by E M Lindsey
Wilder was busy babbling an apology for not pitting the cherry, and Antoine was trying his best to soothe the poor man while regaining his breath.
“I gotta get back to training,” Fitz said. “But I can give you a ride to see Parker if you…”
“No,” Antoine snapped. “I don’t need anything from you.”
Fitz wasn’t sure he managed to hide his sting, but he did figure out how to smile before tipping his hand in a wave and jogging back to his crew. They were all watching like he’d just performed some Cirque feat with tight rope and a trapeze, and he gave them all the finger as he resumed his position in front of them.
“Birdie got it on video if you’re looking to go viral, Chief,” Hernandez called, their newest recruit.
Fitz turned narrowed eyes onto his captain. “Delete that.”
“Come on, at least let me keep it for the holiday montage,” Birdie wheedled. At Fitz’s continued glare, Birdie eventually sighed and grabbed his phone, making a big show of deleting the video from his photos.
“If that shit is on the cloud or whatever,” Fitz started to warn.
Birdie fixed him with a careful look. “Relax, boss. It’s gone. Hand to heart.” He demonstrated the gesture and Fitz trusted him.
In truth, Fitz wouldn’t have minded his own slight embarrassment. He had a decent sense of humor about himself, but Antoine had suffered enough public humiliation for a lifetime at the hands of their small town. Fitz still didn’t like him, but he didn’t want him to needlessly suffer.
Clapping his hands, Fitz got their attention, then stretched his arms above his head. “Suicides.”
The crew groaned loudly, but Fitz was nothing if not thorough.
Tuesday night, Fitz was trying not to feel his usual anxiety, but Tuesdays had a way of fucking them all in the ass without lube. Every massive disaster that happened in Cherry Creek happened on a Tuesday night while everyone was sleeping. The bank robbery, the library fire, the gas line explosion—and those had been the ones in Fitz’s lifetime.
Usually they were small things though, but he couldn’t remember the last time they hadn’t needed to roll out at least once in the middle of the night. Now, he felt even more worried because Antoine was in town and the man seemed to invite disaster like they were old drinking buddies in college. Fitz sat on the lounge sofa with his yarn pillowed on his lap, dropping stitches left and right because all he could think about was what Antoine might be screwing up now.
“Hey, boss. Is that…what is that?”
Fitz looked up at Birdie and Diego Ruiz who were strolling into the room with bags of Chinese hanging off their arms. He shoved his pile of absolutely nothing off his lap and pushed it under the table so they could lay out the food.
“It was an experiment,” he said, which was a lie. It was meant to be a sweater sleeve. He’d never done anything that complicated before, and right now was probably the worst time to start trying. But his brain was starved for anything that wasn’t Antoine, and his job wasn’t challenging him enough.
Birdie raised a brow at him, but he said nothing as he laid out the spread, then passed around paper plates. Three was normally an excessive night shift in Cherry Creek, but Tuesdays were their exception. Birdie and Diego were the only ones without either family or significant others, so it was usually down to them, and Fitz most definitely did not mind.
“Did you talk to the new guy after his whole vomit fest?” Diego asked before shoving half an egg roll into his mouth.
Fitz bit back a groan, but just barely. He’d started his whole sweater project to stop thinking about Antoine, but he should have known there was no escape—and there would be no escape until he left town for good. “He wasn’t exactly interested in small talk after almost choking to death on a cherry pit.”
“I talked to Wilder for a minute when he was picking up his dinner order,” Birdie told him, and his face fell a little. “He was upset.”
Fitz felt a small surge of guilt, because he knew it wasn’t Wilder’s fault. The guy was closed off and spent most of his time alone, but Fitz had seen those eyes before, and the past pain that came with them. But Wilder was new to town—he’d only been there a year, and he hadn’t let people get to know him as well as Fitz might have liked.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” Fitz said after a minute.
Birdie shrugged. “I know. He said Antoine stuck around for a little while and helped him clean up and tried to make him feel better.”
