Chapter 18
eighteen
When the automatic doors slide open with a soft whoosh, a multitude of familiar scents hit my nose. Cleanser, diesel, and a faint hint of smoke.
My boots squeak against the polished concrete floor as I step further inside, my gaze immediately drawn to the two massive red fire engines parked side by side in the bay.
They’re gorgeous. All gleaming chrome and polished red paint. The ladder truck sits off to the left, its massive aerial ladder folded neatly against its side. I can’t help but run my fingers along the fender of the closest engine as I pass, the cool metal sending a thrill up my spine.
This is it. It’s finally happening.
“Hey, there! You must be the new EMT. Reena, right?”
I turn to find a guy jogging toward me from the back. He’s maybe in his mid-thirties, with sandy blond hair cropped short, and a friendly smile. Black LSFR shirt matching my own, he’s got that lean kind of athletic build that comes from years of hauling gear and patients around.
“Ray-na,” I correct, extending my hand. “Winters.”
“Shit. Sorry. I’m terrible with names. Dave Calloway.” His grip is firm and warm. “Welcome to the LFSR madhouse. Captain Cade requested I give you the grand tour before your orientation.” He glances at his watch. “Which, by the way, starts in about twenty minutes, so we should probably get moving.”
Barely managing to hide the flinch at the mention of Logan’s name, the smile I give him feels more like a grimace. “Lead the way.”
Dave gestures toward the back of the bay where a white ambulance is parked next to the engines. “This here’s our ride. Ambulance One. Fully stocked, state-of-the-art equipment. We’ve got two of ’em, but this one’s assigned to your shift.”
I run my hand along the side panel, taking in the reflective striping and the Lakeside Fire Search and Rescue logo emblazoned along the side. The back doors are open, and I can see a stretcher secured to the floor, cabinets lining both walls, and a jump seat where I’ll be sitting during calls.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, supplies are all stocked and organized by type,” he explains, stepping up and into the back, opening one of the cabinets.
“Trauma kits, airway management, IV supplies, medications—everything’s labeled and inventoried weekly.
Captain Cade’s a stickler for organization, so don’t be surprised if he does random checks. ”
“Got it,” I say, mentally cataloging everything I’m seeing.
Hopping down, he leads me through a door at the back of the bay. “The EMT office is through here. We’ve got a small setup for paperwork, computers, and a place to chill between calls.”
The room is modest but functional. Two desks are pushed together, each with a computer monitor and a stack of filing trays.
A whiteboard hangs on one wall, covered in shift schedules, training dates, and what looks to be a running tally of calls for the month. A bulletin board hangs beside it, pinned with safety notices, training certifications, and a few photos of the crew at what appears to be a company barbecue.
As I peruse, another flyer catches my eye. It’s for the Firefighter’s Charity Gala. When I look at the date, I’m pleased to see it’s just a few weeks away.
“Your desk is the one on the left.” Dave points at the desk under the window. “The captain wanted you to have that one because it gets the most sun.”
My stomach flips. Why does Logan care where I sit or how much sun I get?
“Extra supplies are kept in the closet over there.” He gestures to a door located on the far wall.
“Extra uniforms, boots, rain gear, and what not. Bathroom’s just through there,” he continues, pointing at another door.
“It’s communal, so you’ll be sharing with the guys, but there’s a lock on the inside of each stall.
“Showers are separate—six of them, and they’re actually pretty decent. Plenty of hot water, which is more than I can say for my apartment,” he chuckles.
I nod, trying to soak up as much of the information being thrown at me as I can. “Good to know.”
“Come on, I’ll show you the bunk rooms.”
We head down a short hallway, and he pushes open a door on the right.
“This is the main bunk room. Six beds, but your shift only has five guys besides you.” The room is sparse—metal bunk beds with thick mattresses and navy blue bedding.
A few tall lockers line one wall, and a small table sits in the corner with a lamp and a stack of well-worn paperbacks.
