7. Banks
Three things in life are guaranteed: death, taxes, and Captain Bill Morgan chewing your ass out the second you so much as blink wrong.
“Priestly!” His bark slices through my mental fog like a chainsaw through butter. “What the hell was that? You trying to kill yourself and Foxton?”
I blink, disoriented, suddenly realizing I’m standing in the training yard with my harness half-buckled and zero clue how I got here. Brenna’s dangling from the tower, perfectly secured for the rescue drill, giving me serious side-eye. The rest of the crew is dead silent.
“Sorry, Cap.” I fumble with my equipment, snapping the buckles tight. “Got a little distracted.”
“A little?” Morgan’s thick eyebrows angle together over eyes that’ve seen too much tragedy to tolerate carelessness. "You're supposed to be anchoring Foxton, not daydreaming about whatever has you walking around with your head up your ass today."
Heat crawls up my neck. All I can think about is last night. The walk home with Clover, the way I cornered her against that wall, the words I spat out before my brain caught up to my mouth:
There’s nothing brotherly about what goes through my mind when you walk into a room.
Jesus. Her face afterward—shock, confusion, maybe something else—has been stuck on an endless loop in my head ever since. Neither of us even said goodbye this morning. I left for my shift at five, and we both pretended we were too busy to talk about it.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Morgan’s tone drops low so the rest of the crew can't hear. “Or should I bench you now, before you get someone killed?”
I straighten up, forcing myself to focus. “I’m good, Cap. Won’t happen again.”
His gaze drills into me, not buying it for a second. “My office when we’re done.”
That’s not a suggestion. I give a tight nod and force myself to run through the motions. We finish the drill without further screw-ups, but I can feel Morgan’s stare burning holes in my back the whole time.
An hour later, I’m perched in front of him in his cramped office—walls plastered with decades’ worth of crew photos and commendations. I’ve been in this hot seat before, usually for taking too many risks on calls. Never for being so lost in my own head I forgot how to do a damn anchor.
“Out with it,” Morgan says, leaning back in his creaky chair. “What’s got you so distracted you can’t remember basic protocol?”
I consider bullshitting him—maybe a story about insomnia, or the fiasco with my apartment. But Morgan’s bullshit detector is a finely honed weapon after twenty-plus years in the department.
“I’m staying with my best friend’s sister while my place gets fixed,” I admit. “It’s… complicated.”
A flicker of understanding flashes across his weathered face. “Ah. You sleeping with her?”
“What? No!” Not yet. I drag a hand over my face, flustered. “It’s not like that.”
His raised eyebrow practically calls me a liar to my face.
“Fine. It’s exactly like that, except we’re not actually sleeping together.” I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees. “I’ve known her for years. She’s always been off-limits. But now that we’re living together…”
“It’s testing your self-control,” he finishes, “and you’re so busy thinking about what’s under her clothes, you’re forgetting there’s a team depending on you.”
When he lays it out like that, it sounds downright reckless. Which, yeah, it is.
“Either get your head in the game or get your ass on the bench,” Morgan says, voice firm but not unkind. “Distracted firefighters become dead firefighters, Banks. You know that better than most.”
The image of my dad’s turnout coat floods my brain—hanging in my old closet, the folded flag on Mom’s mantle. The high price you pay when anything goes wrong in this job.
“I got it,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Won’t happen again.”
“Good.” He nods. “Now go do an equipment check on Engine Three. Might help sweat out some of that pent-up energy you’re carrying around.”
I recognize a dismissal when I hear one. I stand, and he calls my name right as I’m at the door. I turn back.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, a rare glint in his eye, “some of the most dangerous fires are the ones worth running into.”
It’s about as close to relationship advice as I’ve ever heard from Bill Morgan. I give a tight nod and leave, determined to clear my head.
I don’t make it ten feet before Brenna corners me at the lockers.
“I’m gonna need you to start talking. Now,” she demands, arms crossed. That’s such a Brenna thing to demand. No lead-in. Just straight to business.
There’s something about Brenna Foxton that reminds me of Clover—she’s got that same no-nonsense attitude, same fierce determination to prove herself in a place that doesn’t always welcome her. Maybe that’s why I end up telling her the truth.