Fitz felt a small rush of annoyance because why had Antoine never bothered to give him anything like that? Fitz had been kind of a dick—yes, but he didn’t think he’d done anything completely unforgivable. And he still didn’t think his assessment of Antoine was off the mark. He was an uptight, rich snob who thought he knew better than everyone else in their town.
He knew people like Antoine—with well-connected parents and their fifty thousand dollar a year private schools. He had no doubt Antoine bought his way into Ivy League education and used his daddy’s connections to get the job he had now. And maybe he was good at it, but it didn’t change the fact that people like Antoine had privilege no one else did.
The bite of orange chicken, and his tumultuous thoughts, were interrupted by the call coming in. The radio was blaring, and they were all on their feet, dinner forgotten as they raced to suit up. Birdie was snapping instructions into the radio as dispatch gave the information—fire at the Tavern.
Fitz’s heart was in his chest like it always was, because these were his people, this town was his family. Sonia and Rose had been through enough with Dmitri coming back to Cherry Creek without his parents. And now knowing that their restaurant was struggling, he couldn’t let them lose it. He couldn’t let it go the way of the Chametz, and he certainly couldn’t let it burn to the ground.
Fitz hauled himself behind the wheel, grabbing his headset and securing it haphazardly as he got the truck going. He glanced in his mirror to see Birdie give him the signal that he was ready, and then he flipped the siren and hit the gas.
They were less than forty-five seconds away if the streets were clear, and it seemed like God was on their side that night. He took corners carefully, but sped up on the straight away and he could see and smell the plumes of smoke as they got closer.
Fuck, fuck, his brain hissed as he rolled to a stop. There was a crowd of people across the street, patrons he assumed as the truck groaned to a stop and he jumped out. Birdie was on his heels as he approached the side door where the smoke was billowing out, and he faintly heard Diego talking to someone in the background.
“I think it’s already out, Chief,” Birdie told him, grabbing his arm.
Through his mask, it was hard to make anything out, but the lights were still on and everything smelled like hot metal. The temperature inside the kitchen was cool though, and Fitz ventured closer until they found the source.
Above the grill, a large vent was hanging on by a couple of bolts. The metal was searing hot and warped, and everything around it was charred and blackened. He could see it extended into the roof, but there was a fire extinguisher lying on its side, and white foam dripped from the hole in the top.
“Grease fire,” Birdie said.
Fitz’s stomach unclenched. He’d be irritated later at the thoughtlessness, how something like that could kill, and how easily preventable those fires were. But right now, he’d just let himself be relieved that it was fixable, that nothing had burned to the ground.
No one was hurt.
“We got a couple of people here who need transport to Springs General for smoke inhalation,” came Diego’s voice over his comm. “And a couple here who probably just need a little o2. Chief, you wanna give a hand?”
Fitz turned to Birdie. “Go get the tanks from the truck and I’ll meet Ruiz at the wagon.” They stepped out of the kitchen and Fitz tucked his helmet under his arm, tossing it onto the back of the truck as he passed by before finding Diego with a couple of people at the back of the ambulan
ce.
He recognized a couple of the line cooks, but not one of the men bent over and gripping Diego’s arm as he coughed. As he got closer, his heart jumped into his throat, because he’d spent days fantasizing about that mouth, about those long fingers, about that lithe body.
“What the fuck are you even doing here?” The words slipped past his lips, his hands going out for Antoine’s arms and grabbing him away from Diego before he could stop himself. He had Antoine by both shoulders, and he glowered down into his face which was faintly dark with soot. “How? And why?”
Antoine set his jaw, and when he spoke, his voice was raw from the smoke and coughing. “I was working with Sonia for her fucking webpage, you ass.”
Fitz’s stomach clenched. “How are you always,” he started, then shook his head and he bodily dragged Antoine over to the side of the fire truck and shoved him against it. Antoine’s legs were visibly weak, shaking as he collapsed against the step, and it was a mark of how exhausted he was because he didn’t fight Fitz when he hauled out the portable tank and wrapped the oxygen mask around his face.
