He missed by a country mile, the damned thing bouncing off the backboard with all the grace of a brick.
Oz took a few steps to retrieve the basketball, the lift of his graying brows telling Cole in no uncertain terms that the lieutenant’s spider senses were tingling away. “With?”
Shit. Cole needed to dial it back. He inhaled, nice and slow. “Procedural stuff, mostly. Haven’t you been writing up the incident reports for the station’s fire calls for the last couple of months?”
“Ah. You mean the ones you’ve been reading?”
Adrenaline punched through Cole from brain to balls, but he forced himself not to react. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“Of course you do. You’re not a dumbass.” Oz dribbled twice before sinking a perfect basket. “Westin told me you went back to the scene of that warehouse fire over on Wabash to see how investigations are done and reports are written up. Personally, I think that shit is about as exciting as wallpaper paste, but I get it. You’re fresh. You want to jump into squad with both feet.”
Cole swiped a forearm over his sweat-laced brow, catching the basketball as Oz passed it his way. The guy had never been a teddy bear, but right now he seemed so normal, so much like his old self, that Cole had to wonder if maybe he’d misread Oz’s behavior this morning. It wasn’t unlike Oz to haze rookies a little, and hell, Cole himself had helped load both Savannah’s and Jonesey’s lockers chock-full of emesis basins not even five hours ago. Enduring a ration of mostly good-natured crap was par for the course for candidates, and he’d promised not to give Savannah any special treatment, no matter how much he liked her.
He released a breath, steady and slow. “Yeah, I’d way rather be fighting fires than reading about them, but you know the drill. The department feels like I need to know the regs inside out and backward, so I was just brushing up on investigation protocol.”
“And you found something in that report you had a question about.” For the briefest of moments, Oz’s shoulders hitched beneath his navy-blue uniform shirt, the move sending a warning through Cole’s gut. Offending the guy wouldn’t get Cole anywhere he wanted to be, but laying off entirely wouldn’t get him any answers, either.
He took a free throw first, then the bait. “There wasn’t much left out there other than a French-fried AC unit and a hell of a lot of property damage.”
“That fire had some goddamn teeth,” Oz agreed slowly. He retrieved the basketball and took a shot in silence, and fuck it. Dancing around the subject wasn’t going to make this a party.
“I’ve never seen an air-conditioning unit go up quite so hot and do that much damage,” Cole said, point-blank. “You think there was something wrong with it?”
“You mean other than the shitty wiring that made it catch fire?”
Time to tread carefully. Cole cracked a smile. “Yeah. Other than that. I wasn’t inside on that call, so I was just trying to get my head around how a fire that intense would start.”
Oz rocked back on the heels of his boots, measuring Cole with a long look before saying, “The fire started just like I wrote it. That warehouse was your basic shithole, and the air-conditioning unit was probably old enough to have a single-digit serial number. Thing was probably working triple-time in the heat, and the wiring just couldn’t handle the overload. Simple.”
“Are you sure?”
The question was out before Cole’s brain-to-mouth filter could kill it, and Oz’s answer slipped past his clenched jaw.
“Yeah. I’m sure. If I’d seen something different, I’d have put it in my report. Why, did you have a second opinion?”
Cole’s pulse flared. The only thing he had to fly on was a questionable gut feeling and some evidence that was growing more circumstantial by the second. In other words: jack shit. “No, not really. Like I said, the damage just seemed worse than a garden-variety electrical fire, so I thought I’d ask.”
To Cole’s surprise, Oz broke into a smile. “Fucking squad rookies. You guys think every fire is an episode of CSI. Sorry to disappoint, but this sure as shit ain’t my first rodeo. That warehouse fire started from plain old bad electrical. Trust me.”
Cole’s chin snapped up at the implication. “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he started, but Oz just waved him off.
“Ah. I’m not gonna fault you for taking the job seriously. Just don’t go looking for glamour on squad, Everett. After twenty-three years on the job, I can promise you aren’t going to find any.”
