by Kacey Shea
“Ma’am, is anyone else inside the building? Any pets?”
“No, it’s just me.” Thanks for the reminder.
“We have a truck on the way, just hang tight. We’ll have firefighters on the scene in five minutes,” the operator replies, and I groan at the thought.
Shit. I look like shit. Because I work from home I didn’t feel the need to brush my hair, or teeth, or wear makeup, or get dressed today. I’m not even wearing a bra! Oh, hell no. I look down and yes, my nipples are clearly visible through the thin white fabric. The cool morning breeze has them fully erect. Awesome. A bang and clatter of wood pulls my gaze back to the house where flames lick through the rooftop.
“Shit!”
“Ma’am, is everything okay?”
“No. It’s really not.” I need a bra. A sweatshirt would do. My bedroom is at the front of the house. If I run, I can be in and out in less than two minutes. I stomp up the short cement drive.
“Do you know which unit is on its way?”
“Uh . . .” There’s a brief silence and then her voice comes back on the line. “Looks like Station Ten, ma’am.” Fuck! Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? Fuck my life.
“I have to go back in the house. I’ll just be a second. I left something important inside,” I huff into the receiver and jog the rest of the way, then stop when I reach the door.
What? Giving the girls full support is important.
“Ma’am, do not go into the structure. I promise, the crew is on its way.” That’s what I’m afraid of. I pull open the door and the scent of smoke fills my nostrils. I choke and cough as the sensation burns my throat. Dry heat stings my eyes and I squint to relieve the pain.
I consider not going any further, but I spot my dresser through the open bedroom doorway. It’s taunting me. A mere fifteen feet and my rack—along with my pride—will surely thank me. There’re no flames here. It’s not even that hot in the room. The shrill sounds of the approaching safety vehicle spur my steps forward.
“I have to,” I rasp into the phone line.
“Ma’am.” Her voice is angry now, demanding. “Do not. I repeat. Do not go into the home.”
“Too late.”
The sirens gain volume and I set my phone atop my dresser, slipping my arms out of my shirt and through the straps of my bra. Cups in place, I sigh in relief and reach behind to clasp the hook in place.
Boom!
The force of an explosion throws me backwards. I try to catch myself but my foot snags the corner of my dresser and my body goes down.
Bang. The side of my head collides with the bed frame and my body crumples to the ground. My temple pulses and my view goes a little fuzzy. A haze of darkness blankets my mind.
Oh shit.
Four months before
I love firemen.
I don’t know what it is exactly. The element of danger in the occupation. The bravery, selflessness, and honor they must possess. The uniform. Those pants they wear and how easily said pants can be removed. I assume anyway. Okay, so maybe it’s mostly the pants for me. No one ever nominated me for sainthood.
Regardless, my love of firemen has been ignited with the help of my realtor. After obtaining my first real-deal, full-time, post-college job, I’m ecstatic to finally move out of the cracker box apartment near campus and into this little single family in the suburbs of Richmond, Virginia. It’s less than ten miles from my office where I work as a graphic designer, but more importantly, the location of my house is a mere half-mile from Firehouse Ten.
Did I buy a house based on the fact it’s within walking distance of a fire station? No. That would be immature. And at twenty-two I’m a hard-working, tax-paying, responsible adult member of society and a law abiding citizen. I won’t lie, though—the station down the street did increase the home’s appeal. Besides, they say location is everything! There’s even a nice jogging path through the neighborhood that leads right past the open bays.
I’ve never been more inspired to take up daily running.
But running will have to wait as I still have another carload to empty and boxes to unpack before I start my workweek tomorrow. I blow an escaped curl away from my face and wipe the sheen of perspiration with the sleeve of my shirt.
I like order. Can’t stand chaos. And I find it impossible to concentrate while my house is a disorganized mess. I won’t sleep until it’s done. Won’t focus at work tomorrow knowing that my forks and frying pans are shoved in a box under dishtowels. Or, God forbid, stacked under a box marked clothes. Which is why I’ve called in the reserves.
“Callie?” Alicia yells from the front door. Good! They’ve arrived.
