Chapter 2 #2
My jaw ticks, not because he’s wrong—because he’s right. When my fiancé Connie left, I spent most nights at Neverland Pub getting wrecked. Never while on shift, but it made me a foul person to be around when I was.
With therapy, I’ve come right. Along with the help of the people who’ve fought my corner. Chief Rhodes, the boys. My mom, who never misses a call before shift. And our retired chief, Herb Parnell, who holds a close place for many of the crew here.
“I won’t.”
Chief doesn’t say anything else, just gives me one last look, then moves on down the hall.
We’re barely ten minutes into the morning truck checks when the night crew starts peeling out.
“Try not to burn the place down,” Jayla calls, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She’s one of the newer hires. Tough as hell, sharp with a Halligan bar, and not above throwing hands over the last piece of banana bread.
“Only if you stop stealing all the good snacks on night shift,” Colt fires back.
Jayla chuckles and disappears into the bay with Luke trailing behind her. He’s always so calm, soft-spoken, and annoyingly well-rested.
“Later, Fletch,” Luke says as he passes.
“Later, bud.”
Beck grunts and leans into the pump panel check, muttering about how everything’s always left in the wrong damn place.
Inside the ladder cab, I double-check the thermal imager and rotate the spare air cylinders while Colt moves through the inventory with methodical ease.
“Max keeps asking why I can’t bring the fire truck home,” Colt says, checking the portable radios. “Told him his Grandpa would have a fit.”
“Wait til Zela is old enough to chip in, he won’t stand a chance.”
I’ve seen the way Chief Rhodes is with his grandkids. An absolute goner.
“She’s three months old and already runs our entire house.”
“You should be worried.”
“I am worried. But I’m also tired and broke, so there’s that.”
We wrap the checks, hit the grocery store for a restock, then swing past Flora’s on the way back. Beck stays in the truck, while Colt and I head inside.
The place smells like cinnamon and fresh bread, and a regular waves from the back booth. One of the part-time baristas, Rory, is at the counter and already halfway through pouring Beck’s usual without asking.
“Black, bitter, and barely human?” she asks, nodding toward the truck parked out front.
“Just like his soul,” I reply, then gesture to the cabinet. “Add two of those cranberry things, plus our usuals, please.”
“Cranberry?” Colt asks, raising a brow.
I shrug. “Consider them part of my daily fruit intake.”
“I’m judging you.”
“I’ll add some of your bacon when we get back to base.”
“Mm, cran-bacon. Sounds like a festive mutation,” he nudges me with an elbow, then wanders over to a vacant table to flick through a newspaper.
While Rory preps our order, I check my phone.
RedRiot: Did you survive your morning and get to shift on time, or shall I alert your next of kin?
I type back quickly, thumb hovering.
Me: Barely. Mouth to mouth required. Coffee being administered. Bacon imminent.
RedRiot: Tragic. If I were there I could’ve made you pancakes
RedRiot: Then climbed into your lap while you ate them. For morale, obviously.
It’s not the first time she’s said something like that. She’s been dropping little hints lately, like she’s starting to picture us in the same room. Starting to imagine me actually putting my hands on her instead of just describing it.
And fuck, I want that. I like her attention. I want her breathless and begging and coming exactly the way I tell her to. I like how she gets me off, that she doesn’t flinch from what I want.
But I’ve done that before. I nearly said forever—and I've been left bleeding for it. As much as I like to be the one in control, I know what it feels like when someone rips the ground out from under you.
Still, I don’t want to stop. Don’t want to ruin the one thing that feels good. I’m already in too fucking deep.
Me: Reckless. That’s how syrup ends up everywhere and I end up late.
RedRiot: Worth it.
I’m still grinning when Colt sidles up to the counter to grab half of the order, and we walk out the door.
When we roll into the bay, we head back to the dayroom to unload the groceries.
Beck opens the fridge. “Every damn time with the oat milk.”
Evan doesn’t look up. “No one wants to enable your hipster milk addiction.”
“It’s not a hipster thing.”
“You have a man bun,” Colt gestures to his roughly knotted hair. “It’s definitely a hipster thing.”
“I’m lactose intolerant, you idiots. I hate oat milk.”
“You drink gas station coffee, Beck.”
“Exactly.”
I’m halfway to pouring another coffee and checking my messages when someone clears their throat behind me.
“You gonna stare at your phone all day, or should we just glue it to your hand?” Evan asks, nodding at the phone still in my palm.
I shrug. “It’s quiet. You want me to start a grease fire for fun?”
“Nah,” Colt chimes in. “He’s been all smiley since Flora’s. You see that? Dude’s glowing.”
Beck snorts. “Pretty sure I heard him last week near the end of night shift. Thought he was praying or losing his mind. And then…” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I heard moaning through the wall.”
The room explodes.
“Bro.”
“Shut up.”
“Nooo.”
“Is that why you offered to stay late and clean the rig?”
“Wait, which rig do we mean?”
I hold up a hand as they all cackle. “Okay, first of all—”
“You’ve been weird for weeks,” says Colt, pointing at me with a granola bar. “Who is she?”
I hesitate just long enough for them to pounce.
“Oh no,” Evan says. “It’s bad. He’s thinking about it, that’s how you know it’s bad.”
“It’s not bad,” I say. “It’s just… it’s a casual thing. With a girl from an app.”
“What app?”
“Banter. That new one.”
“What’s her name?”
I shrug.
Beck narrows his eyes. “You don’t know her name?”
“I mean… no. Not really. We’ve kept it anonymous, it’s a voice-only thing.”
Colt looks up now. “Wait—you don’t even know what she looks like?”
“Nope.”
Evan whistles low.
“Shut up,” I say with a laugh, but even to my own ears it sounds thin. “It’s just a bit of fun, nothing too serious. She’s cool.”
“Or she’s a sixty year old dude with a voice filter.”
“Fletch,” Colt says, eyes wide. “You’re being catfished.”
“I’m not being catfished.”
“You’re being catfished so hard.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Evan cuts in, a little more serious now. “Mason, come on. You’ve been burned before.”
I swallow, shifting the mug in my hand.
“She’s not like Connie.”
Beck, who’s been quiet, gives me a long look. “You sure?”
His voice isn’t sharp, but it’s enough to make the teasing stall and the question land.
I open my mouth to answer, but stop—and that’s what makes it worse. I want to say yes, but I can’t, can I? Because I don’t know, not for sure. Not her name, not her face. Just her voice.
And the way she makes me feel when I forget to guard the soft parts.
“She’s… She feels real,” I say anyway.
Colt slaps me on the back. “Well, if she is, then you’ll figure it out. But if she’s not, we’re here, okay? We’ll tell you when you’re being insane.”
I nod once, but I don’t say anything else.