Chapter 8
LONDON
The hose digs into my shoulder.
Sweat runs down my brows and into my eyes, blurring my vision, but I don’t have the strength to swipe it away as I stand at the base of the watchtower, hunched over and gasping for air.
“Looks like you’re done, sweetheart,” Schmiddy says. “It’s Owens all over again, hey Hammond?”
I don’t spare him a glance, unlike Hammond, who folds his arms over his chest with a gaze that could only be described as fiery stone.
What’s that all about?
“Again!” Hammond barks, not even doing me the decency of looking at me as his glare pins his co-captain.
It takes everything I have to not throw back, yeah, nah fuck you.
Instead, I clamp my jaw tight and go a-fuckin-gain.
My boot hits the first tread, and I grind my molars to prevent the groan of pain from slipping through my lips.
I make the first turn to the second flight. My thighs burn, my lungs shriveling further with every inadequate, fiery breath. I take the steps one at a time, despite the need to make a faster time.
I can’t.
I’m shot.
I’m done.
Left turn.
Step.
Step.
Fire creeps through my veins as the last breath sticks, not budging from my constricted throat.
I stumble, falling on the third-floor landing.
“Fuck,” I rasp. My knees flare with pain a second later.
Footsteps thunder up behind me.
“Get up!” Hammond’s ripping the hose from my grip.
I struggle to my feet, my legs jelly.
In the same heartbeat my back is straight, the hose lands on my opposite shoulder. “Go!”
“I can’t!”
He’s in my space.
He towers over me.
“Again, Tennison. Not halfway. You think fire cares if you’re tired? You think your crew cares if you’re hurting? Again.”
He points up the stairs at the remaining flights.
Heat prickles the back of my eyes, but like hell am I crying in front of this asshole.
I adjust the hose and take off up the stairs on wobbly steps.
The burn flares back to life after three steps.
I breathe through it, holding the hose with both hands.
There’s no way I’m dropping this and having to start over again.
When my footfalls slow and my breath turns rasping, I hear the familiar heavy steps close in behind me.
“Move, Tennison.”
Hammond runs up the steps behind me, pushing me up the last flight. God, this guy is something else.
At the top, the hoses fall from my shoulders, and I don’t even care if he starts on me again.
I pace a tight circle, hands on my hips, struggling to take in a deep, useful breath. He stands there at the top step, shoulders heaving as he stares at me, panting.
The temptation to shove that oversized chest of his and send him backward down the stairs is almost too much right now.
Turning away before instinct overrides my rational brain, I bend over, planting my hands on my trembling knees. Air swells my lungs, and I finally catch a solid breath.
A small, low sound registers from behind me, and I snap up to find Hammond taking the steps two at a time back down the watchtower.
Guess he’s properly tortured his probie. His job here is done.
Figures.
God, this is going to hurt tomorrow—and worse the day after, I bet. And I’m on shift. Resisting the urge to leave the hose up here and walk down without the weight, I shoulder it and start my way back down. I’m halfway up when Schmiddy is riding Davey’s ass up the stairs.
I throw him an empathetic glance as he moves past me at a similar pace I did on my second run. Despite this morning’s torture, his face is still it up with his megawatt smile.
I can’t help smiling as I make my way down the last two flights. Maybe Davey’s onto something. Smile and the rest will follow. Even when pain is being inflicted on you.
The second I step off the watchtower steps, I toss the hose to the ground. It twists, lying in a heap.
“You treat your equipment that way, and you’ll be scrambling on callout and wasting time. And time means lives, Tennison.”
My eyes fall closed in frustration.
He’s right.
I know he’s right.
But does he have to haunt everything I do?
“Roll it out and back neat. Then you can give me fifty pushups to cement the lesson.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The academy was tough, and we knew it was nowhere near as brutal as belonging to a real house. This . . . I don’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed I’ve ended up in a crew with this much work ethic.
With a sigh, I start to roll out the hose along the ground.
“Add another ten for the attitude,” Hammond growls.
The fu—
“Now! Tennison.”
I send the hose along the ground like the thing killed my damn kin. I follow it along and then start rolling. By the time I’m standing with the entire hose rolled up and on its edge between my legs, my arms burn and my hands ache from gripping the dense, rigid fabric.
“Sixty over the hose,” Hammond snaps.
I loose it to the ground and drop down. Lowering my body over the hose, I push up. I make forty-three before the burn starts to take a toll. The pent-up exhaustion from the watchtower run has my body shaking like it has damn permission.
I pause, holding myself over the hose.
“Keep going, or I add ten.” Hammond stands at my side.
My cheeks burn.
Every curse I’ve ever learned runs through my head, his name and stupid face attached to them. But I manage to add another seventeen and make sixty before it turns to seventy. Just.
I kneel and sit back on my heels as I look up at him, panting with every heave of my chest, my arms now as liquefied as my legs.
Hammond bends down and plucks up the hose like it weighs nothing. “Get cle—”
The house wails to life, the dispatch alarm echoing through the outdoor space behind it.
Fuck my luck sideways.
“Move, 53!” Hammond calls up the watchtower, and less than a minute later, we’re filing inside the garage, pulling up turnouts. My legs shake as I slip my boot into the right leg. More so when I have to balance on one foot and step in the other side.
“Goddamn this shit to hell,” I utter.
“You good?” Davey pulls his up, securing it before tossing his jacket over his shoulders.
