For a split second, I wondered why her face looked so tense. Why isn’t she smiling? Why isn’t she making small-talk, or asking some embarrassing question about my areolas or my bladder control? Is something wrong?!
My eyes flicked back up to Josh. His hand was still on my shoulder, and his eyes hadn’t let me out of his sight.
It’s ok, he mouthed silently.
“Ah-hah!” the technician announced finally, breaking into a smile. “Looks like Baby is striking a pose for us today! Are you ready to see?”
“Yes,” I tried to say, but instead of making a coherent word, I just made some sort of anxious squeal in an affirmative tone of voice.
The ultrasound technician swiveled the computer monitor around so that we could see it, and I felt my jaw drop.
The image on the screen wasn’t just a little black blob anymore. It was a baby. A real, perfect, tiny little baby. I could clearly make out the silhouette of its head, and the curvature of its tiny spine and folded legs…
“Holy shit,” I murmured. My body was shaking, but it wasn’t because of the cold ultrasound gel anymore. I was in awe…
“Your baby looks perfect,” the tech told me with a reassuring smile. “Strong heartbeat, and we are measuring right on target for your due date. Would you like to know the baby’s gender?”
I glanced up at Josh and he shrugged: “Your call, Pinky.”
I considered it for a second, then I shook my head.
“No,” I decided. “I think it should be a surprise.”
“No problem!” the tech smiled. “I’m just going to print a few of these images for you to take home, and then you’ll be all set!”
She stood up from her swivel chair and headed out of the room, leaving Josh and I alone with the image of our baby on the computer monitor.
“We made that, Pinky,” Josh whispered in a soft voice. I glanced at him, and I realized for the first time that his hand wasn’t on my shoulder anymore. At some point, his fingers had tangled in between mine. He was holding my hand, and I hadn’t even noticed.
But now that I had noticed…I decided that I liked the way it felt. I kept my hand in his and I smiled.
We made that, I repeated to myself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN | JOSH
“LADIES AND GENTLEMAN!” Logan Ford had assumed the voice of a ring announcer as he cupped his hands and crooned loudly into the firehouse vehicle bay.
“STANDING AT SIX-FOOT-SOMETHING AND WEIGHING A STAGGERING 220 POUNDS OF SOLID MUSCLE…PLEASE PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THE MAN, THE MYTH, THE LEGEND: MISTTERRRRRRRRR JANUARY!”
I glanced across the vehicle bay and saw my brother, Brady, stride into view through the giant roll-up garage doors. He was met with an enthusiastic chorus of applause and catcalls from the small crowd of people that had congregated in the center of the vehicle bay, where the official Firehouse 56 calendar photoshoot was already underway.
There were twelve members of the Firehouse 56 crew; one for every month of the year. That meant that each of us would get our own moment to shine in a solo photoshoot. First up: Brady Hudson, resuming his role as the month of January. And, as always, I was trailing just behind him as the month of February.
This calendar photoshoot was a big deal for the entire crew, but it felt especially important for me. Posing in the calendar felt like a right of passage; like I was finally a real part of Firehouse 56. And that meant that today was the day I would finally get to upstage my brother’s legacy.
Move over, January…it’s February’s turn in the spotlight.
Preparations for the photoshoot had begun a full week in advance. Brady and Troy had emptied out the entire vehicle bay, and then they had spent an entire day scrubbing the oil stains out of the concrete. The day after that, they had acid etched the entire garage floor and applied a fresh coat of sealant. I bet the floor hadn’t sparkled like that since the day the old chief cut the ribbon on Firehouse 56 several decades ago.
The shiny concrete garage floor wasn’t the only thing that sparkled. We had also been under strict orders from the chief to get the trucks looking spick and span for the photoshoot. Every engine, truck, and bus in our fleet was freshly washed and waxed. Fire engine red never looked better than it did after a fresh coat of Armor All.