“Come in! I’m back here in the kitchen!” I shout.
“You really should lock your door. It’s not safe,” Jill announces. She drops a box on the counter with a big thump. I smile wide.
“Thanks for coming to help!” I place the last of my dishes on the center shelf of my short, galley style kitchen and close the cabinet door with a satisfied thud. I turn and greet my friends with hugs. “You didn’t have to bring anything.” I nod at the box.
“Uh, yeah. It’s a selfish gift. More for us than you. Alicia thought drinking and unpacking would be more entertaining than not.” Her piercing blue eyes assess the mess. “And I concur.”
“Look, we even brought cups so you don’t have to do extra dishes.” Alicia pulls a sleeve of red Solos and shakes them in the air. “Best friends ever. You can thank us later.” She busies herself with pouring wine.
“I’ll do it now. Thank you. I really appreciate the help. And liquid encouragement.” I grin, take the offered cup and bring it to my lips.
“Wait!” Jill halts my movement. “A toast!” I lower my cup and watch as my friend nibbles on her lower lip. Her thick eyeglass frames rest a little too low on her nose, hiding the deep blue of her eyes. Her long blonde locks are pulled high into a messy bun.
Jill, Alicia, and I all met freshman year during rush week. After wasting a week’s worth of precious study time, we didn’t make it into our first choice, the coveted Kappa Delta. In turn, we commiserated by overindulging in pizza, along with half a bottle of vodka Alicia scored from her older brother’s apartment, and have been best friends since.
“Come on already, Jill. This Merlot is singing to me softly.” Alicia whispers to her cup, “Don’t worry baby. Mama’s coming for ya.” Alicia’s raven black hair is cut shoulder length with long layers and one thick strand dyed a vibrant electric pink. This same lock changes with the season, or Alicia’s mood—her ever present act of rebellion against her family’s pristine image. Her chocolate eyes dance with laugher and her thin lips pull into a grin.
“Okay, okay. To Callie. For your promotion to Junior Design Associate at Superstition Graphix—may you have much success and many reliable paychecks. And this beautiful new home—we wish you lots of luck, happiness, and love here.”
“To Callie!” Alicia tips her cup.
“Thank you.” I drink, allowing the sweet liquid to permeate my taste buds.
“Oh! And to many firemen sightings!” Jill adds with a giggle.
“Yeah, great local by the way. Couldn’t miss that on the way in. Did you tell your realtor that was a requirement?” Alicia’s already refilling her cup.
“Of course I did. I said, ‘Don’t show me a house unless it’s within a one-mile radius.’”
“You did not!” Jill gasps. Alicia rolls her eyes.
“No. I didn’t. This was just good luck, I guess. A match made in real estate heaven.” Setting down my glass, I walk into the dining room and slide the box containing pots and pans toward the center of the kitchen floor. “Okay. Unpack. I’m running a tight ship, so if you can’t stay on task I’ll play prohibition.”
“You wouldn’t!” Alicia squats down and opens the box. Yep. I know how to motivate this one. She’ll do anything as long as I don’t take away the special sauce.
“So, where do you want these?” Jill pulls ou
t a pot and pan.
“Well, don’t laugh,” I start, and they both snicker. Ignoring them, I open the remaining empty cabinets.
“You’re my hero,” Jill breathes in my ear. The sticky notes, all color coordinated to box labels, name exactly where my belongings will go.
“Is this a sign for help? You going cray cray on us or is this just evidence of your genius?” Alicia flicks one of the sticky tabs.
“Let’s go with brilliance.”
“How much time did this take you?” Jill starts to unpack, following my notes, while I pick up another box and hand it to Alicia.
“Not that much,” I lie. Organization calms me. Helps my mind deal with change. I’ve always been this way, even as a child. Give me a box of Lego blocks and I’d sort them by color and shape instead of building something like a normal child my age. Barbies? Mine had a closet of color coordinated outfits, organized by gowns, casual wear, and bathing suits. So, in the week leading up to my move I busied myself with creating order to best execute this major life change.
