Passion Point Firefighters: Extended Collection

by Brynn Hale

I open the door with closed eyes, shaking my head and letting out a huge breath to clear the post-investigation fog.

  And as soon as I open them, all I see is a sea of red. A crash-collision is unavoidable, and the woman releases a soft muted shriek into the hallway. I clutch her arm and drag her close.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I…I didn’t see you.”

  Her green eyes flash through copper lashes and I start to enjoy having her in my arms.

  A little too much. Back up! Back up!

  We’re both going to remain upright, so I step back to give her breathing room and to finally take a breath.

  I stare at her face—angelic and innocent. “Hi. Again, sorry. I closed my eyes for a second and…”

  “Boom. I was there.” She smiles, and I swear sunshine beams off her face. “No worries.” I swear I can feel her heart beating quickly. “I’m Gemma and I’m with the ViewPoint and I have a couple questions on firefighting. Do you have a couple minutes to answer them?”

  I step back into the Chief’s office. “Chief, there’s a reporter from the ViewPoint who wants someone to answer questions, is it okay if I take this one?”

  And man, I want to take this one.

  The woman has the fieriest red hair that I’ve ever seen. It’s braided into one long braid that trails down. The tip landing just where I can imagine her nipple is located. I shake out of the thought to hear the Chief over my pounding heart.

  “Yeah, you can take it. We’re an open book here. Whatever she needs.”

  I look back. I can imagine giving her whatever she needs. Over and over.

  I curse myself. I’ve never been like this. This woman has basically put me into a trance.

  Is she a sorceress? An enchantress? A siren?

  She holds her pad of white paper in one hand and a blue pen in the other. “Great to hear.”

  I motion her down the hallway, but she motions me to go first. “Let’s go out into the bay.”

  “Actually, do you have one of those pole things?”

  “A fireman’s pole?” I ask to clarify and turn to walk backwards so I can see her. “We do. We call it the sliding pole. It goes from just outside the sleeping quarters upstairs to the first bay floor.”

  “I’d love to get a picture of you sliding down the pole for the paper. I know the readership would really love it.”

  I see a couple of my fellow firefighters walk by and give them a chin jut.

  “Reporter…just answering questions.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain, other than I’m the new guy. I’m not a probie—a probationary firefighter—I’ve earned those stripes over the last thirteen years.

  Boscoe and Kelton nod back and go to the equipment closet, quietly .

  “Sure. It’s over in that corner. I’ll…I’ll run upstairs and let you know when I’m ready.”

  She pulls out her phone. “Great!”

  I jog up the stairs. We have to stay in good condition but that doesn’t mean I love running stairs. They’re a necessary evil—and they can be evil.

  I look down and she’s got her head poking up. “Ready.” She waves with her phone.

  I hop onto the pole and in a flash, I’m touching down.

  “Oh, wow. That went really fast, I didn’t get a picture. Could you…please…” She tips her head and flashes those copper lashes. “Do it again?”

  “Okay, I’ll be up there in a few seconds.” I take off jogging.

  Back on the second floor, I grab the pole and take a deep breath. “Ready?”

  “I am,” she calls out and I try to slow my decent this time.

  She looks at her phone. “Oh, that’s super blurry. Delete! Maybe I should video it and have the team choose the slide? I’m really sorry, but could you do it again?”

  I put on my best PR smile. “No problem. I’m sorry, didn’t catch your name.”

  “Gemma. Gemma Thornton.”

  My head rears back. “Swear I’ve seen that name before.”

  “Probably in the paper.”

  “Must be.” Although I’ve only seen one of the papers while I was checking out at the local grocery store and never actually opened it.

  I take out on a jog again and notice Boscoe and Kelton at the end of the bay chatting with Riley, another coworker.

  I slide down again and once again Gemma doesn’t get the shot she needs, so I run back up.

  And slide down again.

  And then again.

