“Gotta go.” I click off before she can. Sure it’s petty, but that’s where we are in the trajectory of our relationship: hang-ups and holier-than-thous. While I might be using Lena’s fragile relationship with her mom to justify her absence from the wedding, I’m self-aware enough to know this is mostly my problem.
I want to punish Tori for what she did, which probably makes me a terrible father. And while admitting you have a problem is supposed to be the first step in solving it, I’m not quite ready to make the leap to fixing anything, either.
No one’s getting off that easy, not even me.
I head to the kitchen/lounge where the crew usually hang out, lingering over breakfast. Gage Simpson is rattling the pans today and can usually be relied on for something fancy for the shift before it officially starts.
“You made it, LT!” Not only is he a great cook, Simpson is a great firefighter and one of the Dempseys, the family of foster siblings who make up a significant compliment of the firehouse. Luckily they’re spread out on different shifts because hell if I didn’t need the added responsibility of all of them on my crew. Simpson and his sister, Alexandra Dempsey-Cooper, are on mine. She’s currently on maternity leave, which means we have the one female crew member.
Abby Sullivan.
She’s sitting at the table, the water bottle I’d given her still in hand, sipping and watching. I’ve already chatted with Jude Torres, the other candidate who was assigned to Almeida’s crew, and got a good sense about him. Eager, bright, watchful.
I take a seat at the table. Now that the shift’s commander has arrived, breakfast can officially begin. “What’ve we got, Chef?”
“Frittata with asparagus, mushrooms, and gruyere.”
I take a bite. “Is that … thyme?”
“Yes it is.” Simpson looks pleased. Thyme isn’t the hardest herb to spot but I know he likes when we make the effort. “Extra helping for you seeing as poor old Abby is worried she’ll paint the floor with whatever she chokes down.”
I flick a glance at “poor old Abby,” glad to see she seems to be recovering. Also nothing poor or old about her; the woman is fine as hell. Her color is back and she no longer looks embarrassed. That’s good because she’s going to have to get over any ribbing that comes her way.
Dragging my gaze away, I ask, “Almeida still here?”
“No, he headed out. Has a baby to make.”
“And he wants everyone to know that?”
Danny Acosta, one of my crew, laughs. “What he wants makes no difference.”
Apparently Luke and his wife, Kinsey, have been trying for Baby No. 3 for a while, the details of which are common knowledge because everyone is all up in everyone’s business at Engine 6. It bothered me at my old house in New York, especially as the whispers behind my back took an age to solidify into information I could act on. If I’d known sooner what was going on, maybe I would have handled it better.
Here in Chicago, I’m new and drama-free as far as these guys are concerned. But now that the rookie is on my crew, the rookie whose lips I’ve already tasted, I sure as shit need to lock down any gossip potential stat.
That means treating her like one of the guys. Being extra vigilant about keeping my eyes to myself but also not looking like I’m ignoring her. She’s here to learn, I’m here to teach, and we’ll be conducting business as usual. A delicate balancing act.
Looking around, I do a quick head count. “Where’s Wozniak?”
Shrugs and murmurs of “haven’t heard from him” float through the space. Paul Wozniak is one of the most senior firefighters on my crew but this has to be the third time he’s late this month. He should be calling me if he’s behind, but he’s never felt the need to treat me like his lieutenant. I’ve let his insubordination slide because he’s pissed about me taking the LT position he saw as his. Heavy is the head that wears the crown and all that, and it’s never heavier than when I have to deal with crew members like Woz.
We’re running a little late today, but the shift doesn’t start right without a little vigorous debate. “Alright, whose turn is it for the question of the day? Brooks, I think you’re up.”
Tyler Brooks is a big bruiser redhead with an infectious grin. “Alright, alright, I’ve got a good one. Clean underwear but no showers for a week or daily showers but dirty briefs?”
Lots of ews and cries of “gross,” but it doesn’t take long for the crew to get over it and debate the merits in earnest. As the talk continues with Simpson trying to nail down a definition of “dirty” for the underwear part of the equation, I turn to Abby who has remained pretty quiet. When we’d first met she struck me as a bit of a smart ass, so this is definitely a different look on her. Maybe she’s still recovering. Or maybe she’s trying not to stand out because of who she is, those footsteps she’s following, both her mom’s and her dad’s. Could even be that my presence is putting a damper on her spirits. If that’s the case, I hope those spirits revive soon enough and any awkwardness passes.
“We figure that starting our days with the great moral conundrums gets us in the right frame of mind,” I say to her.
She blinks, maybe surprised I’m talking to her. We can’t ignore each other, and the way her mouth hooks in a soft grin, I wouldn’t want to. I could live off that crumb of attention.
“Always good to get the neurons firing.” She takes a slug of water. “Where do you land on this great debate?”
I don’t have to think about it too hard. “Dirty body, clean clothes.”
“Because?”
“Adding something clean to something not so clean can probably only help.”
“But defiling the already clean with something dirty isn’t an improvement at all? Hmm, maybe.” The mention of “defiling” and “dirty” stirs my cock in a way that should not be happening during a morning jabber with my crew.
Tyler points at Abby. “But people wear the same unwashed clothes on daily showered bodies all the time, don’t they?”
“But would you wear the same unwashed-for-a-week boxers on your clean ass? That is the question.” Abby grins, getting into the spirit of the proceedings. Her color has returned and every freckle is glowing like a shower of stars.
I should not be noticing that.
“Are people wearing deodorant in this scenario?” Gage offers.
“Too many variables,” Danny mutters. “Deodorant. Which clothes are we talking about, T-shirts or shorts? How bad is the underwear?”
And now we’ve reached the nitty-gritty. It sure didn’t take long for the conversation to devolve to exactly where a conversation like this would be expected to go. I remain silent, letting the kids figure it out, and ponder how I’ll be treating the new candidate on my crew from here on out.
What I know for sure is that I won’t be digging below these surface interactions at the start of the shift. No cozy chats. No heartfelt discussions. Management-labor, a divide that will remain firmly in place if I have to slice a knife through my guts to do it.
Eight