Page 82 of Reckless
Alex’s snort returned with renewed intensity. “You’ve had a hard-on for a promotion to squad for the last year, easy, Everett. You’ve busted your balls on a metric ton of extra training, and your name is headlining the short list. Crews comes to tell you that not only is a spotfinallyopening up—at your home station, no less—but that Cap wants to see you as soon as he gets back from that redistricting meeting at the chief’s office, too? Yeah, man. I’m going to be ‘doing this’”—Alex paused to sketch air quotes around the words with his gloved fingers and a pop of laughter—“until you come out of Captain Westin’s office and confirm that as usual, I’m right, all that ruler-straight planning of yours has finally paid dividends, and your elitist ass is moving to squad.”
Despite the highly ingrained superstitious streak that Cole shared with pretty much every other firefighter on the planet, he cracked a grin. “There could be fifty different things Cap might want to talk to me about,” he said, but damn it, hope still flared in his chest.
“Uh-huh. And forty-nine of them qualify as bullshit.” Alex reached out to palm the handle to the door leading from the restaurant back to the sunbaked pavement where Engine Eight stood in all its bright red, lights-flashing glory. “Squad’s been running light ever since Jensen got promoted to lieutenant and moved to Station Twenty-Six last month, and with the redistricting that went through four months ago, they’re running way too many calls not to replace him permanently.”
“Yeah,” Cole said, although his agreement was short-lived. “But I don’t exactly have a stunt double. Moving me to squad would leave us down a man on engine.”
Alex, being Alex, refused to be swayed. “Funny thing about firefighters is they’re always making more. The academy just spit out a fresh batch of candidates last week. And even though Jonesey’s still technically at the six-month mark, he’s catching his stride. Shit, he’s barely a rookie anymore, and anyway, it’s not as if Eight has never had two candidates at once.”
No arguing the truth there. Hell, he and Alex were walking, talking proof. But still, Cole’s ironclad calm stood its ground against the yes-yes-yes trying to build in his gut. “Okay, but just because there’s a spot opening up on squad doesn’t mean I’m going to be the one to get it.”
For as much as Alex joked, squadwaselite. While fire and rescue was their primary function, Cole couldn’t deny that the hazmat response, the water rescue, and the specialized calls like building collapses that squad also handled gave him a giant fucking hard-on. But half the FFD had the same career boner. Plenty of guys were gunning for a chance to prove their mettle on squad, and Cole had already been passed over once for a spot at another house. Granted, the firefighter who’d ended up landing the position instead had more seniority and training at the time, but being passed by had only made Cole work his strategy even harder.
He didn’t just want to be a firefighter. Hell, he didn’t even want to be elite. He needed to be the best, and that meant landing a spot on the rescue squad.
After all, if there was one thing his old man had taught him decades ago, it was how to prove the hell out of his worth.
“I don’t know,” Alex said, his cocky tone going uncharacteristically soft as his words yanked Cole back to the here and now of Oak Street. “Call me crazy, but I think your number’s up, dude. I’ve got a really good feeling about this one.”
Cole barked out a laugh. He might usually take the easy-does-it route, but this was too good to pass up. “Afeeling? Seriously, Teflon. Does Zoe keep your nuts in her purse?”
A lightning-fast smile flickered across Alex’s face at the mention of his girlfriend’s name. Jesus, after only five months, the guy had it so bad, Cole couldn’t even enjoy mocking him. Even if Donovan was talking crooked out of his ass right now.
“First of all”—Alex tugged open the side compartment door on Engine Eight, swinging his Halligan bar inside with a metallic clunk—“that’s pretty rich coming from a guy who’s as unlaid as a pile of goddamn bricks. Christ, Everett. The last time you had sex, there was snow on the ground.”
Ouch.“I have…” Cole counted backward, his argument dying in his throat. When the hell had August rolled around?
“Not. Sorry, brother, but doing the no-pants dance with your hand doesn’t count,” Donovan said over a smirk. He tossed Cole a bottle of water from one of the storage coolers before swooping in for the kill. “And secondly, just because my gut feeling can’t be neatly quantified by one of your elaborate Spock strategies doesn’t mean it’s not spot-on. I’m telling you. Something major is going down at Eight, and it’s going down today.”
“Maybe.” Cole turned his glance about fifty yards up the street, where it landed on the guys from Station Eight’s rescue squad. Theyhadbeen running light ever since Jensen’s promotion, with only four regular guys on C-shift and a floater here and there on weekends when they tended to go on more calls. Calls that had gone to nearly time and a half since the city had widened Station Eight’s response district last month.
Ah, screw it. For all their smack talk, it wasn’t as if Donovan didn’t know the score, and all of Cole’s planning and preparation did have him logically poised to get the next available placement on squad.
“I just want the spot, you know?” His throat locked over the massive understatement, and he uncapped his water for a long swallow. “Guess I don’t want to jinx it.”
“I get it,” Alex said, his tone backing up the sentiment for just a second before he added, “But it’s kind of hard to jinx a sure thing. Just don’t forget us common folk over on engine when you transfer over to squad, all fancy and shit.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Cole opened his mouth to deliver a decidedlyun-fancy directive when their lieutenant cleared his throat from behind them.
“You two done gossiping over here?” Crews asked, the barely-there lift of his brows the only thing keeping his expression out of dead neutral. For a guy who was six-two and two hundred and thrity pounds even before he slung on his turnout gear, the man’s stealth was actually pretty frightening.
“Yes, sir. As soon as Everett braids my hair, we’ll be all set.”
Cole shifted his SCBA tank from his shoulders, fixing Alex with a deadpan stare. “Don’t be an asshole, Donovan. It’s your turn to braid my hair.”
Crews shook his head, but hiding the smile hinting at the corners of his mouth was pretty much impossible. “Jesus Christ. It’s like kiddie hour over here. You’re worse than my kids. What are you guys, twelve?”
“Great timing, Jonesey,” Alex said, tipping his chin as the rookie made his way over to the engine and unstrapped his helmet. “Crews was just talking about you.”
Jones grabbed a bottle of water, pouring half of it over his blond head before pausing to down the rest. “We can’t all be geriatric like you, Donovan.”
“Careful, Jones.” Crews wagged one gloved finger at the rookie. “I’ve got seven years on Teflon, here, and I have no problem taking each and every one of them out on you for the rest of this shift.”
“With respect, sir, you’d have to catch me first. And if there’s one thing you’ve taught me, it’s how to be slicker than owl snot.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the lieutenant grumbled, although a smile threaded through his words. “Get your ass on the rig before I decide I want the workout.”
Cole fought the bubble of laughter rising in his chest and lost. But it took a shitload more than a little smack talk to rattle Crews, or any of them, really. Thin-skinned firefighters lasted less than ten seconds, and that was before anything even caught on fire.
