by Cassie Cole
Christian’s calm voice filled my helmet. “Roger that. Hit the far side when you’re ready. We’ll tackle the near.”
“Ready,” I said to Sparks.
The hose bucked as he opened the nozzle and let loose a stream of high-pressure water. We kept walking around the side of the building while hitting it with water; our job was to soak the farthest room and keep the fire from spreading, while Christian and Angel hit the room closest to the front door. If we contained the fire we could then move inward toward the point of origin, but for now halting the spread was most important.
Two other engines arrived soon after and added their hoses to our endeavor, but I only barely noticed them. For the next 10 minutes Sparks and I were a single hose with four legs, moving without needing to speak. Our other differences didn’t matter. Right now we were a team.
Slowly, the fire bowed down before our collective streams.
13
Angel
All I saw was smoke.
It was dangerous when visibility was so poor. You could walk underneath a smoldering ceiling and never know you were about to be buried alive. The heat would warn you before reaching actual flames, but there were other dangers. Tripping over small objects could be deadly in this environment. Getting your SCBA hose tangled would mean suddenly suffocating. The list of ways a firefighter could die was long.
Yet I trusted Christian. I had to. Though I couldn’t see him I was aware of his movements by the tug of the hose, and the way it kicked when he suddenly let loose a stream of water. Occasionally the smoke changed from black to grey, meaning he had hit some of the fire. The steam and smoke mixed together into a dark slush on my mask, which smeared when I tried to wipe it off.
“First office contained,” Christian said before moving deeper.
“Roger,” I said.
We completed our work blind, one cautious step forward at a time. Other engines arrived and joined our channel, coordinating their hose attacks from the outside. Another team was entering in through the back door, which made for a pincer attack along with us.
We were dousing the point of origin room—or so I assumed based on the increased heat—when Christian suddenly said, “Angel?”
“Yeah?”
“I slept with Amy.”
The words were so unexpected and out of place that it took a few seconds for them to register. “Dude.”
“We’re on a private channel. I wanted to tell you.”
“This isn’t the best time!” I shot back, and thankfully he didn’t say any more.
With the combined efforts of four hoses on the point of origin, the fire was eventually extinguished. As the smoke cleared we backtracked with the hose while two other engines entered to check for structural damage.
It was only 45 degrees outside, but after the intense heat of the building the cold air hitting my sweaty face felt like heaven. We left the hose at the front door; we needed to cut the water before folding it back up on the truck.
“First of all,” I said, “why the fuck are you telling me something like that while we’re in an IDHL environment?”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. To his credit he looked embarrassed.
“Second…”
I wasn’t sure what to say next. My immediate instinct was to scold him for sleeping with Amy, a member of our unit. It was one of the biggest unspoken rules when working with members of the opposite sex. The stakes were too high in this line of work to risk damaging it with romantic complications.
But I couldn’t scold him because I’d been lusting after Amy too.
I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself, but it was true. She was hot. And smart, and funny, and extremely competent at her job. It was hard not to like her.
“Second?” Christian asked, waiting to see what I would say.
You know what the truth was? I wasn’t upset Christian had slept with her. I was glad that someone else had violated the unspoken rule first. Had tested the waters so I didn’t have to. With that barrier now broken…
“Second, when did it happen?” I asked.
While Amy and Sparks finished their work on the side of the building, Christian told me what had happened last night. I couldn’t help but laugh: they’d done it right in the common room and we hadn’t noticed?
“What if we had walked in on you guys?”
Christian rubbed his face, which only succeeded in spreading more black soot across his cheeks. “I asked her the exact same thing. And you know what she said?”
“What?”
“She said you guys were free to join us.”
I felt my heart race. “Was she joking?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? I couldn’t tell. She was distracting me.”
“You think she would… With us…”
“I don’t know what to think,” he said.
I watched Amy and Sparks cut their hose and lay it on the ground, then start walking back to us. She removed her helmet and shook out her hair, which managed to look beautiful even though it was matted with sweat.
“Have you told Sparks?”
Christian barked a laugh. “Nope. How do you think he’ll take it?”
“The same way he takes everything.”
We ceased our conversation as they reached us. “Not bad, huh?” she said with half a grin.
“Everyone evacuated safely,” Christian agreed. “We all worked well. Nicely done Station 47.”
“You did alright, Netty,” Sparks said. Amy flinched at the nickname, but then playfully shoved him as he walked away.
An idea came to me. “Hey. I have a secret to tell you.”
I leaned in close to whisper in Amy’s ear.
14
Amy
Angel breathed in my ear, hot and smoky.
I gasped.
“Elvis!”
Sparks stopped dead in his tracks like someone had hit the pause button on the remote control.
“Your name is Elvis?” I said, punctuated with an incredulous laugh.
“My name is Sparks,” he said.
“Elvis Johnson,” I said loudly. “No wonder you kept it a secret.”
“I didn’t keep anything a secret,” he said, face flushing behind his smattering of freckles.
