Chapter Three Hale #2
A mischievous shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know. Nobody’s ever really tried to provoke me. You could give it a go if you really want to, though.”
“Pardon?”
“Nevermind.”
Before I can question her further, the radio on my belt fizzles to life.
“Lieutenant Zimmerman to Station 47. All clear, Captain. We’re heading back.”
“Copy,” I respond.
“Wow, that was fast,” says Lila.
“It usually is. They’re a very competent crew.”
She lifts her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not the one you have to convince.”
“Well… good night.” I turn on my heel and, for some reason I can’t fathom, add over my shoulder, “Sweet dreams.”
In response, Lila makes a strange, wordless sound. Something between a gasp and a cough. I choose to ignore it and head back downstairs.
***
The sun hasn’t fully burned through the morning haze drifting off the Hudson when I make my way back to my office from the gym.
It’s still early, about half past eight, and the station is half-asleep. I might thrive in high-stress situations, but I also love this liminal calm when hours have passed with no calls to respond to and most of the crew has dared to settle in for a nap.
I managed to catch a couple hours of sleep in my desk chair earlier, stolen between the busy work of cycling through reports and incident logs, and the endless machine of paperwork that keeps this station running. Whether Andrew Banks and the scandalized people of Manhattan like it or not.
Because, for fuck’s sake, it was just a fucking kitten.
I shake my head. Trent can be a bit of an idiot, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. He enlisted in the Marines right out of high school and, despite his happy-go-lucky demeanor, was definitely been exposed to some serious shit while his frontal lobe was still developing.
Honestly, that’s probably why he tries to make a joke out of everything.
Anyway, it’s not entirely the rookie’s fault that Station 47 is under fire.
The last captain, my predecessor, was a lazy brute.
When he retired four years ago, everyone was so relieved that it was hard to be polite about it at his farewell party.
He left a bureaucratic disaster in his wake, a mess that I’m still cleaning up.
Not to mention the sexual harassment allegations that the few female crew members have raised against him.
And then there was that bastard Sparks, a rookie I had to dismiss about a year ago because he thought it’d be fun to take one of the trucks for a joyride.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad, except it happened to be at the same time that a massive warehouse fire broke out up in Harlem and the entire fleet was called in for backup.
Shit happens, but Station 47 has unfortunately dealt with an unfair amount of shitty nonsense over the years. Trent’s little stunt was just a poorly-timed mistake that tipped everything over the edge.
Now, with this Save A Hero campaign to deal with, it’s on my mind even more than usual. Which is exactly why, when I went down to the station’s gym in the basement to run my usual morning 5k, it turned into five miles. Then six. Then seven.
Freshly showered but dressed in a pair of sweats and an FDNY T-shirt, since my shift is over at noon anyway, I push open the door to my office.
Where Lila Hart, wearing another damned skirt, is waiting for me.
She rises from the folding chair situated across from my desk, takes one look at my expression, and offers me an apologetic smile.
“Morning,” she sing-songs weakly. “Sorry—it’s just that I thought we could get started early today, since I know you’re only here until noon. And Noah saw me waiting out in the hallway and said I could just come inside to wait for you.”
I shake off the shock of her sudden appearance and stalk past her. The scent of her delicate floral perfume wafts over me as I move around my desk and take a seat.
“Trent isn’t my secretary,” I grumble.
“Right.”
“Get started early on what, exactly?”
“What?” She’s staring at me oddly, her emerald eyes even bigger than usual.
The blush has returned, too, but I’m finding it hard to believe I’ve already managed to annoy her that much.
“Why are you here in my office at the crack of dawn?”
She glances down at her watch. “It’s eight-thirty. Thirty-seven, actually. Sunrise was at six-thirty-four this morning.”
Weirdly, the urge to smile at her pedantic correction overtakes me. I manage to keep a straight face, but I really don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else who is as fixated on exact timing as I am.
“What do you need from me, Lila?”
The blush deepens. Her spine straightens.
I really don’t understand her.
“We should discuss logistics, of course,” she replies. “For the gala. It’s the first major event in the Save A Hero series.”
“Right. The FDNY Charity Gala. This Saturday.”
“Yes, that’s the one. And, if you’ll recall, I’ll be your platonic-professional date, so that we can show the public how great Station 47’s captain is!”
“Platonic,” I repeat, and the word tastes like restraint.
Lila nods too quickly. “Yes. Platonic. Extremely platonic.”
She’s standing in front of my desk like she belongs there—like my office is just another set she can rearrange. Her skirt is crisp. Her lipstick is subtle. Her hair smells faintly like something expensive and dangerous.
“You’re aware,” I say, “that the city doesn’t care who you are when they want a villain.”
Her expression sobers. “I’m aware.”
“And you’re still volunteering to stand beside me.”
“It’s my job,” she says—then softer, almost resentful of herself—“and because you’re not a villain.”
The air tightens.
I should sit down. I don’t.
I should look away. I don’t.
My gaze drops to her mouth—just a flicker—
and her lips part like her body understands before her brain can catch up.
One step.
That’s all it would take.
One step and I’d find out if she makes the same sound she did in my head last night.
“Hale?” she whispers, and my name on her tongue hits like a match.
I’m close enough now that I can see the freckles at the edge of her blush, close enough to feel her breath turn unsteady.
My hand lifts—slow—meaning to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Meaning to touch her.
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
Like she’s bracing for impact.
The landline rings.
Sharp. Brutal.
A goddamn siren in miniature.
Lila flinches like she’s been caught doing something wrong, even though neither of us has moved the final inch.
I don’t step back right away.
That’s the worst part.
Then I turn and snatch the receiver before I do something that would ruin us both.
“This is Hargrove.”
“Captain,” she greets me briskly. “We need to discuss your… influencer.”
My jaw tightens. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Ten minutes. Conference line. Don’t keep me waiting.”
As if I ever have before.
But the line goes dead before I can even agree.
I set down the receiver carefully, trying to keep my face neutral in front of Lila.
“Who was that?”
“The Hawk.”
“Who?”
“Our union rep.”
“Oh! That lady who sent me all the paperwork?”
“Yes, the lady who is probably going to become a very big thorn in your side.”
Lila merely snorts. “Well, she can get in line.”