Hook & Ladder 69: Eighteen Authors...One Sexy Firehouse.
Hook & Ladder 69
Eighteen Authors…One Sexy Firehouse.
Kristen Hope Mazzola
Emme Burton
M.C. Cerny
Sarah M. Cradit
Michelle Dare
Jami Denise
L.B. Dunbar
Lisa Edward
Lia Fairchild
Mary Catherine Gebhard
Z.B. Heller
Glenna Maynard
Morgan Jane Mitchell
Emerson Shaw
Kacey Shea
M. Stratton
Madison Street
Felicia Tatum
Contents
Hook & Ladder 69
Copyright
Introduction
To the readers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Authors
Copyright
Five Alarm
Copyright © 2016 Emme Burton
Spark
Copyright © 2016 M.C. Cerny
Rose
Copyright © 2016 Sarah M. Cradit
The Chase
Copyright © 2016 Michelle Dare
Firecracker
Copyright © 2016 Jami Denise
Rekindled
Copyright © 2016 L.B. Dunbar
Second Chances
Copyright © 2016 Lisa Edward
Rescue Me
Copyright © 2016 Lia Fairchild
Untitled
Copyright © 2016 Mary Catherine Gebhard
The Catch
Copyright © 2016 Z.B. Heller
The Scratch
Copyright © 2016 Glenna Maynard
Just one night?
Copyright © 2016 Kristen Hope Mazzola
Hope
Copyright © 2016 Morgan Jane Mitchell
Burnt Sugar
Copyright © 2016 Emerson Shaw
Birthday Blaze
Copyright © 2016 Kacey Shea
Fan the Flames
Copyright © 2016 M. Stratton
Inferno
Copyright © 2016 Madison Street
Raccoons and Cookies
Copyright © 2016 Felicia Tatum
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Published: Z.B. Heller 2016
Cover Design: Qdesign - Amy Queau
Cover Model: Shane Williams
Photographer: Eric Battershell Photography
Formatting by: Kristen Hope Mazzola
Created with Vellum
Introduction
Multiple authors have come together to give you one firehouse where all proceeds from this collaboration go to the Burned Children Recovery Foundation.
The Burned Children Recovery Foundation
is a national recovery agency that has provided Emotional Support and
Financial Aid to Burned Children and
their Families since 1989.
For more information about this foundation: http://www.burnedchildrenrecovery.org
Meet the brave men and women of Station 69, serving the citizens of St. Louis while igniting hearts along the way. Eighteen authors have joined forces to bring you their sizzling stories—some sweet, some five alarm hot—but all for a great cause. Follow the antics and adventures of these sexy firefighters in what promises to be one of the hottest summers yet! This delectable book begs the question: Can anyone resist a hero in uniform?
Contributing Authors:
Emme Burton
M.C. Cerny
Sarah M. Cradit
Michelle Dare
Jami Denise
L.B. Dunbar
Lisa Edward
Lia Fairchild
Mary Catherine Gebhard
Z.B. Heller
Glenna Maynard
Kristen Hope Mazzola
Morgan Jane Mitchell
Emerson Shaw
Kacey Shea
M. Stratton
Madison Street
Felicia Tatum
To the readers
The authors of Hook & Ladder 69 would like to thank you for purchasing this book. You're supporting a cause we believe in and are helping The Burned Children Recovery Foundation. Together we can make a difference.
We would like to warn you that Hook & Ladder 69 is meant for 18+ only. There is adult content, harsh language, and sexual situations. Don’t read this where other people can see you flush and blush and wonder why you’re chewing your lips.
Thank you for reading!
Chapter 1
FIVE ALARM by Emme Burton
Erin “Duff” Duffy
Thursday is my favorite day of the week. I never used to have a favorite day of the week until I started working at Bergdier’s grocery store seven months ago.
My name is Duff. Erin Duffy, really, but mostly I’m just Duff. I’m small and blond and, supposedly, an airhead. I’ve been told by teachers, friends—hell even my family—that I’m not the smartest girl on earth, at least, not book-smart. I’m not stupid, I’m just better at hands-on activities than thinking ones, so I didn’t do the college thing. After high school, I screwed around for a year, going from job to job, until I came to work with my dad at Bergdier’s as a butcher. I suppose I have to be a little bit smarter than some people because not everyone knows how to butcher. Trust me, I’ve seen people jack up a good hunk of beef just by cutting it incorrectly. I know it’s a weird occupation for a girl, but I like it and I’m good at it. Really good. Beats the crap out of decorating cakes, in my opinion. Pays better, too.