“You should have been a country music star instead of a firefighter.”
“Oh God, can you imagine Sparks singing?” Christian said. Angel laughed loudly.
“Still better than Amonette,” Sparks muttered before disappearing behind the engine.
I put a hand on Angel’s chest. “Thank you for that.”
He smiled warmly. “He had it coming.”
“We did a good job today,” Christian said, changing the subject. “You were quick on the hydrant.”
“The practice run yesterday certainly helped,” I said. “Speaking of that, what are the odds the same room in the same building catches fire two days in a row?”
“That’d be a hell of a coincidence,” Christian said.
The radio in the engine barked. Angel jumped inside and leaned in. A moment later I heard him say, “This is Station 47. We’re on route in two minutes.”
Another call. Christian and I shared a look before jumping to action.
“Sparks! Cut the hydrant line!”
“I’ll get the outer hose,” I said before sprinting in that direction. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Christian heading for the line by the front door.
I reached the hose and called for the other firefighters to get clear, then looked back at the engine. Sparks disconnected my hose from the engine and gave the thumbs-up, so I opened the nozzle to let out the excess water from the hose. Normally we would use a roller to squeeze out the excess water from the line, but since we were short on time I immediately removed the nozzle and began the Denver packing style. I eyeballed 32 inches of hose from the coupling and then folded the line, doubling it back like a horseshoe. I squeezed the two folds together then folded it back again, reversing direction around the outsi
de. I repeated that process fold after fold, essentially making an ever-widening horseshoe shape until I’d folded all of the hose into a tight pack. I squeezed the final remainder out and hefted the entire thing over a shoulder and ran it back to the engine.
With no small sense of satisfaction I saw that I’d beaten Christian. I kept that fact to myself; better to brag about it later when we were safely back at the station.
Sparks and I hopped onto the back of the engine and we raced onward, leaving behind the smoldering remains of the call center building.
The call ended up being to a set of residential condos, but we were the third engine on the scene, which meant serving as backup to those already on-site. The condos were too far gone to do anything; by the time the fires were out they were nothing but a shell of a structure missing one entire facade.
By the time we’d finished helping pick through the wreckage it was early afternoon. We returned to the station, peeled off our turnout gear, and waited for another call to come in. None of us dared shower; it was considered bad luck among firefighters to shower in the middle of a shift, lest a call come in while you’re buck-naked. The extra minute or two needing to dry off and dress could mean the difference between life and death.
But no other calls came in the rest of the day. As soon as the clock hit 8:00 we all went out separate ways to shower. I stood under the scalding stream of water for a long time, staring down at the drain. The water ran black for several minutes before I was clean, but even after I got out I could smell smoke, like it was stuck to the inside of my nose.
“So,” Christian said during dinner. “It can’t be coincidence, right?”
We’d all been silent up to that point. We were exhausted. None of us needed to ask what he meant because it was what each of us was thinking. “Arson?” I said.
“It has to be,” Angel said. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Fuckers shouldn’t even get a trial,” Sparks said. He focused at a spot on the table while nodding his head. “Arsonists should be put against the wall and shot.”
His sense of justice was extreme, but not far off. To a firefighter, arsonists were the worst kind of criminal. A murderer killed one person. An arsonist cut a wider swath through society, putting far more lives at risk and destroying the fabric of civilization itself. Unleashing a fire was like letting a rabid dragon loose on a town.
“I’ll give our report to the fire inspector tomorrow,” Christian said. “Then it’ll be in his hands.”
*
It’s difficult to explain how bone-numbingly exhausting being a firefighter can be. The rush of adrenaline, carrying a heavy firehose, locking your core muscles against the stream of water in the violent hose. Rushing in, rushing out, and then spending hours picking through the wreckage with an ax.
It took a toll on a person. Like spending all day moving furniture and then running a marathon at the end of it.
Nobody wanted to stay up late that night. I collapsed on the couch and rested my eyes after dinner while Sparks and Christian cleaned up. Angel went straight to bed without a word. Sparks watched 15 minutes of the Miami Heat game before wandering off too.
Before I knew it, Christian and I were alone.
The realization hit me like an interesting factoid. Huh. He and I are alone again. I thought about last night, the rough-and-fast action we’d had on this very couch. Part of me wanted to do it again.
Most of me wanted to close my eyes and sleep.
I found a middle ground between action and inaction by asking, “What was last night about?”
He rolled his head to me. His crystal blue eyes held a lifetime of exhaustion, but still he smiled. “I was gunna ask you the same thing.”
“It was nice,” I said.
“Just nice?”
“Pretty nice,” I said with a knowing smile.
He closed his eyes and rested his hands behind his head. The motion stuck out his chest and showed off the muscle in his arms. Was he trying to initiate something now, or was he just oblivious to how sexy he was?
A silence stretched as we each waited for the other person to speak first.
