Chapter 2
LONDON
“We’re going to miss you when you’re gone, babes.” Kelvin swings an arm around my neck, shoving a goodbye cupcake into my hands. His blue eyes, under a teal sweatband that completes his eighties tracksuit style today, shimmer with tears.
I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’ll be back. I’m not dying, you know, mate.” I try for a chuckle, but the room turns somber. “How could I leave our babies? And you’ll let me know how Rusty and Millie go? Oh, and any new puppers that come in, yeah?”
The work group chat is always flooded with new pup info. Will I still be part of that? Probably not.
Donna, our founder and now CEO, has made the shelter feel more like a home.
Now, apart from the six hours a week she comes in to do her business-y things, she’s off somewhere in Lycra and a windbreaker, a headband holding her wiry grey mass of hair back, running and exercising like if she stops the devil will track her down.
We, her devoted children—except maybe Wendy on the other side of the staffroom table—put everything we’ve got into creating an environment that’s comfy, fun, and loving for every pup that comes our way.
Kels just hugs me tighter, like if he lets go I may, in fact, go up in a puff of smoke and disappear.
Wendy shifts on her seat, crossing her legs as she picks at her own cupcake. “What are the statistics of first year firefighters and survival rates?” She raises a brow. “Especially female ones . . .”
I pull a pouty face at her and shove the cupcake into my mouth before it runs away with every retort I’ve ever had for the tiny woman who only wears yellow.
Which conveniently matches her frizzy blonde hair.
And she’s smelled like moth balls every single day I’ve been working—well, volunteering—at Hearts and Paws Dog Shelter on Fifth.
One part of the shelter I will not miss.
“Hello?” a man’s voice calls from out by the front desk, the sound weaving its way back to the staff room.
Kelvin jumps out of his chair. “Oh, I’ll go. Sounds handsome.”
I shake my head, loosing a soft chuckle.
That guy is a maniac.
Always on the hunt for his next “muscle-bound conquest,” as he calls them.
But he’s been one of my closest friends for the past year.
We met when I moved to the city—to America—from New Zealand.
I’d started my fire department training in my homeland, but life seems to do whatever the hell it likes, and when my mom divorced my shithead dad, we moved as far away from him as possible, to the biggest, busiest place we could disappear into.
New York City.
Try finding us here, Wayne.
Wayne. Not dad. Fathers don’t behave the way mine did.
So, it’s just Wayne.
The voices from the front desk grow louder, and Wendy and I look up at the empty doorway like that will tell us all we need to know.
“I’m sorry, sir. We are at full capacity,” Kelvin says. “We’d take her back in a heartbeat, but we just don’t have the room.”
“Nor do I. She can’t stay at work with us, it’s not appropriate.”
Not appropriate?
Um, take her home . . .
What kind of black-hearted demon refers to a pup’s existence as not appropriate? Urgh, I hate those suit types. Probably adopted the pup for aesthetics or to pick up women, and just now realized they are a living, breathing, gorgeous, wonderful companion.
You suck, mister.
I slump in my chair and pick at the cupcake as Kelvin comes back in, wiping his brow dramatically. “Oh, ladies. He was—”
“A fucking ass,” I snap out. “Who was he trying to return?”
“Petal.”
I sit up, brows dipping. Oh, that’s odd.
“But Petal was fostered, pending adoption, to a lady. One of the teachers at Memorial State.”
“She was. He said she freaked and left her with him . . . But after some of my finest fandangled negotiations, he agreed to take her home for a week or so. Until we have room.”
“Poor Petal.”
Kelvin pats my hand and winks.
“Oh, I think she’ll be okay.”
“How do you know that?” Wendy pipes up now, wiping the icing from her pursed lips with a napkin like a gentlewoman straight out of Bridgerton.
“Have a feeling, is all. Don’t question the vibes, ladies.” He potters around the table, clearing up, and I rise to help, lifting the tray of cupcakes. A sly wink comes my way, and I give him the most playful side-eye I can muster up.
“Ah, no, babes. Your party—you do not need to clean up.” Kelvin kisses my cheek before he swats my ass.
“You are such a brat,” I breathe, and continue to clean up anyway.
He chuckles as he cleans, humming the tune to “Girl on Fire.”
Very funny, Kels.
Running the water to wash up, I make quick work of the mugs and plates before heading out the back to the kennel area to do my rounds.
Two long rows of secure kennel cages flank the long space. The small dogs are on one side, and the medium and larger dogs on the other. For whatever reason, some people don’t think about the responsibility of dog ownership before they bring one home.
