Hook & Ladder 69: Eighteen Authors...One Sexy Firehouse. Page 16

  She whipped around, eyes wide, and grabbed me. “Fuck no!” She kissed me quickly. “I was just supposed to be at the firehouse an hour ago.”

  “Oh fuck.”

  She grabbed her cell out of her purse. “Fuck. Fuck. Holy fucking shit balls of fire. I am in so much trouble.”

  She stood in the middle of my apartment, naked from the waist up, hip popped out, tapping her foot. “Pick up. Pick up! Oz! Thank goodness.”

  She waited while the dude on the other end yelled at her.

  “Yeah, I fucking know. Just come get me. Bring me clothes please.”

  She started to pace. “I don’t give a fuck what color shirt you bring. I’m sharing my location with you.”

  She grabbed her bra, putting it on. “You’re only a few blocks from me, thank you! You’re a lifesaver! I love you bestie!”

  Candi hung up the phone and grabbed her thong, shoving it into her purse.

  “Can I use your toothbrush and borrow a shirt?”

  I chuckled. “Sure? Do I have a choice?”

  She smiled at me, shaking her head. “Of course not.”

  Candi left in a flash after stealing one of my shirts and using my deodorant, toothbrush, and comb.

  And there I was, left to clean up the mess of our sexcapade. I didn’t have to report to my new station for a few hours, but it could have been a year away; that’s how slow time felt like it was moving. I was itching to get back to work even though it had only been a few weeks since I’d left my old job.

  Finally it came time to walk through the doors of my new home. I stood out front, taking it all in.

  Here goes nothing.

  I opened the doors and walked right into a short, sassy, blonde who spun around on her heels to be caught like a deer in headlights.

  “Mitch? What the hell?”

  “Hi, Candi. Guess we’re going to be working together.”

  Chapter 13

  Hope by Morgan Jane Mitchell

  Out of breath, I exhale like a bull. My quads burn as I run up the steps. Beads of warm sweat flood my eyes. I don’t stop to wipe my brow. Clamping my eyes shut, I wring them out and keep going, just like I did on the night that haunts me to this day.

  When the alarm sounded that night, I’d longed for a good job, which means a big fire. It was 1am when we, the firemen of Station 3 received the call: an apartment fire on East Jefferson and Main, a three-decker. Everyone hurried to get their bunker gear and get on the trucks.

  Every second counts.

  Speeding down the streets of St. Louis, sirens wailing, we smelled the smoke. A red haze hovered in the mist blanketing the building in grey fog, but I wanted to see the flames. Adrenaline surged through me when I finally spotted them. As I listened to the lieutenant’s orders, the fire at the Himmler Apartment Complex raged brilliantly against the night sky. A blaze flickered in and out of the top windows, it’s fiery tendrils beckoning us inside.

  Some were assigned to put down the line, others to vent the roof, but Tony and I were search and rescue. After all, I was Ian Jones, the Hammer, big and strong enough I could break down doors and drag a three-hundred-pound man out of the basement if needed. Regardless of my strength, I jumped off the truck with my knees knocking but pushed on, although every instinct told me not to go in.

  We go in, that’s what we do.

  Tony though, he was a bit of a doorway dancer. There was always something wrong with his equipment. I stepped in thinking he’d find his balls and be right behind me.

  Inside the fire roared, thundering through my head as I announced as we always do, “Fire Department. Call out.” I then heeded the cries for help. The most urgent screams came from up the stairs right in front of me. I took them just like I run these stairs now. All the way up to the third floor like every second mattered.

  They do.

  At the top of the stairwell, the smoke hung as thick as pea soup. The screams stopped. What’s worse, my eyes started burning. Something was wrong with my SCBA, the self-contained breathing apparatus on the full mask we wear. Damn it—Tony hadn’t been just fighting nerves. All too soon, I was struggling to breathe. With my eyes shut and my arm stretched out, I took cautious steps forward, looking for a wall. Gingerly, I inched on until the unthinkable happened—nothing was under me. It’s like when your sleeping and you feel like your falling, except I really was.

