Chapter Two Max
The scent of industrial-strength cleaner fills my nostrils as I scrub the already spotless countertop of the station’s kitchen for the third time this morning.
My biceps burn with the effort, but I don’t stop. Perfection isn’t just a goal that was drilled into me from birth, but also a necessity when you’re gunning for a promotion to captain within the year.
I can’t fuck up.
And I can’t let anyone else fuck up either.
That’s the entire point of being a leader.
“Morning, big guy,” Jase calls out, his voice laced with that irritating cheerfulness he maintains even when we’re going on hour fifteen of a twenty-four-hour shift.
He’s wearing an FDNY t-shirt and plain sweatpants, looking far too awake for someone who has been relegated to laundry duty for the past few hours in the basement.
“I don’t know why you call me that,” I grunt, frowning at a nick in the countertop that was probably Evan’s fault.
“What? Big guy? Why not? You’re a big guy.”
I snort. “You’re bigger.”
Jase chuckles, puffing out his broad chest. “Well, no fucking shit, but the existence of one big guy doesn’t negate the existence of another.”
“Poetic.”
“What the hell are you even doing? You gonna polish the cheap ass silverware next? Or are you planning to lick this counter clean until it reflects back your pretty face?”
I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “Some of us take pride in our work environment, Thibodeau.”
Part of me wants to bark at him to watch his mouth, but Jase’s overzealous use of curse words is less to do with aggression—which he barely has an ounce of in his entire body—and more to do with the fact that he was born and raised in South Boston.
It’s also the reason why he fits in so well in Brooklyn now.
“Some of us are obsessive freaks who need to relax a bit before they give themselves an aneurysm,” Jase retorts, pouring coffee into a mug that I literally just washed. I resist the urge to snatch it from his hands.
He’s probably right. But I’m not going to admit that to his face. I’m not captain yet, but I should at least practice not allowing these morons to undermine my authority.
At that moment, the main station door bangs open, and in saunters Evan, looking exactly like a man who spent his night getting laid instead of getting a full eight hours of rest before his shift like a responsible adult.
His clothes are rumpled, his hair a mess, and there’s no mistaking the purplish mark peeking above his collar.
“You’re late,” I grumble. “Your shift started seven minutes ago.”
At least Evan has the decency to look ashamed at that, flinching as he glances down at his phone screen and notes the time. “Sorry, Mussolini. Lost track of time.”
I let the Mussolini comment slide right off me. Honestly, I’m impressed he knows who that is.
“Lost track of time or lost track of how many women you were entertaining?” I gesture toward his neck.
“Jesus Christ, man. Relax.”
“We have standards here, Pomar. Appearance matters. Professionalism matters. Have you heard that word before? Or do you need me to define it for you?”
Jase snickers into his coffee. “Easy there, killer. He’s living up to his reputation as the station’s sluttiest lieutenant. Besides, that hickey is a badge of honor. You know how hard it is to actually get one of those? Unless you’re anemic or something.”
“Which I’m not,” Evan chimes in.
“Nobody asked,” I snap. “And it’s not a badge of honor. We’re firefighters, not frat boys. Every time you step out of this station looking like you just crawled out of someone’s bed, it reflects on all of us. On me.”
Evan flinches again. “I get it, man. Sorry. Want me to go scrub the floor with a toothbrush or something?”
I round on him, frustration flaring. “Actually, I want you to leave the fucking sarcasm at home. Both of you.”
Jase sighs, but he nods in apology.
“I’m sorry, man,” Evan says again. “I mean it. I know you want to be Captain when Weston retires. We want that, too. I know you can’t have your team looking like we rolled out of a dive bar. It’s my bad. I’m working on it. You know that.”
I do know that. I know these guys as well as I’d know any brother of mine, even if we’re not related by blood.
We’ve been working together for years, and I’d trust them with my life, but as the years have gone by and the pressure to strive higher has increased, I can’t help noticing the ways in which the guys I care about keep unintentionally holding themselves back.
