Oh good, more men in uniform!
Chapter three
Evan
There’s a length of hose dragging across the bay floor when I step around the back of the engine, the canvas still damp enough to leave a dark streak behind it as it moves.
I catch it before it snags, bracing my boot and hauling it straight. It resists where it’s twisted, so I stop and work the bend out with both hands, then feed it forward again.
Across from me, Colt’s at the open side compartment of the engine, checking fittings. Ghost’s got the med kit open at the table just inside the bay doors, moving through it piece by piece
And Fletch’s at the side step with a cloth in hand, polishing the truck.
“You missed a spot,” I say, without looking up.
“I’m circling back,” he replies.
I glance over. He’s been polishing the same patch for about five minutes.
“You’ve circled it three times.”
“Fourth time’s the charm.”
Colt snorts under his breath, shutting the compartment beside him with a loud bang. “He’s committed, I’ll give him that.”
I feed the last section of hose in and flatten it with the side of my hand, adjusting the lay until it sits clean. Better. Stepping back, I give it a quick once-over before stripping my gloves off and flexing my fingers.
My mind drifts for half a second—to school starting soon. To new timings, early starts, and figuring out drop-offs around shift changes. Wondering whether Herb and Leah can keep doing mornings, or if I need to figure something else out before it all hits at once.
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck and push it aside. I’ll deal with it later.
There’s music running low somewhere behind us, something that’s been on a while but has blended into the background. I don’t really clock it until Fletch drifts toward the speaker and nudges the volume up.
“…tell me whatcha wan—”
“Fletch.” Colt pauses by his compartment. “Turn it off.”
He leans back against the truck instead, a shit-eating grin plastered in place. “You say that every time I put it on.”
“Because every single time, you seem to know more of the choreography.”
“It’s a classic!” Fletch flicks the rag over his shoulder and gives a half-assed spin like he’s on stage. “If Posh were here, he’d get it.”
“Well, Beck’s not here, and neither is your dignity.”
Ghost turns slowly as Fletch points dramatically at him, slamming his hips to the left then shaking them to the right, while loudly butchering the chorus as it thumps through the bay.
“How do you know all the words?”
Fletch ignores him, far too busy performing for his non-existent audience, but his eyes dart to Colt when he starts heading directly for the speakers. “Hey! Relax, Sporty Spice.”
Colt sighs loudly. “I swear to God, Fletch.”
“What? You’re definitely Sporty. Strong, dependable, real team pl—”
“Say it again, and I’m throwing you outta the bay.”
Fletch grins, then flicks his attention toward me. “What about you, Baby, you—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, without looking up.
Ghost leans against the truck, watching me work. “You’re not beating that one.”
“I’m not answering to it.”
“You already did.”
I shake my head, adjusting the hose again just to double-check it. “I’m not Baby Spice.”
“It’s okay, Ev, denial’s part of the journey,” says Fletch. “And you’d look great with pigtails.”
The sound of a police cruiser rolls past the open bay, slow enough to pull our attention.
Fletch straightens slightly, squinting after it. “That Tucker?”
“Looks like it,” Colt says.
The driver eases off the gas when he sees us, window already sliding down as he leans across it.
“You boys got time to give my cruiser a once-over?”
Yup. Kane Tucker. I’d know that smug face anywhere.
“’S what you do best, isn’t it, Tuck?” I call over. “Get the FD to clean up your messes.”
Tucker taps the side of his cruiser. “Figured I’d swing by later, get a proper detail. She’s looking a bit rough, could do with a freshen up.”
“Yeah, we’ll get right on that,” Colt says, glancing over. “High-pressure hose should freshen it up and strip it back to bare metal.”
Fletch huffs a laugh. “Full package.”
“Perfect,” Tucker says easily. “Inside could use it too.”
“Sure,” I reply. “We’ll just flood it out. Same system you boys use for paperwork.”
Tucker grins, taking the hit without issue, then nods toward the rack behind me.
“That line actually gonna pull, Prince?”
“It’ll pull,” I say.
He looks at me for a beat, then smirks. “Unlike you on a Saturday night at Neverland, then.”
Colt barks a laugh, and Fletch chokes on his.
I shake my head, glancing at the line one last time, even though I already know it’s fine. “Big words from the captain of the PD team who ate ice during last year’s Maplewood Cup final.”
Tucker chuckles and lets his cruiser roll slowly past, calling out again before he disappears from view. “Missed a spot!”
“Oh, his ego is definitely still recovering from last year,” Fletch says with a grin. “Clearly hasn’t come to terms with it.”
“Come to terms with what?” Colt asks. “Pretty sure you ate ice too—in front of your own net.”