  Damn straight, my eyes shot open, burning or not.

  I fell clean through to the second floor, luckily landing on something soft, a bed, I decided as I stared upwards. The fire seductively rolled across the hole in the ceiling, mesmerizing me for a moment as it lit the room. I sat up quick, taking advantage of the light, immediately detecting the heap on the floor. Crawling over I discovered it was in fact a tiny boy. I scooped the child up easily and got him to the window. As fate would have it, my buddy Braxton had the ladder. He took off his mask and gave the child mouth to mouth right on the windowsill. We still did mouth to mouth back then, not just compressions. The boy breathed, and we got him down the ladder.

  All in a day’s work.

  Four years old, Jacob Lopez died two weeks later.

  Too late.

  People die—it’s just a fact, but I couldn’t shake Jacob. He was my first. We’d visited the little guy in the hospital afterwards. Braxton and I were deemed his heroes, but little lungs can’t handle much smoke.

  Since then, I never long for a good job, but I can’t quit this life either.

  I could’ve turned to heavy drinking. The habit does run in my family, but instead I climb steps every morning—10,000 stairs today to be exact. No matter that I pulled myself together, eventually my wife left me anyway. Not because this job is too dangerous, like I’d always feared. She said I just wasn’t the same man she married.

  No, I’m not the same carefree fool I’d been before. I try to be my best every day because I’ll be meeting people on the worst day of their lives. At the ripe old age of thirty-two, firefighting is my life. I turned down a promotion or two in the last ten years. After all, I can still do the heavy lifting. I transferred stations a few times too, as my buddies moved up and moved on. I’m reminded of this as my phone rings. Checking my phone, I see it’s my little sis’s number. I do the math in my head; Iesha’s twenty-eight now. She’s getting married next week to a guy who works in real estate. I’m happy for her, especially since she won’t have to worry about him not coming home from a job, but it’s a reminder that my years have been lonely. I let her call go to voicemail, promising myself I’ll call her back later.

  This time, I really will.

  Walking into Station 69 just as others are probably waking up, I read the names Martin and Morrison on the side of the trucks, a reminder of the sacrifice every one of us might have to pay one day, our life for another. We are the Firefighters of St. Louis, the second oldest paid fire department in the nation and "justifiably proud". The electric tingles of pride run through me and I know, despite my loneliness, this is where I belong.

  “What the fuck!” Oz is bellowing when I enter our sleeping quarters, heading toward the showers. He has a head full of flour again. “Hey, I’m not a probie anymore,” he whines, shaking his head. A puff of white dust surrounds him. Another rookie, Matt joins him to grumble about someone rigging his bed to collapse in the middle of the night, saying it about scared the shit out of him.

  It’s a classic, propping the bed up with four empty soda cans. Nothing happens right away, then—boom—if you’re lucky, they wet themselves.

  “We’re finding out why they call you mattress,” Brennan hollers from his bunk.

  “Y’all can stop busting our balls anytime now,” Oz announces to the room. Then squinting, he scans it, unable to figure out who’s still messing with them.

  Everyone’s laughing so hard they can barely shrug to claim their innocence.

  I stifle a laugh myself before I step in to tower over the new guys. Pushing out my chest, I give them my scariest, deepest voice. “We'
re supposed to be busting your balls. Problem is we can’t find them.”

  Turning ten shades paler, the two spin around and head to the kitchen.

  “Just remember boys, wet stuff goes on the hot stuff,” I tease as they leave.

  “Quit scaring those boys, Ian,” Candi sputters. She’s still laughing. “And quit using all the flour.”

  “Why, you gonna’ bake me a cake?”

  Candi gives me a glare and punches my arm, hard.

  It earns her a smile. The short blonde is tatted the hell up. Lil’ badass gives me the finger.

  Someone once asked me about the culture of the firehouse—my answer: there’s no culture. Nevertheless, we are family, we’re all the same—no one is any different. Another woman might’ve taken offense, but Candi gets it. And no matter that she’s as green as those boys, I find it much easier to confide in her than my brothers.