Because, even if he’s a bit of a womanizer, Evan is actually one of the most loyal and devoted public servants I’ve ever known.
Even in the most dangerous situations we’ve faced, there’s never been so much as a millisecond of hesitation in his determination to help people.
There’s no doubt in my mind that he would sacrifice his life for a perfect stranger if it was the only option.
And Jase, for all the puppy-dog idiocy that people see on the surface, is incredibly smart.
As in, we’re extremely lucky he decided to turn down his acceptance to Harvard Medical School in order to be an EMT in this chaotic, unpredictable city.
He could be a millionaire brain surgeon right now, but instead he’s patching up all the grimy, sometimes gruesome, injuries that New Yorkers manage to get on a daily basis.
All the other guys on our small crew are just as invaluable, too.
I need them to all start acting like it.
Jase sets his coffee down, clearly sensing the tension. “Speaking of bars and, uh, high society—”
“Nobody was speaking of that,” Evan cuts in.
Jase ignores him, waving his phone at us. “Check this out. Today’s a big day, apparently. The Montgomery-Hayes wedding, you know? They’re calling it ‘the wedding of the century’ in the Post.”
I reach for the sponge and turn back to the counter, immediately uninterested. “More rich people wasting money. Wow. Who cares?”
“Apparently half of New York,” Jase replies. “Looks sick as fuck, honestly. They’re having it in some historic cathedral in Brooklyn Heights. That creepy one, you know? All wooden and spooky? And the article specifically states they plan to have a thousand live candles.”
“A thousand?” Evan asks, whistling low. “What the fuck for?”
“Beats me. I’m not the blushing bride,” Jase quips. “But it looks like they got some kind of special permit to have a fireworks display after the ceremony.”
Evan makes a disbelieving sound. “Like, right in the middle of Brooklyn?”
“I guess so.”
“Idiots,” I mutter, wringing out the sponge in the sink. “That’s a fire hazard waiting to happen.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Jase replies as he continues scrolling through the article. “Weird how old money folks always have such poor judgment, don’t you think? You’d think they would be smart.”
“Money can’t buy intelligence,” Evan remarks.
Jase hums in agreement. “Even if it could, you’d still be screwed.”
The banter is such a normal part of our day-to-day that Evan doesn’t even bother rising to the bait. Instead, he leans in to peer at the article and scoffs, “Who even uses the phrase ‘social event of the season’ anymore?”
“Who even approved hundreds of open flames in a historic building?” I interrupt, perhaps a little too eager to let out my frustration on a random happy couple. “How the hell did that get approved by the borough?”
Evan, now adjusting his collar in an attempt to hide the incriminating mark as he fusses over his reflection in his phone’s front-facing camera, suggests, “I figure if you have enough money, fire codes probably don’t apply.”
“Fire codes apply to everyone,” I grumble. “Money doesn’t make you immune to basic safety regulations.”
Jase and Evan smirk, then take one look at my expression and quickly straighten up.
“True, but money does buy you a better lawyer to defend you when you burn down a historic landmark,” Evan says.
Jase wrinkles his nose. “That’d be a fucking shame.”
“To say the least.”
I lean back against the counter. I know I should tell them to go do something useful.
I should be doing something useful. We’re such a small station in such a random niche of Brooklyn that we don’t get the same volume of emergency calls as the bigger stations, and yet we’re so uniquely situated between two underserved neighborhoods that the FDNY hasn’t found reason to let us be absorbed into another crew.
Not yet, at least. Probably not ever. One of my goals as the future captain of this station is to ensure that our future is set in stone.
At that moment, the station door opens again and Captain Weston walks in, looking like he’s aged ten years since yesterday. He’s carrying the same New York Jets travel mug he’s had for years and a newspaper, which he slaps down on the counter I just cleaned the second he enters the room.
“Rough season, huh, Cap?” Jase says, nodding at the mug.
“Being a lifelong Jets fan teaches me the value of humility and radical acceptance,” Weston recites for the umpteenth time.
