Five Alarm Forever: A Reverse Harem Holiday Romance

by Dizzy Hooper

  Wavering, Walker puts his foot on the final rung. And he knows it. He's got this.

  With that brilliant, real smile I've only ever seen him shine at Street before, Walker jumps to the ground. The guys swarm him, patting him on the back. Walker nods at each of them, trading fist bumps and high fives and whatever else.

  Taking off his helmet, he wipes at his brow. His hair is wet and sticking to his face, and God, I could lick the sweat from his jaw.

  He looks to me. "Thanks for the belay."

  I demure. "Not like you needed me."

  "Damn right I did." A serious expression sweeps over his face. "None of us do our jobs without knowing the rest of us have their back. Got that?"

  It's too intense, what he's saying there. I nod, anything else I might have said caught somewhere in my throat.

  It was a joke—the part about him not needing me. But he took it and turned it into some kind of fucking life lesson.

  And I guess that's why he's the one in charge.

  "Good," he says. Then he looks past me to Street. "Satisfied?"

  "A little sloppy, but yeah. You pass."

  "You hear that, folks?" Walker asks, projecting. "Street approves."

  The others laugh. Jaquan snorts. "He damn well better."

  Walker grins again at Street. "Dinner's at six. Don't be making us wait."

  13

  Great. So that gives me eight hours to decide if I want to try Street's legendary pierogis or be a freaking hermit again.

  Nobody pushes me about it, at least. But the question hums along in the back of my mind for the rest of the morning as we complete our inspections on the equipment and clean up around the fire house. Jaquan bitches loudly about having to clean toilets, but even I can smile. It's such an act.

  I peel off for lunch, choosing to eat it in the chill of the loading dock again.

  Then we head out for community work. Walker has me ride on the truck with him and Street, giving me a tour of some of the surrounding area. The rough parts of town I witnessed last night look different in the light of day, but they're still distressed. People still mill about. The bars are shuttered, but that's the only real difference.

  After doing some check-ins at local businesses, we hit the grocery store so Street can grab some supplies. People walking in and out wave at me and Walker where we're leaned against the engine. Walker seems to know about half of them personally. He introduces me and fills me in about who each of them are.

  Once he's done that a dozen times, I turn to him. "Are you from here?"

  He nods. "Born and raised."

  I guess that makes sense. Who would choose to come here if they didn't have to?

  He gestures off into the distance. I follow where he's pointing, past the parking lot and a grouping of trees.

  "See that big red building over there?"

  "Yeah."

  "My elementary school."

  "Wow."

  "Go back every year for a safety presentation—not to mention the fire drills. It's always fun. See the old teachers. You know."

  Not really, but sure. I never had any attachment to my community growing up. After I lost my parents, I got shuffled around a bunch. The group home I eventually ended up in was still on the west side, but in a totally different neighborhood. Suffice it to say, I never exactly put down roots.

  Unlike Walker. His run deep.

  Still staring off into the distance, he gets a far-away look in his eyes. "My mom used to teach there."

  "Yeah?"

  "Fifteen years."

  I furrow my brow. Is that all? "Retired?" I ask.

  He snaps out of it all at once. His gaze goes to mine, confusion, then something like hurt flashing across his face before his expression goes carefully neutral once more.

  "Dead," he supplies.

  Oh, fuck.

  "I'm sorry—"

  "Don't worry about it." He takes a step away, though, and that step feels like a mile.

  Before I can dig myself any deeper into the pit of awkwardness I've opened up, Street returns. He's almost jovial by his standards, slinging two big armfuls of grocery bags up onto the tailgate of the engine.

  "Hope everybody skipped lunch, because I got enough to feed an army tonight."

  Walker jumps on the chance to cut off our conversation. "If I'd known, I woulda skipped breakfast, too."

  I feel even more distanced from him as he walks away to help Street load stuff up.

  And that’s good. That’s what I always wanted.

