Sizzle (St. Martin Family Saga): Emergency Responders

by Gina Watson

  Clay sat on the truck’s bumper and watched as Jackson tinkered with an oxygen tank. Clay scrubbed his jaw with his hand, not sure how to say what he wanted to say. It had been evident that school was getting harder as Jackson neared the end of the program, and Clay wanted to ask Jackson if he needed assistance.

  “If you need help with anything at all—a place to stay, money, time off from this place, just someone to talk to—I hope you know you could come to me or anyone in the family. You’re our long-lost brother.”

  Jackson turned and offered a sincere smile. He propped his foot on the bumper, resting a hand on his knee. “You know after my parents died, it was hard. The only thing that got me through was you and your family. Getting through the holidays is always difficult, but I can’t imagine doing it without you guys.”

  Money had been tight, but Jackson wouldn’t accept any. He said he was getting by, but Clay knew he needed to maintain thirty hours per week at the station to keep his finances in order. Lately he’d been asking for extra hours, and the fool had worked fifty-two last week.

  “If you need help with anything, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  Jackson dropped his hand on Clay’s shoulder. “You know I will, but I’d like to try to make it on my own. I’ll know when I need to ask for help.”

  “When a Man Loves a Woman” shot through the air from Jackson’s cellphone, where it lay on the bumper next to Clay’s thigh.

  “That’s Clara’s favorite song,” Clay said. Since the phone was out of Jackson’s reach, Clay picked it up and inadvertently glanced down as he passed it to Jackson. The image of Clara’s face filled the screen. “Hey, it’s actually Clara calling.”

  Jackson smiled widely and then wiped the goofy grin clear before he cut off the ring. “It’s nothing. She’s probably just looking for you.” He pocketed the phone.

  Clay felt for his phone in his pocket to make sure it was still there. “My phone hasn’t rung. Had she wanted me, she would’ve called.”

  Jackson turned and picked up a package. “Got some new barrel strainers in. You wanna load them?”

  Clay sat for a moment and stared hard at Jackson. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out a connection between Jackson and Clara. Maybe because there wasn’t one. He shook his head to clear it. Thinking about the barrel strainers, he walked to the tool compartment. The acting sieves were worn.

  “Yeah, let’s stock a couple new strainers.”

  A bell rang loud and crisp through the air, announcing the call to lunch. Clay couldn’t wait to see the rookie decked out in his special attire.

  “I don’t think I have to ask if you’re ready for this,” Jackson said, already grinning.

  “You better believe it. I’m going to run and grab the department camera. I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

  They laughed as they geared up for what promised to be soul-cleansing satisfaction.

  ***

  When Clay entered the dining room, the others were seated around the table discussing their workday plans. Two probies emerged from the kitchen with pitchers of tea and bowls full of ice cubes. Behind them came Keith carrying a pan of hamburger steak and even though Clay was ravenous, he forgot about his stomach. He laughed until tears leaked from his eyes. He tried twice to speak, but couldn’t. The kid was frozen in the doorway as he panned the room that had been rendered speechless at the sight of him.

  Clay didn’t want to be mean to the kid, but he had to teach him to respect experience and authority. While those things might not be as important as they once were, in the field of firefighting they could mean life over death.

  Keith looked even more ridiculous than Clay had imagined. His hairy white legs were long beneath the short skirt that barely covered his ass. The black offset the white in the costume and as he walked, the heavy layer of ruffles rubbed and crunched. The bodice was strapless and had a large white bow between what should have been breasts, but the boy had no cleavage. Thigh-high stockings hung like donuts around his ankles. As he walked into the room on black stiletto heels, he teeter-tottered, working to keep his balance. Hollywood, aptly named because it took him so long to get his hair just right, relieved Keith of the tray of meat and offered him a feather duster in return. Clay started snapping pictures, circling to get the getup from every angle. The back of the costume had a corset binding that trussed the kid up like a holiday game bird.

