Chapter 4
LONDON
“You always play with people’s lives like it’s some kind of joke?” Hammond says, crossing his arms over his chest.
I duck my head behind the wall and out of sight of the wide window to the captain’s office. Pretty sure I’m not supposed to be hearing this. But I’m waiting to see the Cap next, as per his orders, and I don’t want to leave.
“Give it a rest, we all know you’re pissy because your previous promotion got derailed.”
“Enough!” the actual captain of this unit says.
Honestly, I’m not partial to either of these guys vying for the top spot. But anyone besides Schmidt would be better for the house. The guy is a misogynistic, reckless idiot. In my humble probie opinion.
What has Hammond done? Apart from being slightly standoffish, which I suspect is to keep a little distance between his role and the rest of the unit, he seems okay.
Guess time will tell.
Mama and I have been burned in the worst way possible giving a man the benefit of the doubt. Never again.
Wish Kel was here, he can sniff out a wolf in sheep’s clothing a kil—a mile away. Damn this imperial system. A mile will always sound odd. A pound instead of a kilo . . . seems like money before it’s a way to measure weight.
Still—
The door slams. Schmidt side-eyes me as he stalks to the common room. Hammond walks out next.
“Your turn, probie.”
His face is stone. He gives nothing away.
Oh great.
Rolling off the wall, I step into Cap’s office. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Have a seat, London.”
“Ah, thanks.”
I think.
Cap rubs the grey stubble covering his jaw, before a smile stretches his face. “Hammond says you were a little non-compliant today on the house fire callout.”
“He was under load. I thought—”
Cap holds up a hand. “Leave the thinking to your superiors. Hammond knows what he’s doing, Tennison. Next time, follow orders, no questions asked.”
“Yes sir.”
Why do I feel like the naughty kid who can’t take the heat?
“How are you settling in?”
“It’s only been one shift.” My brows drop. How can one question have me feel like such a screw up already?
He leans forward. “To the city, London.”
“Oh, yeah, we’ve been here around a year now. It’s good.”
He smiles. One of those smiles that’s lined with sympathy.
He knows.
Guess it was part of my psych assessment.
“I can assure you, sir, nothing followed us here. My history won’t affect my work ethic or capabilities.”
“I’m sure they won’t. That wasn’t my reason for bringing it up.”
“Oh?”
“We have a connection to Serenity House, a shelter for women escaping dangerous situations.”
“I said I’m—we’re—fine.”
Fire blooms in my veins, a knot turning in my gut.
Hell, I wish this face of mine wouldn’t change like a chameleon every time someone asks me something uncomfortable.
I feel the heat as it creeps up my neck again.
The only thing worse than fleeing with your life and only the clothes on your back is pity.
Cap holds a hand up, shaking his head softly. “No, not for support, to help others.”
“Ah, okay . . .”
My hands, a twisted mess of white knuckles, loosen in my lap.
“Hammond’s our liaison with the shelter. Ask him about it, he can connect you with Carlie Lamont. I’m sure she would be thrilled to have you or your mom part of the network.”
“Alright, thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“And Tennison. Following orders keeps your crew safe.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I stand, feeling dismissed as he waves me off while turning to face his laptop, and walk to the common room.
With the buzz of the first callout fading, hunger pangs.
Apparently I’m not the only one. The whole crew is in the kitchen, something delicious bubbling on the stove.
Sanderson is stirring a large pot, swaying to the tunes blasting through the space.
Davies is setting the table as Owens and Hammond prep something that looks like salad, and is that . . .
I file in beside Hammond, determined to not make a huge deal of this morning in my head. The aroma from the huge bowl hits my senses. “Spicy rice?”
He slides his gaze to me but says nothing.
Owens leans behind him and smiles. “Absolutely. A crew special.”
“Chili is a staple around here, Tennison. Love it or starve.” Sanderson holds out the spoon.
“Um, okay.” I dip my finger into the sauce and pop it into my mouth. The liquid burns my fingertip, and then my tongue.
The spice hits a second later.
I cough from the heat of it, flinging a hand past my mouth. “Tu meke.”
“Hey what?” Owens says, screwing her face up.
I cough and laugh at the same time, my eyes watering. “Too much.”
