Chapter 4
The only good thing about being called to a domestic fire was that Jo could stop thinking about what had happened with Alex. Not only had she whimpered pathetically when he kissed her, but she’d kneed him in the balls. Accidentally, but still, she’d left him hunched over and run.
The very last thing she needed in her life at the moment was the complication of sex, even once-in-a-kitchen sex with a man like Alex who ticked every one of her boxes.
He’d lifted her, actually picked her up off the ground, and placed her on the counter.
That was hot; panty-melting hot. Like so hot that she’d forgiven him for manhandling her. For a while, at least, until her common sense had kicked in. Men didn’t pick her up. She didn’t need to be picked up. She was her own woman and filled with purpose.
Yes, he might have been able to pick her up, but she wasn’t the skinny model type with big tits that she imagined he was normally with, and she doubted he’d actually meant to kiss her. He’d been bored and pissed and stuck indoors, and that kiss had been nothing more than what he would have pulled on one of those puck bunnies, or whatever they were called. The ones who wanted a hockey player to fuck them for nothing more than a way to spend the night. He’d clearly overlooked the extra pounds of muscle she carried, and the fact that she was only a few inches shorter than him.
Hell, he must have been desperate.
She had counseling, she had exams, she had work. She certainly did not need hot sex in her friend’s kitchen, with her friend upstairs.
It was just a kiss.
But even though she told herself that over and over, it hadn’t been just a kiss, had it? Alex was a celebrity, a man used to women, to one-night stands and to easy sex. That kiss could well have been a precursor.
Still, the fire was a distraction she welcomed, nothing more than a garden shed, no people involved and no danger to much other than a rusting lawnmower and some garden tools. The family was grateful, and as the probie on scene, she used the visit to work on her explanation of what to have and not to have in a garden shed. She explained to the shell-shocked parents that tarps, gas, matches, and a bored teenage son were a recipe for disaster. Dennison stood just behind her, a supportive presence, and praised her afterward. All in all, the call was not only a distraction but an excuse to hone her client-facing health and safety skills.
Back at the firehouse, there was a note on the bulletin board for her to see the captain, and she made her way there as soon as she could.
Jo knocked and entered Captain Askett’s office. The call to a brief meeting with Askett had been passed across by his assistant Rene, and the officious woman scared the life out of Jo. No doubt it was flashbacks to way too many meetings in the principal’s office at school. Of course, then it had been for a lot of other things, like missing homework; now it was for some work-related thing that was way more important.
She was good at her job; had every confidence that she would pass her final exams and her assessments.
Still, one message saying the captain wanted to see her, and she was nervous. Dennison had high-fived her on her way past, with an added, “Keep smiling, probie,” whatever that meant.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” She stood to attention, back straight.
“Yes,” Askett said, and waved at the spare seat. The room was full of memories, of medals, and photos, and folders with guidelines about the business of their busy station. Askett ran his firehouse with a combination of grit and compassion and always said he would never send his men into a place that he wouldn’t go. Everyone loved him, and even though he was close to retiring, no one wanted him to leave. “Come in, sit down,” he added. “How are you doing, Glievens?”
Jo sat as instructed and considered the question. Should she say she was doing well? Would that be pushy from a female firefighter in a world of men? Would she come off as confrontational? Should she just keep it to a “Fine, sir,” with an added thank you? Or should she take this chance to highlight her successes? Why the hell was she even worrying? In this room, in this firehouse, she was a firefighter, not a woman.
In the end, instinct won. She’d worked way too hard to begin second-guessing her role there.
“Very good, sir,” she began.
“Your exams are in the new year, your assessments are clean…I’m impressed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He glanced down at the notes on his desk, “Your times on the set pieces come in under the expected limit, and Lieutenant Dennison has reported he’s pleased with your progress. He and I spoke briefly at the end of last week, talked about your future at this firehouse.”
Hope bloomed inside her. That sounded promising.
He picked up a card from the desk and peered at it. “There’s another reason I called you in, and this is something I hope to nip in the bud right here and now. In respect to the Ennerdon warehouse fire of November twenty-seventh, there’s been a concern raised. Not a complaint, I need to emphasize that, but a worry about a certain action you took at that fire.”
“Sir?”
He cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. “As I recall, Lieutenant Dennison called for a team to vent the roof, and the report says you suggested that you wanted to be part of that team.”
Suggested? Why had Askett emphasized the word suggested?
Jo thought back to the chaos of that day; a fully invested three-alarm fire, a roof that she knew from experience would be thin and fragile, and at five-ten, weighing one-sixty, strong and sturdy, she was still the smallest of the entire team of firefighters out of her firehouse. She’d thought on her feet. There were four engines there from two different firehouses, but no one else was her height or weight, she knew. With Mitch’s support, she could get right into the middle of the roof and vent at the best place. Their team was the back-up she needed, and she’d suggested what she’d thought was right. Dennison hadn’t balked; had looked right at her, called Mitch and Alfie, another firefighter, to back her up, and they’d gone.
With seconds to spare, they’d vented the roof and were down quickly and efficiently. She couldn’t recall there being an issue, but the captain wouldn’t have called her in unless something had gone seriously wrong.