“I don’t think you need much,” he said, adjusting the dial.
Antoine rolled his eyes, then laid his head against the side of the truck wall and sighed as he breathed in. “Is this where you tell me I should go to the hospital?”
“The ambulance can only carry two people, but I can drive you if you…”
“I don’t,” Antoine snapped.
Fitz raised a brow. “Not a fan of hospitals?”
Antoine looked at him, and it was obvious he wasn’t going to tell Fitz anything, but it was also obvious there was something personal there. Fitz knew his snap judgment was probably true, but he also knew there was more to the man than a silver-spoon childhood. It wasn’t his place to ask, but the desire to know burned deep.
“So, have you desecrated any old religious temples lately?” Fitz finally asked him.
Antoine made a startled noise, muffled by the mask. “Uh. What?”
“I’m just trying to figure out what god you pissed off.”
He grinned when Antoine looked affronted. “You know what,” he started.
Fitz leaned in close. God, he needed to stop. He had to let this go, but the pull toward Antoine was too damn much. “What?”
Antoine bit his lip. Fitz could just barely make out the movement behind the foggy plastic. His eyes fluttered shut, and his hands spasmed into fists as he held them over his thighs. “I’m trying to save this town’s ass and it’s trying to kill me. Maybe this is a sign I should just go home.”
Fitz felt the sudden urge to grab him and pin him in place, to swear to keep him—which was utterly insane. “No one’s keeping you here.”
“A contract is,” Antoine said. His voice sounded tired now, kind of floaty. “My promise to these people that I won’t let them sink.”
“Why do you even care?” Fitz asked him.
Antoine swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing along his throat. “Because they deserve it. This place is…” He trailed off and closed his eyes, and Fitz saw when his shoulders went lax and when the exhaustion took over where the adrenaline had kept the man going.
“Okay,” he said. He took Antoine by the shoulder which startled him awake, and he eased the mask off his face. “How do you feel?”
Antoine rubbed a hand over his cheek, smearing black streaks across his olive skin. “Like shit.”
Fitz almost laughed, because it was that or cry. Or scream. Or put his fist through the truck wall because everything he was feeling was messy and complicated. “I don’t doubt it. Do you have your car?”
Antoine blew out a puff of air, then hopped to his feet and wavered. “I might need a minute before I can drive.”
This time, Fitz did laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m going to drive you back to the Lodge.” Antoine opened his mouth to protest, but Fitz pressed a finger to his lips and tried to ignore how the warm softness shot tingles up his arm. “It’s that, or I make one of the boys drive you down to Springs General.”
Antoine’s eyes narrowed, but he had to know he couldn’t fight this. “Fine,” he breathed out. “I’m parked around the corner.”
Fitz backed Antoine up to the step again and sat him down. “Stay,” he ordered, and he felt a small thrill up his spine when Antoine’s eyes narrowed. “I’m serious. Do not move.” It was obvious Antoine wasn’t going anywhere though. Between the smoke inhalation and his busted ribs, the guy was lucky he was upright.
He backed up a step, not taking his eyes off him for as long as he dared, then he turned and found Birdie and Diego helping load up the two line cooks who had burns on their arms and were still coughing. “How are they?”
“Second degree burns, I think,” Birdie said, and Fitz felt a small wave of relief. They wouldn’t suffer the way he did. He glanced at them, both lying on beds with masks on their faces, and he pushed back old memories of what his skin felt like for so damn long after the fire. The endless, searing pain with no relief. “What about your guy?”
At his tone, Fitz gave him a glare, but he didn’t call him on it. “I gave him some oxygen and he’s okay, but tired.”
“Coughing is going to be murder on his busted ribs,” Birdie said.
Fitz was more than aware. “I’m going to drive his car up to the Lodge. Take the truck back and file the report, and I’ll check it over when I get back.”
“Should I take you off shift so you can…take your time?” Birdie asked.
Fitz’s jaw tensed. “Don’t.”
