Chapter 2
Dane Rourke
Damn onions.
I loved them. Cooking without them would be bland.
But my eyes were watering so hard I was now getting comments from my brothers and sisters at RFD Station Eight.
Well, mostly my brothers. Okay, one brother.
My lone sister here at the station, Courtney, was trying to ignore the teasing as she read a book while we lounged in the large kitchen area.
I wished we had more female firefighters but so far we only had one, and she could do the work of three men while not flapping her gums about my choices of television viewing.
“Aww, Dane, did you watch that hockey romance show again?” Knife still in hand, I swiped at my leaky eyes with the back of that hand to deliver a glare to Timothy Pegg, the biggest asshole to ever swing an axe. “I’m sure they’ll be okay once they get more lube.”
Tim was a homophobe. He’d learned not to say anything boldly hateful out loud after being called into the captain’s office about six months ago.
Station Captain Sullivan “Sully” Wright, a dear friend of my late father’s, had torn Tim a new one, suspended him without pay for two weeks, and instructed him to attend a month of sensitivity training.
The training had done little other than to teach Tim not to blatantly be a prick.
He blamed me for the suspension and everything else that had fallen on him.
Which was rich since he was the one who had called me the F word with Sully standing right next to him.
I disliked Tim, obviously, but until he was terminated or transferred to one of the other fifteen fire stations in Rochester, I was stuck with him.
“At least the gay hockey players are getting some, Tim. When was the last time you came within twenty feet of a pussy?” Courtney flung out without even lifting her gaze from her cozy mystery.
If I were straight, I’d marry Courtney Pearce.
Not that she would have me. She didn’t date other firefighters.
Morgan, the eldest of the crew, snorted in amusement.
Morgan and I were friends on and off the clock.
He’d been here for fifteen years and had also known my father.
You couldn’t swing a hose in Station Eight without hitting a reminder of Lawrence Rourke.
My father had been a firefighter for twenty-five years before losing his life in a factory fire in the Eastman Business Park along the Genesee River.
I’d been ten when he died, leaving my mother, my younger brother, and me to try to carry on without him.
To honor him and my grandfather, who had also been a firefighter, I’d gotten my BA in Fire Science, then my certifications, and joined the RFD.
Devon, my younger brother, had chosen law enforcement.
Mom had been both delighted and terrified, but she knew all too well that the children of respected firefighters or police officers often followed the same or similar career paths.
“I have a girlfriend,” Tim fired back, grabbing a chunk of green pepper from my cutting board. I went to stab him with my favorite dicing knife—playfully mostly—when he jerked his hand back.
“Those AI chicks you talk to don’t count, Peggy,” Courtney fired back.
Morgan and I both snickered. Tim despised that nickname for the obvious sexist reasons.
He had no poker face at all, which always led to him losing to us when we played cards during our twenty-four-hour shifts.
It also made him an easy target for Courtney.
“I don’t talk to AI chicks, Pearce. I talk to real women. Women who like real men, not women like you who like books and socks.”
“I like her socks,” Morgan interjected over the rim of his coffee mug. “Nothing says love like warm wool socks in the winter.”
Courtney smiled at him then returned to her mystery.
Tim walked on eggshells around Morgan. He’d pushed the tall Black man a time or two with some jokes that were borderline racist and had been verbally beaten into goo.
As the station lieutenant, Morgan carried some clout. Clout that he wasn’t afraid to use.
“Socks are her love language like cooking is mine,” I interjected and dumped my onions into the pot of garlic, ground beef, and mild jalapenos cooking away on the stove.
Since I enjoy feeding people, I was the one who did the cooking when I was on duty.
“Morgan likes to make soap for people he likes.”
I inhaled the aroma wafting from the tall steel pot. Dane’s Famous Chili would be done in a couple of hours. It was nearly ready for the slow simmer, then we could dive in. I’d even brought a loaf of Italian bread from Geno’s Ristorante down the block for dipping.
“He never makes me soap,” Tim said as Sully sauntered into the kitchen, dressed in station wear, flame-resistant work pants, a tee with the station logo, and black steel-toed boots, smiling at the banter.
Silver-haired fox that he was, he always commanded attention from male and female eyes.
But his gaze was only for Betty, his wife of twenty-two years.
“Maybe he knows you won’t use it,” Courtney flung out like a dagger. Morgan tapped his nose then pointed at Courtney as Tim scowled.
“Don’t need soap when you bathe in Axe body spray,” I commented as Sully stalked over to examine the pot and what was inside. “Chili. Don’t pick the beans out this time.”
“Too much fiber makes me—”
Whatever Sully was about to say was cut short by the familiar sound of a fire alert coming in. Red lights, which were in every room and hallway, as well as the engine bay, flared to life as the call for a structure fire from dispatch blared through the station.
Station Eight, Ladder Ten, structure fire, 1319 Kennedy Road. Time out seventeen thirty.
That announcement was followed by two loud, attention-grabbing, high-pitched tones that sent us scurrying.
After I turned off the stove because… yeah, let’s not set the fire station on fire.
That would be embarrassing. We moved with purpose.
Ideally, we were to have our gear on and be on the engine in one to two minutes.
Turnout gear was hastily donned, and apparatus was loaded onto the engine based on the type of call we were heading out to face.
The details of the fire were simultaneously being fed into a mobile data terminal in the fire engine as well as on monitors in the station.
Sully gave us a brief as Morgan leapt into the driver’s seat and let dispatch know we were responding.
Lights and sirens were turned on as the doors opened automatically.
After making a sharp left, which would hold up traffic on University Street for a few minutes, we passed the huge Langley Fiber Optic Factory across the street from the station.
