2. Saint Sterling’s Rescue
Chapter two
Saint Sterling's Rescue
Sterling
I check the rearview on a straightaway and catch Mandy’s reflection: knees drawn up, pajama bottoms riding high on her shin, the patchwork of smiling Avocados in various directions on display.
She’s also missing a shoe, which I clocked when I scooped her off the curb but didn’t mention, because it felt beside the point.
She’s managed to wedge herself onto the bench seat next to Bowie’s carrier, which keeps skidding two inches left and then two inches right every time I so much as tap the brakes.
I take a right onto Blanchard, hit a seam in the pavement, and, like clockwork, Bowie yowls.
A full-body, Shakespearean howl. Mandy winces but doesn’t flinch.
She just whispers, “Sorry, buddy, almost there,” and then pivots her attention to me, sensing the apology quota has not yet been met for the day.
“I’m really sorry about this, Sterling,” she calls through the open slot behind my head. “You know you didn’t have to do this. They would have sent a ride, or a cop car, or, I don’t know, an Uber for the emotionally shell, shocked.”
“Stop apologizing,” I say, because it’s easier than letting her keep running down the list of ways this is inconvenient for me. “You’re fine. Cat’s fine. Everyone’s fine.”
She hesitates a beat, then says, “Sorry. That’s…okay, I’ll stop.”
Another pothole that I fail to avoid, another yowl. It’s not lost on me that she’s less upset about losing everything than she is about causing problems for anyone else. Or maybe that’s just how she does grief, apologize for the mess, and hope nobody looks directly at the wreckage.
I pull into the firehouse bay, slow and careful, and for half a second the world is almost quiet except for the cat’s post-game commentary. The engine is already back from the scene; I spot Jake through the plexiglass, feet up on the bumper, posture of a man who’s waiting for a show.
I put the rig in park, kill the lights, and walk around to the back.
As I open the door, Mandy is already gathering her stuff.
Bowie’s carrier, her backpack, the laptop, the whole circus.
She attempts to hop down one footed and instantly regrets it, landing hard and almost losing her grip on the computer.
I reach out to steady her. “You want me to carry something?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m good. Really.”
I don’t press. I know how to recognize the look of someone who needs to carry their own load, at least for a few more feet.
Jake’s grin is slow and wide, like a dog who’s just found a new flavor of garbage.
“Saint Sterling strikes again,” he says, not moving from his perch. “You go out on a call and come back with a girl and a cat.” he laughs.
I give him the dead-eyed stare, but he’s immune. You have to admire the man’s commitment.
Mandy, to her credit, doesn’t wither. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her hands are shaking, but only a little, and tries to flash her customer service smile.
“Hi, Jake. Long time.”
He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t realize Sterling here was running a rescue service for damsels and felines, but, you know, I support it. Power to the people.”
A beat of silence passes. The crew, pretending to be occupied, is absolutely watching every second of this.
Someone in the back (could be Ramirez, could be Jace) murmurs, “Saint Sterling got another one.” The phrase loops down the line in a half laugh, half hum, and even the guys on clean up pause to glance in our direction.
I can feel my jaw tick, but I don’t take the bait.
“Guys, this is Mandy,” I say. “She’s with me for a few days. Be decent.”
Jake nods, all fake solemnity, and Mandy gives him a little wave, which he returns with a salute. It’s not hostile, exactly, but the crew dynamic is what it is: a haze of competition and affection, where you only take a punch from the people who like you most.
I jerk my head toward the hall. “Let’s go.”
She doesn’t ask for a tour, but I give one anyway, because it buys us both a few seconds of normalcy and it’s not quite time for me to clock out yet.
“Kitchen’s down that way,” I say, pointing towards the fridge covered in magnets shaped like every state except Nebraska (nobody’s ever been). “Bunks are upstairs, but if you want to crash out, you can use my cot. Nobody will bother you.”
She nods, lips pressed tight, and I wonder if she’s going to break down or just power through by sheer force of sarcasm. Maybe both.
I check my watch it’s almost 8 o clock. I lead her towards the locker room and point to the bench. “Have a seat Sparkles.” I say opening my locker and pulling out a pair of thick fuzzy socks.
“Becca?” Mandy questions with an arched brow. The side of her lip twitch into a half smile as she eyes the socks in my hand.