“We don’t need to make a big deal out of it,” he finally said.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged, eyes still closed. “I’m not a needy guy. I don’t need to latch onto a woman. We can keep it casual if you want.”
If you want. What did I want? I wasn’t sure myself.
“Casual,” I said, tasting the word.
“Yeah,” Christian said. “I mean, we barely know each other…”
“And we’ve just started at this new station,” I added.
“Best to keep it casual for now.”
“I think you’re right,” I lied.
He rose and nodded as if it were settled. “Alright then.”
He opened his mouth like he was going to say goodnight, then turned it into a smile and left.
I waited a respectable couple of minutes before going to bed, feeling distinctly disappointed and wondering why.
15
Amy
I skipped my run the next morning, deciding it was best to sleep in instead. That extra 30 minutes of sleep while ignoring your alarm was always better than the previous 8 hours.
I was already clean from last night’s shower, so I went straight to the kitchen to make coffee and pancakes. While mixing the batter an evil thought came to mind. I turned on the smart TV, discovered that it had a Spotify app, and logged in with my account. I queued up a station I’d never listened to and hit play.
“I’ll have a blue… Christmas… without you…”
The sound of Elvis Presley’s smooth voice was loud by the time Christian and Angel emerged from their rooms grinning.
Sparks didn’t take the bait with Blue Christmas, nor did he wake up when Heartbreak Hotel played. But by the time Jailhouse Rock was blasting throughout the station his door slammed open and he stomped out like an angry toddler.
“Morning!” I said cheerfully. I held a plate toward him. “Pancakes?”
He completely ignored me, instead emerging from the pantry with a box of strawberry Poptarts. The sour expression on his face put me in a better mood than all the endorphins in the world.
“I’m gunna run back to our old station before our shift starts,” Christian said after finishing a stack. “Left my headphones and laptop charger there. You guys need anything?”
“I’ll come with you,” Sparks said.
I put my hands on his hips. “Aww, I didn’t mean to scare you off. I’ll turn the music off.”
He arched an eyebrow at me. “Doesn’t have anything to do with you, honey. I left some stuff at the station too. Come on, Christian. I’ll drive.”
I waited until they were gone before turning off the music. Elvis was all fine and good, but not this early in the morning.
I left enough batter for myself, but set it aside for later. I wanted to get my workout in, then I could carb-load after.
I changed into workout clothes and turned the lights on to our gym. Jumping jacks and knee-kicks to get my blood flowing; it was chilly in here, in spite of the rubberized floor. Today was my B workout: front squats, hack squats, bent over rows, and overhead press.
You’re supposed to do the most complex workout first, which was almost always squats. That way you did it while you were freshest and wouldn’t risk crumbling under all the weight. I loaded the bar and did the front squats first, sticking my elbows out in front of me while stabilizing the weight of my collarbone. Front squats were great because they worked your core along with your quads. By the time I’d done all three working sets my abs were burning nicely.
I needed to give my legs a breather before doing hack squats, so I prepared the bar for overhead press next. This was my weakest exercise, as it was for most women. We just didn’t have the shoulder and upper back strength that men did. I loaded a 25 lb weight on each side, bringing the working weight to 95 lbs, then did a t
est press. Feeling motivated, I added another 5 lbs to each side to make it 105.
I felt fresh the first set, though on the fifth rep I was slow and wobbly. But I hefted the weight high over my head, and took a few moments to admire my form before lowering and racking the weight.
While resting before my next set, Angel came in. He wore shorts and a tank top which looked two sizes too small, giving him the appearance of someone bulging out of their clothes. But not in a grotesque way; in a sexy, strong way.
“Deadlift time,” he said, taking a barbell over to the corner and bending down to load plates on each side. “You doing press?”
“Sure am.”
“Nice. If you need a spotter, let me know.”
Usually, I wouldn’t accept a spotter’s help. Not for overhead press at least; worst case scenario you just lowered the weight back to your collarbone. There wasn’t much risk.
But I knew I was near my max at 105 lbs, and having a spotter sometimes gave you enough confidence to give 100%. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Angel finished loading his bar and then did his first set of deadlifts. I had a good view from the side—he had great form. Back locked, never rounding as he pulled the bar up his legs. He had strong thighs, which he thrust forward at the last part of the lift. Hump the bar, was what most instructors told you to do on deadlifts.
When he was done he lowered the weight and came over to me. “Ready when you are.”
I stepped up to the bar and hefted it onto my collarbone, then took a step back to give myself room. Spotters had to stay close in case they needed to grab the weight fast—otherwise what was the point? So it wasn’t unusual for Angel to move up until he was standing very close to me, practically touching. I could feel his breath on the back of my sports bra.
Overhead press was a simple movement: lift the bar straight up until it was over your head. But the motion meant leaning back at the beginning (while the bar passed in front of my face) and then leaning forward to help engage the muscles of the upper back and shoulder. This slight rocking motion made my shoulders brush against Angel’s chest, and then made my ass stick out against his thigh when I was at the top of the movement.