CHAPTER 1
Isaac
“Who is that girl he’s with?”
I’d recognize that voice anywhere.
In between the clinking of glasses, the rattling of plates, and the conversation between the other firemen, her voice still cuts through the air like a knife. She’s standing behind me, which doesn’t even register as ironic anymore considering how long she’s been stabbing me in the back.
It’s Abby Lawson, at least that’s what she calls herself. Rumor has it that she changed her name to match the advice columnist she tries to mimic on a daily basis. She writes a daily column in the local paper called “Around Town.” The paper positions it as some sort of cultural and style piece but everyone knows it’s just the juiciest gossip she can dig up. And by everyone I mean everyone. Everyone reads it and that’s exactly why I’m in the predicament I’m in.
Fire Chief Weston has been in charge of our fire department for years, thirty-three years to be exact. Back in his day he was appointed fire chief, which is the way most stations around the country have done it forever. Not ours. Not any longer. Weston retires in exactly thirty-seven days, which is exactly thirty days after the election for fire chief, which voters will be going to the polls for in exactly one week.
I should have been appointed. I’ve got the training, experience, military background, and most of all I’m really good at my job. I’m so good in fact that Abby Lawson seems to think it’s gone to my head. At least that’s what she’s said in her column on multiple occasions. “His likability index is lower than a snake’s belly.” Her words, not mine. Likability index? Who talks like that? Well, she does, and like it or not what she writes is what people believe in this town.
And believe me when I say I’ll do anything to be fire chief. Anything as in the stunt I’m pulling today at the fireman’s ball, which of course she’s attending because she’s married to one of the guys at our station. I, and a lot of other fireman, started avoiding him like the plague once I found out he was the one who was spoon feeding information to his wife, which coincidently would appear in her column the next day. She sees herself as some sort of investigative reporter, taking whatever her husband says as the gospel, and then putting her own spin on it for the public.
Of course we have a rule about speaking to the press. Don’t do it. Since everyone besides her husband seems to follow that rule, it means she has no competition when she wants to write something about us. And it means she knows we won’t respond to anything she says that goes to print. It’s the perfect situation for her. She can say whatever she wants, without fear of a reply from us. That means whatever she says goes, at least in the public’s eyes.
We’ve been told on multiple occasions to just ignore it. The bigger problem is why is her husband giving her the dirt? That’s easy. He’s running for fire chief too. It’s a neck-and-neck race heading into the final week and I’m not holding back any punches any longer.
“It looks like that girl he rescued,” another voice from behind me says.
“So who’s the lucky lady?” my buddy Fred says as he approaches with an extra glass of two fingers of whiskey in hand. We’ve been battling blazes for years, and he’s a guy I admire and respect like no other. My first year on the job I passed out from smoke inhalation while I was trying to make a rescue on the third floor of a residential unit. Fred not only pulled me out, but he pulled the little girl out as well. The world could use a lot more guys like Fred. He’s a true hero.
“This is Julia,” I say, as Fred hands me my preferred adult beverage.
“Julia! Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” she says.
Her tone sounds perfect, but I can feel by the hand she has in mine that’s she’s nervous. Her hand is a sweaty, mushy mess…the exact contrast to the cold, firm glass I have in my other. I quickly tip back half of the whiskey hoping this all goes as planned. It better, or else I’m in big, big trouble.