Chapter 17
“Tell the truth, Lieutenant Wolf. You’ve never seen a more spotless bowl in your life, have you?”
“Hmm,” Stan murmured, inspecting the sparkling white toilet bowl that Jake Easton had just finished scrubbing. “I must admit, rookie. It’s pretty damn spotless. Smells good in here, too.”
Jake grinned, his broad chest puffed out with pride. He’d been up since four-thirty a.m. doing his morning housework detail.
As he and Stan left the immaculate bathroom, Jake—eager to please—rattled off the list of other chores he’d completed. “I put up the flag, opened the gates, made a pot of coffee, emptied the dishwasher, cleaned my equipment—”
Stan half listened as they headed past the sleeping quarters, where the other firefighters on duty were beginning to stir in their cots.
Stan’s muscles were sore and his eyes were gritty from the restless night he’d had. His unit had been out on a late emergency call last night, rescuing four people who’d been trapped inside their vehicles following a head-on collision. Racing against the clock, the fire crew had used axes and the Jaws of Life to pry back the roofs of both vehicles in order to extricate the injured occupants.
By the time the firefighters cleared the crash scene and returned to the station, they’d all been exhausted. But Stan was too wired to sleep. He’d tossed and turned for hours before lapsing into a fitful dream state haunted by dark, disturbing images he couldn’t decipher. He’d awakened abruptly but quietly, no scream tearing from his throat to disturb the others, thank God.
“I’ve already been on the floor to inventory the apparatus,” Jake was saying. “And as soon as Cooper arrives for his shift, we’ll practice throwing ladders and timing how fast we can put on our SCBA gear.”
“Good.” Stan nodded approvingly, pleased that Jake understood the importance of performing the daily drills. The kid was a good firefighter—bright, conscientious, respectful, and a team player. He took pride in his work, whether he was washing the station rig or loading hose after a job. Because he rarely complained about doing the least desirable chores—like cleaning the toilets—the senior firefighters liked him enough to spare him the worst of their pranks, which was saying a lot for the wise guys of Engine Company 8.
Stan, who’d taken Jake under his wing from day one, knew that the kid had a promising career ahead of him.
As they neared the kitchen, Jake announced, “By the way, I asked Lara Dominguez to be my date for the ball tomorrow night, and she said yes.”
“Hey, that’s great, rookie.” Stan paused, frowning. “Wait a minute. Who’s Lara Dominguez?”
Jake laughed. “Your kid’s first grade teacher.”
“Oh. Right.” Stan grinned ruefully. “Sorry. I only know her as Miss Dominguez.”
“That’s funny,” Jake said, following him into the kitchen, “because when I was talking to her after the presentation last week, she kept referring to you by your first name.”
“Really?” Stan crossed to the cupboard and removed a misshapen ceramic mug that Maddox had made for him in Boy Scouts. It was black with crooked white lettering that read WORLD’S AWESOMEST DAD.
“I didn’t realize she and I were on a first-name basis,” Stan mused, pouring hot black coffee into the mug. “I’ve only met her twice since the school year started.”
“Well, you obviously made quite an impression on her,” Jake teased, nimbly straddling a chair at the oversize table. “After you and Mason left that day, she couldn’t stop raving about you and your ‘wonderful, educational’ presentation. No mention of how I totally rocked as Sparky the Fire Dog.”
Stan grinned, sipping his coffee. “Well, she agreed to go out with you, so you obviously did something right.”
“That’s true.” Jake flashed a cocksure grin. “You know the ladies can’t resist a smokin’ hot firefighter.”
Stan snorted. “Yeah, okay.”
After a moment, Jake’s grin wavered with uncertainty. “Wait a minute. What if she only agreed to go to the ball so she can see you? I mean, what if she secretly has the hots for you, lieutenant, and she spends the whole evening asking questions about you?”
Stan frowned, raising his mug to his mouth. “You’re talking crazy, kid. Miss Dominguez doesn’t have the hots for me.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Jake’s blue eyes glinted with sudden mischief. “But if she corners you and propositions you, could you at least find out if she’d be interested in a threesome?”
Stan choked, spewing out a mouthful of coffee.
Jake burst out laughing. “Sorry, boss! I couldn’t resist.”
Stan scowled, grabbing a paper towel and dabbing dark splotches of coffee from his CFD T-shirt. “That shit wasn’t funny, rookie.”
“Sorry.” Jake wiped tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes. “I think I’ve been hanging around the fellas too long.”
“Probably. But say some shit like that to me again, kid, and your ass will be permanently sporting the Sparky costume. Ya dig?”
Jake sobered at once. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I was way out of line. I know you’re a happily married man and you would never cheat on your wife.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t.” Stan swept an impatient glance around the kitchen. “Now where the hell is the newspaper?”
“I’ll get it for you.” Jake shot up from his chair and beat a hasty retreat.
Moments later, some of the other firefighters began filing into the kitchen, and breakfast was soon under way.
