Page 83 of Reckless
“By the way,” Donovan said, delivering a firm but friendly nudge to Jones’s shoulder as they turned toward the engine, “I just turned thirty, dude. I’m in my fucking prime. Once you finish puberty, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Jones’s smile was a flash of white teeth against his soot-smudged face. “Whatever you say, Father Time. Whatever you say.”
They all finished the trip to their respective spots in the engine, with Alex and Jonesey climbing into the back step and Crews storing his coat and helmet before sinking into the officer’s seat in the front of the vehicle. Cole slid behind the wheel. He’d been driving Engine Eight more often than not for the last year, but man, the operator’s spot never got old. He’d miss it when his strategy finally panned out and he moved to squad. Whenever that happened to be.
Damn, he wanted it to be today.
Anticipation swirled with hope to form a potent one-two punch in his veins. Considering how exclusive rescue squads were, Cole had come to terms with the fact that he’d almost certainly have to leave Station Eight in order to be on one. Spots were few and far between across the board, and with an abundance of qualified guys looking to fill them, being choosy about location wasn’t really on the options menu. Of all the things he’d had to gut through in the last two years’ worth of studying and planning and training, leaving the station he’d called home for the last eight years had been the only thing to make Cole hesitate. The firefighters and paramedics at Eight weren’t just his coworkers. Hell, they weren’t evenjusthis friends.
Every single person who punched the clock at Station Eight was his family. They had his back, all the time, every time.
Which was more than Cole could say about the people he was actually related to.
He stiffened against the well-worn operator’s seat, his knuckles going tight over the wheel, and he battened down to extinguish the uncharacteristic spark of emotion pulsing through his rib cage. All this back and forth about the open spot on squad was turning his focus into tapioca. Searching for the control he normally wore like his favorite weather-beaten bomber jacket, Cole ordered the facts in his mind.
Crews had made it clear that a position was opening up on squad, and he’d been equally crystal about Captain Westin wanting a one-on-one as soon as he got back from his trip to chief’s office. Westin might keep a keen eye on every man at Eight, but like the rest of them, he wasn’t exactly an air-your-feelings kind of guy. Every meeting had a purpose. Private meetings all the more. And despite giving it his very best effort, Cole couldn’t come up with a single reason Cap would ask for a sit-down with him, save one.
Holy shit. After eight years as a firefighter and over a year of actively training for the rescue squad, Cole was going to get promoted.
Today.
His excitement burst out by way of a smile as he finessed Engine Eight into the far right side of the engine bay. A quick visual tour of the two-story concrete and cinder-block space revealed Captain Westin’s city-issued Suburban sitting quietly in its designated spot, and Cole swung a glance at Crews from across the cab of the engine with his pulse hammering.
“Unless you need me to help off-load the rig, I’m going to go see Cap, as requested.” He hung the words between them like a question—it might be his last day on Engine, but Crews was still his lieutenant. Scrimping on the respect that went with that definitely wasn’t on Cole’s agenda, squad or no squad.
Crews acquiesced with a tight nod. “Copy that,” he said, waiting for Donovan and Jones to jump down from the back step and start moving through the engine bay before he tacked on, “Hey, Everett?”
“Yeah?” Cole paused, but God, Crews’s expression was a wall of stone.
“Take your time.”
Cole took a few seconds to let the surprise from the lieutenant’s comment bounce through him before he followed the guy’s lead and clambered down from his seat in the engine. For a second, he thought about a quick trip to the locker room to trade his sweat-damp T-shirt and bunker pants for something decidedly less worked in, but screw it. Cap might run a tight house, but they were hardly a decorous bunch. He settled for tugging a hand through his hair to straighten what he could and making sure his FFD T-shirt was tucked in before hitting the hallway leading into the station.
The din of voices and various kitchen sounds filtered in from the main room at the heart of the house, but Cole continued down the stretch of gray linoleum he’d mopped just this morning. Aiming his boots into a hard left, he found himself at the end of what everyone at Station Eight referred to as the hall of pictures. Frame after frame of photos and commendations lined the walls on either side, so many that the painted black picture frames were stacked four, sometimes five high. They spanned the two decades that Station Eight had operated from this building, the same two decades that Captain Westin had been at the helm, and a shiver ghosted down Cole’s spine as his boots echoed over the floor.
Practice drills. Company barbecues. Active fires. Flash flood rescues. The group shot of everyone in the house slung arm in arm that had been taken not even two months ago in front of the house. The first responders he worked with every shift, who he knew without question would always have his six.
He was so goddamn grateful not to be leaving this place.
Cole placed a no-nonsense knock on the door at the end of the hallway, sliding a deep inhale all the way into his lungs as Captain Westin waved him in through the glass panel set in the wooden frame.
“Come on in, Everett. Go ahead and close the door.”
Cole’s pulse joined forces with his breath in a game of tag-team body betrayal at Westin’s non-question, but he didn’t hesitate to step over the threshold and pull the door shut. Westin waited until Cole had planted his boots on the floor tiles across from his desk before removing his reading glasses to pin Cole with a steely bronze stare.
“I’m sure by now Crews has told you we’ve been approved by the city to add a permanent position to Squad Eight.” Westin delivered the words with the same straightforward tone he used on everything from fire drills to five-alarm blazes, and Cole tried his damnedest to return the favor as he answered.
“Yes, sir.”
“And am I correct to assume that per your active application on the city database, you’re still interested in transitioning from engine to squad?”
Adrenaline whisked through Cole’s blood stream in a hot burst. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Westin said, the slightest smile edging up at the corners of his mouth before his expression smoothed back to business as usual. “Then let’s not dance around the bullshit just so we can call it a party, shall we? I’ve spoken with Lieutenant Osborne about the position we have opening up here at Eight, and we both agree you’d be a good fit.”
Cole barely managed to get his “thank you” past all theholy shitbarging through his chest. Dennis Osborne had been a firefighter for almost as long as Captain Westin, with nearly a decade under his belt as a lieutenant on squad. Getting the salty old man’s stamp of approval as rescue squad material was like winning the lottery. Only with steeper odds.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Westin’s lifted blond-gray brows sent a sheen of moisture over Cole’s palms, but he’d seen enough guys come and go on both engine and squad to know the drill.