  Pumper stood and gave the welcome. “Probies, you will be given nicknames as they come to us. We’ve already assigned one name.” Pumper turned to Clay. “Chief, you’ve been calling him Joker, but I think you’ll agree he’s more a Colette than a Joker.”

  Clay lowered the camera. He cocked his head as he eyed the kid. “I agree. And if anyone asks, were it me, I think I’d say it has to do with coal baguettes rather than a French maid.”

  A lunch of hamburger steak, buttered noodles, and carrots was served. There was nothing French about the lunch except for the bread, and Clay ate three huge helpings. He’d worked up an appetite running drills all morning. As they were clearing the table, the alarm went off. Luckily for Colette, he’d already changed back into his T-shirt and cargo pants. This would be his first non-simulated fire.

  The experienced firemen were already halfway to the engines. Clay stuck his head into the kitchen to see the three greenhorns, eyes wide, staring back at him.

  “Let’s move!” Clay bellowed, and the probies shot into action like projectiles from a long-barrel cannon.

  While they rode to the scene, Clay checked the fastenings on Keith’s jacket and tested the kid on proper use of the respirator. Clay went through the protocol and waited for Keith to affirm he understood.

  “I thought you were going to call me Colette.”

  “It’s fine to joke around, but when we’re on a call, it’s serious. Your mind should be focused and your ego in check. Colette does not a hero make, and I’m not dead set on Joker either.”

  Clay winked at the kid and he smiled. Clay trusted that with the ice broken, Keith would listen and follow every directive.

  The call led them to an apartment building. When they arrived, smoke billowed from the third-floor windows. Keith followed his lead as he leaped from the engine before it stopped. Clay turned to the rookie and got in his face.

  “No matter what happens, you stay right beside me. On my ass.”

  From the radio attached to his shoulder, Clay knew a child was trapped in apartment 307. Without hesitation, Clay and Keith, and Ace with his rookie, ran up the stairs. At 307, smoke curled under and around the door.

  “Everybody get back.”

  Clay used his axe—and two well-placed swings—to break the door open.

  “Get down!” he directed as thick black smoke crackled in the air. He lifted the respirator hanging from Keith’s gear. “Mask on. Glue yourself to me.”

  “Clay, we need to wait for a hose team.”

  He turned to Ace. “No time.” He turned again and crossed the threshold. Oxygen sucked into the apartment stirred the air, and the fire roared in response. Clay heard the flash before he saw it, and he tucked and rolled out of the entrance and into the room. He turned a three sixty, but Keith was nowhere.

  “Keith!” His shout was swallowed by the consuming fire.

  He was about to head back to look for Keith, but the wall buckled and fire flashed into his path, rendering passage impossible. The fire started at the bulge in the wall and followed a flint line across the living room to the corner and up to the ceiling. The air conditioner must have switched on somewhere because fire danced and then dissipated near the intake vents. He looked around for output vents so he wouldn’t be caught in the crosshairs as they spat fire.

  “Keith!”

  A child’s scream came from down the hall, and Clay was pulled in that direction.

  Desperation ate at his gut as he thought about the kid not making it out and the choice he would have to make—as one man he wouldn’t be able to save two, so he was
going after the screaming child.

  As he went deeper down the long narrow passage, thick smoke replaced fire and he was pushed to his knees to avoid damaging his lungs. Shit, he should have a mask but he didn’t like to wear one because it made him feel like he was suffocating. The baby’s cries grew louder. He advanced into a room and saw the crib. The child was clutching the slats and screaming. Smoke was stirring overhead, but the baby was low enough that he hadn’t inhaled much.

  Clay stood and hustled to the crib. “Hey, little fella. You ready to get out of here?”

  His voice was weakened from the inhalation of smoke. The child opened his arms to Clay and bounced up and down on the mattress. Clay lifted him from the crib. “All right, I gotcha.”

  With the kid in his arms, he advanced down the hall, staying low enough that the smoke didn’t get them. The fire had fully engulfed the entrance and there was no possible way he’d be leaving how he’d entered. The flames barring their passage turned from raging orange-yellow to cooler shades of blue. The color and calm were trying to play tricks on his mind, enticing him to walk through the flames, but he knew the only thing he could control about fire was his place within it.