“What about the restaurant fire a couple of weeks ago?”
Oz’s stare snapped over Cole’s like a live wire, fast and dangerous. “What about it?”
Cole willed his hands to stay steady over the basketball in his grip. But the more he’d turned over all the logical explanations for both of the fires in his mind, the hotter his instinct had flared. Something about this wasn’t right.
Trouble was, Cole was going to have to push pretty hard to uncover exactly what that something was.
“That fire at Campisi’s was just as nasty as the one at the warehouse. According to the reports, they were both caused by faulty electrical, but they seemed to spread faster than I’d expect. I’m just trying to get a handle on how that might’ve happened by looking at all the angles.”
Fishing for information was a tactic Cole knew Oz would see through, but it was the best option he had under the circumstances. He’d already learned half of what he wanted to know from the lieutenant’s reaction, anyway.
“Awfully ambitious of you to pull more than one report. And you checked out both scenes, too. Very thorough,” Oz said. He gestured for the basketball, but didn’t take a shot when Cole passed it over, and who was fishing for information now?
“I’m an ambitious guy,” Cole said, dialing his smile up to its nice-and-easy setting. “But I think you knew that.”
Oz didn’t smile back. “Seems there are a few things about you I didn’t know.”
He passed the ball back with a whole lot more force than necessary, making Cole’s adrenaline spike. But Cole needed answers, so he bit down on his tongue, giving Oz room to fill the silence.
“You never struck me as someone who had a problem with the chain of command. That mouthy candidate of yours has been rubbing off on you.”
God damn it. Cole’s flinch was pure reflex, but of course Oz saw it, his stare flashing for a brief second before he took a step closer.
“If you’ve got questions about a report, you don’t go fucking around like the idiot version of Sherlock Holmes. You come to me to get answers. Nobody freelances at Eight, and they sure as shit don’t ever do it on my rescue squad. That’s something you’re gonna want to remember if you really want that spot, Everett. Do I make myself clear?”
Cole’s heart ricocheted around his rib cage. His placement on squad was ultimately up to Westin, but Oz’s stamp of approval went a long way to ensuring that the promotion went through. He needed to put a tourniquet on this conversation before it became a bloodbath, with his job as the casualty. This situation might not pass the smell test, but Cole wasn’t ready to take the next step here. Fuck, he didn’t even know what the next step was.
But he damned sure knew what it wasn’t. He’d stuffed back every last emotion in the book for the last nine years. Flying solely on a gut feeling wasn’t going to be enough. No matter how badly he wanted to fight back.
“Yes sir,” Cole said. “Crystal.”
“Good.” Oz stared him down for another minute before turning back toward the house, and while he still looked pissed enough to spit nails, at least he seemed to take Cole at his word. Seemed like a win, considering Cole had been skating on goddamn thin ice by questioning the guy’s integrity in the first place, integrity that Oz had demonstrated on the job for as long as Cole had known him. Maybe he and Savannah had been reading too much into those reports—after all, they were ambition personified when it came to the job.
Borrowing trouble tested your emotions, and emotions only got you burned.
But trusting the wrong person could burn just as badly. The trouble was, everywhere Cole turned, there was a fire waiting to explode.
* * *
Savannah had just drifted off to the soundtrack of Crews’s snoring when the piercing sound of the all-call delivered her back to the stark reality of her darkened bunk.
“Squad Eight, Engine Eight, Ambulance Eight. Motor vehicle accident. Forty-two hundred block of Michigan Terrace. Requesting immediate response.”
“Nothing like a nightcap, huh, Nelson?” Donovan asked, following her toward the engine bay as she ran a hand through her hair to gather it into a ponytail.
“Mmm,” she said, blinking the last of the sleep from her eyes as she worked up her focus. “I think your version of a nightcap is a little different from mine. Hopefully this is just a fender bender.”
