California's Lesbian Firefighters

Chapter One

Bread and butter pudding.

That was the first thing Angel thought about when she woke up this morning.

A little treat from her Aunt Mags, who had dropped the dessert off last night.

Today it was her lunch. The pudding was neatly dished into a plastic Tupperware container with her name on it, Angelique Murray, and stuffed into the very back of the fridge at the fire station.

The only way to protect her food from her colleagues was to label it. If she could lock it with cable ties, she would, but according to her best friend and colleague, Catherine, that was apparently one step too far.

Opening the fridge door, Angel reached inside, grabbing the Tupperware container with both hands.

When she popped the lid, relishing in the sweet smell of vanilla and cinnamon and toasted bread, she nearly stuck her face into it.

But then she spotted something that shattered her rather fragile mood.

A bite was missing.

“UGH!” she moaned and snapped her head back as if the culprit was standing at the door. But there was no one in the small kitchen that led to an equally small living room that made up the upper level of Station Four, one of the many fire stations based in Huntington Beach.

Footsteps suddenly sounded as if Angel’s loud moan had summoned someone from downstairs. Catherine walked through the door with a very guilty look on her face. “I had to taste it. You know how much I love bread and butter pudding.”

Catherine had short black hair and blue eyes that always seemed to catch onto Angel’s, holding her gaze tight like a fist. Despite her muscly build, thick shoulders, biceps that could crush, and quads that quaked—thanks to her daily CrossFit—she was a teddy bear at heart.

“Your Aunt Mags only visits from Australia twice a year and you never save me any of her bread and butter pudding, even though I’m pretty sure Aunt Mags made some just for me.”

“That’s not true.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow. “Which part? The part where you refuse to share or the part where your Aunt Mags didn’t make me any pudding?”

It was times like these when Angel wished she had done something else, possibly worked in a cubicle where plastic dividers kept colleagues at bay. But then again, firefighting was the one thing she was born to do. Besides, Angel looked great in uniform, and the ladies loved it.

“Fine. She did make you some pudding, but that doesn’t mean I have to give—”

The shrill sound of the alarm suddenly sliced through the air.

An emergency.

Angel experienced that familiar rush of heart-pounding adrenaline and abandoned her bread and butter pudding on the table.

“Oh, come on,” moaned Catherine, tossing her hands in the air. “Another one? It’s already been one hell of a week.”

“Stop moaning and do your job,” said Angel as she rushed past her and didn’t bother to check if Catherine was following.

Catherine always obeyed her commands when it came to the job.

As a lieutenant, Angel was higher up in the ranking, just below Captain Bruce, whose voice suddenly boomed over the intercom.

“Attention, Engine Four! We have a report of a backyard fire on Ellis Street. Gear up and get moving, people!”

With Catherine on her tail, Angel burst into the central garage.

Frankie and Mitchell were already donning their gear, sliding down the poles to reach the waiting fire trucks.

Angel was close on their tails. By the time she climbed into her assigned truck and sat down next to Catherine, she was in full gear: a heavy-duty fire-resistant jacket and pants, rugged boots with steel toes and shanks. Her gloves and helmet were on her lap.

Time was essential.

Every single minute counted, and being prepared could make all the difference in the world.

“Let’s rock and roll,” Frankie exclaimed and pumped his fist in the air as if he were going to a rock concert and not heading out to fight a fire. He gripped the steering wheel as the engine roared to life and sped out onto the streets.

While Frankie weaved in and out of lunchtime traffic, cars darting politely sideways like the opening of the Red Sea, Angel couldn’t help that surge of exhilaration coursing like cocaine through her veins.

The rush was addictive. There was something so simple about life or death, so black and white.

It was the grey that terrified her, the absence of control.

While she was battling fires, even those that raged wildly on, Angel felt more in control than at any other time in her life.

Words crackled on the radio. Something about out-of-control fire dancing.

“Fire dancing?” said Angel out loud. “You can’t be serious!”

“People are such idiots,” agreed Catherine, rolling her eyes.

Within four minutes, they arrived at the location.

A single-story house that would’ve looked extremely inconsequential, if it wasn’t for the raging fire in the center of a small yard to the right side of the house.

Flames were rising above the walls and if Angel listened carefully—digging through the noise of the truck and her colleagues and the shouts of the bystanders—she could actually hear the crackling of the flames.

Everyone was off the truck in a matter of seconds.

“Alright team. Let’s put this fire out before it gets too cozy,” said Angel, who was taking the lead since Bruce wasn’t there.

Her bellowing voice cut through the chaos like a hot knife through butter.

“The fire appears to be contained to the garden. Mitch and Frankie, you guys keep it that way. Cath and I will get the hose connected, and then we’ll put the bitch down. ”

Everyone dispersed. Angel gave the garden one more look.

The wall was short, not going up higher than her chest, with a wooden gate off to the right side.

The guys disappeared through it. A tall sycamore tree stood at one end of the yard and miraculously remained unscathed—just like the house.

Some people were just four-leaf-clover-kind-of-lucky.

Turning toward Catherine, she was just about to help with the hose when Mitchell waved his hand and shouted her name, “ANGEL! LOOKS LIKE WE’VE GOT A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS.”

Squinting through the billowing smoke, Angel could just make out the silhouette of a woman on the other side of the yard. She had red hair that glowed like a neon sign, and she was cowering, somehow making herself as small as possible as if it would ward off the flames.