  When I step out of the shower room in my grays, our everyday uniform, the girl is waiting for me but looks flustered. “Detective Ritter is here, from the Bomb and Arson Squad.”

  “And?”

  “Well, she’s asking for you.”

  I roll my eyes. I’d gone and told this girl too much. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”

  Candi smiles, but her face quickly straightens when she sees mine go blank.

  Clamping her lips, she shakes her head in defense.

  “I call bullshit.”

  “Alright… Jessica asked who could help her with the investigation into last week’s fire at that vacant apartment building, is all.”

  Jessica? Until this moment I hadn’t known her first name. Immediately, I run a hand over my head and jaw. I’d just shaved my head as I do daily, but thinking of growing it out, I’d left a bit of stubble on my face.

  “You look fine.”

  “I know,” I say, straightening myself anyway.

  I’m a six-foot-two rock of a black man and Detective Ritter is blonde, supermodel material with a badge—and a gun. She’s probably 5’10 because in her heels, her blue eyes meet mine easily.

  “Roll up your sleeves,” Candi suggests before I can leave.

  Knowing what she’s thinking, I start rolling to show off my massive biceps and the black cross tattoo covering one. Good idea since I don’t know if Ritter has ever seen me out of my turnouts.

  Candi steps back to take me in. With her hands on her hips, she nods and grins, declaring me ready to see the detective. Taking a breath, I give the girl a silent nod in return as my stomach knots.

  Over the years, there’s been women, but there’s something about this Detective Jessica Ritter that makes me sweat. Could be the fact she’s smoking hot, single and by all accounts, not looking, unlike most of the women I meet.

  Momma always said we want what we can’t have.

  Though, the last time we met, something happened to give me hope.

  See, if the Captain observes the fire’s burning faster than expected or other oddities, like a kitchen fire burning from the ground up or something, a fire dick is called out to the scene right away, in other words, an arson investigator. For the last year, Detective Ritter has been the one to show up. Of course I noticed her; no man can ignore her body—kickin’ or her easy beauty—she doesn’t try too hard, although most men are absolutely intimidated by the way she walks—like she’s going somewhere.

  Confidence is sexy.

  Firefighting culture, like I said, there’s no culture. Detective Ritter is a breath of fresh air for my smoke filled lungs. Most women I meet want to stuff dollar bills down my drawers. Jessica, she seems like a serious person, professional, like I aim to be most the time and unlike most the personnel and groupies the firehouse attracts.

  And here’s the kicker, serious as she is, she noticed me too.

  When she looks my way her eyes flutter like she’s got an eyelash in her eye and she can’t help a tiny smile from forming on her otherwise stone cold face. I can tell she appreciates the fact I don’t hit on her like most of the crew, especially the rookies, but it’s more than that, her eyes travel all over and around me, almost making me feel violated.

  Last time Ritter came out, we got real close and personal.

  Dressed fine as always in her dark suit pants, white blouse and high heels, she crouched down to study the burn marks on the wall. As one of the first crew in, I waited across the room with the others to give her my statement. All male eyes were on her hind end and mine were no exception. Even the Captain, happily married man he was, cleared his throat as he watched her shapely backside gracefully rise. All of our eyes innocently darted away when Ritter turned to face us. She started to cross the room to proceed with her normal questioning, but all of a sudden her heel got caught in the wooden floorboards and broke. Her face twisted in surprise as she began to fall forward. Luckily, I’d been taking in her every movement. I reacted. I caught her, holding her for an all too brief moment before I let her go. In that millisecond, we were locked in an embrace of sorts, face to face. Behind her fluttering lids, deep in her pale blue eyes, I saw a flicker.

  I recognize fire when I see it.

  Breathlessly, she stepped back, like the wind had been knocked out of her. She looked down at her shirt. My eyes followed hers to discover two large sooty hand prints on her white blouse, covering her breasts—my hand prints. Yes, I’d caught her by the knockers. My brain scrambled to remember what they’d felt like in my hands— overflowing, soft, hot. Color flamed her cheeks, turning them as crimson as the fire truck out front. Heat rose in me too. Laughing it off, Ritter, Jessica took my filthy hand, gripping it, rubbing it, shaking it. Smoke was coming out of my ears at this point. Her teeth grazing her plump bottom lip as she thanked me, doused my fire with gasoline. Hell, I was thankful I was still in full gear so she couldn’t see what I was packing.