He one-handed his way into the step, already halfway out of his cross-trainers to gear up. “Doubtful. Michigan Terrace is four lanes, and people tend to drive it like NASCAR hopefuls. Even money says this one’s messy.”
Savannah’s heart sped up at the thought, but she countered her stuttering pulse with a long, even inhale. “You’re a breath of fresh air, Teflon.”
Alex shot her a grin through the shadows of the step. “That’s precisely why nothing ever sticks to me, Tough Stuff. I didn’t get my nickname for having mad cooking skills. But even with all of this fantastic charm aside, I guarantee that I’m sure as shit right about this call.”
Ten minutes later, the scene in front of them affirmed Donovan’s cocky prediction with gut-clenching accuracy. There were three—no, four cars strewn over the asphalt at various angles, with twisted metal and shattered safety glass covering both lanes on the northbound side of the road.
“Okay, people. Let’s get some trauma assessments.” Captain Westin issued directives to kick everyone into motion, sending squad to deal with what appeared to be a gasoline spill from one vehicle’s ruptured fuel line and Rachel and O’Keefe to the sporty convertible that had gotten up close and personal with a telephone pole. “Everett, you and Nelson take that black SUV. Go.”
She fell into step with Cole automatically, taking in the mangled SUV with an internal wince. While they’d handled a half dozen wrecks ranging from minor to moderate over the last few weeks, none of them had been this serious. Well, none since that first one where she’d thrown up.
“Looks like a single rider. You take the driver and I’ll double-check for passengers, just to be safe,” Cole said, moving around to the far side of the SUV.
Savannah resisted the urge to pull up in shock. “You want me to take point?”
He sent her a brief glance even though he didn’t slow a beat. “You’re good for it, right?”
She metered her breathing, running through her training in her mind. This might be the biggest wreck they’d responded to yet, but she could do this. Everyone at Eight had showed her how. “Copy. I’ve got the driver.”
Cole’s brisk nod said he believed her. They approached the SUV, and she tested the driver’s side door handle, adrenaline and relief surging through her when it opened.
The relief fast-tracked to dread at the deep, jagged gash running from the driver’s temples all the way up to the center of his forehead, just shy of his hairline.
“Hi there, sir. My name’s Savannah, and I’m with the Fairview Fire Department. Can you tell me if you’re in any pain?”
“My head,” the man groaned, trying to turn toward her. Okay, good. Responsive was good. “Has there been an accident? I don’t . . . I can’t remember.”
“I’m afraid so,” she told him, her stomach pinching hard at the thick wash of blood free-flowing all the way down to the man’s neck. Nerves of steel, girl. You can help him. She fought back the fear threatening to freeze her to the pavement. “But don’t worry about a thing. We’re going to take good care of you, okay?”
Savannah ran through the ABCs of trauma protocol in her mind, quickly turning the steps into action. Although his head wound was significant, it appeared to be the driver’s only injury. Things got a little sketchy when he regained a little awareness and panicked, the struggle causing a blood vessel to burst in the already-deep gash, but by the time Cole had cleared the rest of the vehicle and radioed to Rachel for a C-collar and a backboard, Savannah had managed to get the man as calm and stable as possible for transport to the hospital.
“See? Told you,” Donovan said, tipping his chin at her blood-soaked gloves as she shucked them into a biohazard bag.
“Yeah, remind me to take you to Vegas.” She lifted a brow to highlight her sarcasm, although she couldn’t help smiling. “I’m just glad that guy is headed to Fairview Hospital.”
“Looks like everyone is.” Donovan gestured to the two additional ambos that had rolled up while Savannah and Cole had been working the SUV. “Sure is nice to call this one a win.”
They finished clearing the accident scene, letting the guys from Thirteen wait out the tow trucks and get traffic safely moving again. Savannah’s watch read just after midnight when she finally climbed back into the step, and she let the rumble of the diesel engine lull her adrenaline even further off the ledge on the trip back to the house. Not even bothering to stifle her yawn, she toed out of her boots at the entryway to her bunk, her body sinking into the mattress less than two seconds after she got horizontal. The room grew quiet, save for the rustle of covers as everyone got situated . . .