  In his gut, that path of least resistance didn’t feel right. For starters, the entire place was engulfed, so where were the bulk of the flames? Hidden like an iceberg. And Clay preferred his enemies where he could see them. He was reminded of the complete lack of control he had in this situation. He needed to make a decision. He looked ahead and back and then ahead again. He didn’t want to go out the window, but his body wouldn’t let him advance. And he’d listen to his body’s warning because he’d seen what could happen when a firefighter didn’t. His mentor had died in a warehouse fire that still gave Clay nightmares. Fire couldn’t be controlled. It couldn’t be bargained with. And it sure as hell couldn’t be trusted.

  He turned and headed back down the hallway. Two seconds later a blast shot out from the spot where he’d have been had he taken the other route. He pulled the child closer and thanked God for foresight. He radioed for a ladder to the south-facing window. He didn’t want the child to breathe in any smoke, so it was time to get down and crawl. They made their way slowly and cautiously. He was especially slow because he carried the boy, but pace was something he could control. Beneath his feet he felt the weakening of the floor and as they were on the third floor, he needed to test every step before he committed to it. It took all his composure and discipline to stay steady and not make a mad dash for the window.

  When they did reach the window, the ladder was there. The glass had been blown out, and he was easily able to climb out with the child.

  When he felt the cleansing fresh air on his face, he breathed deep. He thought his eyes were watering from the smoke and his throat felt thick and knotted. He shook it off. As the ladder descended, he looked over the boy in his arms. His exuberance caused a heavy weight to settle on his chest. He felt close to tears but didn’t want to alarm the child. “What’s your name, huh?”

  “Dooper.”

  Clay hitched a brow. “Dooper? That’s different”

  The boy squealed in laughter. Then he leaned into Clay and clearly enunciated. “Cooper.”

  “Ah, Cooper.”

  The boy looked around as they were slowly lowered to the ground. Tenants and other bystanders cheered with whistles and claps as Clay exited the ladder bucket with the child in his arms.

  The paramedics were ready to receive them but couldn’t get close because the boy’s mother ran up and grasped her son while her free arm pulled at Clay’s neck so hard it made him lean into her.

  “Cooper! Oh my God, thank you.” She kissed her son’s head and then she kissed Clay’s cheek.

  Ace walked by, reminding him that he needed to speak to Keith right away. He’d heard over the radio that the kid had made it out, and he was relieved, but he’d felt helpless, one man torn between saving two individuals when he couldn’t possibly save them both. And Keith would be hearing about that, about Clay’s fury and helplessness. Mostly about Clay’s fury. And his disappointment in the probie.

  “Ma’am.” He nodded at the baby’s mother. “Cooper, you’re a brave boy.” He tousled his hair and Cooper reached for him. He took the boy in his arms and hugged him tight.

  When they pulled apart, Cooper pointed to the building and said, “Fire.”

  Clay looked toward the apartment. “That’s right, it’s on fire.” The boy kissed his cheek, and Clay handed him off to Jackson, who was ready to check him out, and then Clay jogged over to the engines.

  “Say, Ace, have you seen Keith?”

  “Over on the far side of the building.” He pointed with his chin.

  When Clay found him, the kid was leaning with his hands propped against the brick wall, retching little more than spittle and dry heaves. He’d already hurled his guts—the meal he’d served so elegantly—to the ground.

  “What happened in there?”

  “I got scared, man. I hesitated.”

  Clay removed his helmet. “Yeah, nothing wrong with getting scared. But you didn’t trust me. I told you to fucking stay right beside me. Had you been following my goddam orders, you wouldn’t have had time to think about going in or not.”

  Keith spat on the ground and water sluiced down his face. He wouldn’t look at Clay.

  Clay turned but he was so pissed, venom ran through his veins. He whirled and stomped back toward the kid.

