Chapter 2
REID
"Morning, sunshine," Blake rumbles from his spot at the island.
"It's not morning," I groan, sliding into the kitchen in my boxers.
I flop my upper body onto the granite of the island, cheek pressed against it.
So cold. So good. "The sun is setting. The birds are going to sleep.
Normal people are drinking beer on patios.
I hate everything." Why is work a thing? Why did I agree to this stupid shift?
"Coffee's in the pot. It’s strong."
I push myself upright—too fast, the room does a little tilt—and grab a mug from the rack. "Did you put the jet fuel in it?"
"Hazelnut and hate. Just how you like it."
I pour the sludge. It’s thick, dark, and smells like death.
But if I survive it, it’ll sure as fuck wake me up.
I grab the sugar bowl and dump three heaping spoonfuls in, stirring aggressive circles until the spoon clinks a rhythm against the ceramic.
"You're a good man, Blake Moore. A dark, twisted, sawdust-covered saint. "
I hop up onto the counter—chairs are so last year—and swing my legs, kicking my heels against the cabinet.
Blake is sketching, his hand moving in precise, scratching strokes.
He always looks calmest when he's got a pencil in his hand.
It's probably all a lie and inside he's a seething ball of angst.
A seething ball of angst covered in sawdust. And actual chunks of wood.
"You look like a fire hazard."
For the last five years, anywhere Blake is smells like a lumberyard. Actually, even longer than that. When we were growing up, he'd smell like this after working with his Grandpa on one project or another. Woodworking's in the man's blood. But seriously, would it kill him to shake it off a little?
"What time is your shift?" he asks, not looking up.
"Seven to seven. The vampire shift." I take a sip of coffee and suck back a cough. It's stronger than normal, hitting me like a kick to the chest. Yep. That's going to do the job. "Why did I agree to this? I am not a night person. I need sunlight. I’m basically a houseplant with anxiety."
The bastard still doesn't look up. Can't he see I'm over here having a breakdown? "You took the shift because you need the overtime money for the new water heater."
Right. The water heater. That fucker's had it out for me, and it finally quit in a spectacular flood.
"I still think I could have fixed it with the Gorilla Tape.
" I so don't. The last time I tried to use that stuff I stuck my thumb to my palm and had to get Tony to cut me free.
But am I going to wind Blake up by telling him I had it handled?
Damn right I am. "I had the leak contained. It was a structural patch."
"You cannot tape a pressurized tank, Reid. You created a bomb. A wet, rusty bomb."
"Not with that attitude, you can't." I slide off the counter and walk over to him, leaning my entire body weight against his shoulder to peer at the sketch. "What are we building? A throne? A trebuchet?"
"Mantelpiece," he corrects, finally looking up. He looks exhausted, the lines around his eyes deep, but his eyes are peaceful.
They aren't always. Looks like today's a good day. Honestly, we've both had more good days than bad in the last year. It finally feels like we're living again.
"1920s Craftsman. The original rot was worse than I thought, so I’m recreating the corbels from scratch."
"Fancy wood blocks. Nice." I poke him in the shoulder, leaving a clean spot in the dust on his shirt. "You sleep in the workshop again?"
The man rolls his eyes at me. "I wanted to get the glue-up done."
"Blake. We have beds. Soft beds. Inside the house.
We bought this place specifically so you wouldn't have to sleep on a pile of 2x4s.
" We spent a few years in an apartment, and he rented a workshop across town.
He slept there more than he did at home.
It wasn't healthy. Moving here, to this property, was supposed to solve that problem.
And it has, a bit. But McGrumpy here is still camping out on that couch more often than is healthy.
"I lose track of time."
"You're gonna turn into a tree. Just moss and bark everywhere. Birds nesting in your beard." I finish my coffee in one long gulp and set the mug down with a definitive thud. "Danny texted me. Wants to know if I'm in for poker Friday."
"You working?"
"Nah, I'm off. But Danny's getting cocky. Said he figured out my tell."
Blake snorts, a sound that’s more bark than laugh. He finally sets the pencil down. "Everyone knows your tell, Reid. You hum Taylor Swift when you have a good hand."
"That is a lie! I am a vault! I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma!" Taylor is a goddess.
"You are a golden retriever wrapped in a paramedic's uniform," Blake counters, leaning back in his chair. "You have no poker face. If you're happy, you're beaming. If you're bluffing, you look like you're trying to hold in a sneeze. You're the easiest mark at the table."
I gasp and press a hand to my chest at the betrayal. "Then why do I keep winning?"
Blake looks at me, and his expression softens, turning serious for a second. The laughter drops away, replaced by that heavy, observant look he gets. "Because you know exactly what they are holding before they do. You can't hide your own shit, but you read other people better than anyone I know."
I pause, the compliment catching me off guard. I rub the back of my neck. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. It’s why you’re good at the job. You see things. Changes in breathing, the way someone holds their arm, the panic in their eyes."
"Jared used to say that."
"Jared was right."
His name hangs in the air, comfortable. It used to be a landmine, something we stepped around, but now it’s just a part of us. We sit in that easy silence for a second. The two idiots who survived.
"Alright," I clap my hands together, breaking the moment before it gets too heavy. "I gotta get ready. The citizens of this fair city need saving. Or at least a ride to the hospital."