“My apartment flooded,” I say, busying myself with my gear. “Then got mold. I’m crashing at Kasen’s sister’s place until it’s fixed.”
Brenna’s eyes spark in recognition. “Clover, right? She runs that swanky cocktail bar, right?” At my surprised expression, Brenna grins. “Portland’s small, and the female firefighter network is thorough. We’ve had our girls’ night there once or twice, at Ember. That woman makes a gin fizz that'll change your life.”
“That’s her,” I confirm, focusing a little too hard on checking my harness.
“Holy shit.” Brenna’s grin widens as she leans against the lockers. "You've got it bad for her, don't you? That's why you were so distracted today. Morgan had to yell your name three times before you heard him.”
I glare at the locker door. “I don’t ‘have it bad’ for anyone.”
Except the part where I want to hang a sign around her neck that says 'Property of Banks Priestly' and dare anyone to challenge it. But I don’t tell Brenna that.
She snorts. “Please. You look like a guy who’s had a taste of what he wants and can’t stop craving the entire damn menu.”
I slam the locker shut with more force than necessary. "We haven't—there's no 'tasting' happening."
She cocks her head, studying me. “Yet. But you want it to, right? Does Kasen know you’re mentally undressing his sister on the regular?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but her pointed stare kills the words. “…No. And let’s keep it that way.”
"Because?"
“Because Kasen would kill me. And because I promised him I’d look out for her, not try to get in her pants.”
Brenna levels me with a long stare, her expression softening. "Looking out for someone and caring about them aren't mutually exclusive, you know."
"It's complicated."
“Only because you’re making it that way.” She punches my shoulder, just hard enough to sting. “Women like her don’t want a babysitter—they want someone who chooses them. Over and over. Who thinks she’s capable of taking care of herself.”
Her words slam into me like a kidney shot. “That’s… surprisingly insightful.”
“I’m full of surprises.” She winks. “Now do us both a favor and figure your shit out before our next drill. I don’t feel like plummeting to my death just because you’re too busy imagining your landlord naked to clip my harness right.”
Before I can fire back, the station alarm blares—three short tones for a non-fire emergency. The dispatcher’s voice kicks in: “Engine 12, Truck 12, respond to a possible gas leak, 412 Northwest 21st Avenue.”
My stomach lurches. That’s Ember’s block.
All chatter dies as we lunge for our gear and move toward the apparatus bay. I’m on Engine 12, second seat behind Captain Morgan. We screech out of the station with lights and sirens, and I hammer at the mobile data terminal, looking for details.
“Gas odor reported at the bakery next to the cocktail bar,” I relay. “Manager called it in twenty minutes ago.”
Morgan nods, weaving through traffic. “Full evacuation protocol. Priestly, Foxton—evacuate the surrounding businesses. Vetter and I will coordinate with the gas company.”
“Copy.” I clamp down on the surge of panic. Gas leaks are no joke—odorless except for the rotten-egg additive, and all it takes is one stray spark to blow the block sky-high.
We roll up seven minutes later. The baker’s staff are huddled on the sidewalk, but pedestrians are still strolling by the other stores like nothing’s wrong. My gaze locks on Ember, and my pulse jacks through the roof. It’s just after four, so Clover’s probably inside, maybe clueless there’s a time bomb next door.
I’m out of the rig before it fully stops. “I’ll take the bar,” I bark at Brenna, not giving her a chance to argue.
I catch the faint stench of mercaptan halfway to the entrance. That rotten-egg smell is enough to set my teeth on edge. The second I push through Ember’s door, I spot Clover behind the bar. She looks up, eyes widening at the sight of me in full gear.
“Banks? What—?”
“There’s a gas leak next door,” I cut in, adrenaline spiking. “We’re evacuating the whole building. Now.”
She doesn’t waste time arguing. “How bad?”
“Bad enough to clear everyone out. You need to get at least a block away.”
Her chin lifts in that take-no-prisoners way I’ve come to love and hate. “Navy, get the back door locked up and meet us out front,” she calls to her coworker. Then her voice carries to the handful of customers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to need you to please gather your things and exit the building. Your drinks are on the house. There’s a gas leak next door, and we need you out of the building ASAP.”