So anyway, Thursdays. Why are they my favorite? Thursdays are the day the firemen of Station 69 go grocery shopping. They come into the store—a big group of them—wearing all their gear. At first I was confused, but then my department manager, who also happens to be my dad, explained that they have to be ready for a fire at a moment’s notice.
“Yeah, they come to the store in the fire truck.”
“What? No way.”
“You don’t believe me. Come look.”
Dad dragged me from the back of the store to the front where the huge shiny red hook and ladder “rig,” as dad called it, was parked right in front of the store. In the no parking area.
“Sweet. Rock star parking.” Firefighters are sort of like everyday rock stars.
That’s when I saw him. Hopping off the fire engine. Th
e hottest guy to walk the face of the earth. I mean the guys in One Direction are cute and Ryan Reynolds is smoking, but this guy had them all beat, hands down. Not too tall, maybe close to six feet, caramel-colored wavy hair cut really short on the back and sides, olive green eyes, a really full totally bitable lower lip and a notch in his chin. His shoulders were the widest part of his body. I could detect the muscles in his arms through his off-white thermal. My dad had to pull me back to my work behind the counter, I was so engrossed in staring.
The other firemen make him push the cart and do all the shopping. They call him “rook” or “rookie” and sometimes “mattress,” which honestly is not a very nice thing to call a person. He doesn’t seem upset by the teasing and taunting. He just laughs and agrees.
The first time I met him, he came to the counter and ordered four full racks of St. Louis-style ribs. I made sure to give him the biggest ones, and I trimmed away some of the unnecessary excess so he wouldn’t have to pay for anything more than he had to. When I handed him the package, all wrapped up, his finger touched mine and zap! I thought maybe he’d given me a static shock or I’d given one to him. It was the strongest one I’d ever felt. So strong, I pulled my hand away quickly. I was about to apologize, but when I looked up, he smiled. His smile was so big and so white and so real. He acted like he didn’t feel the shock.
“Thanks for handling my meat,” he said, his voice raspy and low. Then he winked.
I stood there, speechless. I’m not much of a talker anyway, but he was just stunning. Suddenly, I was warm all over, even though I was standing behind a refrigerated meat case. It took me a hot second to realize he wasn’t talking about the ribs when he said “my meat.” That’s the kind of behavior that’s earned me the “airhead” title.
“It’s what I do,” I say a second later, the only thing I could think of and it fell right out of my mouth.
He winked again. “I’ll bet it is.” Then he threw the bundle of ribs in his basket and strode away, chuckling and shaking his head.
I gulped a few times.
Watching him walk away was pure pleasure. The heavy thunk of his boots, the way his butt moved in his fire-retardant overalls, his radio and flashlight bumping against his body. All that man pushing a cart full of groceries. Swoon. It really got my heart thumping.
In an odd coincidence, an instrumental version of “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon blared from the store’s sound system, literally providing a score for hot fireman’s exit. It was the first time I’d ever noticed that song over the speakers. The lyrics screamed through my brain. Yes! My sex is on fire! In the back of my mind, I made a mental note to either tell the store manager that it’s incredibly inappropriate to have that song in the rotation or thank him profusely.
That’s why I love Thursdays.
Matt “Mattress” Wilson
Thursday is my favorite day of the week. Cap, the fire chief, always lets us have a big meal on Thursday night and purchase all the groceries for the crew working the weekend. I make sure I’m scheduled on Thursdays every week, not just because of the meal, but because I know I’ll get to take the big rig to Bergdier’s. All the little kids practically pee their pants when they see us pull up and I’ll get to see her.
A few months ago this tiny blond girl or should I say, woman, started working behind the meat counter. She’s so little. I bet she’s not even ninety-five pounds soaking wet, but she’s totally stacked. I mean so stacked she can’t really button up that white jacket she wears over her boobs. She has excellent boobs. Goddamn, she’s adorable with that hairnet and the knot in the front. She’s like a little lunch lady angel. Hey, I got nothing but respect for lunch ladies. They kept me well fed in high school. Gave me extra portions when I batted my eyelashes, but none of them looked like her. Not even close.
The first time I met her I recall her skin was soft when I accidentally touched her hand. I teased her about wrapping up my “meat” or something. She blushed from head to toe and across the tops of her luscious breasts. Jesus, it was hot.
Then she said, “It’s what I do.”
All I could say was, “I’ll bet it is,” ’cause that’s the fucking truth. I bet she does meat extremely well.
Since then I look forward to Thursday just to see her, tease her and stare into her baby blue eyes. Her face is so sweet—pale with a few freckles across her nose. She doesn’t wear much makeup that I can tell. I think her lips are just naturally pink and glossy.