  So why do I have to keep reminding myself?

  Our conversation forgotten, we get the groceries stowed, then hop back on board and return to the station.

  We get a total of three calls throughout the afternoon. One cardiac arrest, one microwave fire, and one asshole pulling an alarm at an apartment complex.

  Walker doesn’t avoid me, but he doesn’t seek out opportunities to talk to me, either, and that’s fine.

  It probably doesn’t have anything to do with me making him uncomfortable, asking him about his mom, anyway—considering how thoroughly he’s glued himself to Street’s side.

  Even as the calls start coming in, Walker finds excuses to keep Street at the station cooking, and I can't imagine a more rousing endorsement of these freaking pierogis; Walker is not the guy to mess with the duty roster unless it's an emergency.

  When Jaquan and Sal and I get back from the apartment complex false alarm, the whole station smells like heaven. Onions and grease, starch and cheese. My resolve to keep myself apart from these guys wavers more violently than even before.

  With the gear and the trucks dealt with and ready for the next call, I follow the scents of fresh cooking to the common area.

  At the vision there, I swallow hard.

  Street—that big, hard, tattooed man with the stubbled jaw and the haunted eyes…he's in the kitchen. Wearing an apron and covered in flour, rolling dough.

  And I swear to God I almost orgasm on the spot.

  I'm tempted to take a picture and post it one of those stupid porn for women blogs. I never understood the pure sex appeal of a man doing domestic stuff before, but I sure as hell get it now.

  Street is softer like this. More approachable—for all that his edges remain clearly on display.

  He's engaged in what almost seems like friendly banter with Walker and Corey. A genuine smile tugs at his sinful mouth. Walker's leaning against the bar, more relaxed than I've ever seen him before, and even Corey seems to have dropped a little of his hero worship schtick to just be.

  In the middle of all that, Walker looks up and sees me and Jaquan and Sal coming. His grin widens. Street turns our way, too, and I half expect him to lock down, to go imposing and recalcitrant again, but nope. He keeps on working dough and telling some story about some crazy guy he saved from a house fire once, and my chest actually, honestly hurts.

  These guys are so close. Even their resident grump is laughing. The air smells like comfort food. The whole place is warm and just the right level of bright, Christmas lights twinkling, and this is the shit people mean when they're talking about family. When they're talking about home.

  This is the kind of place my old firehouse used to be.

  I miss the home I never had with a ferocity that blinds me. I miss my old crew. I miss Chicago and being part of a team.

  Jaquan bumps my shoulder at just that moment. My eyes refocus, but the tight ache in my chest remains. He holds out a soda in offering, and God, I want to accept it.

  I want to accept so many offers. I want everything.

  But what I'm going to get remains a mystery.

  Because before I can so much as open my mouth to let God knows what out, the alarms in the station start blaring.

  In an instant, Walker has his radio out. Harsh voices and static ring through the room. Everyone is on alert. We all know what those codes mean.

  Yet still we look to our leader.

  Walker speaks a confirmation into the transmitter, t
hen meets our gazes one by one.

  "It's a big one. Engine and truck. Everybody out."

  Street flicks off all the burners and turns off the oven. His apron flies over his head. He hits the hallway toward the turnout room and the garage right on pace with the rest of us.

  As I shove on my gear, my heart pounding in my ears, I still don't know what choice I would have made there in that kitchen.

  And it doesn't matter.

  Bet or no bet, none of us is having pierogis tonight.

  14

  Turns out, Walker wasn't downplaying things, either.

  We arrive at the scene to find a big, old house engulfed in flame. Trees nearby are scorching, embers floating in the breeze. I look around out of habit to find more houses to either side, all dry wood siding and old roofs—ready to go up in a second, if the wind blows the wrong way.

  People are huddled all around. A woman is sobbing, the man at her side looking shellshocked as he stares on. Three kids cling to them, upset and petrified.