  And…

  After ten episodes, I’ve started to sweat and blow out a long breath, the blood pumping hard through my chest. I lean over before heading back up and hold up a finger. “Gonna need just a second.”

  When I stand back up, I’m faced with eight smiling faces and then it hits me.

  They all start laughing.

  I’ve been initiated into the group. Some might call it hazed, but I’ll call it respected and welcomed because I can feel both in her smile.

  “Seriously?” I ask, tipping my head back as my breathing settles.

  Lieutenant Boscoe steps over and grabs my shoulder. “Didn’t see it coming, did ya?”

  “And you were in on it?” I ask Captain Holman.

  “Hey, we work hard and sometimes we play harder. But it was all Gemma’s idea.”

  I turn to her. “You’re a firefighter?”

  “Yes. And you’re out of breath,” she taps my stomach with her pen. “Might need some calisthenics this week.”

  Everyone disburses and I follow on her heals like some love-sick tomcat.

  Trailing to the sleeping quarters, I do the stairs again and I can feel it. Mostly because I’m staring at her ass. She’s a fantastic shape. Hourglass doesn’t do her justice. She’s got muscle tone in her bubble-butt and my body rushes a flash of heat through my chest and down to my groin.

  She’s your coworker. She’s your coworker.

  And she’s a beautiful coworker.

  My crotch speaks louder than my brain.

  Plus, it’s been a while since I’ve been with a woman. My last girlfriend couldn’t take the hazards of the job and I didn’t blame her. After being in a hospital for ten days and out of work for three months with a massive concussion, from what I’ll now call “the incident” as Captain did, I wouldn’t have expected anyone to watch that and think that what we do is anything smart or healthy.

  She stops at the bed that’s labeled “Gemma Thornton.”

  That’s where I saw it.

  “How long have you been on the company?” I ask and she starts to undress.

  I should turn around, but I don’t. Can’t. She’s wearing a sports bra and tight shorts under her dress slacks and fuzzy emerald green sweater. I want to reach out and touch the fabric, something that was close to her.

  But I don’t. Can’t.

  I spin, so my back’s to her. “Sorry.”

  She huffs. “Obviously that Boston company didn’t have any women?”

  Not any like you.

  Chapter Two

  Gemma

  “We did. But not like you,” he mumbles, and his voice shakes and I kind of like that he’s uncomfortable. I’m known for being the company hardass. The one they send in when they need the job done, so getting a rise out of the new guy feels like I’m getting a job done.

  “Turn around. You have to get used to this. It’s not sexual. It’s just work.”

  He does as I ask, and I like that too. And a part of me likes him a little too much. Heat slithers through my core and a tingle starts low in my belly.

  Baxter Mills is extremely easy on the eyes. That jaw—sharp and yet smooth like crystal cut glass, those eyes—deep ocean blue, that hair—tight on the sides and longer on top, and his lips—damn, those lips—I have to look away before I let go of a moan.

  I already knew he was attractive from all of the TV coverage of the accident. Unfortunately for him, the stations played it over and over. He even became a viral meme.

  Our town, only twenty minutes outside of Boston, put
together a fundraiser to help him. And part of me wonders if he’s actually a hundred percent yet. We need that and the captain demands nothing less.

  But in person, he’s like a GQ model and Roman god rolled into one. He gives All-American guy a whole new meaning. A roll in the hay barn doesn’t sound like such a bad thing at this moment.

  He’s your coworker, not the farmer’s son!

  I adjust the bra as it cuts into my body. If I wasn’t so well-endowed, I’d go without, but the ladies are here to stay, so I buy the best of the best and keep ‘em locked down.

  “Baxter, you’re going to have to get used to this. I don’t always pull the curtain. If I’m getting naked, I’ll do it in the shower room, but since I have to see every man in the company walk through without your shirts on, wrapped in towels at the waist…fair is fair, sunshine.”

  He smiles and I swear my tight, black running shorts spontaneously combust. Thankfully when I look down, they’re still in one piece.