She’s got this no-nonsense authority that leaves zero room for debate and that voice does things to me. Dick getting hard things. Even in a crisis, she’s cool as ice, and I can’t help feeling a surge of pride watching her handle it.
“Any pilot lights? Stoves? Water heaters?” I ask, eyeing the back bar.
“In the kitchen,” she says, already heading that way. I follow—no chance I’m letting her go alone.
In the kitchen, she quickly turns off the gas to the range while I check my monitor. The readings are elevated but not in the explosive range—yet.
"All clear in here," I tell her. "Let's move."
We head back out front, and the block has already turned into controlled chaos. My crew’s roping off the sidewalk, and the gas company just arrived, bright safety vests on. Clover stands next to me as I guide her across the street, my hand pressed to her lower back. I’m on duty, but damned if I’m not touching her in this moment.
“How long do we need to stay out here?” she asks, scanning the scene. There’s tension in her shoulders, the wheels in her head spinning a mile a minute.
“Could be hours,” I admit. “They have to find the leak, fix it, and then we sweep every building before letting anyone back in.”
She nods, already thumbing on her phone. “I need to call Theo. And check if Navy got everyone out safely.”
I leave her there to get an update from Morgan, my mind torn between the job and the urge to keep her glued to my side. Ten minutes later, I circle back and find her corralling the neighboring business owners like she’s run citywide evacuations her whole life.
“They’re saying at least three hours,” she explains, voice carrying above the chatter. “The gas company’s searching for the source, and the fire department will test each building before they give the all-clear.”
A chef in a stained coat looks panicked. “We’ve got perishables—”
“No one’s going inside until it’s safe,” Clover answers firmly. “The captain said once it’s contained, they’ll allow one person per business to lock things down.”
I hang back, letting her take charge. This is a Clover I’ve never quite seen—levelheaded, commanding, stepping up to keep everyone calm and informed. It’s sexy as hell, honestly, and I feel my dick give a twitch at the worst possible time.
Yup. Even in the middle of a potential explosion, I’m gone for her. There’s no escaping it now.
For the next couple hours, I bounce between handling my assigned duties and swinging by the evacuation zone to check on things. Every time I head back, Clover’s at the center of the chaos—arranging coffee for displaced customers and staff, negotiating with neighboring businesses to share outdoor seating, even wrangling a local band into giving an impromptu show on the sidewalk. Anything to keep people calm and entertained while they wait.
“You’re pretty damn good at this,” I say the one time I catch her alone, leaning against a streetlight with a clipboard she must’ve snagged from somewhere.
She looks up, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. Her hair’s up in one of those messy buns I’ve only ever seen in the mornings back at her place. “Crisis management’s basically bartending on a Friday night with bigger stakes.”
“Somehow I doubt most bartenders would handle a gas leak evacuation like you.”
“Most bartenders haven’t been running their own space since they were twenty-two.” She shrugs, but there’s no bravado in it. “How’s it going on your end?”
“They found the leak—some faulty line to one of the appliances. The crew’s fixing it now. We’ll start clearing buildings in the next hour.” I hesitate, then decide to lay it on her. “You’ve really impressed a lot of people today, including my captain. He wanted to know who ‘the general in the black shirt’ was.”
A soft flush climbs her neck, and she ducks her head. There’s a stray tendril of hair teasing her cheek, and I clench my fist so I won’t reach out and tuck it behind her ear. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”
“That’s what makes it impressive, Freckles.”
She doesn’t roll her eyes at the nickname this time—just fixes me with a look I can’t interpret. There’s something crackling in the space between us since last night, a tension that sparks like static whenever we’re close. I’m about to push it further when my radio crackles.
“Priestly, we’re starting building sweeps,” Morgan’s voice barks. “Take Ember and the bookstore next door.”
“Copy that,” I reply, my gut twisting as I step back. “Duty calls. I’ll find you when your building’s clear.”
She nods, already turning to talk to a group of business owners who all look desperate for answers. I force myself to focus on the job.