Lifting his hands in surrender, Birdie took a step back. “Alright, Chief. Relax. I’ll get it handled.”
Fitz knew this was against protocol. Fitz knew this was against all of his training. Leaving Birdie and Diego to finish up this mess so he could personally escort one out-of-towner back to the Lodge? But there was no changing his mind. He knew himself well enough for that.
Moving to the other side of the truck, Fitz peeled away his jacket and set his gloves on top before he walked back to Antoine who had laid his head back against the cool metal. His breathing was slow, but a little hitched on the inhale, and Fitz tried not to worry.
He remembered that pain all too well, the ache in his lungs, the coughing, the fatigue. And he knew this was nothing like that. This was a small blip, and he’d be fine in a day or two. But knowing first-hand how terrible it could all feel, his insides ached anyway.
“Alright,” he said, and Antoine startled upright, wavering again until Fitz offered a steady hand. “Keys.”
Antoine glowered, but he dug them out of his pocket and pressed them against Fitz’s palm. “It’s a rental, so don’t crash it.”
“I’m not the one with the record, Hollywood,” he told him. He couldn’t stop himself from laying a hand on Antoine’s waist, and it was a mark of how beat down he was that he didn’t fight Fitz’s grip. The car wasn’t too far off, luckily, and Fitz got Antoine settled before he climbed behind the wheel and adjusted the seat back. “You’re short.”
“My brother’s shorter,” Antoine retorted like that meant something. His head was pressed against the window, and his eyes were closed. “They always knew from the height, and his eyes.”
Fitz’s brows dipped into a frown, but he didn’t ask Antoine to clarify. It didn’t seem fair to prod him for information when he was this weak, this vulnerable. He made the short drive to the Lodge in awkward silence, then parked near the lobby and came around to help Antoine to his feet.
“Where’s your room?”
Antoine made a vague gesture to the side of the lobby doors, so Fitz kept an arm around him and let him lead the way down a small path that eventually led to a set of rooms. “One-oh-six.” He pulled away from Fitz to get his key out, and when his fingers shook as he tried for the lock, Fitz closed a hand around his and held him steady. “I can do it,” he grumbled, but that was an obvious lie.
Fitz let go when the deadbolt gave way, and he took a step back, but Antoine
walked in and left the door open behind him. It was a moment, a threshold, a choice. His feet felt rooted to the spot, but he knew he had to do something before Antoine looked back, because the moment their eyes met, where he was standing would matter.
His right foot shuffled forward, then his left. His fingers brushed the door as he stepped past it, but he could only feel the pressure against his dead nerves and scars. He groped for the handle and closed it—not enough to shut all the way, but enough to make a statement.
Antoine finally looked back, and Fitz saw it—the longing, the want, and maybe even a little fear in his eyes. His lips were pursed, like he was trying to hold back his words, and Fitz made another choice right then. His hand reached back, and he closed the door all the way.
Antoine let out a small puff of air, then he wavered again, and Fitz was across the room, holding him tight.
“You need your bed,” he murmured.
Antoine gestured vaguely to the door, so Fitz walked him over and stepped into what might have been the most tidy, well-put together room he’d ever seen. He was utilizing the dresser and closet, his luggage tucked away neatly against the far wall. The bed was made, everything was just so.
It was very much like him, and Fitz felt a need to reach out and disorder something. “Get out of these clothes and into something that doesn’t smell like smoke,” he ordered. “I’m going to find you a washcloth.”
Antoine muttered something Fitz didn’t catch, but he didn’t care. He found a stack of freshly bleached cloths in a cubby near the sink, so he ran the water until it was warm, and scrubbed a little of the squared hotel soap over the rough fabric before wringing it out.
Antoine was in his bed when Fitz returned, wearing a t-shirt and sweats. Fitz could still smell smoke all over him, but he seemed more relaxed as he lounged half upright against a sea of pillows. “Is this the normal treatment for fire victims in Cherry Creek?” he asked without opening his eyes.