“Was there an issue, sir?”
“My counterpart at firehouse fifteen, Bill Swanson, he proposed that as a probie it isn’t your place to question, only to follow orders and learn, and that you were bordering on disrespectful.”
“Sir—”
“You realize this is something I need to take seriously.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I need to inform you that I am taking it seriously.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And in taking it seriously, I need to have conducted a full debrief with the lead on site, and your colleagues.”
“I understand sir.”
“And in this case, I find the accusation unfounded, malicious, and I am placing it appropriately in your file.”
She said nothing. The relief that swelled inside pushed aside the beginnings of self-doubt.
“Thank you, sir.”
“And as an aside, I received nothing but a glowing review from your lieutenant. That is also on your file. So I think Swanson has done you a favor here. Which brings me onto the next thing we need to discuss. Off the record, we know this is bullshit from him; he’s got a burr under his saddle about women firefighters, which I can’t understand.”
All Jo knew about Swanson was the normal firehouse gossip, which wasn’t complimentary and often involved cursing. According to anyone who had worked with him, he was a misogynistic asshole who ran his own firehouse with a combination of fear and old-rule heavy-handedness.
Askett continued after a particularly heavy sigh. “I wanted to warn you that he’ll be at this Christmas event you’re attending, and you should keep your wits about you.”
Jo went from concerned to confused in an instant. “Event, sir?”
The only one she knew about was the dinner that Dennison was organizing for the last night of rotation before their pre-Christmas down-time. That was just a drink at the bar; buy your own kind of thing. Not what she’d call an event.
“The annual Dragons fundraising Christmas party. Dragons hockey team. You know them?”
Jo nodded. She was friends with Kat; new friends, but friends nonetheless. She knew that the connection with the team was right there, given that her boyfriend played for the team. Then there was Alex; he was a hockey player for that team, the captain. But she wasn’t going to detail all that. Instead she stuck to facts.
“Lieutenant Dennison is a big fan, sir, and Kat is the girlfriend of one of the players.”
“Yes, yes,” Askett said. “It’s important we maintain a good working relationship between us and the team.” He trailed off, and she thought maybe he needed an answer to that one.
“Of course,” she offered; she’d learned enough at her mother’s knee as a kid to know that social networking was a good thing.
“And you know, part of our job is to foster links with local organizations, to spread educational awareness, that kind of thing.”
That sounded like he was trying to convince her of something. She understood the need to work hard on the firehouse being part of the community, and that included Sweetings Arena. The politics of it all went over her head.
“And you were the firefighter who pulled the team captain from the car.”
“Which is part of my job.”
“And he’s a hero.” Askett said the words carefully, like he was testing them out.
“He reacted to the situation and got the baby and father out,” she said.
Didn’t matter about the reasons why it was dangerous to get near a burning car. If a family was trapped, sometimes instinct overcame protocols. A lesson she was learning with every call. Not everything was black and white. She didn’t consider herself a hero of any kind; it was her job. But, Alex, for all his inappropriate kissing and teasing, was the definition of a hero.
“I want to apologize,” Askett added.
Now the confusion was right front and center. “Sir?”
“I want you to know that what I need to ask you is everything to do with you being a rookie, and nothing to do with you being a woman. In this job, the uniform is what matters, not the gender.” He stopped again and cleared his throat. “But we need you to do something you may not feel comfortable with.” He ducked his head, and she’d never seen that before; he looked almost embarrassed, and a flush spread on his face.
“What do you need me to do, sir?” Jo asked. The last thing she needed was a cozy chat with her captain about prejudice and the old guard. She needed the man back who told her to jump, and she needed to be the probie who asked how high. Seemed like he got the message. Gone was the sympathetic counselor, and in his place was her captain.
He continued. “The lieutenant wanted to ensure we had a presence at the event, the Dragons event, given they’re raising money for the firefighters charity, and we made the decision to send yourself and Mitchell. Bottom of the pile, I’m afraid, Glievens, and also the rescue thing.” The words were lost in the buzz in her head, but he was still talking. “…Swanson is in attendance as well.”
“Sir—”
He pulled himself together and looked at her sternly, interrupting what he likely expected to be a list of reasons why she didn’t need to attend a party. “No excuses, probie. You and Mitch, being the newest here, are the only ones free to go.”
He handed over a printed email. “This is for you. Details,” he pointed out, then added, “Watch out for Swanson. Wear a dress, make nice, get your photo taken with our local hero, don’t kill Swanson. Dismissed.”
“Sir,” she said, and left the room.
She was still dusty and sore from the last call, and aching from the one before it, which had involved her, a trapped cat, and a chimney. She didn’t much like cats in the first place, and Fluffy hadn’t much liked her, the scratches on her face testament to that fact. Damn thing had hissed and spit and generally showed great displeasure first at being wedged in the space, and then at being removed from said space.
“Okay?” Mitch asked from the alcove that held the photocopier. He’d been the probie before her, the prospect, the one who finally didn’t need to do all the shit she had to do. Well, except for having to attend this charity party thing. He had a permanent expression of relief on his face, tempered with a flash of guilt every time he saw her sweeping or cooking or, like that morning, climbing inside a chimney breast.