  He leans against the doorway. “Sunshine?” He shakes his head. “Wow, you’ve got a lot to learn. I’m more like a rolling thunderstorm, Gemma.”

  My nipples peak, like his mouth has a direct line to all the sensitive nerves inside of me when he uses my name.

  He continues, “I’ll come on fast and furious, with a big bang, and you’ll be soaking wet afterwards.”

  And with that, he’s gone. And I hate that he’s right. I’m soaked in one area.

  I’ve vowed to myself and my best friend that I won’t get involved with a fellow firefighter, mostly because it just doesn’t look good and can lend to problems in moral and cooperation. But there aren’t rules against it, per se, in the fire department regs in Passion Point, Massachusetts, which makes me laugh. Apparently, the town’s name lends to giving wiggle room on co-worker collaborations outside of the station house. But thus far, everyone in the company has been taken or married here.

  Until Bax.

  Oh, no…

  I sit on the edge of the bed.

  I’ve already nicknamed the puppy—the guy—the hottie. Bax. And it fits. It’s fast and hard and I can imagine screaming it out. None of this is a good sign.

  I remember my bestie Velma’s advice: Don’t get your money and your honey in the same place.

  It definitely fits the situation, and she knows. She’s been there and done that and when it ended, it was awkward. And it wasn’t at all pleasant to have to sleep in the same room as her ex or have her ex’s back when she wanted to scream at his face.

  Nope. This is not a good idea. Not at all.

  I finish putting on my casuals—blue t-shirt, blue cotton khakis, and station work boots. I step back and take a look at myself in the mirror. Every curve is still there, and I’m fine with every single one. I brush a piece of lint off my ass and grab my keys and phone.

  And as if the Universe knows I’m ready to go, the alarm sounds.

  I run from the room and a smile pulls at my lips.

  It’s my time on the pole.

  Chapter Three

  Baxter

  I don’t know what I did, but she’s pissed. Like really pissed. And it’s not what she said, it’s how she said it that let me know.

  “Step back and don’t touch that line again,” were her exact words. They might seem innocuous to a bystander, but her sharp tone wasn’t.

  I only met Gemma four hours ago, but I feel like I know her. She’s intense at a job. She’s methodical, direct, and controlled. I’m not saying this is unusual, most firefighters have to be. It’s just that she’s effortless at it.

  She leans her head back as the engine rocks us on the way back to the station.

  The call was a house fire and we got there in time to keep it contained to the kitchen. It’s still not ideal versus not having a fire at all, but at least it’ll get fixed faster than losing a whole house.

  I lean forward, my gear bunching and tightening. “Is something wrong?”

  She doesn’t look at me. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “No, I want to talk about it now.”

  “That’s not how we do it at Station 1. We decompress, then meet, then unload so we know how we really feel. In the moment, feelings get in the way. So later, Mills.”

  “Oh…”

  My first day had been a little light. Nothing really intense like this call was. Mostly traffic accidents and a couple medical situations.

  But this call involved a missing animal in the house and the owners kept trying to go back in, creating a scene safety issue. It’s one thing for the firefighters to have to keep going back into the house, but for someone not wearing full protective equipment it’s exponentially dangerous. Gemma finally found the cat and brought her out to the owner and that helped to calm the owner. They finally stopped trying to get back in so we could do our job.

  But now I’m getting major cold shoulder and I don’t know what I did. I size-up what happened at the incident and nothing stands out. I’m not saying she’s not having valid feelings. I’m saying, I’m hoping I didn’t make her feel this way and I hope I can fix it.

  We put away equipment and clean up.

  Boscoe grabs my shoulder. “Time to rattle the pans.”

  I nod. This isn’t my favorite thing, but I have a couple of dishes I can rely on and tonight I’m feeling “It’s a BFD night” as my mother would say.

  Breakfast. For. Dinner.

  I whip up some scrambled eggs, French toast, bacon, and sausage. Lay it all out and ring the bell.