  Two response teams are already here. The truck has its ladder extended, and there are two guys on the roof.

  We get deployed within minutes. We have a child, an elderly man and a dog unaccounted for. We have to go in.

  My pulse kicks up another notch as I get my respirator over my face. I listen to instructions, directing me and Jaquan and Sal to the rear of the building, and yeah, okay, we got this. We trained for almost exactly this situation.

  Walker gives me one last questioning look. I nod at him, and bless him, he takes me at my word. He gives us the signal to go.

  I follow the guys' lead. Sal heads in first, then me. Jaquan has our six.

  Inside, it's a fucking inferno.

  It's all I can do to keep my breathing even and slow. One of the worst things you can do is get all worked up and burn through your tank before you even get where you're going.

  Staying calm isn't easy, though.

  Red flames consume the entire interior. Who cares that it was freezing outside. My skin threatens to peel at the onslaught of heat. Black clouds obscure my vision.

  Shit. This place is going up—fast.

  The firefighters on the roof have the place vented, and a couple of their guys are starting the rescue search there.

  Sal, Jaquan and I work our way through the first floor, keeping contact the other team over the radio pieces in our ears. When they find the old man, it's a relief, but they have to get him out and then get back in, so it's more territory for our team to sweep, too.

  We do. The smoke gets worse as we hit the front of the house. When we've checked every room, Sal signals upward.

  Shit. This is one of the most treacherous parts of all. You never know if the floorboards on the higher stories will still be sound. Going up means more smoke, more heat. It means a whole building ready to collapse on you at any second.

  If anyone knows that, it's me.

  But none of us hesitates.

  We keep our formation. Sal tests each step before taking it, and we climb and climb.

  Sure enough, the second floor is a wall of flame. We make our way through it, knocking on doors and busting them down, and it's fine. We're doing fine.

  But licks of memory flicker at me just as brightly as the fire.

  I swear to god a floorboard creaks beneath me, and for a second the room threatens to spin.

  My stomach lurches as if I'm falling, the floor beneath me paper beneath my weight. My respirator is working perfectly, but I taste smoke, I feel ash in my lungs.

  I hear my old crew on the wire, swearing they can't find me even though they saw me fall.

  "Chapman—Chapman!"

  I shake my head, and it all dissolves. I'm here, standing, right where I was three seconds ago.

  "I'm fine," I insist.

  And it's impossible to read expressions through our masks, but I can feel the concern in Sal voice.

  There's not much he can do but take me at my word.

  We hear over the radio that the dog ran out of its own volition, singed but okay.

  So that just leaves the kid.

  Perfect.

  We search and search, but we're running out of time.

  Finally, in the last back corner of the house, a cracked-open closet door catches my attention. I signal to Sal, who's already on it. He shoves it open, and—

  Bingo.

  The kid is terrified, clinging to a chewed up stuffed toy and screaming at the top of his lungs. Sal pauses for half a second and does the fucking hero thing.

  I watch, ready to move at any moment as he takes off his respirator to show the kid his face. The kid is only a little relieved, and Sal is in a lot of danger. He isn't an idiot, though. He puts it back on and whips out his auxiliary. He presses the mask to the kid's face, and the kid wants nothing to do with it, and I fucking hate it when you have to force a kid, but this is clearcut as you can get.

  Sal swoops the kid up in his arms, and he's off. He announces our success on the radio, and Walker's relieved voice crackles in our ears, telling us to get the hell out of there—as if that's an order we needed to hear.

  We turn around and retrace our steps. Sal is just as cautious but a little faster on the way to the exit.

  We're almost to the stairs when Jaquan says, "Did you hear—"

  He cuts off, and I turn, looking back.

  Only he isn't there.

  "Shit," I breathe.

  Walker and Sal react in my earpiece simultaneously. "What?"

  "I don't have eyes on Jaquan." I look to Sal, who seems ready to run right back into the flames, kid or no kid. I shake my head. "Go, go, get him out of here."

