Chapter 16
LONDON
My heartbeat is somewhere between my legs as Miles Hammond lets the towel I asked for so politely hang in his grip.
“Miles . . .”
“London.”
His jaw feathers, eyes darkening as he takes a tentative step forward in nothing but those sweatpants hugging his hips. The toned stomach and prominent V disappearing behin—
“Fuck,” he runs a hand through his hair as he extends the towel, his gaze drifting to the side like now he can’t look.
I take the towel, my fingers brushing over his, and his chest caves, a heady groan slipping past his parted lips.
“Mile—”
“Nope, not going there, probie.”
Probie.
Right.
Tell that to my heart careening its way through my ribs, the heat lancing my veins, and the throb between my legs.
Slowly, I wrap the towel around my body, uttering, “Thanks.”
He runs a hand down his face before releasing a pent-up breath. “Maybe you should go home. This—”
“Seventy-two hours isn’t up yet. So, unless you plan on getting handsy, I think it’s best if I stay. What if you faint again?”
I fold my arms over my chest, closing the space between us.
He dips his head. “I won’t jeopardize your place at 53, London.”
“I know that.”
He leans back, surprise lighting his face.
“Of course I know that, Miles. You don’t have a destructive bone in your body. Besides, I highly doubt the twenty-something probie is your type.” I push a hand to his hard stomach, and he walks backward. “Let me throw some clothes on, and I’ll make you something to eat.”
He’s nodding when I finally close the door. I slide down it and sit on the cool tile. The sensation against my overheated skin is bliss. My head falls back onto the door with a thud.
“London?” He’s right outside the door still.
“I’m fine, Miles. Go back to bed.”
The words tug at my chest, sending my heart into a spiral for the second time. I shouldn’t get used to his bed, or his apartment. This is only temporary, me helping a friend. Being a good crewmember and coworker.
Nothing can happen here.
Nothing.
Schmiddy sends me in as he follows behind, rake in one hand, fire extinguisher in the other. The flames of the warehouse fire have been snuffed out, but the electrical is dodgy as hell.
Schmiddy’s radio squawks.
He ignores it.
I make a path to the back of the building, through the slurry of ash and water from the hoses. The mess isn’t even the worse part. Every electrical item that the warehouse stores is ruined. The place is a total write-off.
The smoldering electrical fumes, even fucking worse.
I’m thankful for my rebreather as I pick my away through the aisle of debris to where the control panels are supposed to be located.
The power was cut, but we have to have a visual that there is no current or anything awry before calling the scene.
“Tennison, check this out,” Schmiddy says, and I turn around the find him trying to open the box on an Apple iMac. Typical. Just like this fucker to loot.
Hope it electrocutes him.
“Schmidt, do you respond? Over.” Hammond bites out over the channel.
“Are you going to answer him?” I ask, making sure the rake is between me and the captain this week.
“Nah, let him stew. Man ought to loosen up. Takes everything way too seriously.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I frown, wishing I could shove this rake where the sun don’t shine on this guy.
“Not a bit. Or is that your type, London? The bulky, serious ones do it for you?”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Feisty little piece, aren’t you.”
“Keep that shit up and find out just how much.”
He simply laughs and sets the laptop box down. “Tell you what. You scout out the panel for me, and I’ll let the insubordinate talk of yours slide.”
“We’re supposed to do it together,” I say, annoyance lining my tone. It’s not a point to argue, it’s a safety risk to separate, especially with electrical.
“Ain’t that the truth.” He picks up another box, shaking it until it rattles.
Goddamn child.
“Fine. Then you answer Hammond.”
He scowls at me. “I give the orders, remember.”
Not wanting to be in his orbit a second longer, I trudge my way to the back of the warehouse. I find the panel and check it over. Finding no signs of life, or current for that matter, I turn back.
The overhead paneling supporting the lights and fans groans.
I need to move.
Picking up my pace, I head back the way I came.
The whine turns to a groan overhead, and I duck in time to miss the falling metal beam. Huddled by the stack of boxed microwaves, I curse. The rake has fallen from my hands, and I bend down to pi—
Fuck.
A live wire snakes over the floor, inching toward a big ass puddle of water from the dousing. The only dry surface that won’t carry current is on top of the boxes, clinging to the top with one hand. I scale the nearest ones and scan the area for Schmiddy.
He’s nowhere to be seen.
Fucking typical.
I snatch my radio with my free hand.
“Hammond, do you read? Over.”
The radio squeals before static swallows the shrill sound whole.
Dammit.
“Hammond, come in.”
Nothing.
I flick the radio to the general engine channel and try Sandy.
“Sandy, this is Tennison, do you copy?”
The static snaps before Sandy’s voice comes over the channel. “Loud and clear, where the hell are you? Schmiddy’s back out.”
I roll my eyes.
The motherfucker.
“I’m in the warehouse still. Over.”
“Hold tight, Hammond is coming to get you.”
“No! The electrical is not off. I repeat, the electrical is still live. Copy?”
“Copy that, sending Owens out to rectify that. Sit tight.”