"Go shower. You smell like ass."
"I smell like musk and potential!" I shout, heading for the stairs. Okay, and a little bit of ass.
I shower fast, scrubbing the grogginess away. When I come back downstairs in my uniform, the sun is lower, the kitchen bathed in deep orange light. Blake has moved to the living room, sanding a piece of trim by hand. The rhythmic shhh-shhh of the sandpaper is the only sound in the house.
"Try to sleep in your own bed tonight," I tell him, grabbing my keys and spinning them around my finger. "The mattress misses you. It told me. It was very emotional."
"We'll see. Hell, I might even sleep in tomorrow," Blake says without looking up, but I can see the smirk. "Just in case, try not to slam the front door off its hinges when you get home."
"I’ll be quiet as a mouse," I promise, which is a lie, and we both know it. I have never done anything quietly in my life.
I’m halfway out the door when he calls my name.
"Hey, Reid?"
"Yeah?" I pause, hand on the frame.
"Be careful out there."
It’s the ritual. The anchor. He says it every shift.
"Always am," I call back.
I jog to my truck, hopping over the cracked step we still haven't fixed. I crank the engine. 6:30 PM. Just enough time to grab a second coffee on the way in.
The bay doors are open when I pull into the station. The ambulance—Bessie—is gleaming under the fluorescent lights. She’s a beast of a vehicle, boxy and loud, but she’s mine. At least tonight she is.
Tony is doing the equipment check, looking about as enthusiastic as a cat in a bathtub.
"Tony!" I shout, striding across the bay with my arms wide.
"My brother in arms! I thought I was suffering through this extra shift with a stranger.
What are you doing here?" I never mind working with someone new, but I gotta admit, I'm happy to have my regular partner with me tonight.
With someone new, I'm always having to repeat myself or, you know, actually ask for what I need. Tony can read my freaking mind.
Tony sighs, but he bumps my fist when I get close. "Baby needs a crib, Reid. And apparently, cribs cost more than my first car. Angie wants the one made of 'sustainable bamboo' or something."
"The economy is in shambles," I agree solemnly, leaning against the back doors of the rig.
Tony's moved past the panic stage into acceptance about the baby.
Oh, he's happy to have a kid I'm sure. But I don't think he feels anywhere near ready.
He's got about six months to get there though, so I'm not worried.
"I’m here for a water heater. It exploded.
It was tragic. There was water everywhere, Tony. I almost drowned in my own basement."
He snickers. "So we're both here for the money."
"Mercenaries. That's what we are." I grab the Tupperware he offers. "What is this? Did Angie bake?"
"She made you cookies. She said she felt bad we're working extra."
"Your wife is a saint! A goddess among women!" I pop the lid and inhale the sugar. "Oatmeal raisin? I take it back. She’s trying to kill me." Raisins don't belong anywhere near cookies. It's a fucking sin.
"Shut up and eat them."
"I will, but under protest." I shove a cookie in my mouth and only gag a little when a raisin gets stuck on my tooth, then hop up into the driver's seat. "What's the word? Are the citizens behaving?"
"Quiet so far."
I gasp, dramatically clutching my chest, crumbs falling onto my uniform. "You fucker! Don't say the Q-word! You've doomed us! Now we’re gonna get a call for a guy with a piece of rebar through his skull."
"Just stating facts, bro." He's acting like he meant to do it, but I see that nervous tick in the corner of his mouth. Asshole knows he jinxed us.
"You're tempting fate, Tony. Fate is a vengeful mistress.
" I check the mileage log, tapping my pen against the dashboard.
"How's the betting pool looking for the festival weekend?
" We're short on staff at the best of times.
But weekends like this, the demand surges.
We could get lucky and end up with a quiet night, but that's about as likely as winning the lottery.
Hell, the odds on the lottery are probably better.
"Rodriguez put twenty bucks on 'heat stroke in a furry costume'."
"Solid bet. I'm putting ten on 'food poisoning from the sketchy taco truck'. The one on 5th. That salsa glows in the dark. It’s basically radioactive sludge."
Tony chuckles. "Pretty safe bet. How's Blake? Still sanding wood and brooding?"
"You know Blake. If he’s not covered in sawdust, does he even exist?" I check the mirrors. "He’s restoring some mantelpiece from the dawn of time. I think he loves that wood more than he loves anything. He's literally caressing it right now."
"Man needs a hobby that isn't work."
"I tell him that every day. So, you ready for twelve hours of magic?"
"I'm ready for twelve hours of you not singing."
"No promises. Taylor Swift has a new album, and I have feelings to process."
The radio static cuts through Tony's laughter like a knife.
Medic 4, respond to 412 Oak Street. Possible cardiac arrest.
The joke dies in my throat. I toss the half-eaten cookie onto the dashboard and grip the wheel. The world narrows down to the windshield, the radio, and the map in my head.
"Oak is three minutes out." Too much can happen in three minutes. My job is to get us there as fast as possible, but still in one piece.
I'm good at my job.
"Copy," Tony says, already reaching for the radio mic. "I'll prep the monitor."
I flip the switch. The sirens wail, bouncing off the brick walls of the station as we surge forward.