“Yeah,” she said, “the charity party.”
“You want me to pick you up?” Mitch asked. She didn’t see it as anything other than what it was, convenience. He was married with twins on their way and so in love that it made her envious. She wanted a man to look at her the way Mitch looked at his wife.
“I’m good,” she said. Part of her actually wanted to talk to Mitch about Swanson, but she knew Swanson was the tip of the iceberg, the old guard who didn’t think women should be firefighters. At the academy, there was nothing about how much was expected from the females in training, just about every firefighter earning their place. Still, Jo wasn’t stupid, and she worked damn hard to make up for her lack of height and bulk by being faster and stealthier.
Mitch glanced over her shoulder at Askett’s closed door. “Did he say what we needed to do? All he said to me was I should dress up, but no uniform, and get a lot of photos.”
“He said wear a dress and make nice. Get photos with the hero, that kind of thing.”
Mitchell picked up his photocopies and knocked them on the copier to straighten them. “It should be a good event; it’s like a Christmas party, only it’s really an excuse to raise money and auction some really cool things.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and I heard some really intense shit goes down at these events.”
Okay, she’d bite. “What kind of shit?” she asked, even though a whole big part of her didn’t want to know. It was likely going to be a glitzy glamor event with hockey stars, photographers, and charity representatives; her idea of hell. She imagined drinks, and sex, and all the other things she’d heard hockey players got up to. Firefighters liked to gossip, and she listened to it all.
The firefighters there had a pool of tickets for Dragons games always at will-call, courtesy of Kat’s brother, Loki. Even though she was way down the ranks in terms of first dibs on them, she wasn’t sure she was interested anyway; sport wasn’t her thing. Hockey, in particular, she didn’t get. The other paramedic working with Kat, Alison Kayne—Ali to her friends, of whom she was one—had a theory about how bad it was to have all that testosterone in one tight space. All Jo could say to that was that she’d watched a game on TV but hadn’t been able to follow the puck.
She felt like she’d at least tried.
Mitch was still talking. “I heard last year the event was for a cancer charity, and it was at the captain’s place, and the police got called. Something about the pool and noise, and a car, I don’t know the full details, but I heard there was a call to retrieve the car from the pool.”
Kill me now.
Thankfully, the alarm sounded and stopped Mitch in his stride, and he went from gossiping teenager to firefighter in one second. That was how it worked; drop everything, get dressed, get in the engine, fight the battle of the hour, get home and shed the skin.
The fire wasn’t life-threatening or big; a dumpster blaze behind a Starbucks was small-fry for engine forty-three. The lieutenant even used it as a training experience for her, asking Mitch to talk her through it and watching them both as the rest of the team stood back. By the time they arrived back, it was the end of shift, and she didn’t even bother to clean up at the firehouse.
The shower at home was heaven, and she stayed under until the water ran cool. Wrapped in a towel, she climbed onto her bed and picked up her Kindle. That was her happy place; sitting and reading, enough to forget and decompress.
Too often that moment was when grief hit her, when memories of losing her dad became too much to handle, but tonight she at least had Swanson, and the event, to think about. She was too wired to look at her Kindle, and she closed it after reading the same page at least three times. Huffing her annoyance, she lay back on the pillows and couldn’t help but focus on the kitchen and the gifts sitting there.
Her place wasn’t big, little more than a living room with sofa and kitchen, the bathroom, and a bedroom. She could see the kitchen counter from her bed, and the two items that sat there.
Mocking her.
A beautiful leather-bound journal, with dividers and a long silk length that she could use to bookmark a page. That had arrived on Monday, with a card expressing an apology in the most beautiful penmanship. No doubt whichever high-end shop had delivered it was responsible for the writing and the sentiment.
Although the name at the bottom was his name. Alexandre Simard. And he had signed it, because he’d added Simba and the number 25 in brackets. Just in case she wouldn’t know who it was, she guessed. And yes, she’d looked up what the 25 meant and found out it was the number he wore on his back when he played. Apparently it was connected to his brother, but she didn’t click any further, telling herself she didn’t want to know anything about the guy she’d taken to his knees.
He’d also included a card with a cell number on it.
She’d pushed the journal and the card back into the box they’d arrived in, ignored the sentiment and the number, and wondered why the hell he’d sent her a journal. Did she look like someone who kept a diary? Whoever had advised him to purchase that as an apology had been way off the mark. What about flowers? Or chocolates? Weren’t they the accepted gifts that people sent now?
Then on Thursday, the pen had arrived. A gorgeous and very expensive Mont Blanc pen. The red-and-gold coated fountain pen was still in its box, and she knew it was expensive because she’d looked it up on the internet. Over a thousand dollars of pen was in her kitchen next to the journal.
The note was clear. ‘I hope you know I’m sorry for what I did. My social skills are clearly lacking. I blame the enforced imprisonment. Hope you like using the pen in the journal when you’re studying.’ It was signed Alex, and for that gift there had been no mention of his nickname or his jersey number.
She decided to give everything to Kat to pass back to him.
There. Problem solved.