Hammond picks up the rice and transfers it to the table. “Looks like it’s starve, then.”
Wow, alright mate.
This guy is sweet as pie under fire, pun intended, and cold as ice when we’re . . . not.
We sit down to eat as a crew, all but Schmidt. Not that anyone seems fazed. The chili is passed around, Davies piling a heap on his spicy rice.
I take a small amount of chili and a ton of salad before refilling the water glass I drained immediately after sitting down.
When nobody makes a move to eat, Davies looks to me. “Fine, I’ll go first.” He shovels a huge mouthful of rice and chili into his mouth.
The entire table stares as his face turns red. He squints and chews, his throat moving in erratic movements.
Feeling like utter shit that Davies is the only one going through this, I shovel a mouthful in as every gaze shifts to me.
The moment the heat hits, I get it.
This is their way of initiating us.
It’s a prank.
I swallow the mouthful. There’s no way in hell I’m failing a damn hazing. I spoon another mouthful in, holding Sanderson’s gaze.
His eyebrows shoot to his hairline.
I try to swallow it down but gag.
I retch, and Owens shakes her head, hand over her mouth as her shoulders tremble.
Yeah, nah.
Mouth on fire and watering profusely, I gap it to the sink and spit it out. I tilt my head, running the cold water over my lips and tongue, swallowing down as much as I can catch.
Davies bolts for the bathroom, hand over his mouth.
The kitchen erupts into laughter as I stand back up and turn to face them, tea towel drying my wet face. Everyone is in stitches.
Everyone but Hammond.
He sits still, arms crossed, as he watches me.
I meet his intense stare, and I have no idea why, but I stick my tongue out like a complete child.
Owens all but falls off her chair. Sanderson claps his hands over his head, tossing his head back in a chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
The laughter peters out as Schmidt comes to a stop by the fridge, tugging it open and pulling out a bottle of water.
“Only Sandy’s rank cooking, bud.” Owens stands and takes the pot back to the stove before sliding out a tray of roast chicken and throwing it in the oven. “Tennison, we have real food, if you still have an appetite.”
“Appetite, yes. Taste buds, nada.”
She slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Girl, you should have seen your face.”
She spirals into another fit of chuckles, tears welling in her eyes as she clutches her side.
Good, hope you have a stitch. I’m not going to be able to taste anything for days.
Davies returns, wiping sweat from his brow that I feel on my own, but I refuse to give them any more ammunition than I already have.
“What’s wrong with the chili?” Schmidt asks.
Sandy rises. “It’s—”
“Fine,” I say, plucking up a bowl and filling it for him. “Delicious, actually. Enjoy.”
He raises a brow but takes the bowl, adding some rice from the table before mixing it all together and walking down the hallway to his quarters.
“Wow, Tennison, bold. I like you already.” Owens winks at me.
Sanderson is still chuckling as he sits down with the chicken thirty minutes later. Apparently, food is a love language around here, and I literally just gave the Cap—or whatever the arrangement is with him and Hammond—a huge fuck you.
Ah well, if the shoe fits, mate.
The roast chicken is delectable, I’m sure. But since I can’t taste a damn thing, I’ll take Sanderson’s word for it.
Hammond’s gaze hasn’t left me since we sat down for the second time. What is this guy’s deal?
When we finish up, I find the washing up is also a probies job, or so the roster that’s been Sharpie-ed out says. I roll my eyes. The hazing is going to take a while, I can just tell.
I guess I’m lucky, to have this rite of passage. It could have very well been the case that I didn’t get back into the program. Or made it out of our home in one piece to ever have the opportunity.
I think today I’ll count my blessings.
Mama is screaming.
The sound is muffled and I can’t breathe. I scratch at the cupboard door, needing air. The crashing sounds don’t stop.
Another muffled cry, this time further away.
I dread the moment the cries, the screams, the begging stops.
When they stop, I hang between the space of staying hidden and pushing out the tiny safe space Mama put me in.
Those few minutes that stretch for hours as I try to find her.
Find out if she’s still here with me.
Or if he won.
A door slams. It’s too close.
I push my back into the hard backboard of the cupboard.
“No!”
Mama.
She says something in the old tongue I can’t understand.