  He hesitates, but only for an instant. Then he's off. I double back.

  I only have to travel a foot down the hall to find the open door.

  And the fucking hole in the floor.

  15

  "Do you have him?" Walker asks, voice measured but only barely. I can imagine him suiting up and getting ready to charge right into this building himself.

  I peer through the smoke and dust, pulling out my flashlight and waving it around, and—yup—Jaquan is right there in the middle of what looks like it used to be a bedroom before it was a smoldering wreck.

  "I have eyes on him."

  As the beam of my flashlight passes over Jaquan's face again, he stirs. A wave of relief washes over me, but we're still in danger of being swept out to sea.

  "Jaquan—"

  "Yeah," he groans over the radio.

  "Thank fuck," Sal says, but I block him out in my head.

  "Can you move?"

  "Dunno."

  "Can you pinpoint his location?" Walker asks.

  I relay the information the best I can. Walker confers on the other end of the line, while Jaquan slowly rises to his feet.

  But as soon as he gets there, his leg crumples underneath him.

  "Fuck," he bites off.

  "What's going on?" I ask.

  "Ankle. Don't know if I can walk on it."

  Shit.

  "We're working on extraction," Walker says. "Probably going to have to go through the wall."

  Double shit. We're losing precious time. Clearly, this place is going up in flames and down in ruins.

  Walker speaks again. "Chapman, get out of there while you can. The floor's unstable."

  Yeah, I figured that one out.

  And that was an order. This is my second day on duty. No way I should be even thinking about disobeying.

  But it's the same shit that got me in trouble back upstate. There are some things that are too important to let policy and procedure dictate your actions. There are some things—some people—you can't turn your back on.

  "Sorry, LT," I say. "Afraid I can't do that."

  "Chapman—" Jaquan says.

  "Shut up."

  While people yell at me over the radio, I refuse to waste time. I survey the situation and test the boards surrounding the hole. It's a hell of a risk to go down and it's jus
t as much of one to pull him up, but I've got to do something. Sal managed to get downstairs and out the way we came in, which is one vote of confidence for heading that way. The fact that Walker thinks the rescue squad is going to have to chop through a wall to get to Jaquan is a vote against getting him out through the first floor corridor.

  So hauling him up it is.

  A few more burnt-through boards give when I test them. I pry them out and toss them aside until I'm down to a beam that's as solid as I can hope for. I make my stand there.

  "Can you get over here?" I ask.

  Jaquan looks at me and at the ceiling. "Fucking crazy," he mutters, but then he says, "Yeah."

  "Good, do it."

  As he crawls through the flames, I anchor a rope and lower it down. He lets out a groan as he rises enough to grab hold of it. He manages to climb a few feet up, and that's all he has to do.

  I haul with all my might, and he does his share. As soon as he's close, I plaster myself to the floor and reach.

  When his gloved hand fits itself securely into mine, it's the best goddam moment of my life.

  He heaves and I pull with every ounce of strength in my body, and then he's there, up on the floor with me.

  And we're still running out of time.

  "Got him," I announce, breathing hard.

  "Go, go, go," Walker urges us on.

  "You heard the man," I tell Jaquan.

  He shakes his head but loops his arm over my shoulder, and fuck, he's heavy. I support his weight, though, and the weight of both of our gear, and he holds onto me.

  Together, we hobble toward the exit. The smoke is thickening, and I don't trust a single inch of the floor beneath us.

  We reach the stairs, and my adrenaline spikes.

  Flames cover every surface. We can rush through them, but with Jaquan down a leg and me sweating, my muscles burning, our air running low, I don't love the odds.

  Then, as I watch, part of the bannister gives in to the conflagration. It crumbles to ash, taking part of the ceiling with it, landing in a pile of burning wreckage on the steps.

  "We're at the stairs. We could really use a better plan, though."