out to the garage before I'd even entirely woken up. Walker didn't look like he'd slept at all as he put me on the truck with Sal and Corey, but he was still in command. Still alert and unfairly hot, and good Lord, one touch of his hand to my shoulder was better than five cups of coffee.
Though, wow, what I wouldn't give for just one cup of coffee right now.
The alarm is an EMT call, not a fire, but we happened to be the closest responders available. Sal drives the truck with most of Street's speed but none of his death-defying insanity, so we arrive in one piece at a little bungalow home. A woman in curlers and a bathrobe is waving and shouting, as if we don't know where to go.
Sal talks to her calmly, patiently, as Corey and I surge ahead.
And it's just like it was with Street last night. Corey and I fall into the rhythm of the call without having to discuss it.
We find the old woman's husband on the kitchen floor, his face turning blue.
Corey and I drop to our knees as one. The kid doesn't hesitate, getting the guy's mouth open and probing for an obstruction. He shakes his head, and I put my hands on the man's chest. The counts start sounding themselves in my head as I work the guy's ribs. Everything fades away except the struggle to get this human being to breathe.
Corey puts his mouth over the man's and blows, and I pump, and then—
The old dude sputters. A chunk of grapefruit goes flying along with his dentures, and the man coughs and coughs, and I fall back. Relief swamps me, as potent as the night before. Moreso, maybe.
I look to Corey and smile, unguarded, and his answering grin is bright enough to light the sun.
So of course I shut right back down.
Jesus, I really am Street. Forget the quiet camaraderie of sitting in the lounge last night. I'm the wounded veteran responder who got hurt and who can't bear to let my crew even smil
e at me without getting all bent out of shape.
Worse, Corey looks like he wants to say something nice, or maybe something personal as this guy literally comes back to life in front of us, and it's five in the morning, I'm uncaffeinated.
How the hell am I supposed to even?
I shake my head and refocus on the job. "Come on."
We help the guy up. He clings to us as we settle him in a chair and start checking him over for other injuries, measuring his breathing and his pulse.
Sal comes in then, the flustered wife behind him.
"Oh, thank God," she cries.
"Careful," I warn her, keeping her from outright tackling the guy while he's still trying to get his breath back.
Her head whips around to me as she clutches the man's hands. "Is he going to be all right?"
"Everything is looking good."
"Harold, Harold—"
He shushes her, taking her hands in his. He still looks shaken, but the color is coming back to his face. He's steadier already. "I'm fine."
And then she grabs her hand back and smacks him. "How dare you scare me like that?"
I reach forward to restrain her, but Corey grabs me, shaking his head.
Fuck. Okay, yeah. This is their problem now. The guy is stabilized, so we did our job. If his wife wants to scold him, that's her prerogative.
Different people have different ways of showing how much they care, after all.
I pull free from Corey's grip and start packing up our stuff. The place where he held my wrist glows, the heat of his hand seared into me.
I stand. The couple seems to have figured everything out. The wife has collapsed into her husband. She's holding him fiercely, and his embrace seems just as strong.
Something in my chest pangs.
Watching people in the aftermath of a rescue is one of the best and hardest things about this work. Satisfaction rings through me at a job well done.
But it echoes, the hollowness inside me yawning, cavernous and empty.
As I stand, Sal catches my gaze. The corners of his dark eyes are pinched. "We good?"
"Peachy," I insist. Bag in hand, I shove past him.
It's still dark outside, it's so early, only the barest hint of pink beginning to emerge on the horizon. Cold, brisk air hits my overheated face. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath.
I've been on a million calls like that. We had a good outcome. Corey and I worked like a well-oiled machine. Everything is peachy.
So why am I so affected? Have I been out of the game so long that a few chest compressions could pull at my own chest? Simple gratitude like I felt last night at getting to do this work at all doesn't explain it.
Is my loneliness, now, here in this town where I know absolutely nobody turning me into a giant fucking sap?
I heave out a harsh breath and force my eyes open. The void within me spasms.
Yeah. That last one sounds about right.
I stow my kit on the truck, then head back in to help close out the scene. It doesn't take long. The guy should probably get some follow-up care, but he doesn't require emergency transport, so our job is basically done.
Corey and Sal give me a couple of odd looks as we’re finishing up, but they don't press me. We pile back onto the truck and hit a fast food drive-in for breakfast sandwiches. I eat mine on the way back to the station.
The sky is a pale purple, tinting to pink toward the east when we arrive. The fire house is quiet. Peaceful. Walker asks for a run-down, and nods, congratulating us on a good job. I'm way too wound up to get any more rest, and my shift is over in a couple of hours anyway, so I start in on my chores.
By the time I'm done, the sun is up, and so is everyone else. The place has a faintly buzzing energy. The next day's crew arrives, and I brief my relief.
And that's it.
Once the clock ticks over, I hit my locker and grab my stuff. I nod to Jaquan, who's doing the same. I ignore him talking to Sal about what they're going to do today. I head down the hallway toward Walker’s office.