As the senior officer on the shift, Stan sat at the head of the large table as the men scarfed down their food while laughing and exchanging rowdy banter. Their language was profane, and more than a few of their jokes were vulgar.
At one point someone demanded with mock indignation, “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“No, I kiss yours,” came the retort, which set off another round of raucous laughter that included Stan’s.
There was nothing like the camaraderie between a group of men who lived together on a twenty-four-hour shift. The ritual of trading insults was as innate to them as sharing meals, swapping stories, sliding down poles and racing off to put out fires.
When the alarm sounded halfway through breakfast, no one took another sip of coffee or forked up another bite of eggs. No one bemoaned the unfairness of having to respond to another emergency right before their shift was supposed to end.
The men sprang into action, rushing out to the large garage where the fire engine and rescue and ladder trucks were parked. With practiced speed and efficiency, they donned their turnout gear, snapped suspenders into place, shoved feet into boots and grabbed their heavy coats and helmets.
When the nature of the emergency was announced—a house fire on South Yosemite Street—Stan’s heart rate kicked into overdrive.
A small, ominous voice whispered, Is today the day?
He allowed himself a moment—no more than a few seconds—to kiss the miniature photo of his wife and children that he’d begun wearing in a locket around his neck. And then he stuffed the chain back inside his gear, hopped into the rig beside the driver and shouted above the wailing siren, “Let’s haul ass!”
Several hours later, he was in his own truck and headed home. He was weary to the bone but grateful, as always, to be alive.
His unit had arrived at the scene to discover thick black smoke and flames shooting from the roof of a large two-story house situated on a quiet, tree-lined street. The fire had started when lightning from an early-morning thunderstorm struck the home, igniting a fiery blaze that had taken over two hours to extinguish. When all was said and done, the roof and the upper level of the house were destroyed. But thankfully the homeowners, along with their beloved Golden Retriever, had gotten out safely as soon as the fire began.
By the time Stan returned to the station and completed his incident report, then called the hospital for an update on the status of last night’s accident victims, it was late afternoon.
After checking in with Prissy, he left the station and swung by the high school to pick up Manning, who’d surprised Stan and Prissy when he announced that he would be staying after school three days a week to help with math tutoring.
On the way home, father and son caught each other up on the other’s day. Once Manning heard about the fire, he was full of questions, reminding Stan of those halcyon days back in Atlanta when he’d taken his sons to work, delighting them with tours of the firehouse and rides on the rescue truck. With the engine roaring, lights flashing and siren blaring, the boys had been in seventh heaven.
As they neared their neighborhood, Stan asked conversationally, “So how’s Taylor doing?”
A shadow crossed Manning’s face before he turned to stare out the window. “She’s okay,” he mumbled.
Puzzled by the sudden change in Manning’s demeanor, Stan prodded, “She’s tutoring math too, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
Stan studied the boy’s brooding profile. “Everything all right?”
Heavy pause. “Yeah.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
After another pause, Manning blew out a harsh breath and blurted, “She has a boyfriend.”
“Really?” Stan was surprised. “When did that happen?”
“This week,” Manning grumbled, his thick brows furrowed with displeasure. “He’s in the band. They have two classes together.”
“Is that so? Well, good for Taylor…right?”
Manning’s scowl deepened. “She doesn’t even like him.”
Stan gave his son a sidelong glance. “How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Stan hid a knowing smile, amused at the realization that Manning was jealous of Taylor’s new relationship. Maybe Prissy had been on to something after all.
Moments later they entered their development and headed up a hilly road flanked by live oaks, perfectly manicured lawns and custom homes with curved driveways.
As Stan turned onto their street, he saw Caitlyn washing her Camaro in front of her house. Although it was barely sixty degrees outside, she wore a wet tank top and a pair of skimpy denim cutoffs that rode up her butt as she bent forward, slowly running the soapy sponge over the hood of her car.
As if sensing the approach of Stan’s truck, she tossed her long hair back and glanced over her shoulder, giving father and son a sultry smile.
“Whoa,” Manning breathed, craning his neck to stare after her as they passed her house. “Dammmnnn.”
Scowling, Stan reached over and slapped the back of his son’s head.
Manning jerked around, grinning sheepishly as he hunched down in his seat. “Sorry, Dad, but Caitlyn’s—”
“Too damn fast,” Stan groused, shaking his head in angry disbelief. “If she were my daughter, there’s no way in hell I’d let her outside looking like that.”
Manning’s grin widened. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you only have sons, huh?”
When Stan shot him a dark look, the boy laughed.
Reaching their house at the end of the cul de sac, Stan swung into the driveway beside the family van.
As he cut the ignition, Manning sighed heavily. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it wrong to be attracted to more than one girl at the same time?”
Stan chuckled. “Of course not. Hell, you can be attracted to every female you pass on the street. But—” He broke off to watch as Prissy opened the front door and waved at them, then folded her arms against the brisk temperature as she waited for them to come inside.
“But?” Manning prompted.
Stan smiled softly. “But, ultimately, only one will steal your heart.”