Angel had a feeling she was the reason for the fire. But even irresponsible people had to be saved.

Sighing deeply—Angel wasn’t fond of irresponsible people—she secured her helmet on her head and ran through the open gate.

“Go help Catherine get the hose from the truck! There’s a fire hydrant close by.

But use the water tank if you think it’s better.

I’ll get the person who set the fire in the first place and then you can let the water flow. ”

He nodded and rushed past her.

Advancing toward the flames, the heat hitting her like a blast from a dragon’s breath, Angel looked right and spotted Frankie doing his best to contain the flames.

He was making sure it didn’t spread to the neighbor’s wall by clearing the area from what looked like wooden crates and blankets and brightly colored cushions.

It appeared to be a chill corner or a pallet lounge.

Looking straight ahead now, Angel dodged flames that danced like mischievous spirits, eager to get her, and leaped up onto the small deck that faced the yard.

It was wet and a little slippery and when Angel spotted a hose lying on the grass nearby, half of it singed by flames, she smiled.

At least the woman wasn’t a complete idiot.

Hurrying down the two steps, Angel stayed just out of reach of the fire and found the woman cowering with her back to the wall. Her arms were wrapped tightly over her chest as she stared unblinking at the fire, as though in a deep trance.

She was young. No older than thirty, with smooth ivory skin, speckled with a few freckles, and hair that was as red and unruly as the flames.

The wall behind her was a copy of the one at the front of the house.

The woman could easily have jumped over and gotten herself to safety, but Angel knew people panicked in different ways.

Besides, the woman was clearly a little unstable, a little mad.

Didn’t she know that fire dancing was extremely dangerous, even in the hands of a professional?

She could’ve killed someone. She could’ve killed herself.

“Ma’am.” Trying to pack up her anger in a neat, professional box—she disliked fire setters more than she disliked stupid people—Angel stretched out her hand when she reached the woman. She was eager to get to her so that the rest of her crew could get to work. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

“No one’s ever called me Ma’am before,” said the woman and coughed. She had a smooth, velvety sort of voice, one that you’d hear up on stage or on the radio. Even with the slight hoarseness from the smoke, it was still lovely.

“My name’s Samantha.”

“Well, Samantha, do you think you can walk?”

She nodded and Angel was relieved when Samantha took a step forward, moving into the space at the crook of her arm. She was shorter than Angel, by at least a head. Something she hadn’t expected. Maybe it was the hair that made her seem larger than life. Taller than she was.

With her gloved hand on the woman’s waist, steering her onto the deck and out of harm’s way, Angel shouted, “GO! NOW!”

A moment later, water rushed through the hose, hitting the flames with a satisfying hiss.

Steam rose in clouds to the sky as the flames struggled to hold on against the onslaught of water and, slowly but surely, the fire began to wane.

One of the most satisfying aspects of her job was witnessing fire relent to water, a sort of take on good versus evil.

“Wow,” muttered Samantha beside her. “Have you seen anything so beautiful?”

Angel glanced down and frowned. Even though the woman was exceptionally beautiful, with curves that could take anyone’s breath away, that was a red flag. An arsonist exclaiming the beauty of a fire was most certainly a big, bold, bloody red flag.

As if reading her mind, Samantha turned to look at Angel with wide, disconcerting eyes. “I mean that in the most innocent way possible. I’m not an arsonist. I promise. I just kind of lost focus for a second and dropped my staff… and…” Her words faltered when Angel said nothing.

Angel had turned her focus on the few remaining flames and her team members, who were doing a great job of putting the fire out.

What could she possibly say to someone like Samantha? ‘You’re smoking hot, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to be lighting fires wherever you go. Stop with the fire dancing. You seem like a walking hazard.’

Realizing then that she was still holding on to the woman, Angel quickly dropped her arm as she stepped sideways, and instead busied herself with her helmet.

Samantha coughed.

“Are you alright?” asked Angel, looking sideways at her. It was so hard to be empathetic to a fire starter, even if it was only an accident. Even accidents were dangerous.

For the first time, Angel noticed that Samantha was barefoot. Her toenails were painted a deep red, and so were her fingernails.

Samantha nodded, her head bobbing up and down, her eyes red from the smoke.

She needed a medical assessment. The ambulance and paramedics had arrived a few short minutes after them, as they always did.

Pointing in the direction of the van, Angel said, “You should probably let the paramedics check you out. You might’ve inhaled smoke, which can cause irritation to your respiratory system and can cause complications later. ”

“Okay,” muttered Samantha, but stood firm with her eyes on the remaining flames.

“Sooner rather than later,” added Angel, just in case the woman didn’t understand the importance of getting herself checked out.

It was a matter of minutes before the fire relented and just a few more before it was snuffed out completely, leaving a black, charred sight in front of them.

Frankie shouted something incoherent and made a move with his hand to indicate they could retract the hose.

It was time for Angel to go. Hell, she should’ve left Samantha ages ago to help out her team, but since the fire was under control, she had remained next to the fire starter. Although she wasn’t exactly sure why.

“You should be thankful it didn’t spread to your house,” said Angel tersely and firmly. “It would be in your best interest to refrain from practicing fire dancing in your backyard. And please do me a favor.”

“Anything,” said Samantha softly.

“Get yourself checked by a damn paramedic.” With that, Angel walked away, leaving the woman on the deck, hoping she would never see her playing with fire again.