“You guys good in here? I’ll grab the rest of the boxes from my Jeep.” I swipe my keys off the kitchen counter. Alicia and Jill wave their agreement and I head toward the front of the house.
It’s midday and the humid July heat greets me when I open the door. My skin instantly begins to moisten in protest and I stop to pull my long curls back from my face, using the tie at my wrist to form a ponytail. In flip flops, tank top, and cutoff jean shorts, the heat is more oppressive than my fair complexion can tolerate. Without a single glance in the mirror I know it’s already blotched pink.
Shouts and deep laughter pull my attention from the neatly stacked boxes in my Jeep over to the open greenbelt kitty corner to my house.
Oh. My. God. My jaw drops and my heart knocks around inside my chest.
Thank you, Lord, sweet baby Jesus.
I just stare. And thank the powers of the entire universe and all its glory for the sight that meets my eyes. Six men—firemen—scramble around the greenbelt, tossing a football back and forth. Their rig is parked further down the street as not to block my view. And oh, what an amazing view.
Football. A game of shirtless football. It’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had come to life. There are half naked firemen running about my yard. Well, not my yard exactly, but close enough I’ll count it. The only way it’d get better is if—oh, shit!
I throw up my hands to shield my face as the ball spirals toward me.
“Heads up!” one of the firemen yells.
The sound that escapes my mouth is neither attractive nor sexy, but I manage, somehow by the grace of all things holy, to catch the ball instead of letting it hit me square in the face. I stare at the ball in wonder and awe. I’ve never caught a ball in my entire life. I raise it overhead and do a little dance while chanting, “Touchdown!”
His deep laughter stops me dead in my tracks. My jaw drops.
“No. Please, continue. I’m enjoying the show. Nice call adding the moonwalk.” I lower the ball and squint against the glare of the sun. He’s tall, well over six foot and at five-four I have to lift my chin to meet his gaze.
Screwed. I am so screwed. He’s beautiful. In that way only some men can be. Dark tan, even darker eyes and lashes, and a ball cap with the word “FIRE” covers his head. His full lips pull into a smirk.
“Sorry, just excited! For catching a fireball. I mean—fireman ball—I love ball—er . . .” Oh, God, please let the Earth swallow me whole. I’m so much cooler in my head. Not so much in real life. He just laughs.
“I love ball. Is that like another form of I love lamp?” He smiles and I hand over the offending sport equipment.
“Something like that. Sorry. I’m going to blame that on moving day chaos.”
“Moving in or out?”
“In.”
“Shouldn’t your boyfriend be helping you with all these heavy boxes?” he says with a smirk and leans one strong arm against the side of my vehicle. I take the opportunity to stare. Broad chest. Defined pecs. Sweet Jesus. Sweat drips down his ribcage and trails the defined ridges of his abs. My tongue may be hanging out of my mouth in marvel. His belly button. The faint dust of hair that travels lower. Is he flexing? Crap. He asked me a question.
“No boyfriend. Just me.”
He nods and looks back over his shoulder. His lips purse together to make one of those really loud whistles. I’m impressed. Even his whistling skills are bar none. I can’t even regular whistle. He turns his attention back to me and sticks out his hand. “I’m Chase.”
“Callie.” I place mine inside his grip and the rough calluses of his fingers send a shiver up my spine. He continues to hold both my gaze and hand prisoner as his colleagues invade my driveway.
“What’s up, boss?”
“Miss Callie just moved into the neighborhood.” He finally drops my hand and pops the back gate to my Jeep open. “I thought we’d give her a hand.”
One by one my perfectly organized stacks of boxes disappear with the men and make their way toward my front door.
“You don’t have do that,” I apologize lamely. “Really, I have help.” At that moment Alicia and Jill step outside onto my little front porch. Both women glow and giggle as they lean over the metal railing. Their laughter carries down the drive and I swear I hear Alicia congratulate one of the guys on his buns of steel. Sauced. They’ve been hitting the wine hard and fast.