My brother had lots of friends who worked there.
Morgan’s wife was an employee there as well.
Once we were clear of the first red light, we rolled with speed.
Incoming information was passed on to us as we sped to the fire.
Building type, trapped individuals, basic but important information.
Locations of hydrants rolled in as well, which was crucially important.
Cornish Iron, a gym, a single structure but close to other buildings that could also become engulfed.
Unknown if any persons are inside the building, but that will be assessed more closely upon arrival.
Valuable time ticked by as we nudged our way through heavy traffic to the site of the fire.
Thick black smoke was evident from blocks away.
Sitting behind Morgan and Sully in our designated seats, strapped in tightly, we finished gearing up.
Arriving first, Morgan took an inside spot so we could pull the appropriate lines without interfering with incoming units, such as emergency medical personnel. Since it was a one-story building, there was no real need for a hook and ladder at this call.
Sully had already given us our orders and directions.
As incident commander, we all relied on him to manage risk while coordinating our tasks.
Morgan, as the driver, would operate the fire pump, while Tim and Courtney were the attack team, handling the hoses and advancing the line to extinguish the fire.
Sully and I would be search and rescue. Our brothers and sisters from other stations would arrive soon and take up details such as ventilation and backup.
The front door was locked. People on the sidewalk were directed to stay clear of the structure by Sully as I put my forcible entry training skills to work.
With one swing of an axe, the glass door shattered.
A whoosh of fresh air raced into the building, feeding the flames that were slowly engulfing the back wall of the gym. The room was thick with smoke.
I took two steps into the gymnasium and began shouting as the wail of ambulances could be heard.
“Anybody in here?” I yelled while Sully backed me up.
It was hard to hear over the steady peal of sirens as well as the cacophony of noise from the fire itself along with my SCBA mask.
Add in the cracking and popping of timbers, the dull roar of the flames, and water hissing, hearing is damn difficult, but I managed to catch someone yelling.
“Help!” a man called out.
“Where are you?” I shouted in reply, moving forward one step at a time, my sight limited by smoke as thick as my broccoli cheddar soup. Nowhere as tasty though.
“In the back. Help!” He sounded frantic now.
“Can you move toward my voice?”
“No, my leg… it’s under… ” Whatever he said next was lost in the noise of my mask. Damn it. Sully tapped me on the shoulder and pointed forward. I checked the ceiling. It looked sound yet, so we moved in tandem, taking one step then another.
“Shout so I can find you!” I bellowed and got a call I could follow to the back corner of the gym. There I found a young man, maybe early twenties, pinned under the arms of a treadmill. There was a dog with him, a black Labrador, wearing a harness that showed he was an assistance dog of some sort.
“Lie still. We’re going to get you out of here,” I said as Sully tried to call the lab away from its owner.
It wouldn’t move. Based on the way she held her position, body angled toward the victim, it was too deliberate for a spooked animal.
Sully and I righted the massive treadmill with a grunt, flames now dancing closer than I liked.
The man wiggled back like a crab, grabbing hold of his dog and favoring his right leg.
“Is there anyone else in here?”
“No. We were expecting an electrician to fix some faulty lights, but he didn’t get here yet.”
Ah, well, perhaps that was a notable thing to pass along to the fire inspector when he arrived. Electrical issues were the bane of many a firefighter.
“Are you able to walk?” I asked and got a shaky nod before he shook his head. A beam overhead made an ominous sound. Probably weakening due to fire damage and water weight. “Okay, I’ll carry you out. My captain will take your dog.”
“Sable. Her name is Sable. It’s forty-two steps to the front door,” the man said as he released the lab to allow Sully to pick her up.
Her gaze stayed on her owner. Taking care not to jostle his leg more than needed, I hoisted him up to stand.
He leaned into me instantly, his right leg unable to support him by the looks.
There wasn’t time for a medical assessment of his leg. I ran a gloved hand over it. He hissed when I touched his knee but didn’t yell out, so I made the call his leg wasn’t broken. If I were wrong, he could sue me later.
“Lean on me,” I said, sliding my arm around his waist to take most of his weight onto me.
We went towards the front door, slowly, with Sully leading the way with the worried dog.
“Almost there.” I could have done a back strap carry, but he was a big guy, solid, not fat but tall and muscular, yet he seemed able to move through the pain.
He coughed, a sharp rasp that made me wince.
The exit was right in front of us now. Fresh air rolling in to help clear my vision.
We limped out onto the sidewalk, him at my side, Sully in front of me.
Paramedics rushed to meet us once we cleared the fire line, lifting him out of my grip, but he clung to me like a leech. Poor guy was probably in shock.
“The paramedics will take over now. You’re in good hands, sir.”
“Chip. My name is Chip Cornish. It’s my gym. My dog is Sable. Can she ride with me? Please?”
“That’s up to the paramedics, Chip, but I would imagine so. She’s your service animal.” Chip tried his best to peer into my helmet as I gently helped him onto the gurney. He couldn’t see the lower half of my face, but he could easily see my eyes and the bridge of my nose.
“You have pretty blue eyes, firefighter… ” I was turned from him enough for him to see my last name on the back of my turnout coat. “Rourke.”
“Thanks. Now let them tend to you, Chip. I have to try to save the gym.” He gave me a smile, something meek yet powerful, which made my gut tighten. Even with his face coated in soot and his green eyes wide with fright, he was strikingly good-looking.
“Thank you for saving Sable. And me.”
“It’s my job, Chip.” I gave him a nod and hustled back to the fire. The chances of saving the gym were looking slim, but we’d managed to save a man and his dog. I’d take that as a win, and when they came, those were precious things. It was the losses that kept me awake at night.