While every nook and cranny of the firehouse was polished, waxed, and buffed until it shined like a brand new penny, there was one thing we weren’t touching: our turnout gear. The photographer that we had hired for the calendar wanted to capture every last soot stain, ash mark, and burned patch on our uniforms. She thought it’d be more authentic that way; the grungier, the better. We all agreed; those burnt patches and ash marks were our badges of honor, and we had earned every last one of them.
Just because our turnout gear was staying dirty, didn’t mean the Firehouse 56 crew was skimping on personal grooming. In fact--
My thoughts were interrupted when I felt my cell phone vibrate from the pocket of my turnout pants. I reached for the phone and glanced at the screen. It was an incoming call; the name ‘Colonel’ flashed on the caller ID.
My grandfather.
I hesitated, then I hit ‘decline’ on the call. I’ll call him back as soon as I get home from work, I told myself.
“Joshua!” a voice called out suddenly from behind me. I had been watching as the photographer positioned my brother on an engine in the center of the bay, but when I heard my name, I snapped my head around. My eyes locked on Walker Wright. He was jogging towards me, and the expression on his face spelled out trouble.
“Hey buddy,” he said in his thick southern drawl. “We’ve got a situation out back and uh…well, I think you’re gonna wanna see this for yourself.”
Born and raised on a cattle farm in some forgotten corner of Texas, Walker Wright was a real bonafide cowboy. He was also a smooth-talking southern gentleman, and that made him an exotic commodity this far north of the Mason-Dixon. With a face like Joe Manganiello and a drawl like Matthew McConaughey, he was wrangling women left and right.
Right now, he was wrangling me toward the rear exit doors at the back of the vehicle bay. He pushed open the double doors, then he guided me through them and out towards the gravel parking lot.
“What’s going on?” I turned around, just as Walker slipped back into the firehouse and let the door slam shut between us. I turned towards the parking lot, and then I saw exactly what the ‘situation’ was.
“Ho-ly shit,” I muttered under my breath as my jaw slumped open.
Standing there, in the center of the parking lot, was Duke Williams. He was wearing his black turnout pants and no shirt. None of that was what caught my attention, though. What my eye was immediately drawn to was the patch of red, splotchy welts that covered the entirety of his chest. And dead center, there was a telltale strip of wax paper.
“Dude,” I cupped my hand over my mouth to hide my grin. I knew I shouldn’t laugh at my roommate, but… “What the hell did you do to yourself?”
Duke blinked down at his chest and sighed. The small act of inflating his chest for a breath was enough to make him grimace in pain.
“Isn’t it obvious, Josh?” he asked snidely. “I tried waxing my chest and it didn’t exactly work out.”
“I can see that. But…why?”
“Well,” Duke huffed, clearly not pleased with the way this conversation was going. “As you may recall, Joshua, I very recently became poor.”
“Right…” I said slowly, trying to figure out how ‘becoming poor’ had led to the terrible, ridiculous situation that was unfolding before my very eyes.
“As a direct result of my financial hardships, my membership to the Hartford Country Club was terminated.”
“Ok...” I said again, still confused.
“And as a direct result of that,” Duke continued, “I no longer have access to the Hartford Country Club Spa and Bathhouse amenities. Which, consequently, means that I no longer have a weekly appointment for a full bo
dy wax and blowjob from the personal esthetician that I have been seeing for the last five years.”
“You were seeing your esthetician?”
“On a professional basis,” Duke rolled his eyes at me.
I bit my tongue before I could say something snide. Duke’s on your side, I reminded myself, thinking back to that heart-to-heart we had on moving day.
“So…why didn’t you just book an appointment to get waxed somewhere else?”
“I tried,” Duke sighed. “Everywhere was booked. I couldn’t get an appointment before the photoshoot today. So…I panicked.”
He glanced down at his chest again and grimaced.
Just then, a car zipped into the gravel parking lot and squealed to a stop next to Duke. The engine cut off, the door flew open, and a tall blonde stepped out. I recognized her as Duke’s realtor friend…the one who had showed us the apartment. What was her name again? Briana? Britney?