And the soft buzz of her cell phone vibrating beneath her pillow.
Savannah’s heart sped up in surprise as she slid her phone into her palm, tapping the screen to reveal the incoming text message.
Hey. You okay over there?
She turned toward the half wall separating her bed from Cole’s, folding her smile between her lips even though no one could see the gesture.
Of course. I’m not fragile, remember? she typed, and a full minute passed before Cole replied.
I’m not asking because I think you’re fragile, Nelson.
Oh, she wrote, pausing for a minute of her own before adding, Then why are you asking?
A chuff of laughter filtered over the partition, so soft that she’d have dismissed it as a sleep-laden exhale if she didn’t know better, and the sound warmed her all the way to her toes.
I’m supposed to have your back, remember?
Yeah, she typed. As if he could hear the mental but she’d tagged to the end of the text, Cole replied.
And you’re supposed to let me.
Savannah stared at her phone, her heartbeat impossibly loud against the silence in the bunks. Finally, she typed in, Okay.
Okay. Good night.
She pressed her hand to the wall between them, knowing that even if the all-call stayed silent for the rest of the night, she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
Chapter Twenty-One
Savannah zipped yesterday’s uniform into her duffel bag, smoothing a hand over the short-sleeved white button-down she’d replaced it with. Although last night’s wreck had definitely been the biggest call of the shift, it hadn’t been the last one of the night, and it also hadn’t been the only one on which she’d run point. Crews had given her carte blanche on the house fire they’d responded to at 0300, and even though she’d done no more than aim a fire extinguisher at a smoldering trash can someone had used as a stunt double for an ashtray, the trust had still felt really good.
“Hey, Nelson. You heading out?”
Speaking of really good. The smooth cadence of Cole’s voice interrupted her thoughts, sending a ribbon of heat uncurling between her thighs. “Oh! Ah, yep. I sure am.”
“I dug up my copy of that textbook we were talking about the other day. You’re welcome to borrow it if you want. It’s just out in the Jeep.” His words were perfectly benign, ones he could’ve been speaking to anyone in the house. But the glint in his olive-green eyes promised more, and God help her, more was exactly what Savannah wanted.
“That would be great. I’ll w
alk out with you so I can grab it.”
She took a deep breath, going through the motions of clanging her locker shut and taking the requisite number of footsteps through the engine bay, then the sun-drenched basketball court. Cole walked beside her, the silence between them not uncomfortable despite the sexual tension free-flowing through Savannah’s body.
He opened the Jeep’s passenger door, sliding a book from the seat. “Here you go. Fire Behavior and Combustion Processes.”
Their fingers brushed as he passed the glossy textbook over. “This says it’s volume one,” she said, and his fingers made a second, slower pass over her knuckles.
“Volume two is at my place. Guess you’ll just have to come over to pick it up.”
Her throat worked over a hard swallow. “Right now?”
“If you want.”
Oh. Oh, did she want. “Sure. Meet you there in ten?”
Cole’s smile was dark and decadent enough to eat with a spoon. “I’ll be there in five.”
There was something sexy as hell about a man of his word—or maybe there was just something sexy as hell about this man of his word. Either way, less than ten minutes later, they crossed the threshold of his condo in a hot tangle of tongues and arms and pure, uncut want, and fire behavior came in a distant second to bad behavior.
“Do you have any idea how fucking hot you look like this?” He cupped her face with both hands, holding her steady for a deep, penetrating kiss before pulling back to run his fingers over the low-slung braids brushing each of her shoulders.
Her laughter spilled into the sliver of space between them. “Cole, please. I probably smell like the firehouse.”
“You smell amazing,” he corrected, tipping her chin upward to brush his mouth over the sensitive skin by her ear. “And you taste even better.”
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