“Can’t believe he’s already been on a fire run,” I mutter. Fire callouts aren’t as frequent as the public would think, most of the runs being medical or road traffic accident-related. Jude had one on his first day.
“Asshole’s probably lying.” Sam’s handsome features are all concern, not because Jude is one-upping us in absentia but because I’m a mess. “You okay, Abby? You look pale.”
“I feel pale.” I shake my head. I don’t even know what that means, only that I’m not feeling as good as I should. “Aren’t you nervous?”
“Sure I am.” The delay is almost imperceptible but I hear it. Meaning, not nervous at all. Sam is six feet two of ball-crushing confidence. If it was any way unjustified, I’d be all over it, but no. The man is just winning at life.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he adds.
“Except they’ll probably know who I am. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked to be stationed at Engine 6. Maybe it’s tempting the failure gods.”
“No, it’s not. I suppose your dad could have done something to have you assigned somewhere else, but it sounds like he’d rather ignore you.”
Yeah, no call from my dad this morning, not even a text to wish me well on my first day. It breaks my heart. We used to be so close. When I was a paramedic, we spent more time together—weekly dinners where he would cook up a big Irish stew—and we would catch up. Paramedics run into tricky and sometimes dangerous situations all the time, but not to the extent of firefighters. As soon as I told him I’d been accepted to the Academy, he froze me out.
“Jude will have your back.” Sam’s charming smile is quickly activated, which means … “Hey, gorgeous, how’s it going?”
That smile is not for me, but Tessa, who isn’t buying it. She rolls her eyes and refills my coffee. “You okay, Abby?”
“Just first day jitters.”
“Oh, I thought maybe it was post-date nerves. Did he call?”
I try to widen my eyes in warning but it’s too late.
“Did who call? What date?” Sam ping-pongs between us.
Tessa grimaces, but she doesn’t look too remorseful.
“You’re fired as my friend,” I mutter.
“What about coffee and pie?”
“I’ll think about it.”
She slinks away while I brace for the interrogation.
“What date?”
“I came in here the night of graduation for a slice of pie and met someone.” I explain the rest, leaving out the kiss, not that it’s too racy for my horny little friend. Sharing it at this point feels too fragile.
“He must have been impressed with the firefighter thing.”
“As a date magnet, the firefighter thing isn’t as useful for women as it is for men. Of course you and your muscles will draw them in like a bear to honey. Me and my muscles? Not quite as advantageous. Most guys are threatened by strong women.”
“I’m not.”
“Professions of the last five women you’ve slept with, please.”
“Never asked.”
“Asshole.”
He laughs. “Okay, so you need to reel him in before you reveal you have a side gig as Lara Croft. Kind of ridiculous when all we men care about are great tits and a nice smile.”
“If only I’d known! I’ll add it to my Tinder bio.”
“No need for the apps. You’ve got this pie-eating diner guy on your radar, even after he’s spent hours in your presence and learned what a weirdo you are.” He grins. “So when are you going to reach out?”
I haven’t texted him beyond that initial “hi honey, I’m home” message because we’re inside 48 hours, which is considered the golden period for crime-solving and date-dangling. I want to get through this first day before I even consider the possibilities. I have no idea if Diner Dude is into the idea of a date, though that kiss says he’s into something.
Me, I hope.
Okay, that’s a nice kick to my senses. I met someone. A gorgeous someone. I will have a fantastic first day on the job, and even if I screw up, I’ll try to do it in such a way that ensures no one gets killed or maimed.
“I’ll reach out to him tomorrow. One nerve-racking scenario at a time.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m seated in my truck outside Engine 6 on the northwest side, where it all began and ended for my mom.
To my now familiar disappointment, my father still hasn’t texted or called. I considered leaving him a message but decided it would only key me up further. My stomach hasn’t settled and the last thing I need is another dance with the porcelain goddess.
My aunt Kathleen left me a nice message, though, wishing me luck and telling me to come over for dinner this weekend, which is awesome. Love that woman. My cousin Jackie also texted, Go kick some firefighter ass! accompanied by a pic of her husband’s ass, which I recognize because it has a shamrock on the left buttock. (Usually said ass makes an annual appearance late on St. Patrick’s Day, so it’s weird to see it at any other time.) Johno’s a firefighter at Engine 12 on the southside and Jackie’s an ER nurse at Northwestern Memorial. Service runs in the family.
Straightening my spine, I walk into the firehouse bay where a few guys are seated at a table, playing cards. One of them raises his chin as I approach and is immediately recognizable as Luke Almeida of the legendary Dempseys. Five foster siblings, all in CFD.
“Hey, Lieutenant, I’m Abby Sullivan. Reporting for duty.”
“Reporting for duty,” someone at the table mimics.
Lieutenant Almeida shoots a shriveling look at the joker, who colors. The LT lays down his hand. “Full house, tens high.”
Everyone throws in their hands with a mix of groans and whines.
“Luke Almeida.” Standing, he holds out a hand and shakes mine. “Ignore these assholes. They’re not on your shift so best not to give them any brain space. Come on, I’ll take you to meet your lieutenant.”
I’ve been half hoping Almeida would be my superior officer because I’ve heard he’s rock solid and no one would make a better mentor, but that’s okay. The rep of Engine 6 is such that only the best are sent here.
Why are you here, then?
No time for self-doubt! I follow Almeida through a couple of corridors, passing the Wall of the Fallen and there she is on the first row: Jo Sullivan in her dress uniform, her red hair tucked under her cap, her face unsmiling. She probably had to use that poker face so she wouldn’t get assholes making fun of her for “reporting for duty.” No problem, I don’t need to be too friendly with any of them. They certainly aren’t dating material. No firefighter is.
I know what it’s like to lose someone in the service and before my dad moved into the upper ranks, I lived in nail-biting fear that I’d lose my remaining parent. So there’s a certain irony—Sing it loud, Alanis!—that I’ve chosen such a dangerous profession yet won’t consider a firefighter boyfriend. I figure there are plenty of safer options out there where I don’t have to worry about whether someone I’m dating might not make it home after a twenty-four hour shift.
Speaking of not making it home …