Chapter 03
Is Elena still in contact with his widow? Does she feel responsible for the kid? Sometimes first responders tend to take on the care of those who are left behind, I wonder if Elena is one of those people.
It frustrates me that I couldn’t find anything substantial on her. Not even an old social media profile like Facebook or Myspace. Absolutely nothing. Almost as if she doesn’t exist. At least not in the digital world.
So, today I am going in blind, which I totally hate.
I have no idea what to expect or who I am going to spend my next few months with, and that unnerves me.
Especially since the one thing I do know about Elena Gonzales, is that she is extremely guarded and closed off.
If I want to get to her core, I will have to work hard for it. That’s already for sure.
I run my hands over my black skinny jeans and sigh softly.
I glance in the mirror one last time. My blonde hair is held up with a small black hair tie, but several strands fall down regardless.
Something I gave up fighting against. My white top falls off of one shoulder, giving me a casual yet sharp look.
My white sneakers pull the outfit together.
It’s basic, but it usually works. It doesn’t make me come off as an intrusive journalist, but rather as the girl-next-door.
I sigh one more time, and then head out.
***
I arrive at the fire station ten minutes early.
It is hard to miss with walls as red as the firetrucks themselves and a big white Bombers Barcelona logo painted onto one of the deep-red garage doors.
It doesn’t take a genius to conclude that’s where the trucks are hiding out.
They have four by the looks of it, but of course I will only know for sure once I am inside.
After I’ve stared at the building for a few moments, my eyes glance over to find the door.
It is hidden at the side, painted red just like the rest. I smooth my pants one more time and then lift my chin.
When I stride toward the door, I do so with a certainty that makes it seem like I’ve done it for years.
But when my hand pushes down the handle, I feel my pulse speed up ever so slightly.
The room I enter is small—more a square hallway really. The black and white tiles are cracked and look older than my mother.
There is a wobbly display closet with some old firefighter gear on the shelves, and there is a soda machine to my right. There are three wooden chairs pressed against the wall in what I assume is the waiting area.
Directly facing the door is an old plywood reception desk. Low enough for me to look over, but high enough that the man sitting behind it is still at eye level. He looks up from his computer when the bell above the door rings. His eyes quickly dart toward the clock above it, and then find me again.
“Miss Carter?” he asks before I can even walk up to him.
My lips curl up in a soft smile. At least they are expecting me. The Chief does not disappoint. I nod softly as I approach him.
“I’m Tommy.” He pats the logo on his polo to indicate himself. “Please have a seat while I fetch Gonzales for you.”
“Thank you, Tommy.”
I smile at him and his face lights up. He scrambles to his feet and rushes through the door behind him while I lower myself into one of the uncomfortable chairs.
I look around the room again. There is a lingering smell of citrus cleaning supplies mixed with wood fires which, to my surprise, smells quite calming when mingled together.
The radio plays softly in the background and the computer Tommy was working on hums.
I didn’t expect to walk right into the bay, but I am not sure I was expecting this either. It makes sense, though. Can’t have civilians running through the stationhouse at their leisure now, can you?
The receptionist returns alone after several minutes, shooting me an apologetic look.
“Lieutenant Gonzales will be right with you. Can I offer you something to drink while you wait?”
I fight to keep the frustration from showing on my face and return Tommy’s smile. The gesture makes him visibly relax and I feel my irritation ebb away.
“Some coffee would be nice.”
“Cream, sugar?”
“Both, please.”
He disappears again and I whip out my phone. Five past nine already. And this time it’s not on me.
When Tommy returns with a station mug in his hand, he is followed by a woman in dark-blue cargo pants and a matching polo. The Bombers’ logo is embossed at the chest.
My eyes travel up to her face and for a moment my breath falters. She is stunning. Dark curly hair tied back in a bun, hazel eyes scanning the room, and her full lips pressed together like she doesn’t want to be here. Which she probably doesn’t, because clearly, this is Elena.
“Miss Carter?”
Her voice is low and soft, almost like velvet. I have to swallow before I can reply.
“You must be Miss Gonzales. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I stand up and extend my hand. She eyes it for a moment and then flicks her gaze back up.
“Follow me, please.”
My brow arches up as she turns on her heels and marches back to the door, my hand still hanging in the air. I stare after her for a moment and then look at Tommy, who shrugs ever so slightly. He presses the mug into my open hand and holds the door open like a gentleman.
“Welcome to stationhouse 2, Miss Carter.”
A warm welcome indeed.
Elena marches ahead of me with long, powerful strides. She walks like a woman on a mission, knowing exactly where she is going. Her heavy boots thud on the tiles.
I have to work hard to keep up with her, which, considering my short height, is a whole challenge on its own already. Not once does she glance back to see if I am following her. She just… knows. And if I wasn’t, I doubt she would care.
We walk through a haze of small corridors, all with the same old tile floor and yellowed ceiling plates. Some doors are open, leading into small offices where people are working behind computers older than me. It surprises me because I never realized there was so much to running a firehouse.
Eventually the hallway opens up into a wider space, which has a steel stairway leading up to a loft. Elena marches up and leads me into what must be their cantina.
There is a small kitchen to the side, with a large Smeg refrigerator in the same fire-red as the trucks. I grin at the little detail. There are worn leather couches in the back, and there is a huge TV plastered to the wall. There is even a dartboard.
In the middle of the room there is a long table with about twenty chairs. Elena sits down at the corner of it and gestures vaguely toward the chair across from hers. I hesitate for a moment, but then sit down.
My hands wrap around the mug while I look for a way to anchor myself.
The sensation that courses through me takes me by surprise.
I am used to cold and distant people, but Elena seems to despise me.
And I haven’t even asked her anything yet.
I have no idea how to move forward from this in a way that is comfortable for us both, and that might end up being a huge problem.
I trail my gaze up toward Elena and find her staring at me with a set jaw. Her eyes are blazing. Maybe not so much at me, but at my presence here. She was forced to do this, and that makes everything ten times worse.
“Miss Gonzales, thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.”
My voice is soft but steady. I roll my shoulders back slightly to open myself to her and hope that she returns the sentiment. But she just huffs out a half laugh.
“Just another day at the office, Miss Carter. Now please enlighten me. What is it exactly that you need from me?”
I am taken aback by her crude reply, but I manage to keep that from showing. She is not the first interviewee that bristled before I could even introduce myself properly. Maybe she just needs some time.
“Well, I am not sure how much your Chief told you, but I’d like to shadow you for a couple of weeks. You know, to get a good feel for the work you do.”
“He mentioned something like that.”
Her eyes narrow slightly as the words fall from her lips. But her face doesn’t show any sign of emotion. It seems like she is hiding behind a wall of fucking ice. Just my luck.
“Oh, good. Did he also mention I’d like to sit down with you to talk a few times?”
“Is that necessary? Can’t you just… I don’t know… observe?”
Her eyes flash for a brief moment and the muscle in her jaw rolls. But it vanishes just as quickly as it came. My eyebrows knit together.
“Am I making you uncomfortable, Miss Gonzales?”
Now she lets out an airy laugh. Surprised at my question or my boldness, I am not exactly sure. She leans back in the chair and lets her gaze roam over me before she answers.
“Everything about this makes me uncomfortable.”
Ouch.