Chapter Eleven Hale
My Monday starts too early, which is why it’s barely half past eight when I decide that it’s already gone to shit.
The first problem is that Noah has “Burning Down the House” stuck in his head, which also means that a guy named Dan on the crew is taking the opportunity to give everyone a pretentious lesson in Talking Heads history.
“Ah! All wet!” Noah yell-sings. “Hey, you might need a raincoat!”
He couples this with interpretive dance moves that involve a lot of pointing out the windows at the drizzly September day.
I growl at him to shut up, but that only earns me a chorus of lighthearted boos from some of the guys.
My second problem of the day is that the coffee I just forked out seven dollars for is burnt, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue that no amount of water is effectively washing away.
A more nuanced aspect of the day is that Lila isn’t here. She must have snuck out early this morning, and then Noah was the one to inform me that she would be at the Hartstrings office for most of the day.
Which isn’t technically a bad thing, obviously.
In fact, it’s better that I don’t have to also think about her presence getting in the way of the daily routine at Station 47.
At the same time, there’s a part of me that’s disappointed I won’t catch glimpses of her flitting about.
No ribbons of golden hair or bright smiles to lighten the monotony when we have no calls to respond to.
It’s alarming how quickly I’ve grown used to having her hovering on the periphery of my daily life, and that is probably more frustrating than my first two problems.
And then, of course, comes the icing on the cake.
Because, at around ten, mere hours before my shift ends, I scroll through the news and discover a truly rotten update.
A former New York City mayor has officially endorsed Banks’ reelection campaign. It’s no small favor, for sure, and it will only serve to shed more attention on his angry plight against my station.
Perfect.
“Hey, Cap,” Noah greets me when I wander into the kitchen, still glaring at my phone. “What’s got that smile upside down?”
“That’s not how the phrase goes.”
Noah snorts. “You must’ve seen the mayor bullshit, huh? Man, I hated that guy when he was in office and now he’s just trying to stay relevant by fueling Banks’ flames.”
“Impressive metaphor.” Evan chuckles from where he’s sitting on a stool, picking at a frozen breakfast burrito.
Noah winks at him.
I purse my lips and head for the fridge. Maybe the green juice I brought will magically cleanse some of these problems from my life.
“Yes, Trent, I saw it.”
“Do you think it’ll make things worse?” Evan asks.
“Of course it will. But who the fuck drank my green juice?”
“Nobody but you wants to ingest that shit,” Noah remarks, then offers me a sheepish smile when he realizes he’s pushing his luck as far as allowable levels of snark are permitted. “Uh, with all due respect, of course.”
I ignore him and slam the fridge shut, turning to address Evan. “He’s already got half the city convinced that we’re nothing but a bunch of taxpayer-funded calendar models. Now he’s earned even more legitimacy.”
“On the bright side, though,” Noah chimes in, “Lila told me we hit a new donation milestone this weekend. So, not everyone hates us.”
I can hear her voice circling through my mind.
“It’s simple, Hale. Attention equals sympathy equals donations equals positive press equals public pressure equals the councilman backing off. That’s how PR math works.”
I’ll believe it when I see it.
But I’m not in the mood to run it through with my fellow Save A Hero stars, so I change the subject.
“Reyes, you transported a patient to Mount Sinai last night. Do we have an update on that?”
Evan cringes. For the most part, when the EMTs hand their patients off to emergency rooms, there’s no point in following up. Not unless it was serious injuries and they need a more thorough report from us.
Last night, around one in the morning, I was responding to a kitchen fire—because there’s always a fucking kitchen fire somewhere in Manhattan—when Evan rushed off with some of the crew to respond to a space heater that had exploded in a woman’s studio apartment.
“Second degree burns all over her face and neck,” he explains. “Nearly got her eyes, too, but thank God the lady covered them with her hands in time.”
Noah grimaces. “Burns on her hands then, too?”
Evan nods. “She’ll be fine, though. She was pretty lucid when the ambulance arrived. She even cracked a joke about getting to ride in ‘the most efficient taxi in the city.’”
I may be a tad antisocial, but humans will always fascinate me.
They’ll go through terrifying things and still manage to laugh.
Often, it has a lot to do with adrenaline, but the ease with which so many people manage to look on the bright side of things is the most astounding aspect about this career.
“Most expensive taxi in the city is more like it,” Noah jokes.
We all hum in agreement.
Noah lopes off a moment later to help change the oil in one of the engines. Evan gives up on his burrito and excuses himself, murmuring something about a medical supply restock.
I’m left standing there in the silence, almost wishing we would get a call so that I could be distracted from the thoughts crowding my head.
I know this PR campaign is necessary, and I trust that Lila wants to do a good job, but I don’t know how much longer I can stomach being in the limelight as the captain of the most scandalous fire station in New York.
I also don’t know how much longer I can endure being in such close proximity to Lila Hart without making another foolish mistake. Like the one I made the night of the gala.
The one that I keep dreaming of making over and over again.