Jase snickers. “And I thank God every day that I was born in Patriots nation…”
“Ew,” Evan mutters.
“Eww,” Jase mocks him.
Weston ignores them, swiping his hand over his mustache and fixing me with an observant look. “What’s got your panties in a twist, Redwood?”
I shrug. “Nothing at all. Jase was just telling us about today’s fancy society wedding. Sounds like an act of terrorism in the making.”
Captain Weston frowns at Jase inquisitively, who hands over his phone. The older man holds it up close to his face, squinting at the headline.
“Ah, I heard about this,” he mutters. “Eleanor Hayes is a piece of work, I’ll tell you that.”
“Who?” Jase asks, taking his phone back.
“Mother of the bride.”
“You know them?” I ask.
Weston waves his hand dismissively. “My wife served on some charity board that the Hayes family scraped together a few years ago when they needed some good PR. She’s stubborn and opinionated as hell, that one.
Her husband’s no better, I bet. Can’t imagine being raised by folks like that. Poor girl.”
“Poor girl?” I echo. “She’s a pampered princess marrying into another one of the wealthiest families in New York. She’s hardly poor.”
“Well, sometimes the richest people are really the poorest. In the ways that matter, I mean.”
Jase snaps his fingers like he’s at a poetry reading. “Very wise, Cap.”
“Still doesn’t sound too bad to me,” Evan muses. “Never having to worry about bills, getting to wear designer clothes… I’d know exactly what to do with cash like that.”
“What? Buy a tacky sports car?” Jase counters.
“You’d hate it,” I cut in before they can start bickering like idiots again. “You’d be bored out of your mind within a week. You’d have no purpose, no real problems to solve.”
“Maybe,” Jase concedes. “But I bet the catering at all those fancy events they’re always attending would be better than Pomar’s mystery meat Mondays.”
“Hey!” Evan protests. “It was one time! And just because you don’t care about cholesterol doesn’t mean that ninety-three percent lean ground turkey is a bad—”
“Enough,” Weston sighs, shutting them both up. “I’ll be in my office, dreaming about the finer things in life.”
He wanders away.
“Speaking of finer things,” Jase says, still scrolling on his phone. “Check out the bride. Brielle Hayes. She’s hot.”
Despite myself, I glance over. The photo shows a slender woman with auburn hair and big brown eyes smiling politely at the camera.
She’s…
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Wow.”
Evan takes a look, his eyes going wide.
“Fucking bombshell,” he murmurs. “Damn.”
Just as I’m about to suggest we get back to real work instead of ogling a woman we don’t know who is literally about to get married, the alarm bells cut through the station.
Three short blasts followed by a long wail.
We’re being called in for backup. Which only happens when the emergency is big enough to require even our paltry crew at the scene.
“Let’s get it moving, boys!” I shout, all thoughts of society weddings and perfect countertops forgotten as I stalk out of the kitchen toward the bay.
Jase and Evan are right behind me, and Zack and Rory, the only two other guys on duty right now, are hurrying toward our singular fire engine from the opposite direction.
The radio hooked to my belt starts crackling with the dispatch details. I absorb them all with focus, gearing up with the kind of automatic precision that comes from years of practice and routine.
“Large fire. Brooklyn Heights. They’ve already got two other stations on the scene,” I relay as I shove my helmet on and hop up into the driver’s seat of the truck.
“Wait, what the fuck?” Evan blurts, throwing himself into the seat beside me. The garage-style door of the style rolls open as the others pile in, everyone moving like a well-oiled machine.
“What?” I snap.
“The address that dispatch gave.”
I shoot an impatient glare at Evan. “What about it?”
“It’s the fucking church!”
“The what?”
“The wedding! That’s the church!”
Jase, geared up and ready to go with his EMT garb, gapes at him. “Seriously? There’s no fucking way…”
But there’s no time left to confirm or deny it. I’ve got an emergency to respond to, a location to speed towards, and potential lives to save. It doesn’t matter where or who it is.
So, without wasting another second, I flick on the sirens and we roll out.