Just my luck I had to run the hardest circuit known to mankind seconds before a callout.
“I’ll live, bro.”
He chuckles. “Good to know, sis.”
I roll my eyes at him. He does realize bro is not literal, right? Maybe someone should tell him.
I drag my sorry ass to the engine and climb up the best I can without falling into a heap the second I’m inside. And my day just gets better, because the only seat left is the one attached to Schmiddy’s.
I tamp back the groan desperately wanting out and raise my arm to grab the headset. It falters, and I wince. Schmiddy leans over. He’s chewing gum, or something, and winks as his shoulder presses against mine. “Hammond riding your ass, sweetheart? See, I’d never do that to you.”
All of a sudden Hammond’s tactics don’t seem so harsh. I’d take the tough love over this misogynist sleaze bag any day.
On second thought, they can both go die in a hole.
I’m never going to get the stench of burning plastic and electrical out of my skin, my airways . . . pretty sure it’s embedded itself into my grey matter.
After seven hours of an electronics warehouse fire that is a total write-off, I’m finally peeling the sweat-laden clothes from my body as blissful steam curls around the small cubicle, coaxing me in with its reaching tendrils.
It seems as if I’m in this shower cubicle about as much as I’m in 53. I like both equally, to be honest. This vocation has been calling me for years, long before I was in a position to start working on my place in any fire department.
Footsteps scuff over the tile. I can tell it’s a guy by the lumberjack stride as he walks into the shared space. I squirt shampoo into my palm and weave it through my long, thick hair.
The scent is heavenly, lavender and peach with a hint of vanilla. One of the few luxuries I concede to, despite the struggle of living in one of the world’s most expensive cities.
I loose a heavy sigh as the fragrance tangles through my senses, relaxing my sore muscles instantly. Something thuds on the wall separating my shower cubicle from whoever is on the other side.
Something tumbles to the tiled floor with a clatter, and a curse snaps out.
“You okay in there?” I ask, a smile curling my lips up.
“Dammit,” a low hushed tone growls.
Hammond?
“You good, Cap?”
“Don’t call me that, Tennison. And I’m fine.” The words are ragged.
O . . . kay.
The water bursts to life in his stall, and I return to my routine. Hair, body, soak. Bliss.
I’m halfway through drying off when the alarm blares overhead.
Again.
No . . .
Towel wrapped around my body, I gather my belongings and rush from the cubicle. Right into a warm, wet chest.
“Shit!” My belongings slip through my fingers as I stumble a pace backward. One hand clinging to the towel covering me, I glance up at Hammond. His bare chest still has remnants of soap on it. The soap that is hanging from a rope clutched in his hand. A pink unicorn . . .
What the hell?
“Didn’t take you for the soap-on-a-rope kind of guy, Ca—Hammond.” All I can do is stare at it, cheeks alight with heat as he hovers. As if he, too, is dazed.
Water trickles over his bulky muscles, his blue eyes burning into me like I’m the danger the alarm was screaming about.
The ala—
The wailing of the house alarm filters back in, and we both jolt back into action. I leave my stuff on the floor and rush for my quarters.
Davey is pulling his pants on over bright neon board shorts as he hops down the hallway on one foot. “Come on, probie, catch up!”
“Haha, bud.”
I slam my door, but it bounces off the frame, leaving an inch of space. I lose the towel to the floor and pull on my underwear and uniform. Just my luck, I shower and start to wind down and get a last-minute callout.
Curse of the last quarter of shift.
It’s absolutely real.
I’m not above being superstitious with this kind of thing.
I’m down the pole and stepping into my turnout before the next minute can pass. Twisting my hair into a rough ponytail as I climb into the engine, one hand pulling me up the high chrome sidestep, I plant my ass in the only spare seat left.
Right beside Hammond.
Who shifts on his seat like he’s just been allocated the worse seat in the house.
Righto, mate. Whatever.
Probably pissy over getting stuck with the probie.
Feeling’s mutual, bud.
The roar of the engine drowns out the conversation, and the crew picks it up over the headset. Eyes slide to me before they flicker over Hammond by my side.
So it’s just me. Everyone’s . . .
I slide the headset over my head and the conversation stops abruptly.
Sandy fixes his eyes on the road ahead. Owens clears her throat and Schmiddy—
Isn’t here.
“Where’s Schmidt?” I ask.
Davey leans forward. “Went home, early mark.”
“Oh, right. Okay. It’s weird he’s not here for the last part of the shift,” I say to no one in particular.
Hammond’s gaze lands on me, sticking for a solid minute as he studies my face before checking the tablet in his hands.
“Probies, you’re with me today on rescue. Sandy and Owens, you’re fire attack with 41.”
We speed through the city, slowing occasionally as we wait for traffic to clear. The blast of the engine’s horn echoes through the high-rises.
When we pull over six minutes later, 41 is already in position.
Traffic accident.
Bus vs. courier truck.
Which is currently still ablaze with 41 fighting it, making the scene safe.
Oh god.
“You good, Tennison?” Hammond says.
I drift my focus to him, nodding. But I don’t mean it.
This is my first traffic incident that isn’t crash dummies and no stakes.
My body feels like it’s been wired into the city’s power grid. My hands start to tremble. Fire and buildings, I’m good with. Rescuing people from burning homes, I can handle.
This . . .
The doors to 53 fly open and Hammond, Davey, and Owens file out.
Go, London.
Move.