***
By the time I get home, it’s late afternoon. My shift ended hours ago, but I lingered at Station 47, burying myself in paperwork like it could drown out the restlessness gnawing at me.
Eventually, I dragged myself out before the Hawk could swoop in and question why I was still there, off the clock, like some damn rookie avoiding his empty life.
My apartment greets me the way it always does: spotless, silent, and utterly fucking lifeless.
I toss my keys onto the entry table with a clatter that echoes too loud in the void, then pause, ears straining against the low hum of the fridge and the distant growl of city traffic seeping through the windows.
At the station, it's constant chaos—guys shouting over each other, lockers slamming, alarms blaring like a punch to the gut. Here? Nothing.
Most days, I tell myself I crave the quiet. Today, it just amplifies the hollow ache in my chest, like a fire smoldering under ash, waiting for a spark.
I stalk down the hall to the bathroom, stripping off my uniform as I go—shirt, pants, briefs hitting the floor in a careless heap.
The antsy feeling coils tighter in my gut, a tension I can't shake, don't want to name. But I know what it is. Who it is. Lila.
That smart-mouthed blonde with her green eyes and freckles, the one who's turned my world into a goddamn pressure cooker without even trying.
I crank the shower to scalding, stepping under the spray as steam billows up, thick and enveloping like a forbidden touch.
It ghosts over my skin, teasing, almost like fingertips—soft, insistent. I brace one hand against the cool tile wall, dropping my head forward, water pounding my shoulders as I grit my teeth.
Fuck. I'm hard already, my cock throbbing heavy between my legs, swelling at the mere flash of her in my mind.
Her hands on me during that gala dance, her body pressed close, warm and yielding. It pisses me off how quick it hits, how my body betrays me like this.
I don't do this—fantasize, obsess.
Sex has always been straightforward: a need met, tension released, forgotten.
Efficient. But Lila? She's wrecked that control.
She's all contrasts that drive me insane—sassy and soft, fearless and fragile.
The way she meets my gaze without flinching, challenges me with that sharp wit, but melts when I touch her. God, I want to pin her down, test that fire, see if she'd push back or surrender.
Some primal urge surges through me, hot and demanding, imagining her under me, that composure cracking wide open.
She was so eager in that alley after the gala—pliant one second, fierce the next, like she was fighting the pull as hard as I was.
Her whimpers, soft and needy, echo in my head now, fueling the ache. I growl low in my throat, wrapping my fist around my shaft—thick, veined, pulsing in my grip.
The first stroke is rough, deliberate, from base to tip, and I hiss at the jolt of pleasure that shoots up my spine.
Water cascades over my knuckles, slicking the motion, making it glide easier as I pump harder, tighter.
I don't picture her hands on me; that's too tame.
No, I imagine breaking her—watching that professional mask shatter, her exhaling in surrender, green eyes glazing with raw need.
"Please, Hale," she'd beg, voice breathless, not because I demand it, but because she can't hold back anymore. I'd be the one to do that to her, the one she craves without words.
My breath comes ragged now, chest heaving as I slow my strokes, drawing it out, torturing myself.
The head of my cock swells, sensitive under my thumb as I circle it, smearing the bead of pre-cum that's leaked out.
It throbs in response, hot and insistent, and I imagine her instead—those full lips parting, her tongue flicking out to taste me, eyes locked on mine with that mix of defiance and desire.
She'd take me deep, I know it, that determination of hers pushing her to swallow every inch, her throat working around me as she moans, the vibrations humming straight through my balls.
"Fuck," I mutter, voice gravelly, echoing off the tiles.
My free hand slams against the wall for leverage, muscles bunching in my arm as I speed up, fist flying now—up and down, twisting at the crown, the friction building like a blaze I can't contain.
The water beats down my back, stinging like a whip, heightening every sensation.
My balls tighten, drawing up, that coil in my gut winding tighter, hotter.
I picture her on her knees right here, water sluicing over her pale skin, freckles standing out like stars, blonde hair plastered dark and wild.
She'd gaze up through wet lashes, pouty and fierce, hands digging into my thighs as she sucks me deeper, hollowing her cheeks, her tongue swirling along the underside.
The fantasy tips me over—her imagined moans vibrating around me, her eagerness matching my roughness.
A low, guttural groan rips from my chest as I come hard, spilling over my fist in thick ropes, pulsing with each wave of release.
My hips jerk forward involuntarily, chasing the high, breath sawing out as stars burst behind my eyelids.
I slump against the wall, spent, the water washing away the evidence like it never happened.
But it did.
And as my heartbeat slows, the ache doesn't fade—it burrows deeper, quieter, more insistent.
This was supposed to get her out of my system, but all it's done is make the want sharper, more real. Like inevitability.
I shut off the faucet with a twist, standing there dripping, forehead pressed to the tile.
I should've stopped.
Should've kept control.
But now?
Now I crave the real thing even more, and that terrifies me as much as it excites me.