“And this,” he says, striding out of the room to open the door directly across the hall, “is your room.”
The room is small—barely big enough for a single bed and a small nightstand—but it’s all mine.
A window above the bed lets in plenty of morning light, and there’s even a small desk tucked into the corner with a lamp and a charging station. The bed is made up with crisp white sheets and a navy comforter, with a stack of fresh towels folded and placed at the foot.
“Captain’s orders,” Dave shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. “He wanted you to have your own space.”
My throat tightens. I don’t know what to do with that piece of information. Is this Logan trying to be a good captain? Or is it something else? I don’t want to start off with him playing favorites. Either way, the gesture makes my brain fuzz in confusion.
“This is... really nice,” I manage, setting my bag on the bed. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank the captain.” He pushes off the doorframe.
We head back down the hallway and up a set of metal stairs to where the second floor opens into a large, open living area. It’s much nicer than I expected it to be for a building full of men.
A massive sectional sofa in dark brown takes up most of the space, facing a wall-mounted flat-screen TV that’s got to be at least seventy inches.
A couple of recliners, each big enough for two people, flank the sofa, with a coffee table in the center covered in magazines, a deck of cards, and a nearly empty bowl of popcorn.
“Welcome to The Lounge,” Dave says dramatically, spreading his arms wide. “This is where we spend most of our downtime. TV’s got every streaming service known to man. Wi-Fi password is on the fridge in the kitchen.”
I glance around, taking in more details. A bookshelf, crammed with paperbacks, board games, and a few framed photos rests against the far wall, with a bean bag chair sitting next to it in the corner.
“The rest of the crew is in the kitchen.” He jerks his thumb toward an archway on the left. “I’ll introduce you.”
The kitchen looks like it belongs in Farmhouse Magazine.
Stainless steel appliances, light wood cabinets, and a massive island with a white marble countertop that looks like it seats six, takes up half of the room.
A long wooden table runs along the far wall, surrounded by mismatched chairs, currently occupied by four guys in various states of morning disarray.
One’s got his face buried in a bowl of cereal.
Another’s scrolling through his phone with one hand while nursing a mug of coffee with the other.
The third is hunched over, scribbling on what looks like a crossword puzzle, and the fourth is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the morning news on a small TV mounted in the corner.
“Guys,” Dave announces. “Say hello to our new EMT, Reyna Winters. Reyna this is Justin, Taylor, Kurtis and Alan.”
Glancing up, cereal guy Justin gives me a friendly wave with his empty spoon.
The one on his phone, Taylor, offers a quick nod before looking back down at his screen.
Crossword guy, Kurtis grunts, and the one watching the news, Alan, gives me a slow once-over and a “Sup” before turning his attention back to the TV.
But it’s the guy standing at the sink who’s snagged my attention.
Broad shoulders stretch his LSFR shirt tight across his muscular back. His dark blond hair is mussed in a way that makes it look like he just rolled out of bed as he rinses a plate before loading it into the dishwasher.
When he turns, the second his eyes land on me, the fork he just picked up slips from his fingers, clattering into the stainless steel sink.
“Well, hey there, Prett—” My world shrinks in around me, taking the breath from my lungs. Brex. “I mean... Uh, hi,” he stutters, masking his look of shock before releasing one of his signature lethal smirks.
Reaching for a dish towel, he dries his hands as he saunters over. Stopping half a foot away, give or take, he offers one to me.
His gaze flicks to Dave and then back to me. “Reyna, did you say?”
“Yeah, Brex. She just—”
Is he seriously going to act like he doesn’t know who I am?
“Reyna Winters,” I blurt, cutting off poor Dave’s obvious surprise as I grasp Brex’s hand.
“Welcome to Lakeside Fire Search and Rescue, Reyna Winters. I’m Brexton Saint. But you...” He leans in just a touch and gives me a wink. “...can call me Brex.”