Walker is there, dark circles under his eyes, cup of coffee in hand. He's doing something on the computer, but at my knock, he lifts his head and gives me that low, professional smile of his.
"You out?" he asks.
"Unless there's anything else you need me to do."
"Nah." He rises, unfolding his big, built frame to its full height. "See you Friday."
"Wouldn't miss it."
At his nod, I turn to go, but he calls me back.
"Oh, and Chapman?"
"Yeah?" I stop, twisting my neck to look at him over my shoulder.
"I'm going to take you at your word. Friday, we really put you to work."
Thank God.
The work is what I'm here for.
The busier I stay, the less time I'll have to think. The less chance all the rising emotions of this job will have to overwhelm me.
The less tempted I'll be by my hot co-workers—or swamped by my own isolation.
I smile tightly. "Bring it on."
9
The only problem with relying on your work to keep you out of trouble is that your days off can be a bitch.
For the most part, Evansburg, IL, operates on a pretty standard shift rotation. Firefighters work twenty-four on, forty-eight off, and it's great. The twenty-four hours you're on, you're on, and the forty-eight you're off, you can do anything. Lots of guys have side jobs or families or hobbies—whatever.
Me?
Right now, I have jack and squat.
Immediately following my first shift, that's a blessing. I hop into my piece of shit truck and drive five whole minutes to the studio apartment I'm renting. It's not quite in the run-down part of town and not quite in the nice part, either. It doesn't have any bugs, and the hot water comes on fast. It's cheap. Basically, it's everything I need.
I just took a shower last night after the kitchen fire, but sleeping at the firehouse always leaves my skin itchy. I scrub off again, fast, then stand in my efficiency kitchen with a towel wrapped around my boobs and eat a grocery store donut over the sink.
After that, it's basically all I have in me to drop the towel, shuffle over to the full-size mattress on the floor and fall into it.
I wake up three hours later foggy-headed and cold. Groaning, I roll over and pull my ugly, clearance-bin comforter over my head. My breath warms up the space around me quickly enough, but I'm still naked in December. Not exactly the smartest idea in the world.
Lying there, staring at the underside of my comforter, I take a couple of deep breaths. Tentatively, I run a hand down my side. My skin is dotted in gooseflesh from the chill, but it's responsive, too. A different kind of shiver hums through me as I pluck my nipple between my finger and my thumb. Pleasure zips from that tight nub to my cunt. I walk my fingertips over my stomach, past my navel to the lips of my pussy.
I'm warm down there, and a little slick. But I can tell I got myself off yesterday. I have a pretty decent sex drive, but solo missions are only so much fun. If I jill off more than every couple of days, I tend to get bored and frustrated. Even though my furtive orgasm at the firehouse didn't really satisfy me, I don't feel like taking the time to get myself off right now.
Besides—what would I even fantasize about?
Walker and his steady, quiet command? Sexy Jaquan or smoldering Sal. Eager Corey? Reclusive, mysterious Street?
Or better yet—all five of them?
Jesus—where does that thought keep coming from? I've hooked up with more than one guy before, but only a couple of times and a couple of guys. It was fun; a lot of fun. I loved having all those hands on my skin, those two cocks to fill me up one after another. But those were casual encounters. I've never sought that kind of thing out.
What is it about my new crew that makes it my go-to dirty thought?
Maybe the fact that they're all so hot I can't pick one to daydream about.
Maybe the trust between them. The way they work around each
other. The bond they share that makes them feel inseparable.
Maybe just the fact that I haven't seen a real cock in so long that I think I'm ready to take on five.
Internally shaking my head at myself, I throw off the covers and fumble to get dressed. The radiator in the apartment works just fine, but the air feels frigid after my heated thoughts.
I really am going to have to find ways to keep myself busy today and tomorrow if I want to keep my mind out of the gutter and my emotions in check.
Then again, that shouldn't be too hard, considering.
I've been living here in Evansburg for all of three days now, and I haven't gotten around to half the logistical crap that needs to be taken care of. I packed light, but there are still boxes to unpack and things to arrange. I don't really give a shit how my living space looks, but I'm not a complete cavewoman. I need curtains and maybe a rug. A chair that doesn't fold up. Food.
So off I go.
At the store, I pass a few displays of Christmas decorations, and for a second, I'm tempted. A little holiday cheer might be nice.
I rein in the impulse, though. What good will any of that stuff be in another month, anyway? There are decorations enough at the fire house.
And it's not as if my tiny apartment is a home. Dressing it up like one for the holidays will probably just make it look sadder.
C-shift is working a double Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, so I won't even see my apartment for the holiday.
And if I did…
I clench my fists tightly around the bar of the shopping cart I'm pushing around.
The group home where I spent my teens had decorations aplenty. Didn't help that place feel any cheerier. My parents never bothered with that sort of shit when I was younger, either, so I don't have any sentimental memories to indulge.
Redirecting my gaze toward the next aisle, I keep walking. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.
