Off the Clock (Mount Hope #2)
Chapter 1
Chapter One
Tony
Faster. Move your feet, Private .The voice of my first staff sergeant rang in my ears twenty years after the fact, still loud enough to power my dash through the airport. My new sneakers pinched my instep. I’d bought the new-release kicks on a whim, but like everything else, the shoes were tight, unfamiliar, and in dire need of breaking in.
I raced ahead from the gate where my flight had landed, through the food court, down a long hallway, around??—
Smack .The standing sign came out of nowhere to whop me in the chest. The force of the collision tipped the stupid thing over, and I lost precious seconds righting and repositioning it so other travelers wouldn’t make the same mistake.
Under Construction . The signs were all over the airport, cheery yellow-and-black banners that outnumbered the Welcome to Portland signage. Might as well be a metaphor for my whole damn life right now.
Sweat clung to my back as I pushed my pace toward baggage claim and the lines for various shuttle buses beyond that. Since when was Portland so hot in June? Or maybe I was getting old? My bag pulled at my bum shoulder with every step. God, forty-two had hit and hit hard .I reluctantly paused again, yanking off the hoodie I’d pulled on over my joke of a T-shirt, but better that than sweltering.
As I finally reached the lower level that housed baggage claim, a trio of young women with long streaked hair and tanned skin in sundresses came barreling through. They all pulled giant rolling suitcases, narrowly missing me as they headed for the revolving doors. They were undoubtedly returning from someplace warm and tropical, and their tittering laughter sounded like they might have had one last cocktail on the flight.
“Sorry!” the nearest woman called out as her two friends also stopped and swiveled.
“Oh-em-gee, I love your shirt,” the second young woman gushed as her other friend nodded more somberly.
“Thank you for your service.”
“Thanks.” I’d grown to hate that phrase, but seeing as how I was sporting a black In My Veteran Era T-shirt with the Army Ranger logo below it, I couldn’t be too grumpy. Instead, I took the opportunity to dart around them and head for the sign that marked where the Columbia River Gorge shuttle picked up. There were only a handful of shuttles back to my hometown each day, and I was already cutting it close for my friend Eric’s birthday barbecue in the park.
It was mostly my fault that I was running late. First, my connecting flight had been overbooked, and my old habit of always volunteering for the ticket voucher for bumped passengers when flying commercial had backfired when the next flight to Portland was delayed. Now, I was scrambling, but mercifully, the shuttle was still there, the driver standing by his door.
“Hey! I’ve got a reservation!” I yelled before he could get in the van. Given the low number of visitors to the Gorge most days, the shuttle company ran sleek sprinter vans that held a dozen passengers and luggage rather than full-size shuttle buses.
“Capo?” the driver asked as he looked down at a clipboard, pronouncing my last name with the long-a sound instead of the short-amy family used. He was an older fellow wearing an old-style cabbie hat with a sloped brim and had a friendly demeanor as he moved slowly with a slight limp.
“Tony Capo.” I followed him to the rear of the van to load my army-issue duffel before he could attempt to lift the bag, which took up the last available luggage spot. My shoulder protested my nobility yet again, but I was more than used to its crankiness.
“You coming home, soldier?” The driver nodded at my shirt and bag.
“Yep.”
“Did my time in the navy, but you’re welcome aboard, Army.” The driver gestured at the first row, which held the only open seat other than a small fold-down jump seat near the door.
“Thanks.” I climbed into the van and arranged myself in the window seat, using my hoodie as a pillow. I was about to shut my eyes when another traveler came running up.
“Wait! Wait! I’m on this shuttle,” the young guy with a faint California accent called to the driver. He was a tall, gangly, blue-haired, goth-looking kid toting a giant, battered backpack. Of course, these days, anyone under thirty-five looked like a kid to me, but this guy’s baby face didn’t look old enough to order a beer. Clearly old enough, though, to sign consent for piercings and tats, of which he had an abundance. The kid gave a weary exhale as he leaned against the van, waiting for the driver to come around.
“No more luggage room,” the driver announced. “Everyone squeeze in.”
No one else even so much as shifted. The rest of the van was mainly retiree-aged folks and two business-looking dudes in polo shirts. And not one of them wanted to create space for the kid and his mammoth bag.
“I’ll take the jump seat.” I hopped out of the van so the kid could have my window seat with all its lovely legroom.
“You don’t have to do that.” The kid looked close to tears while the driver made a loud harrumph .
“It’s no problem. I like being closer to the door anyway,” I lied as I helped him wrestle his bag into the van. Trina, my youngest sister, had done the whole backpacking through Europe thing after graduating from college, and I’d spent the entire damn summer worried, hoping folks would be nice to the clueless American girl. As tight a squeeze as the jump seat was, I’d take a couple of karma points rather than live with knowing I’d chosen not to help this kid.
“You shouldn’t have to move,” the driver grumbled under his breath.
“I’ve sat in worse places.” I squeezed my six-foot-plus self into the tight jump seat and prepared for a long hour and a half. At least I had my headphones and another few hours on my current audiobook.
Finally, right as the enemy spaceship was about to attack the understaffed space station in my book, we pulled into downtown Mount Hope, and I pocketed my earbuds and phone. These days, the old train depot mainly housed an impressive collection of historical photos of Mount Hope’s heyday in the early 1900s. However, a few shuttles and interstate bus lines gave it enough business to keep the antique lights on.