It makes me so angry, every time.
I resist the urge to rant.
We’re all in agreement on that topic here.
The brays of the older dogs mingle with the happy, sweet barks of the small and tiny pups.
“I know, my lovelies, it’s almost playtime.”
My last playtime with them. Even if I come back to visit, some of the pups will have found their forever home.
God willing.
Midway, I pass the one cage that rarely sees any play time. Bruno’s.
He lowers as I move past, a growl slipping through his teeth.
“Okay, boy. I remember, not a people person.”
After Donna ended up with seven stitches in her hand, poor old fella hasn’t seen much love. It’s sad, but it is what it is.
Safety first.
For the staff and the other dogs.
I stride for the back door and slip through.
The small room is home to two panels. One side releases the doors to the large dogs, or you can flick the levers individually should you need to.
The other side, the small dogs. Each of their back doors opens out to the large play space that—thanks to city funding after hella rallying on Donna’s part—is set up with toys and obstacle courses to keep the babes occupied and happy.
The other side, for the larger dogs, is the same but on a grander scale.
Leaving Bruno’s lever down, I flick up all the others and the barking starts, extracting a giggle from me.
Like it does every single time I’m on playground duty.
Hearts and Paws runs on an ethos of love and care.
I would be lying if I didn’t get as much out of this job as the doggos do by us being here taking care of them.
I can only hope my next job is as rewarding.
It has to be.
I have a hunger to sink my teeth into a career I can give my all to. That I can succeed in and promote up as much as possible. The chip on my shoulder Wayne put there is probably visible from damn space.
My inferiority complex almost stopped me from applying.
But I did it anyway.
And I’m so thankful I did. Mom makes good money working from home as an accountant. Her social anxiety prevents her from having a normal office job with a commute, coworkers, long days at the office, and all that.
Now, after Wayne fucked that up for her, she has long days at our kitchen table. Meetings via Zoom.
Groceries are always a two-person outing or a delivery service, and I know she hates every minute of it.
She just needs . . .
“London!” Kel calls from the far end of the kennel.
“Yeah, be out in a second, just getting the babies sorted out.”
“Come on, we have a potential adoption!” He’s practically jumping on the spot. He’s one thousand percent empath. A big-hearted guy who puts the needs of others, especially the pups, over all else.
“Will you hurry up? I don’t want to miss this. And nor should you, it’s a potential match for Bruno.”
“Hey, wait, what?”
My grip over the small dog lever, mid-pull, stalls out.
Kel sighs, hands snapping to his hips. “We both know his days are numbered if it doesn’t work out. Good vibes! Or bust!”
This I definitely need to be a part of.
The alarm on my bedside goes flying as my wrist connects with it. The blackout curtains Mom insisted I have for my long-ass shifts have my room steeped in darkness.
08:15 glares at me in red from the floor, where the alarm lies staring up at the ceiling.
I do the same, arms out wide.
First shift.
First day of my new life.
The vocation I trained, studied, and spent hard-earned sweat and tears on.
Probationary firefighter.
Engine 53.
Kicking my legs and pumping my fists into the air, I lose an excited squeal. “Oh hell.” I groan, rolling over.
Fisting the pillow, I breathe, “Don’t fuck it up, London. Do not screw this up, girl.”
I can almost hear Kel’s voice in my head.
It took me the entire two years to finish my training, thanks to Mom and I needing to disappear. With over half of the program done, I was kind of shocked to find out I had to start from the beginning in the States. Still, our permanent visas helped.
If this is the one thing I can do to ensure our safety is permanent . . .
Get up, London.
Get up and get it done.
Renewed with fierce determination, I push up off the bed and stalk for the shower. Washed and ready with my heart racing, I slip on jeans and a T-shirt and swing my bag over my shoulder.
One of the best things about our tiny rent-controlled apartment is its proximity to the firehouse and the shelter.
It’s four blocks to the firehouse. And them being in equal and opposite directions, it seemed like a sign.
Like the quaint little apartment that’s falling down around us is home.
It’s one tiny place of peace on this spinning rock.
Walking out to the kitchen-slash-living area, I find Mom already in a meeting. I lean down and kiss her cheek. Her hand pats my own as she kills the camera feature. “Good luck, bubba. Be safe, hey?”
“Course, Mama.”
She scrunches her face, her hand pressing over her heart. I won’t stay too long, I can tell she’s holding back tears. With a wave, I walk to the front door.