Abby
“Equipment checks in five, people!”
Usually the daily equipment check would be the first thing done on a shift but apparently my morning upchuck has thrown the routine out of whack, so we’re running late on it.
“Sullivan, you’re with me,” Lieutenant Rossi says. I follow him to the bay, trying gamely not to notice the play of his shoulder muscles as they fight for containment inside his CFD tee.
“Feeling better?”
“Yep. Fine.” I nod too enthusiastically to distract from my ogling, which I’m sure he noticed. “Ready to get going.”
He holds my gaze a beat too long and I return it with interest because now isn’t the time to back down.
Manly sniff of disapproval. “What do you remember about the daily equipment check at the academy?”
“Well, there are three main areas. Personal gear, apparatus, and operational.”
“Right. I’m going to take you through all of them while I do mine. You’ll do yours, too. Let me know if you have any questions.”
The next twenty minutes are spent checking my turnout gear, tools, battery for my radio, self-contained breathing apparatus condition and gauge, and every piece of equipment I would carry into the field. The LT is patient with my questions. Around me, I hear laughter, bro-banter, and the sound of chainsaws (we start them every shift to make sure they’re ready for action).
About midway through, Roman looks up, his brow lined. “Wozniak, nice of you to join us.”
A new guy has entered the bay, looking a bit flustered, probably because he’s running late. He’s midthirties, sandy-haired, and powerfully built.
“Car trouble.”
“Okay, check your gear.” Roman considers him, clearly wanting to say something else. Instead he shifts attention. “Simpson, how’s that rig looking?”
Gage, youngest of the Dempsey clan, is busy checking the firefighter truck, which has an aerial rig.
“Someone left their coffee in here.” He picks up a cup from the footwell and sniffs it. “Almond latte. Fucking Mackler.”
Roman growls and I have to say, I don’t not like it.
“Make a note. Take the rig outside and run the aerial check.”
I pipe up. “Can I watch that?”
“Want to sit in the cab as well?”
He’s teasing but I don’t care. When my girlfriends were braiding Barbie’s hair, I was all about my big red fire engine.
“You bet I do.”
I can tell he’s trying not to smile, sort of like the other night. This is going to be a tough few days. “Go play with the fire truck, Sullivan.”
I head out to the front yard and wave at Gage. “Permission to climb aboard.”
“Permission granted! You hear that, assholes? That’s exactly the kind of deference required next time one of you wants on my rig.”
Gage runs through the checks, ensuring all the lights come on—I have to exit the cab to tell him—and then he extends the ladder while one of the other firefighters, a burly redhead named Tyler, runs up it in full gear and carrying a chainsaw. It’s important to make sure every piece of equipment is working at all times, and the easiest way to do that is for each shift to take responsibility for their own.
“You on the mend, Abby?” Gage asks as we hop off the truck.
“I am, thanks. If you see your brother before I do, tell him I’m sorry.”
His grin is puckish. He’s awfully handsome with on-the-long-side blond hair, gorgeous blue eyes, and a grin that could power the city grid. “It could have been worse. You could have done it all over Luke’s head while he was bent over tying his bootlaces. The stories I could tell.” He pats my arm. “I kept some of the breakfast frittata back in the fridge if the mood takes you later.”
“That’s really sweet of you.”
“You’re part of the B-shift, which stands for badass. All my meals are badass fuel. Okay, looks like Roman’s got ladder drills up next.”
I aim for a casual tone as we walk toward the group gathering in the yard. “So what’s he like as an LT?”
“Tough but fair. Doesn’t suffer fools. Comes off as curt but that’s his New York coming through. You’re going to learn a lot, so just pay attention.”
Most Chicago firefighters were born and raised in this town, often coming from a family legacy of first responder service. It’s the kind of job that requires local knowledge and an appreciation of the town’s history and ways. Not that a transplant couldn’t make a go of it, but I had to wonder why he moved here.
He’d said he was divorced, so maybe his previous life in New York had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Another reason to stay well away.
We’re on ladder drills and I’m buddied up with Danny Acosta, who has three years’ experience at this engine. Lieutenant Rossi is doing a great job of treating me like everyone else. Cool appraisal, nothing too friendly, unafraid to bawl me out when needed.
“Sullivan, you need to lock the butt with your heel!”
Exactly what a girl wants to hear from the guy who blew her mind with a kiss for the ages, then killed any chance she had of a normal dating life. Because let’s face it, I’m never sharing pie with a man in a diner ever again. Burned doesn’t begin to describe it.
I look down and sure enough, my foot isn’t in the right position. Damn.
A quick adjustment gets me back on track. “Got it, Lieutenant!”
Danny grins at me from the other side of the ladder. “So you got a boyfriend, Sullivan?”
“What?” I grab the halyard, the rope used to pull the ladder extension up and start yanking.
“Smoother, Sullivan,” Roman says. “Less jerk, more silk in that move.”
Like your mouth.
I shake my head and try to focus on the drill. Ladder extension is a pretty basic skill, but it’s good to practice with the people who would depend on me and I on them. The last thing I need is to be thinking of how Roman’s mouth felt on mine.
“Now tie it off,” Roman calls out. He’s watching three different drills, and while it isn’t a race to see who can throw the ladder against the wall first, it really is.
I start on mine, a standard clove hitch I can do in my sleep.
Danny smiles, a friendly shoot-the-shit grin that’s very attractive. “You want to go for a drink after shift? I know a good place that’s open early.”
A drink at eight in the morning when we get off work? Is he hitting on me? “Um …”
“Hey, loop it around,” Danny says, and then for some reason I do exactly that, but the opposite way I should.
“Sullivan, who the hell taught you to tie a clove hitch?”
Roman’s immediately at my side taking the rope and tying the knot exactly how it should be done. Somehow my brain has locked up because Danny was asking me out on a date—I think—and the guy I kissed is now my freaking boss.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
He ignores my apology. “Show me how you do it.”
Feeling foolish, I go through the motions of the knot as if I’d never done it before instead of the million times I’d practiced in my backyard, my kitchen, and at the academy. I could rope a steer with my skills, dammit!