  And nine bodies file into the room and start passing around plates to fill. We’re quiet and I wonder if this is how it always is.

  Gemma sits across from me, or maybe I sit across from her. Either way, we’re facing each other. Our boot tips touch and I wonder if she’ll move hers, but she doesn’t, and it unnerves me. And I think she likes it.

  Falling for a coworker isn’t recommended by anyone, but considering I’ve hit rock bottom lately, there’s nowhere to go but up from here. And Gemma’s so far up the hotness and passion scale that I’m wondering if she’s even attainable.

  Gemma volunteers to help clean up and I’m a little surprised.

  I pick up a couple of bowls from the table. “I can do it. You can get some rest before the next call.”

  She huffs. “I don’t need rest. I had the last four days off.” She tosses a spatula from the stove into the soapy water and it splashes suds onto my shirt. “And you have to stop that.”

  “Stop what?” I ask, setting a cleaned pan in the drainer and looking back at her as she wipes down the table, her ass right in my face.

  “Trying to do things for me because I’m a woman.”

  I drop a pan into the metal sink and it clanks loudly. “I wasn’t—”

  She rushes to me and her voice quiets while her jaw tightens. “The call. You said, ‘I’ll get that for you.’” She shakes her head close to my face. “No. You don’t get to get anything for me while we’re on duty. On duty, if I am doing it, I’m getting it done. I am capable. I am trained. And I am a firefighter. Do I make myself clear?”

  My heart pounds in my throat, feeling like it’s going to choke me. “Crystal clear, Thornton.”

  “Good to hear, Mills.”

  And off she goes. I don’t watch her leave. I’m sufficiently cleared of all my faculties.

  She’s fire and I’m gasoline.

  And soon we’re going to explode even bigger than this.

  I decide to go sit out on the upper deck after we get the equipment restored and the trucks are maintained. Unlike you see on TV shows, a majority of our time is spent waiting. Some firefighters read. Some watch TV. Some play video games. Some kind of just stare off into space. I worry about those firefighters, but I don’t see any of those here, but maybe that means I’m that firefighter.

  I just want to think. When I was down for the count with a concussion, thinking was almost painful. It takes time for a brain to regain function after being sloshed around like Jell
-O in a toddler’s bowl at lunch.

  It took a while for the connections to relink. I’ve been cleared by doctors. They all say it’ll take time for me to be a hundred percent, but I’m good enough. And that worries me. I won’t put anyone’s life in jeopardy. But I wonder if I’m in for another crash.

  I lean back on the L-shaped patio set, my eyes closed. The door opens behind me, but I don’t open my eyes.

  “Is it okay if I join you?”

  Until that voice hits my ears. Then my eyes fly open.

  “Sure.”

  She takes a seat next to me when there are plenty of open spots farther away.

  We stare out into the Passion Point beyond for minutes before we both start talking at the same time.

  I motion to her. “You first, please.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for what I said earlier.”

  “I don’t expect you to.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  She scrunches down on the seat and leans her head back. “Are you okay?” she asks, looking over at me.

  I figured someone would ask, but I always thought I’d use the standard, “I’m okay.”

  But I don’t want to with her. I want to start with honesty with her, if I lie to her she’s going to figure it out.

  “I’m a little overwhelmed right now. I’m just not quite back to me yet.”

  “Do you need more time off?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t hate it, but I don’t want more time off.”

  She releases an acknowledging mumble, and it’s like the twitter of a bird. It betrays her innocence.

  We take turns asking questions. Where are you from? Her from NYC. Me from Boston. What’s your favorite food? Hers is breakfast. That makes my gut do a fancy twist. Mine is pizza and beer. What made you become a firefighter?

  She seems reluctant to share her answer, so I go first.

  “My father was a firefighter. I looked up to him like he was a god.”

  “Was?” she asks.

  “Died on the job when I was seventeen.”

  “How old are you now?”