“You need the stability, too.”
“What? No, that’s not—sure, but we all do. Well, maybe not you, Ms. Adrenaline Junkie who climbs mountains for fun.”
She laughs, that husky sound that goes straight to parts of me that would stand out in running shorts. “That’s just for extracurricular. For my job, I need it. I want to know where I stand and that if I do my job well, I’ll be rewarded. Treated the same as everyone else. So I won’t be doing anything that threatens that.”
From that statement, I deduce that Abby Sullivan will not be:
Gossiping about firehouse politics with her dad.
Kissing me like I’m her reason for breathing.
Giving her CO grief that makes him want to meet her challenge with a good, hard fuck against the wall of my office.
We both have things to lose. I’m acutely aware of the damage that could be done if we indulge this … whatever this is.
And hell if it doesn’t feel like something. Sentient and alive with heated potential. A knot behind my breastbone affirms that the wrongness of wanting Abby doesn’t quite cancel out the rightness of that kiss.
Of all the thoughts I’ve had today, that’s the most dangerous.
Twelve
Abby
I feel like I’ve managed to emerge from a deep, dark abyss of longing into the cool, fresh light of normality. That breakfast with Roman assured me I can exist in the same space as this guy and not be constantly confronted with a missed opportunity. Clearly he wants to put the kiss behind us, which is awesome. I love moving on. I live for a forward trajectory. Hooray for progress!
After two weeks on the job, I’m finding my groove, learning on every shift and bonding with my crew. And if a small part of me aches (which I insist is sexual, and therefore transitory) when I see Roman in the lounge at the start of each shift, I ignore it and throw myself into the Morning Debate with gusto. When asked if I’d rather talk like Yoda or breathe like Darth Vader, firmly in the Yoda camp I am. This morning’s question posed the stumper of whether we’d rather have spaghetti for hair or sweat mayonnaise. Spaghetti all the way, baby. I’ll even condition it with tomato sauce as long as I don’t have to sweat Hellman’s.
We kicked off the shift with an RTA—road traffic accident—and an assist with an elderly woman who got trapped in her basement, the poor dear. After lunch, another Gage Simpson culinary masterpiece, we’re on our way to a cat-in-tree call in Ukrainian Village.
I know it’s not a cat in a tree, but people keep insisting it is and no one’s giving me the skinny, so I keep quiet and listen while Danny smack talks Paul Wozniak, aka Woz, because of some woman who’s giving him the runaround. Gage is driving the truck, Tyler is beside him, and the lieutenant is sitting opposite me with his eyes all gunfighter-squinty and one ear on the conversation.
After some back and forth about how Woz’s lady friend spent much of the previous evening flirting with some guy who was not Woz while they played pool, Danny declares his Zeus-like judgment.
“Total skank.”
“Hey, watch your mouth,” Roman immediately shoots back, much to the surprise of the entire crew.
Danny flicks a worried glance my way. “Uh, sorry, Abby.”
“No need to reel it in for my sake.” While I’m not a fan of anyone referring to another woman in such derogatory terms, neither do I want my presence changing the crew dynamic. Team bonding and building are important. The crew shouldn’t have to censor themselves because of the shape of my genitals.
“They need to reel it in for my sake.”
All eyes fix on Roman when he says that. I feel foolish, like I’ve gone along sheep-like just to gain approval from the people with penises.
Wozniak sniffs. “Yeah, when you have a daughter, I get why that kind of language would offend.” He slides a smug glance of you’re in trouble now at Danny.
“What’s it got to do with having a daughter?” Roman’s expression is hard and flinty and a total turn-on. Not now, hormones. “Are female relatives a necessity in order to reconsider your frame of reference and the junk that comes out of your mouth, Wozniak?”
“Ah, no, that’s not—I mean—” He looks to Danny, who uttered the offending comment in the first place. No help from that quarter. “Sure, I have sisters and a mother and—”
Roman growls, now even more annoyed at Woz’s take, which is rotting with each unfortunate word out of his mouth. “And you live on this earth with women who are people deserving of your respect, no matter whether you’re related to them or work with them or are dating them. Not to say you can’t gripe and grumble about your woman, but I don’t want to hear any of those gendered insults. Got it?”
The truck draws to a halt and Wozniak mutters, “Yep, Lieutenant. Got it.” The word lieutenant drips with so much sarcasm we’re practically wading in it.
We pile out onto the sidewalk with Roman barking orders. “Sullivan, you’re with me. Bring the first-aid kit.”
“Yes, LT.” I look around, still not sure what the situation is. No smoke, no fire, no sign of a vic in distress. “What’ve we got?”
“I think you’re going to enjoy this one.”
I follow him through a side gate into the backyard of a three-story walk-up. There’s another gate, waist-high and closed, and a woman standing on the street-side of the fence.
“Hey, miss, how are ya?” Roman asks.
“Better than my idiot brother.” She thumbs over her shoulder in the direction of a large tree taking up a sizable portion of the yard. “He didn’t want me to get you guys involved but hell if I’m going in there.”
Roman calls out, “How you doin’ up there?”
“Just fine,” someone calls back.
From the tree.
There’s a guy sitting on the first rung of thick branches, about six feet up. Now I get it: cat-in-tree. That’s when I sense movement in the yard. “Wait, is that a … pig?”
Sure enough, looking remarkably unbothered by the situation, a pig is chewing on a leafy plant near the back of the yard. This isn’t some cute pot-bellied citified animal, though. It’s large, hairy, and mean-looking.
I murmur as low as I can, “Did we get called out to save a guy from a pig?”
Roman’s mouth twitches. “Nobody ever calls the fire department for doing something smart.” He looks over his shoulder. “Simpson, where’s animal control?”
“On the way.” Gage finger-quotes that. “ETA forty minutes. Short-staffed, and apparently there’s a snake problem on the South Side.”
“’Course there is.” Roman shouts out, “Sir, are you injured?”
“The monster bit him!” As soon as the sister opens her mouth, the pig squeals.
“It’s just a scratch,” Guy-in-tree says, his voice taking on a wheezy whine. “Betsey is feeling a bit off today because that witch was taunting her.” The “witch” is the sister, I’m guessing. “You better keep those animal control people away! Don’t hurt her!”
“She ate one of my Chicago Rebels socks,” the sister counters, resulting in another shriek from the pig. There’s definitely history between this woman and her brother’s porcine buddy.