“We don’t mind, do we guys?” Chase says as he pulls out the final box. It’s clearly marked underwear and with a lift of his finger the top flap opens to reveal all that’s packed inside. Thank God I put the sexy stuff on top. Only because it’s hardly worn and eventually makes it way to the back of the drawer did I pack it last. Chase’s lips lift at one side of his mouth along with one eyebrow and he nods at the array of lace and satin. “Very nice, Callie.”
I slam the box shut and pout my lips in an attempt to act put off, when really my skin tingles with the thought of wearing lingerie for this man.
“Thank you for your help, Chase, but I think I can handle it from here.” I snatch the box, hold it to my side, and balance it on my hip.
His grin grows wider. “Anything I can do to help a patron in need. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He turns and struts, with laze and ease, back toward the sidewalk. The rest of the crew exits my house and catches up to his side. I try not to watch his backside retreat. Really, it’s not polite to gape in the open like this, but I can’t help but admire his strong back and shoulders, and the tattoos that cover one side and dip low into his pants. Even his ass is nice, round and firm through his shorts.
“Callie.” Alicia’s voice startles me from my visual exploration. I didn’t hear her walk down the drive. “You have a damn fine neighborhood.”
“Mmm hmm,” is all I can muster. Yeah. I think I’m going to like living here.
I hate mornings.
I especially hate mornings when I’ve had too much to drink the night before. My mouth is rough as sandpaper and I have to open and shut it several times to work the saliva through. My lips are on the verge of cracking, they’re so dry. I untangle my limbs from the soft, downy comforter and roll to my stomach.
I pat around in the dark until I hit my bedside table, then slap around until I find my phone to silence the blaring guitars. The artist croons about not being able to feel his face. I can feel my face, and without a mirror I know for certain it isn’t pretty. With the music off, my fingers roam some more and claim my tube of lip balm. I roll to my back and crack my eyes open. The morning light hits my eyes as I smooth the beeswax concoction over my lips and sigh in relief. I pull the phone from the charger cord. The backlighting of the screen blinds and I have to squint to read the time. Crap! I’m gonna be late!
I rush through my morning routine. Shower. Underwear. Makeup. Hair. Clothes. And throw my essential items—phone, wallet, keys, lunch—inside my laptop bag on my way out the door. I don’t have
time to brew coffee, which has my tolerance for rush hour traffic at a lower than normal acceptance level. And all the assholes in Richmond have collaborated to be on the road today.
My stomach rumbles, pissed at the lack of sustenance. I dig around the side pockets of my bag and unearth a protein bar that’s most certainly passed its expiration date. Fuck it. I’m starving, and without my morning caffeine fix I need something in my belly. The chocolate mint flavor makes a poor attempt at fooling my taste buds that it’s the real thing, but at least my stomach settles.
I’ve been working at Superstition Graphix for eleven months now, first as an intern and only full time since graduating in May. My recent promotion gave me the salary and confidence I needed to purchase my first home. It’s a small design firm and new to the industry, but both owners came from larger companies.
Pat and Michael joined forces two years ago, leaving their established careers to open their own company. They bring solid experience and have created a good working environment. I like my job and it pays well. Two things I’m extremely thankful for after watching so many of my classmates move home to work retail post-college.
Pulling into the small parking lot, I hustle inside the building and take the stairs as fast as my dress shoes allow. It’s just nine o’clock when I wave to Lisa, our receptionist. I give myself props for beating the odds and making it in on time. I find my cubicle and drop my belongings under the desk, plug in my laptop, and stride to the kitchen. The succulent smell of roasted coffee attracts with a force that can’t be stopped.
“Hey, Callie.” Jim, one of the senior designers, greets me from where he stands at the counter pouring his mug full of the precious liquid my body craves. He assesses me with a knowing eye and pulls another mug off the shelf. “You look like you need this more than I do.” He slides his mug within reach and then fills another for himself.
“Thanks, Jim.” I don’t bother with sweetener or cream. The bold roast hits my taste buds and works its way down my throat. So fucking good. I quite possibly moan out loud. The liquid magic awakens the parts of my brain that were foggy and I’m ready to take on the day.
