Chapter 6
LONDON
“What’s got you worried, my love?” Mama says, dotting a kiss to my head as she passes behind me, bowl in hand, en route to the dinner table.
“Probably some hot fireman. Oh, we are so changing first world probs to first responder probs, babe.” Kels reaches for the salad, and I give him the stink eye.
Mama laughs, her frame shaking with the sound. “You think he’s got a big hose, yeah?” She sits, placing the savory chicken dish in the center before giving me that smiling nod of hers that means she wants me to consider something.
“Haha. Nothing of the sort, and you should have told me who tried to return Petal.” I point my bare fork at Kel before diving into my own salad.
“And where would be the fun in that? Besides, gave you a reason to talk to the man, didn’t it?” He winks at me.
Guy must be keen for a fork to the eye.
“He’s literally my boss, Kel. Keep your meddling love matchmaking voodoo far, far from me.”
He pulls a mock offended face and serves the chicken to each of our plates.
“How’s things at the shelter without our girl?” Mama asks.
“Dull.” Kel sighs. “If I have to listen to one more minute of Wendy’s crocheting podcast, my ears are going to bleed dry and solidify under protest. God, that woman and her hobbies . . . insufferable.”
We all chuckle, and the table goes quiet as we stuff our bellies full of Mama’s delicious cooking.
One of her many talents, cooking has always served as a refuge for her. She’s happiest puttering away in her kitchen, whipping up some savory delight. Or baking on weekends to see us through the week fed and loved.
Thank heavens I work out for a living, or I’d have to cut back on her delectable bites. I can only imagine the time I’d shave off my watchtower hose haul if I didn’t eat her food. But some things are worth the sacrifice.
“When’s your next shift?” Kel asks before piling more chicken onto his plate.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Urgh, yuck.”
Mama laughs. “Honey, someone has to wear the cape.”
Kel’s twisted frown has us both laughing now. “Nope, me and shift work have never met, and I intend on keeping it that way.”
“It’s not so bad. Gives you a few days off after,” I offer.
“No, babe. Still the worst thing ever to have been invented.”
“You remember that when you’re drooling over men in uniform, little fella.” Mama points her finger at him.
Kel rolls his eyes, but the smile creeping over his face tells me more than I need to know. Besides, he doesn’t date. He’s more of a no-strings kind of guy. And good for him.
“Movie tonight?” Kel asks as we rise from the table and clear the plates.
“Yeah, nah. Early start, remember.”
I scrape the plates into the bin and run the wash-up water.
“See, told you, shocking set up. No time for the finer things in life, culture, and entertainment—that’s a hard no from me.”
I fling a tea towel at him, and he snatches it. We hook into cleaning the kitchen. Almost an hour later, tired and ready to hit the hay, I hug him goodnight and he promises to keep me updated on the puppers.
I close the door and turn back to find Mama standing nearby, arms folded over her chest. “That one’s a bad influence. Dating at work is a bad idea, bubba.”
“I know, Mama. I wouldn’t.”
“Good. You’ve worked too hard for some man to ruin your career . . .” She doesn’t say it, but I hear ruin your life as it hangs unspoken between us. Even at the ripe old age of twenty-two, I understand the stakes hanging over our heads. Financially. With our careers. With our safety.
Besides, the last man on earth I’d be interested in would be a crewmember. Too messy. Too forbidden. And for a hella good reason. Our lives depend on our professionalism. Those lines are ones that can never be blurred. Lest the consequences endanger our very lives.
On that morbid note, I pad to the bathroom and shower. Pulling on my pajamas, I wander through the living room and find Mama watching her nighttime program. I bend down over the back of the couch and kiss her cheek. “Night, Mama. Aroha koe.”
“Night. Love you too.”
The alarm screams, and I jolt off the bunk.
The bunk. Not my bed. The first twelve hours of our shift went by uneventfully.
Now, the overhead alarm wails, the automated voice repeating the address and incident.
I fly out of my quarters while pulling on my boots and slam straight into a hard wall of muscle.
“Shit!” I stumble and pull on the other boot.
Hammond looks down at me. He’s fully dressed and barking commands. Of course he is.
Davey stumbles from his room, pants halfway up his legs, a deer in headlights. I don’t know how you ever get used to the harsh wakeup call of the house alarm system.
Less than a minute later, we’re hauling our turnouts up our bodies, and Schmidt is yelling roles. Sandy fires up the engine as we pull open the doors and climb on up.
I fumble the headset, and when the microphone wire tangles in my ponytail that’s barely still together, I realize it’s on backward.
God, shit.
I’m disoriented for a beat, and I close my eyes.
Breathe, London.
I drag in a lungful.
Exhaling, I open my eyes. The city lights streak across the window as the engine roars through the street. The alarm wails overhead. Schmidt barks the rundown into our headsets.
How I wish it was not his week to be captain.
“Tennison, you’re with me on perimeter. Owens and Davies, take the hoses. Sandy, this big girl is all yours, since she only plays nice for you. Hammond, you’re on crowd control.”
“Copy,” we chant in unison. Hammond glares at Schmidt, like he knows something the rest of us don’t. Or maybe he’s pissed because the high-rise fire fell on Schmidt’s alternating week.
Maybe he’s one of those trophy-collecting first responders you hear about. Gathering war stories like goddamn shiny objects for his shelf.
Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past either of them.
When we arrive on scene, another engine, 37, is also there. Their ladder is already extended to the second level. Sandy turns the engine to face the sidewalk and we pile out, everyone rushing to their tasks like there’s no time to waste.
There isn’t.
I reach for the rebreathers and hand one to Schmidt.
His fingers glide over mine as he studies my face.