Thank God, I’m the junior most firefighter in the house. It means I’m in charge of the meal planning and shopping. Which means… Thursday! Which means… butcher girl.
I spend all week thinking of some “meat” comment to make her blush with embarrassed excitement. Her excitement arouses me, and on more than one occasion I’ve had to finish the shopping with a semi and hoping to God the guys don’t spot it and give me endless shit about it.
When I needed flattened chicken breasts for chicken piccata, I told her, “Thanks for pounding my meat.”
When I couldn’t think of what to make for the Thursday feast, I asked her to “select my meat.”
When I needed shish-kebobs and she quickly whipped them together, I complimented her by telling her, “You always know the right thing to do with my meat.”
Each and every time, she’d respond with, “It’s what I do.”
Each and every time, I’d wink and say, “I’ll bet you do.”
Each and every time, she’d flush. Occasionally she’d throw in a giggle or she’d lick her lips or arch her back so her breasts would pop up. It’s awesome when she does that. Even better if she pulls a combo and does all three.
That’s why I love Thursdays.
I think this Thursday I may need to move the conversation in a different direction, because I’d love to see her without that hairnet and jacket. Just to name a few items.
And I’m running out of ways to talk about meat.
Duff
He’s here. I know it. I can feel the rumble of that big truck with the long ladder when it parks in front of the building. I’m uniquely in tune with the subtle shiver in the floor as it pulls to a stop and the whistle of the air breaks. Either that or I just know that ten o’clock on Thursday morning is the time to expect him.
Him. I wish I knew his real name. You’d think after seven months I would, but he’s never had his jacket on in the store or his uniform top. He’s always in a long sleeve shirt and his overalls. I’m pretty sure I know why they call him “rookie.” He appears to be the youngest guy in the battalion, him and one other guy, so he’s probably in his first year, but why would they call him “mattress?”
Today’s the day I’m going to find out. I’m going to do more than just banter and blush. I’m going to find out his name and what he likes to do for fun, that is, if he doesn’t blindside me with another meat double entendre.
I inhale deeply three times as my favorite flame buster makes his way down the organic food aisle right in front of me. I feel like I’m watching a video in slow motion. That Bruce Springsteen song “I’m On Fire” plays in my mind. At least I think it’s in my mind.
He looks at the floor as he comes toward me. Just before he reaches the meat counter, he raises his head slightly, tips it to the right and lifts the opposite corner of his mouth in a half smile while pinning me with his eyes.
Okay, bring on the meat flirting. I’m ready.
Mattress
“Okay, Wilson, no stupid meat joke. Just talk to the girl. Find out her name for God’s sake. You’ve been flirting mercilessly with her. It’s time to get real,” I think, giving myself one hell of a pep talk as I make my way past bags of red quinoa and gluten-free almond cracker bullshit toward her. Jesus, this granola-head section is the longest damn grocery aisle in the country.
“Hi!” I say when I finally reach the counter and make eye contact with her. Man, I’d like to look at those blues for longer than fifteen minutes a week. If I’m honest I’d like to look into th
em from above her during the best fifteen minutes… God her breasts look especially high and tight today… Holy shit, I’m so distracted…
“Hi!” she says back, her voice low and full of intention. “What can I get you today?”
Now this is the moment when I’d usually make my vaguely disguised euphemism, but this time I don’t.
“Just five pounds of ground sirloin.”
“Okay, coming right up.”
I lean over the counter as she reaches into the display case. “Hey, you know what? I don’t even know your name. I’ve been bugging you with bad meat-based harassments for months, but I don’t know your name. I’m Matt, by the way. Matt Wilson.”
She quickly wraps up my beef, comes out from behind the counter and hands it to me. I’ve never seen all of her up close. Damn, she’s small. Her face only comes up to my chest. Mmm, her lips—my chest. Visions of her mouth on my body overtake my brain. I shake my head to regain focus.
“Matt. That’s why the other guys call you Mattress.”
I’m not sure I want my angel of protein to know the rest of that story. “Yeah, well, part of the reason.”
“I don’t mind the jokes, Matt. They’re funny. I enjoy anticipating what you’re going to come up with each week. Oh, and my name is Duff.” She sticks out her small hand after ripping off a pair of food service gloves and I shake it. No, I don’t shake it. I possess it. My hand completely engulfs hers, and I get the strangest sensation, holding her tiny hand. The sensation that I’d like to hold it from now on. The thought enters my mind and finds acceptance immediately.
“Duff? Like D-U-F-F. Like the movie.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Darlin’, you’re anything but a duff. That has to be a nickname. What’s your real name?”
“Erin Duffy. But everyone calls me Duff.”