  Leaning on the door frame of the Captain’s office, this woman waits for me now. She’s wearing a skirt today, unfortunately only showing off her pale but well-defined calves since it’s flowing well past her knees. Turning her head, her short wavy, golden hair whips around. Her sparkling eyes meet mine as she speaks, “Ah, Jones. I was unaware the Captain would be out today.”

  “Until noon tomorrow,” I manage with a business face although every part of me wants to flash a crazy smile.

  Her eyes travel up and down my body as she nibbles her big bottom lip. “Thanks for volunteering to go over the Himmler case with me.”

  I rake my hand over my bald head and watch her eyes follow my tatted bicep up. I coolly tell her, “No problem.”

  With a jut of her head, she guides me into the office. Pictures are laid out all over the chief’s desk. Upon a quick closer look, I realize they’re the photos we took of the crowd at the scene she’s investigating.

  “Notice anything unusual?” she asks, resting her back side against the desk.

  I take a good look. “Nah. Same as always.” There’s a relatively small group of onlookers pictured, just as I remembered. In these photos, with the fire barely cold, the people are all smiling, laughing. “You’d think we were throwing them a party.”

  “Fire excites people,” she states with no inflection at all.

  “Fire is dangerous,” I emphasize the last word.

  “Look.” She points to a picture of the neighboring building before producing a blown up version over top of it. “There’s a man looking out the window.”

  Sure enough there’s a pixely blob. “So?”

  “That building was supposedly vacant too.”

  I look into her beautiful eyes, really look. “You think this is your firebug?”

  Her eyes flutter a mile a minute.

  My heart skips a beat.

  She starts gathering the photos. “Not just an arsonist, a murderer.”

  I hold my elation at her reaction to me in tight. “Yeah, the crispy crit… I mean victim.” We’d found a body. We never assume someone is killed by the fire, especially since the fire destroys nearly
all the evidence. They could’ve been dead already.

  Ritter buzzes around the desk, gathering some files.

  “And you were there for the first fire too?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t say much more. Those buildings have sat vacant for ten years since that first fire, the fire that still haunts me, gives me nightmares. Trying to save the main building last week was hard enough.

  “I have everyone’s statement. Are you sure the front door was locked.”

  “I always check the knob before I kick a door in.” I cross my big arms in front of me.

  Her eyes travel to them again before she gazes at her watch. “I’ll pick you up around six tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah.” She blows out air and her bangs rise. “I’m swamped until then, and I should have the search warrant filed by then. We’ll be inspecting the adjacent building.”

  “Sure.”

  Damn, it’s a pleasure to watch her walk out of the office. “Wear street clothes,” she throws over her shoulder.

  My brow scrunches in wonder as she disappears completely.

  I spend an uneventful day, first eating a big breakfast with the crew—thankfully some of these motherfuckers can cook, then doing house work. It’s Friday so we’re cleaning from top to bottom unless there’s an alarm. There’s a call out to a wreck but another station jumps the call. We go back to cleaning. Then we get a call about a pooch stuck in someone’s couch of all places. “Send McPussy out.”

  By six pm, some of the boys are out front washing the trucks. Speedy and Logan have their shirts off, squirting each other with the hose. Two women are standing across the street obviously watching the show, probably drooling over these men but to me these boys look for damn sure like little girls having a pillow fight.

  Speedy calls out to me, “Looking good, Hammer. Got a date?”

  Ritter had said to wear regular clothes for some reason, so I dressed in dark jeans and a black button up. Who am I kidding? I put in a lot more effort than usual even deciding to shave the stubble. I don’t answer him but give them both a don’t fuck with me right now look. Logan reads my frustration with satisfaction, knowing they’re onto something, and raises his eyebrows in return. Swinging the hose around like a lasso, he silently threatens to soak me.