Chapter 2
Chapter two
Mason
The voice message ends, and I don’t even try to stop the grin that stretches across my face.
“Mmm… hope you dream about me, Fireboy. Or better yet, wake up hard thinking about this voice.”
My phone rests on my chest, the screen still glowing in the pre-dawn dark. The bedsheets are twisted around my waist, one hand thrown behind my head, the other palming my morning wood. I haven’t even made it to the shower yet, and I’m already losing the battle.
Red always messages me late, right before she crashes. After midnight, usually. Sometimes she’s flirty, sometimes she’s downright filthy. Every time I’m hard without fail.
I told myself I wouldn’t save her voice notes—that I’d just listen once and let them disappear. But I’ve got five of them saved in a hidden folder on my phone, like some fucking teenager with a crush.
I replay her new message again, just because I can. Just because her voice, soft and sultry and wicked as hell, does something to me that no one else has in a long time.
Not since—
I exhale hard and rub a hand down my face. I’m not going there. It’s too early, and I’ve got a double shift ahead. One of the guys is off sick, and Beck’s already warned me he’ll be grumpier than usual.
Still, I don’t move right away. Just lie there, letting her voice echo in my chest a second longer while I remember last night. That soft little please when she begged me to let her come.
Breathless. Frantic. RedRiot.
That’s all I got. A voice and a username.
The first time I saw that handle in the app, I was locked in.
I’ve got a thing for redheads, always have.
It’s a weakness, and once I’d assumed the ‘red’ in RedRiot stood for redhead, I never stood a chance.
I asked her once, early on. She got all coy and said maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t. Good enough for me.
So I picture her that way. Red hair fisted in my hand, lips parted, her body twitching under my tongue. All flushed cheeks and fire, mouthing off until she can’t anymore.
My cock throbs just thinking about it.
I step into the shower and brace a hand against the tile, letting the hot water pound over my back. Then I reach down, wrap my fist around myself, and fuck my hand like it’s her mouth. Imagine her voice. Her whimper. That moan.
Christ.
Squeezing harder and stroking rougher, I chase the sound of her. My free hand drags through my hair, water pouring down my spine as I arch with every pull. I don’t even try to hold it back.
I want it fast. Sharp and blinding.
And when I come, groaning out a fucking username, I let it hit the wall and disappear down the drain.
Afterward, I let the hot water bite at the muscles across my back, the curve of my shoulders, the spot that pulled weird on the last callout.
Built like a tank, my crew says. Broad with the kind of core you only get from carrying civilians out of burning buildings or hauling hose.
Still, I look in the mirror some mornings and wonder if she'd actually like what she saw. Connie obviously didn’t. Not enough, anyway. But I’m not dwelling on her, not with someone else echoing in my head.
I towel off, run a hand through my damp hair, and reach for my phone on the bathroom counter. I should leave it, but my thumb hovers, and I hit record.
“You’re trouble, Red. You know that? It’s not even six a.m. and I’m still hearing your voice in the shower while I fuck my hand.” I pause, let the silence stretch. “If I don’t make it through this double, it’s your fault.”
Send.
Then I yank on a pair of sweats and head down the hall, pretending I didn’t just beat off to a girl I’ve never seen.
Hazel’s already judging me from the windowsill when I walk into the kitchen.
“Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who humps blankets.”
She lets out her signature sound of a dying trumpet, perfected just for me.
“Yeah, yeah, good morning to you too, Satan.”
With a flick of her tail, she jumps down and turns expectantly toward her food bowl.
“Charming as ever.”
I scoop kibble into her bowl, and she takes exactly one sniff, then looks at me like I’ve ruined her life.
“Five kinds of expensive and still not good enough? You wanna start buying your own, be my guest.”
She doesn’t dignify that with a response, just gives me her ass disappearing off around the corner.
I’m halfway through dumping coffee grounds into my machine when my phone buzzes.
Mom.
I roll my eyes but smile, tucking the phone between my shoulder and cheek as I open the fridge.
“Morning, Ma.”
“Morning, sweetheart! You up?”
I glance down at my barely-contained morning wood, back again. “More or less.”
“You eat?”
“Not yet.”
“That oatmeal I left in the freezer—”
“Appreciate the thought, but I’m not starting my shift with microwaved cement. I’ll grab something from Flora’s.”
She sighs. “Fine. But you better have more than just a coffee and a flirt. You get mean when you’re hungry.”
“I’m a delight.”
“You’re your father’s son,” she says with fond brutality. “Which means you’re full of shit.”