“Copy. Over.”
I slump against the boxes, which is a bad idea. The pile sways, and I shift my seat ever so slowly to rebalance the lot.
The live wire makes contact with the water and the current oscillates through it. The base of the boxes starts to singe, a haze rising from the water’s surface.
Come on, Owens.
My lungs tighten then burn as I forget to breathe.
The water looses something like a sigh as the shimmering stops and the haze dissipates.
“Tennison, you good? Electrical has been rectified. Copy.”
I grab the radio. “Copy that. Over.”
I don’t remember whether the water is safe now that the current has been disrupted, and the longer I sit perched on the boxes the more I start to unwind. Hands trembling, I pull my rebreather from my face, letting it sit on my chest.
I swallow, and the burn behind my eyes turns to tears.
No, not now, London.
I swipe at them.
How did I think I could do this?
So much can go wrong. We are constantly in harm’s way. The amount of therapy I’m going to need after this . . .
Boots wading through water snap me from my reverie.
I look down to see Miles reaching up for me.
His rebreather is missing. His helmet is on his head as he coaxes me down. “Come on, Tennison.”
I shake my head.
“Nope, I can’t.”
“It’s not high. Besides, I got you, remember.”
I close my eyes.
I know he does. It’s me I don’t trust.
“Now, London.” The low tone of his voice sends a jolt through me.
I open my eyes and hold his gaze.
Fine. Fucking fine. I slide over the boxes and pay no attention to the column of doomed microwaves as they topple to the floor.
Steady hands catch me under my arms as I slide down the world’s most precarious stack of goods.
My feet hit the watery cement a beat later.
“You’re okay,” Miles says, hauling me into his chest.
But I’m not.
I’m so far from okay. I thought I could do this, but I’m not brave enough, not fast enough, not smart enough.
I pull from his hold and pluck up my rake. I’m stalking from the warehouse a moment later, with Hammond hot on my heels.
Back at 53, the yelling has been going on for ten minutes in the actual captain’s office, and the four of us sit upstairs in silence as Hammond, Schmidt, and Cap have it out over the morale and workings of our crew.
“Hope Cap sends the shithead packing,” Owens snarls, stirring her cup of coffee as she stares into the small brown whirlpool she’s creating.
“You’re not supposed to leave a crewmember behind. Two in, two out, right?” Davey says, his concerned gaze stuck on me, where it’s been since I left the warehouse, Hammond trailing me in a raging silence.
“Correct,” Sandy says, rising from the table to refill his coffee mug. Pouring his, he looks to me. “Another one, Tennison?”
“No thanks, had enough thrills for one shift.”
He huffs a small sound that pushes one side of his mouth up.
No matter how much we stick to the rules, how much we try to work as well as possible as a team, Schmiddy always finds a way to tarnish every callout. Every damn shift.
Honestly, this shit is getting old.
I wish Cap would choose Miles and get it over and done with.
How is Schmiddy still on the roster at all?
“I’m calling it,” Davey says, standing up with a yawn. “See you all in a few, if we’re lucky.”
I should try and catch some rest, too. No doubt we’ll be called out another few times this shift.
An afternoon nap sounds so good right now.
“Think I’ll do the same,” I say, rising.
Owens raises her brow playfully.
“Don’t even think it, I’m exhausted. Plus, isn’t there rules about that sort of stuff?”
She and Sandy exchange a look before Sandy says, “We wouldn’t know.”
He sits by Heidi and sips his coffee like it’s the most normal, innocent thing in the world. Well played, you two.
I retreat to my quarters, and when I lay down I realize the yelling downstairs has stopped. Someone is stomping their way up the hallway. By the heavy tread, it’s my guess those steps belong to Miles.
A soft rap budges my door open, and I turn my head. “Done shouting at each other?” I meant for it to come out playfully, but it doesn’t seem to land that way.
He leans on the door, folding his arms. “I need you to file a formal complaint about the warehouse situation today.”
“Will it help?” I sit up, and he pushes off the doorframe.
“Maybe. But without it, if something else happens . . .”
My gaze finds the floor before my next words leave my mouth. “He’s dangerous, isn’t he?”
Miles nods.
A reckless crewmember is a nightmare. When you face so much risk every day, adding an untrustworthy, sloppy crewmember to the mix makes things ten times worse.
“Until he’s transferred out, we have to work around it. Do the best to operate as a crew of five.”
“Is that what Cap said?”
“Not directly, but it’s the only way I know how to keep you all safe, London.”
Oh, Miles.
The weight this man carries. I can only imagine.
A reckless crewmember. Two probies, not one like most houses. Sandy and Heids . . . although I’m not one hundred percent sure that bothers Miles as much as I think it does.
“What can I do to help?” I ask.
Blue eyes move to catch my gaze. “You’re going to have to ignore his orders and follow mine.”
“That means I’m insubordinate on his weeks.”
“It does. It also means you’ll be safe.”
Pressure grows in my chest with the thought of having to choose between the possibility of being written up, or worse, and living to finish my probationary year.
Screw my life, six ways to Sunday.