Something thuds against the wall so close to my hiding space. My heart bangs at my chest, my hands cramped and curled up. Spots start falling as I stare into the dark space.
The door flings open.
He’s swaying as he towers over me before he blurs.
Heat tracks down my cheeks.
Mama . . . she’s too slow. She’s—
Something hits Dada—
“Run, bubba! Run!”
I can—
“Tennison!”
My eyes fly open, and my fist connects with something hard that softens as it falls away.
“Get off me!” I scramble backward.
“London! London, it’s me, Davies.” His shoulders are heaving, his blue eyes tight with worry, his hand rubbing his jaw. “It’s just me, you’re okay.”
“I—”
I pull my knees up to my chest.
Fuck.
How long has it been since I . . .
“I could hear you all the way down the hallway.” He softens, sending a hand through his hair.
He’s shirtless.
And I just noticed.
“W-what time is it?” I rasp, hugging my arms around my body.
“Around two. You okay? Can grab you a cup of tea or something?”
A pained chuckle rattles me before it disintegrates into a sad sigh. That particular nightmare hasn’t been in my head for years now. I must have had too much stimulation.
I’m going to have to get used to that, I guess.
“Nah, mate, I’m good. Thanks, Davies.”
“Davey. Friends call me Davey.” He smiles at me. It’s empathetic, a kindness I so rarely see.
“Oh, so we’re friends now, yeah?” I return the smile.
“Oh yeah, forged in a chili-hazing fire. Those who chili together, stay together.”
“You’re something else, you know. Like sunshine or something.”
He huffs an amused sound.
“What?”
“My grandma thinks so, too.”
“Oh, you’re close to her?”
“You could say that, since I live with her.”
“Seriously?” I lean forward. “That’s sweet. I never met my grandmother.”
Because she washed her hands of Mama when she married the man she’d warned her about. Somedays it makes me so angry. Why abandon your daughter when you know, down in your bones, she’s going to need you?
That’s so damn backward.
But Mama made a choice, too.
I’m just glad we survived to get another try at this life. Free.
“You know what? Tea sounds perfect. Tell me about your grandma, maybe she’ll adopt me?”
Davey stands and extends a hand. “There is a distinct possibility she would.”
I clap mine into his, and he pulls me from the bed. We pad out into the hallway. It’s brighter than my quarters, and I squint. Davey ducks into his space and comes back out with the standard navy shirt as he pulls it over his head.
Owens is on the sofa, snoring.
I tamp back a chuckle.
Someone is working out in the gym room downstairs. I push the button on the kettle and Davey pulls out two mugs as quiet as he can. I rummage through the cupboard until I find the tea and drop two bags in my cup, one in Davey’s.
“Cheapskate,” he says bumping my shoulder with his.
“Like it strong, hey?”
“Hundred percent.”
I chuckle, dropping another into his mug.
The water boils. I pour it, and we let the tea steep for a few minutes.
Davey hands me my mug when the bags are out. “Tea for your thoughts?”
“You sure you want to hear it? It’s kind of heavy.”
“Walk and talk, probie.”
“Look who’s talking.”
He grins, walking for the stairs. We take them slowly, as I give him the rundown on why I’m here and not in my hometown. When we pass the gym room, the clink of weights echoes through the hallway.
The long window exposing the room shows a shirtless Hammond on the shoulder press.
Davey stops at the window. “Now, he is who I want to be one day.”
I scoff. “You’ve barely spent a day with the guy. Bit of a stretch, mate.”
Davey’s blue eyes tighten as he smiles, but it’s tentative. Like there’s a story of his own behind the sunshine facade of his.
“You will be,” I breathe.
We both turn back to watch Hammond raise the machine, his jaw set, his body so tense he looks set to explode.
My mouth gapes as the pile of weights lift from the stack and the man’s body glistens with sweat. His hard stomach flexes. The corded arms pushing the machine above his bulging shoulders has my pulse thrumming through my head.
Lowering the weight, his gaze finds mine.
Oh shit.
“Look at his concentration,” Davey utters. “The man is a machine.”
I can’t look away.
Not even when his hands slip from the handles, his wrists hanging over them as he hauls in breath after breath.
Fuck.