The bright afternoon sun greeted me as I unfolded myself from the jump seat and grabbed my bag. Eric’s birthday barbecue would be in full swing. Pour one out for my plans to shower, shave, and stash my bag at the big house he shared with his teenagers and some other friends. The plan was for me to rent a room from Eric while I sorted out my post-army life. With no time for a detour, I hoisted my bag onto my sore shoulder and beat feet through downtown to the riverside park that housed a large carousel, playground, and plenty of picnic spaces.
I threaded through three kid birthday parties, a quincea?era, and a fortieth wedding anniversary. Good lord. That couple had been married almost as long as I’d been alive. I shuddered at the thought. My last trip back to Mount Hope had been for Eric’s husband’s funeral, another reminder that long-term relationships weren’t for me. I didn’t object to monogamy as much as the inevitability of heartache.
Finally, I reached Eric’s party, notable by the mix of uniformed first responders, official vehicles parked nearby, swarms of teens, and more than a few same-sex couples with kids. Eric and Montgomery had always had an active social network, and everyone wanted to support Eric through all the firsts after losing his husband. Stopping by the edge of a large green space where people were playing flag football, I stashed my bag on a nearby picnic table as I looked around for Eric or one of my other friends.
A quick scan didn’t reveal any familiar faces, but I did spot the middle-aged quarterback for the flag football game lobbing a pass in my direction. A woefully under-matched receiver sped backward. Young guy, short blond hair, built like a military operator or a first responder, but apparently blessed with two left feet and zero reflexes, judging by how he fumbled the catch.
“Watch where you’re going, kid,” I yelled as I jumped aside. But I’d either miscalculated or the guy had switched directions at the last second because he smacked into me. We tumbled to the muddy grass together. I tried to roll away so I didn’t squash the guy, but somehow, I ended up looming over him. He’d taken the worst of the dirt which streaked his pale skin and white T-shirt.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” He batted impossibly long eyelashes at me, eyes as blue as a pristine mountain lake. He smelled like spring too—grass and soap and sunshine with a faint hint of lemon. I knew better than to linger, but I let myself have a second inhale as I untangled our limbs.
“Tony!” Eric and our other friend, Sean, came running over and helped me up, one on each side.
“Are you okay?” Sean asked.
“I’m fine.” I laughed, far more concerned for the other guy than my welfare. “Did I squash you, kid?”
“I’m fine.” He had a stubborn tilt to his chin, eyes narrowed as if he wouldn’t tell even if he was injured. The guy wasn’t quite as young as he’d first seemed. Under thirty, but older than the kid on the bus.
I probably should have apologized for the kid remark, but those blue, blue eyes and the memory of his scent had me taking a step back instead.Danger ahead.As always, I locked my reaction to his nearness securely away. It didn’t matter how good he smelled or how blue his eyes. I had decades of practice dodging dangerous situations of all types.
“You sure, Caleb?” Sean asked as he stuck out a hand to pull the other guy up. Caleb made a halfhearted effort to brush himself off, but he ended up merely smearing the mud around.
“Nothing a shower won’t cure.” Caleb stretched, sending more dirt and chunks of mud sprinkling to the ground. “Think I’ll go find one now. Sorry again, Tony.” He nodded in my direction without making eye contact, which was probably for the best. “And happy birthday, Eric.”
“Thanks.” Eric and Sean waved as Caleb beat a hasty retreat. Walking quickly across the park, Caleb almost tripped twice but managed to right himself.
“Is he okay to drive?” I asked. Perhaps he’d dipped into the drink cooler a few too many times.
“He’s sober. Never seen him drunk. Just sometimes slightly clumsy.” Sean gave a friendly big-brother chuckle. “And I wish he’d stuck around.”
“Oh?” I tried to sound neutral, but I was relieved. I didn’t need the temptation to sniff him again.
“He’s a fellow firefighter. Good guy. I’m planning to have him train you.”
Fuck me running .The fire station was down a captain, so Sean was filling in. Badly. “Him? Train me?”
“Well, yeah, rookie.” Sean bopped me on my bum shoulder. I winced at the contact and the reminder I was starting over. I hadn’t been entirely sure what to do after putting in my twenty in the army, but I had so many friends in the first-responder community and a few credits from way back in the day. Then, when I had the opportunity to continue taking fire-science classes a few years back, I figured I might as well. Even if it meant being the oldest damn rookie in the Northwest. “Caleb was a probie not too long ago himself, and he’s volunteered for maintenance work while we’ve been shorthanded. Seemed like a no-brainer.”
“Sounds fine.” I clamped my jaw around the obvious comeback. I’d known coming into this situation that I’d be lowest in the pecking order, doing equipment management and maintenance at the station while working on completing the last of my fire academy requirements. I forced a brighter tone. “Just gotta wrap my head around having younger bosses. Not unlike the green second lieutenants West Point keeps churning out.”
“See?” Sean matched my fake-hopeful tone. “You were a master sergeant in the Rangers. A small-town fire station will be nothing for an operator like you. It’ll all work out.”
I nodded. Vast experience had shown me that attitude was everything. If I acted like this was the right path for me long enough, perhaps I’d start actually believing it.