“You know it.” I laugh and offer her the socks in exchange for her laptop. She hands me the device and takes the socks slipping them onto her feet and discarding the singular slipper. “When you’re the best big brother in the world you get care packages.”
Mandy scoffs, “I suspect it’s just because she thinks you can’t take care of yourself.” She laughs, stretching her legs out and wiggling her toes examining the socks.
“Wow. Here I am sharing my emergency luxury hosiery, and this is the thanks I get?” I clutch a hand to my chest. “And for the record, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Says the man with cartoon llama socks in his locker.”
I point a finger at her squinting.
“Emergency llama socks.”
“There's a difference?”
“A huge one.”
We both laugh, and for a few minutes everything seemed normal, right. That is, until the cat launched himself and his carrier off the bench for lack of attention.
Mandy scoops up the carrier and coos at the furball inside, whispering sweet words. I close my locker a litter harder than necessary and can’t figure out why.
We finish the tour of the station when we hit the end of the bay and double back. Jake, still on the bumper, calls after us. “Hey, Saint, you know we got a spare bunk up there if you two want to make it official!”
I don’t turn around and I don’t look at Mandy.
I punch out, lead Mandy out to the side lot, through the steel door with the keypad that never got updated after the last chief retired.
Once we’re in the relative privacy of the lot, Mandy exhales.
It’s the kind of sigh that says she’s spent all her available energy on not making things weird in front of strangers.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” she says, finally.
I look at her. Really look, for the first time since this morning. She’s holding it together, but barely. The edges are fraying, and her right hand is trembling just enough to vibrate against her pants.
I shrug. “I got nothing better to do. You’re the only person I know whose day was actually worse than mine, so…”
She snorts, genuine, and the tension cracks again for a second. “This is your worst day? What, did you run out of navy t-shirt s or something?”
I almost smile. “I still have three in my locker. I’ll survive.”
She sets the carrier down on the tailgate of my truck and leans back, letting the August heat hit her full in the face. The city beyond the lot is already shimmering, the kind of morning that promises a day you’ll want to survive in an air conditioned room.
“I’ll get you set up at my place,” I say. “It’s not fancy, but the shower works, and there’s a nice size bed in the guest room. I’ll grab some groceries later too. No new allergies right?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. But if you bring home tofu I will literally set it on fire.”
“Noted. Did you already call your parents? Or…?”
She grimaces. “I’ll text them when we get there. Less chance of getting guilt tripped into moving back home.”
This is the Mandy I know. The one who once faked laryngitis to get out of a family reunion. The one who, in college, learned how to cry on command just so she’d have an exit strategy at boring parties.
I almost tell her this, but the back door creaks open and Sam leans out the door and calls, “Aye, Captain Save, a, hoe, you forgot your keys!”
He tosses the keys to me and I catch them with my free hand. “Thanks, Slammy.” I wave before the door closes.
Mandy laughs, weak but real. “Do you always adopt strays, or is this just a special occasion?”
I glance at her, then at the firehouse, then back at her.
“Only the ones worth saving,” I say with a cheeky wink, and before she can process it, I scoop up the carrier, adjust my grip on the laptop and start walking to the trucks cab.
The sound of Bowie’s yowl ricochets off the inside of my truck cab like a warning siren tuned to the exact frequency of “I want to scratch your eyes out.” I wedge the carrier on the bench seat between Mandy and me, engine idling, A/C turned up just enough to counteract the August haze.
I drive one-handed, elbow on the window, doing my best impression of someone who has a plan.
I do not have a plan. What I have is a spacious converted warehouse with furniture rated for bachelor living and a fridge that contains, as of this morning, one carton of oat milk, half a lemon, and something in tupperware that is either chili or an archaeological experiment in botulism.
The block where my building sits has always been a contradiction, sandwiched between a Pilates studio and a motorcycle repair shop, graffitied, gentrified, never quite letting you forget you’re in a city built to burn itself down and start over.
I guide the truck into my reserved spot, an actual, painted number on the curb, one of my proudest non-accomplishments, and kill the engine.
“We’re here,” I say. It’s stupid, but she stirs anyway, looking up at the windows five stories above, the ones that belong to me, as if she expected them to announce themselves with a fanfare and confetti.