“That was tactical.”
“That was you forgetting how to skate.”
Fletch points a rag at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Unfortunately.”
Boots hit the bay behind us and Beck appears, pausing momentarily as he glances at the speakers still playing Fletcher’s Spice Girls playlist. “You all done?”
“We’re discussing strategy,” Fletch says. “The Maplewood Cup starts in a few weeks, and we need to make plans.”
“Plan on getting better, then.”
I snort and take a step back, letting my eyes run over everything without really thinking about it.
The lines are clean, and my gear’s set. For a second, everything feels quiet and calm. Which are absolutely not the words to think during shift, but I can’t deny it’s almost peaceful. Just the low hum of the station and the Spice Girls still playing in the background.
And then the tones drop.
Beck’s already heading for the truck. “Engine.”
Fletch ditches the rag mid-step and rounds the front of the engine at a jog. Colt moves with him, grabbing his jacket off the hook and shrugging it on in one clean motion as he goes.
I’m already reaching for mine, hauling it on and yanking the zip up as I move toward the back step, the familiar weight settling across my shoulders. I grab my helmet without looking, Ghost right behind me.
None of us are talking, because none of us need to. It’s just second nature to spring into action as soon as we hear the bells, and everyone knows their role.
The engine turns over immediately, and we’re rolling out of the bay in seconds.
“Dispatch, Engine One responding,” Beck says into the radio.
“Engine One, respond to automatic alarm—Maplewood Elementary School.”
Fletch’s grip tightens slightly on the wheel as he pulls us onto the main road, eyes flicking between mirrors and traffic.
The word school twists something tight in my chest, logic be damned. Elle isn’t there. I know she’s safe at Herb and Leah’s. But knowing it doesn’t fully calm the immediate, irrational tension that coils around my ribs. I lean forward slightly, eyes on the road ahead.
“School’s closed,” Fletcher says, more statement than question.
“Yeah,” Colt replies from beside him. “Still a school, though.”
He exhales through his nose as we pick up speed. “Calling it now—it’ll be something dumb.”
“Let’s hope,” I mutter.
“Eyes on the road,” Beck says.
Ghost straps in across from me, calm as ever. “Could be maintenance.”
“Could be someone forgot how heating works,” Fletcher adds.
“Could be something real,” Beck cuts in. “Treat it like it is.”
“Always do, Cap,” Fletch says, quieter this time.
The rest of the ride settles into that focused hum with no filler conversation. We pull up to the school, the alarm still blaring sharply. Water’s already spilling from under a side door, running in a steady stream across the concrete and pooling along the curb.
“Well.” Fletch kills the engine. “That’s promising.”
Beck’s already out of the cab. “Let’s move.”
I drop down from the back, boots hitting wet pavement as I pull my gloves tight, already moving. The alarm cuts straight through everything, but the rest of the noise filters in underneath. Water spray and voices.
We move toward the entrance, Beck taking point as he pushes the door open. The heat hits first, followed by the thick, damp air of steam and something faintly burnt.
Then the voices again.
“I said it needed five more minutes!”
“It was already done!”
“The timer didn’t go off—”
“That oven runs hot, Sally, I told you—”
“My shortbread is ruined!”
I round the corner into the school kitchen and take it in properly.
Sprinklers are still going overhead, drenching everything in a relentless downpour. Water’s pooling across the tiled floor, soaking into trays and racks, and what used to be rows of what appear to be baked goods.
And in the middle of it all stand five ladies, completely soaked and talking over each other.
The scene settles in front of me as the others round the corner, and Fletch leans slightly to the side behind me, taking a look.
“Huh.”
One of the women spots us, and her eyes light up.
“Oh, thank God,” she says, pushing damp hair back from her face. “Can you turn that awful shrieking off?”
Another one pushes forward immediately, gesturing wildly at the ceiling. “It was the oven, but it wasn’t just the oven—”
“It was the sugar—”
“It was the temperature—”
“My shortbread is still ruined, and I need you to understand how serious that is!”
One of them looks Colt up and down, completely drenched and unfazed. “Well, at least something good came out of this.”
Colt blinks. “Ma’am?”
“You’re very handsome,” she informs him.
“Uhh, thank you,” he says automatically. “My wife thinks so, too.”
Fletch leans in slightly behind me. “We can put that in the report if you want.”
“Ma’am,” Beck cuts in calmly as he steps forward to speak to the one called Sally. “Is anyone hurt?”
They all pause and look at each other, just for a second.
“No,” one of them says, breathless. “Just… devastated.”
I press my lips together, not quite managing to hide the edge of a smile as I glance at Beck.