My eyes roll, but I laugh. “Love you too, Ma.”
I hang up and toss the fridge door shut with my hip, reaching for the milk when my phone buzzes again. Not my mother this time.
RedRiot.
I tap it immediately, then lean back against the counter. Her low and lazy voice pours through the speaker, clearly still half-asleep.
“Mm, morning Fireboy… don’t start something you can’t finish. Because now I’m thinking about you in that shower. About dropping to my knees, and taking you in my mouth until you forget what time your shift starts.”
She exhales a sleepy yawn. Soft and a little breathy, and my entire body tightens.
“I love giving head in the shower. Messy, hot, water everywhere… My hands on your hips. You fisting my hair, controlling the pace. Mmm, so good.”
The message ends, and I have to plant a hand on the counter.
Holy. Fuck.
This double shift better be quiet, because now all I can think about is being alone in my bunk room, with Red’s voice describing in fine detail exactly how she’d suck me off.
***
The frost on my windshield hasn’t quite melted yet, and the station’s only a five-minute drive, but my brain’s still full of Red when I pull into the lot.
The bay doors are cracked open, morning light spilling and glinting on the truck bumpers. The place hums, already buzzing with life, and the scent of bacon hits me the second I step inside.
I shoulder through the side entrance and toss my duffel on the bench just inside the day room.
“Morning, sunshine,” Colt Lawson calls from the stove top, flipping bacon in a pan.
“That for everyone, or just whoever you’re trying to bribe today?”
He grins. “Depends. You getting coffee this shift?”
“Don’t I always?”
“That’s debatable,” Beck Holloway mutters from the corner booth. He’s nursing his own black coffee in a chipped mug he refuses to replace. Our Captain’s got the build of a tank and the vibe of a bear just out of hibernation—with exactly none of the patience.
“Someone’s chipper this morning,” I say, tapping the table as I pass him.
“I’m chipper every morning you’re not here.”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
Evan Prince strolls in behind me, calm as ever in his faded ball cap and station hoodie. “Why are you two flirting before seven a.m.?”
Beck shoots him a look, but he just smiles and starts fixing his tea.
Evan’s one of the most solid guys I know.
Rock steady on scene, soft as hell when it comes to his daughter.
It’s just the two of them—and their Dalmatian, Gus, who’s basically the station’s unofficial mascot at this point.
Elle’s four, fierce as hell, and half the crew helps to look after her when shifts get wild.
We never talk about her mom. We all know she walked out a few years back.
Luke Ryder’s in the other corner by the duty schedule, quietly tapping updates into the tablet we use for crew logs. “We got an appliance fire in Lockwood Crescent last night,” he says without looking up. “Chief wants a full truck check done before nine. You’re taking Ladder today, Fletch.”
“Double shift,” I confirm, grabbing a mug. “Guess I get the full tour.”
“Don’t screw anything up, Fletchy boy. Beck’s already pissed,” Colt adds, not looking up from the bacon.
Colt’s always got something to say. A steady set of hands with a smart mouth, but wears his heart on his sleeve.
Literally—he keeps a photo of his wife and kids tucked inside it during every shift.
He’s married to Remi, Chief Rhodes’ daughter, with two kids under three and still the first one to pull his turnouts on when the bells go off.
“I’m not pissed,” Beck grumbles. “I just don’t like surprises. Or mornings. Or Mason.”
I flip him off over my shoulder and head toward the lockers.
Chief Rhodes appears just as I pass through the hallway—tall, composed, the kind of guy who doesn’t need to yell to be heard.
“Fletcher,” he says with a nod. “Appreciate you stepping up for the double.”
“Anytime, Chief.”
“You’re on Ladder with Beck and Lawson. Get the morning checks done, then swing past Flora’s if you need fuel. You’ll be out for fire inspections around ten.”
“Copy that.”
His gaze lingers for half a beat. “And Fletcher?”
“Yeah?”
He lifts a brow. “You look tired.”
I smile, because I know exactly why I look tired.
“Late night.”
He doesn’t move, just keeps staring at me in that steady and measuring way of his.
“Not a Neverland night, I hope?”
I blow out a breath, rubbing the back of my neck. “Nah. Not lately.”
His brow doesn’t budge.
“I mean it,” I say, more serious now. “I’m good. No hangover, no bad decisions.”
That earns the faintest nod. “Good. I’d hate to have to pull you from rotation over something preventable.”
“I know.”
“You’ve come a long way, Mason. Don’t give me a reason to worry.”