“Brie!” Duke waddled towards her, clenching his fists in pain.
“Oh my God,” Brie’s face wrinkled in horror as she stomped her stiletto heels across the parking lot. “What did you do to yourself?!”
“You know those wax strips that you gave me?” Duke grunted, puffing out his chest in a way that made the burns look at least ten times worse.
“Yeah…” Brie said reluctantly.
“Are they made with molten lava, by any chance?”
“This is from the wax strips?!” Brie’s jaw fell open as she craned her neck forward to inspect the damage. “I use those strips all the time,” she shook her head in confusion. “I’ve never had a reaction like this.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Duke held out his arms. “I’m supposed to be the month of March, but I can’t go in front of the camera looking like this!”
“You could always wear a shirt?” I suggested, reminding them both that I was still standing there.
“No fucking way! I’d be the only guy wearing a shirt in the calendar. Do you know how dumb that would look? Everyone would assume that I was fat!”
“Nobody would assume that,” Brie said. “Josh might have a point…”
“Nope. Not happening.”
“This is supposed to be a calendar about firemen,” I reminded him, “Not ‘twelve months of infectious diseases.’”
“Fuck off, Josh.”
Welp, I cocked my head. So much for ‘brotherhood’...
I decided to leave Brie to fight Duke’s fire for him, and I turned on my heel and headed back into the firehouse.
Brady was still the center of attention in the vehicle bay. The photographer had him recreating his signature pose in front of the fire engine, gripping a thick length of hose in place of his dick. That was the money shot; the picture that made my big brother a legend, and had made the last calendar sell out faster than tickets to a Pats playoff game.
I gotta do better than that…I thought to myself.
“Hey, February!” a voice called out from behind me. At first, I didn’t recognize my new nickname…but then it registered, and I turned to see a reporter waving at me.
“Hey, sorry,” I smiled, offering a small wave back. “I guess that nickname is going to take some getting used to…”
“Well you better get used to it fast,” the reporter beamed back. “I just heard that the calendar pre-order already sold out. This is going to be big!”
“Great,” I grinned. All the more reason to upstage my big brother…
“Do you have a minute?” she asked. “I have a few questions for you.”
“Sure! What is this for, exactly?”
“I’m doing a Q&A with every firefighter featured in the calendar. It’ll be printed in a little blurb, right underneath your picture.”
“Oh, cool,” I nodded. “So what are the questions?”
“Ok,” the reporter said, squirreling through her notepad. “Umm, let’s see…how about this one: Who is your hero?”
The reporter’s eyes shot up to me, and I had a feeling she had already picked the answer that she wanted to hear. My lips folded into a flat line and I crossed my arms across my chest.
“Your big brother, maybe?” she hinted eagerly.
“Sure,” I said dryly. Why not…
The reporter’s grin grew bigger, and she scrawled down my answer on her notepad.
“What made you decide to be a fireman?”
I shrugged. “My dad and brother were both part of Firehouse 56. It’s sort of a family legacy, I guess.”
She seemed to like that answer, too. Why am I sensing a theme here?
We went through a list of questions -- everything from how I liked to kill downtime at the station, to my favorite breakfast cereal, to how I stayed in shape...
“Last question,” she announced. “What are you most excited about for the new year?”
“That’s easy,” I said without giving it a second thought. “Becoming a father.”
The reporter’s face lit up. “You’re going to be a father?”
“Yeah,” I hesitated. I still hadn’t told Brady the news. Actually, I hadn’t told anyone besides Duke.
I did have a plan in place, though. And truth be told, I was actually excited about finally sharing the news. The guys at Firehouse 56 were like my family, and I wanted them to be the first to know. But now, thanks to my big mouth, I had essentially just spilled the beans to all of Hartford.
“That’s so exciting!” the reported gushed. “Do you know what you’re having?”
“No,” I shook my head. “We’re keeping it a surprise.”
“Well congratulations to you and your wife!” the reporter said. “You must be so excited!”