Engine 37 has people climbing out the second-floor window, making their way down the ladder.
Police are cordoning off the sidewalk. Blue and red lights oscillate around the block, flooding the night’s darkness with flashing color.
A man walks up behind Schmidt as I rip my hand from his.
“Captain, coordination is over at 37.” The man glances my way with a concerned expression before Schmidt retracts his hand, now holding the mask, and follows who I assume is the chief.
I stand stunned for a heartbeat. What the hell in a Hawaii hurricane was that shit?
“Tennison! Hoses.” Hammond is running for the engine, Owens behind him.
I haul out the first hose, and Owens grabs it from me, hiking it down the street to the nearest hydrant. “Engine hose, now!” Hammond is by my side helping me haul it out as I unscrew the metal cap on 53 and start winding the end on.
It jams.
I wind it back, resetting the metal ring over the opening. I’ve cross threaded it, again, as Hammond rolls the hose out toward the burning five-story building.
The hose tugs.
I’m out of time.
And the thing is not attached.
“Fuck,” I seethe.
Taking a steadying breath, I lift the metal end and hold the air in. Like that will help me focus.
“Now, Tennison!”
My hands shake around the metal end, and a burning starts behind my eyes. “God, no fucking way.”
I bring the hose end down onto the engine opening and let it settle before flinging it clockwise. It takes. I spin it harder, faster, until it’s secure and hits the corresponding lever. The hose fills, knocking me sideways instantly—53’s pressure power is more solid than me right now.
I file in behind Hammond, my hand touching his shoulder, the universal sign to let a crewmember know you’re there. And take up some of the weight of the hose.
It’s heavy.
But not as heavy as the tangled unease from Schmidt and disappointment in myself. Engine 37 has the building clear and joins the fight to water down this blaze twenty minutes later. I doubt much inside the building will be able to be saved.
As the call to shut off the water flow comes, I sprint back to 53 and shut down the hose. The slack drops her hoses instantly.
Another reminder of 53’s solidarity.
And our weaknesses.
Rolling up the hoses doesn’t take long, and then we’re on cleanup. The brooms and rakes come out as both crews head inside to make the best of a bad situation.
“Tennison, you’re with Hammond,” Schmidt calls out. He holds out a broom, and I walk to where he stands and take it. Like I can say no, anyhow.
Hammond and I take the stairs to the second floor. Making it up there, we find 37 is already sweeping out.
“Next floor,” Hammond says.
“Yes sir.”
Ash and soggy debris cover everything, including the office desks that make up most of the second story. He pulls his turnout jacket off and tosses it to a wet desk. His navy standard uniform T-shirt hugs his chest, his arms flexing with every damn sweep the broom takes in his big mitts.
“Focus on the floor, watch the exposed elements.” He glances up to the fluorescent lights hanging by chains from the now-warped popcorn ceiling. The place reeks of burnt shit.
The particular putrid tang of burning electrical elements is soaked into the space. Most likely in the walls, the furniture. You’ll never get the stench out.
I sweep away as much ash and destroyed office stuff as I can, corralling it into the corner for easy disposal. Sweat beads over my brow and I swipe it away. Too hot, I tug my jacket off and keep going until my pile is higher and wider again.
“Nice work.” His voice is too close.
I snap around, making sure the broom is between us. “Yes sir.”
“Tennison?”
I take a step back, my heel crushing the edge of the pile I just made. “I was overwhelmed, it won’t happen again.”
He huffs a low sound. “That’s not wha—”
“All done, are we?” Schmidt appears in the doorway to the stairs.
“Getting it done.” Hammond returns to his sweeping.
Schmidt walks into the space, taking in the damage.
The lighting that was set up after the heat dissipated sends shadows around the room.
It’s eerie. The piles we’ve managed to gather were full of heavy items that melted with the heat.
Sweat drips down my forehead, droplets trailing between my breasts, and I lean on the broom.
“What are you waiting for, Tennison?” Schmidt snaps before rolling off the wall he’s leaning on and heads up the stairwell.
“Asshole,” I mutter.
Hammond’s gaze snaps to me.
“Careful, that smart mouth of yours is going to see you in the captain’s office.”
“Yours or his?” The words slip out before my brain can catch them.
Fuck.
He rests the broom on the desk and pads to where I stand, swiping his forehead with his forearm. “Not mine.”
Geez, let a girl down easy, why don’t you. I go back to my sweeping. Anything to keep my hands busy, lest I strangle the life out of my superior officer.
Not that I’m interested in the uptight cold shoulder he offers the crew anyway. Big, hulking, blond, dog-hating neanderthal.
I’m sure all that brawn and brains impresses someone, but it ain’t me.
I’ve had a gut full of his moody stares and short words. Whatever happened to crew morale? He has no problem chatting away to Davey. Just last shift, they were getting into it deep over some ball game.
The radio on Hammond’s jacket squawks.
“Hammond, you guys all done up there?” Sandy’s voice echoes around the ashen room.
Hammond stalks his way to the radio and plucks it off his jacket. “Almost done, be down soon. Over.”
“Copy.”
“Finish that corner, we’re going home,” Hammond grinds out, not bothering to look at me.
Home.
Maybe to him. My home is not a firehouse with a captain, albeit a temp one, who barely speaks to me.
Honestly, I don’t know why it bothers me so much. Davey, Sandy, and Owens are more than friendly, and I couldn’t ask for a better crew. Hammond, he just rubs me the wrong way.
Not in the same way Schmidt does. He’s a walking HR report waiting to happen. The typical guy who has an ego his intelligence can’t keep up with.
Hammond is different. He’s closed off . . . but just with me.
Fuck him. He wants to play this game?
I’m more than ready to field his plays.