Chapter 2 #2
“Give ’em hell, yeah?” she calls out.
“Absolutely!”
I shut the door behind me and skip down the side stairs and spill out onto the sidewalk, heading for the firehouse.
Six minutes later, frosted glass doors hiss open, and I walk over the threshold of 53’s home. The front reception area is old, a weathered wooden counter with a raised back that almost conceals the small woman behind it.
“Can I help you?” she asks, standing as a smile stretches her pretty face. Her short brunette bob is tucked behind her ears, her blue eyes lit with happiness.
“Oh, London Tennison. First shift, new recruit.”
“Oh, hi!” She steps out from behind the desk, and waves to the shiny wooden internal stairs I assume head up to the living space of the firehouse. “Follow me. Which engine are you? Sorry, I haven’t had time to read the updates this week.”
“Fifty-three.”
We ascend the stairs together.
“Ah, with Hammond and Schmidt. Great crew.” She smiles, but it doesn’t meet her eyes, not this time.
Okay . . .
“Shoot! I should have grabbed you a locker key. You go on up, and I’ll meet you up there, in the common room?”
“Sure.” I grip my backpack strap and return the smile that’s too flat, too tentative.
No, London. Not this time. You are right where you’re supposed to be. Head up, girl, because we are doing this.
I take the remaining steps two at a time, if only to prove my own point.
I stop short when I reach the top. The place is old.
Like, really old. The polished wooden . .
. everything is showing age. To the left is the common room that also serves as the crew kitchen.
To the right is a long corridor that must end in the bathrooms, if the hiss of the showers is any indication.
Flanking the hallway are the small bunk rooms.
I step forward, peering inside the first one with its door open.
The old metal bunk has a standard-issue mattress folded in half. The small bedside locker is open, the key in the lock. Apart from its sparsity, the room is neat as a pin and cleaned to a shine.
“Good, you found it,” the woman says from behind me. “This will be your bunk. Your fellow new recruit will have one on the far end, opposite side. Boys and girls areas and all that.”
Okay, old school.
“My name is Cora. Sorry, I forgot to mention that. I always forget new people don’t know me since I’m only here a couple hours during the week.
” She shifts on her feet, her hands smoothing over her tweed pencil skirt.
Her navy blouse with a bow finish at her breastbone is tucked in, and her brown flats are so—Wendy.
I tamp back the chuckle.
At least Cora pulls off the cat-lady look better than my last coworker. She looks sweet. I like her already.
“Lovely to meet you, yeah.” I hold out a hand.
She shakes it softly. “Are you from Australia?”
“New Zealand, actually. People mix the accent up all the time.”
“Oh, sorry.” She dips her gaze to the floor but raises it after a beat. “So, your uniforms are already in your locker, number six. You’ll need to dress and present at nine sharp at your engine for roll call, etc.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She gives me one last smile before disappearing down the stairs.
I check my phone.
08:57
Shit.
I toss my backpack on the wire springs of the bunk and head for the lockers I assume are in the bathroom area.
Two minutes later I’m decked out in FDNY uniform and wrangling my hair up into a bun as I take the stairs two at a time. With barely seconds to spare, I fall in line with two others in front of 53.
I thought we were a full crew?
A few sideways glances move my way, but nobody speaks as the big red door to the captain’s office swings open and not one, but three, men walk out. Their expressions are . . . stone.
The heady buzz of nerves I’ve been ignoring all morning slips past my facade, sending my hands shaking. I clasp them tighter in front of me, wiggling my toes.
I am doing this.
Come on, girl, you got this.
The older guy of the three hangs back as the two lieutenants come to stand in front of us.
“My name is Lieutenant Gerald Schmidt, and I am your commanding officer. This here is Lieutenant Hammond. He and I will be alternating the running of this crew. As some of you know, I have made the transfer in from Engine 41. I expect all rules and regulations to be upheld by every member of this crew. I don’t care if it is your first day”—he swings his gaze to me before sending it down the line—“or you’ve been here for years.
Any slip ups, anyone found doing a half-assed job will be reported to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” the line snaps back.
Schmidt must be around late forties, judging by his salt-and-pepper hair and less-toned physique.
I’m getting the do as I say not as I do vibe from this guy.
And I push it aside, wanting to give him the instant respect he’s asking for.
His pale blue eyes and sharp angles don’t help his cause.
He looks like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons but with hair . . .
My eyes drift to Hammond. His stare at Schmidt could incinerate a hole right through the man.
A ruckus sounds from the front entrance before hurried footsteps track in a guy in a Hawaiian shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops as he bursts into the room and files in beside me.
He loses the backpack over his shoulder to the floor.
He clasps his hands in front of him, his head up as he stares at nothing.
Like that could ensure the entire crew didn’t notice his tardy entrance.
You could mistake the guy for a young Elvis Presley.
All the way down to the dark floppy hair and the stunning blue eyes. Wow.
“Davies, first day, first infraction. My office after briefing.” Schmidt all but scowls at beach boy.
Davies nods, fastening the last three buttons on his shirt with both hands, like that will make up for his lack of uniform. “Yes sir. Sorry sir. Traffic sir.”
“Don’t care. Shut it.” Schmidt’s gaze pulls away from the disheveled man beside me and scans the rest of the crew. “Your daily duties are on the common room board.”
My attention swings to Hammond.
His dark blond hair is messed up like his hand plowed through it in frustration.
His brown eyes hold a steady course on Schmidt, narrowing slightly the more the lieutenant speaks.
His huge frame is tense, hands clasped in front of him like .
. . he’s just one of us. His navy shirt, the same as mine, stretches over bulky muscles. His jaw is littered with stubble tha—
“You will have a fitness check-in every week with Hammond. Any questions?” Schmidt barks.
Nobody breathes a word, only subtle nods.
Hammond flinches, an almost imperceptible movement you’d miss if you weren’t looking.
So, why am I looking?