I thought about correcting her and pointing out that Vanessa wasn’t actually my wife. But I realized that if I was to correct the reporter, I had no idea what to call Vanessa. What was she? My…friend?
“And your brother, too!” the reporter said, already moving on. “Brady must be so excited!”
“What am I excited about?” out of nowhere, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I jerked around to see Brady standing behind me.
Fuck.
“The calendar!” I stammered quickly. “We were just talking about how exciting it is, to be shooting another Firehouse 56 calendar!”
The reporter blinked at me, confused. I winked, and that seemed to satisfy her. If there’s one thing women love, it’s being let in on a secret...
“It is exciting” Brady agreed obliviously.
“Wonderful!” the reporter gushed, turning her admiring glance away from me and onto my big brother. “Do you have a moment to answer some questions for me, Mister January?”
“Sure,” Brady said. He glanced at me and added: “The photographer said he’s ready for you, by the way. You’re up, February!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN | VANESSA
Twenty-Four Weeks
“FIFTEEN MINUTES TO SHOWTIME!” the production assistant barked, peeking his head into the green room. His eyes landed on me: “What’s taking so long? You almost done in here?”
“Almost!” I assured him. “Just a few finishing touches!”
“Well hurry it up,” he snapped. “We’ve still gotta get Zoloft mic’d up!”
“Actually, my name is Zoie,” my client corrected him, but the P.A. had already disappeared from the door frame. The green room door slammed shut behind him, and we could hear his sneakers squeak on the tile floor as he scurried back down the hallway towards the main soundstage.
“Umm…yikes!” my client winced up at me and giggled from the black canvas director’s chair that she was sitting in. “That guy could probably use some Zoloft!”
“I’ve seen worse,” I rolled my eyes and chuckled.
I definitely had seen worse. Since founding Fairy Godmother Beauty, I had booked several gigs doing hair and makeup for live TV. And while those jobs were always exciting and rewarding -- who wouldn’t want to see their handiwork bro
adcast on national television?! -- they could also be the most stressful. That was mostly thanks to the type-A production assistants that lurked behind the scenes, barking orders and making ridiculous last-minute demands.
I shrugged it off, reminding myself that dealing with an anal production assistant was a small price to pay for a major business opportunity like this.
Today’s job found me in New York City. I had been hired to do the hair and makeup for Zoie Zoya, an Instagram fitness guru and self-help book author who would be appearing on The Harvey Show, a national late-night talk show broadcast out of Time Square. As far as opportunities went, this one was pretty major. This was exactly the kind of gig that was going to put Fairy Godmother Beauty on the map, and help us transition out of the tiny fish bowl of Hartford, Connecticut and into the ocean that was Manhattan.
I can revel in my success later, I reminded myself. Right now, I’ve got less than fifteen minutes to get Zoie out of the green room and onto that soundstage!
“I just need to add some blush and highlighter, and then you’ll be camera-ready!” I told Zoie as I fluffed my MAC Cosmetics 135 blush brush through a NARS compact of pressed powder, then tapped off the excess sparkly pink pigment.
“Perfect!” she grinned at me through her reflection in the green room mirror, which was framed with bright white light bulbs. Then her eyes flicked to the pressed powder palette in my hand, and she added: “Please tell me that’s the same shade you’re wearing?”
“Oh, umm…” I glanced down at the NARS compact, then I looked at my own reflection in the light-framed mirror. “Actually, I’m not wearing any blush at the moment.”
I wasn’t wearing anything on my face. I had been in such a rush to get my supply kit packed up that I hadn’t had the chance to paint on my own face of makeup before leaving Hartford earlier that afternoon.
“You’re kidding!” Zoie gawked at me. “Shut the hell up. You’re, like, glowing!”
“Thanks,” I said uncertainty. I inspected my reflection in the mirror and noticed that a rosy pink sheen had indeed settled along my cheekbones. Where did that come from?
February Burning: A Firefighter Secret Baby Romance Page 10