  “Today you were lucky. But if you’d been in trouble, I wouldn’t have been able to focus on both you and the child. If I don’t know where you are, I can’t waste valuable time searching when there are others to rescue.” Clay slammed a fist against the wall. “You little shit, you drew my focus away from the child.”

  Keith shrugged. “I get it.”

  Clay pushed at Keith’s shoulder, turning him so he’d have to look Clay in the eye. “I don’t think you do. The average person goes to work every day and never once thinks about losing his life. In this job it’s something we think about whenever there’s a call. And you know why? We think about it because it can so easily happen.”

  “Yeah, well, you had it all under control. You’re a fucking hero.”

  “You’re goddamn right, and if you ever wanna be a fucking hero, you’ll do what I say. Keep your head in the game, and we’ll all be better off.”

  Keith’s eyes were on Clay now and they went from wide to beady. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re too goddam cocky. You don’t respect authority or the lives of others. What pisses me off the most is that your death would have been on my hands.” He pushed into the kid’s space and squared his shoulders, calling on every inch of his height. Keith’s jaw dropped as he looked up.

  “You’ll sit out the rest of the week.” His voice was quiet and flat. “If at any time you’re out of arm’s reach of the engine, you’re out for good. Do you hear me, probie? And if I for one moment guess that your cocky attitude at this moment comes from anything other than covering up your fear, you’re out. You make a mistake in this field and someone dies. The rules are simple—don’t break up the team. That’s it. You broke protocol and you broke my trust. I’m not sure it can be rebuilt.”

  As he turned to walk away, Clay heard the kid vomit again. The dressing down was for his own good. Clay understood being scared—shit, he’d been scared plenty of times—but the kid would need to figure out now if he could stomach the job or not. Lives couldn’t be risked as he sorted out his shit. He’d come around, but until he was ready, he’d sit out.

  Clay was wound up tight and craved the only thing that could bring him release. He knew what he needed, where he could get it, and knew he needed it now. After his shift, he’d be making a visit to the Hoodoo Pot, Baton Rouge’s most elite members-only sex club.

  ***

  2

  That night Clay was dressed in his only pair of distressed jeans and a threadbare cotton shirt that had prove
n to drive the ladies wild. He was en route to the Hoodoo Pot, with plans to meet his best friend, Augie, at the club.

  Clay spotted Augie at the bar, a woman hanging on to each arm.

  “How’s the sheriff of East Baton Rouge feeling tonight?”

  Augie turned and extended his hand. Clay shook it while the girls smiled and eyed him up and down and up again. “There’s the fire chief. Clay, meet Alexis and Brianna.”

  One of the girls placed her hand on his chest while the other clasped her palm to his neck. He sidestepped to shake the intimate contact.

  “Easy there, we’ve got all night.”

  Alexis cooed. Brianna looked up from beneath fake lashes and placed the tip of her index finger between her teeth.

  Augie nodded. “I understand Brianna here likes to be bound.”

  She smiled around the finger between her teeth. Clay felt his cock twitch. Now he was having to remind himself to take it slow because they had all night and he intended to release some pent-up frustration. To calm himself, he took in his surroundings.

  The red walls of the club combined with the syncopated techno beat always made Clay think of a womb. The bar was black, with buttoned-leather detailing, and the chairs were the same style, only red leather. The place looked like it had been hosed down in cherry Jell-O.

  “How ’bout we take over one of the booths.” Augie nodded in the direction he intended to steer and handed Clay a draft of Good Doctor Pancreas Beer. Good Doc beers were the invention of one of Clay’s brothers and named in honor of his days in med school. The beer was damn good, and Logan had finally gotten it on tap at a few bars in Baton Rouge. Clay was proud of his brother’s success with the brewery and with his personal life. Each of his brothers seemed lucky, newly in love, leaving Clay the exception, a fact that had him thinking too much about his future lately. Several times he’d concluded that if all he ever had were club women, he would make the sex count.

  He sat on the red leather, U-shaped booth, and Brianna sidled up next to him.