I should ask her out.
I stare at the dark ceiling, planning a date with Emma. We’d go to dinner, maybe a club after, so we could dance. Anything to get her in my arms again. The few times I held her, it felt right—even when she was passed out or having a panic attack. Something stirs inside me, and I turn on my side to hide my growing erection. It’s dark in the bunkroom, but not so dark that someone walking by wouldn’t see the tented covers.
Before I can fully immerse myself in an Emma fantasy, Dispatch comes over the loudspeaker, waking up the entire room and summoning us to a residential structural fire. Lights come on, and we race downstairs to our rigs.
Cameron laughs at me as we’re pulling on our gear. “Damn,” he says, noticing the bulge in my pants. “Don’t you hate it when a good dream gets interrupted?”
“Fuck off, Curtis.” I climb into the front cab, a smile cracking my face.
We arrive at the house to see smoke coming out of several windows.
“It’s a live one,” Justin says from the driver’s seat.
He parks the rig, and we help Engine 319 hook up their hose.
J.D. shouts orders. “Briggs and I will take Nelson and Curtis and attack from the back. August and Andrews will man the hose and be ready to go on my command. Cash and Neal, go through the front and take the second floor.”
We grab our gear and disperse.
Justin and I put on our tanks and masks and head to the front door. It’s locked, but the house is old and a swift kick to the door does the trick. The smoke is thick, and the glow from the fire is at the back of the house. Kitchen or family room maybe. The other team will handle that.
Once we’re up the stairs, I hear a woman screaming and banging on the wall, but I can’t see through the smoke, it’s so thick. “Fire department, call out!”
“Here. I’m here,” she says, coughing.
We feel our way down the hall until we run into her. “Ma’am, we’re going to get you out. Is there anyone else in the house?”
“My kids,” she says, barely able to get the words out. She isn’t breathing very well.
“Where are they?”
“Baby, behind this wall. My son, at the end—” She goes into another fit of coughing.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll find them.” I grab my radio. “Neal is on the way out with a woman. Two kids inside. A baby and an older one.”
The captain radios that he’s on his way up.
I open the door to the room the woman pointed to and quickly locate the crib. The child inside it is wearing only a diaper. And he’s not moving. “Got the baby,” I yell into my radio as flashes of Leo go through my head. I scoop the baby into my arms. He starts moving, and relief flows through me when I realize he was only sleeping. I put his blanket over his head and run back to the stairs.
As I make my way downstairs and outside, the fire is moving closer to the second floor.
I hand the baby off to Debbe and Ryan and run back in to look for the other kid. Before I make it into the house, Bass comes out with a kid over his shoulder. He puts him on the gurney just as he comes to.
The kid, who can’t be more than fifteen, is disoriented and slurring his words, and the soot on his face makes his complexion appear a shade darker than his African-American skin.
The mother, who is watching over her baby, stops what she’s doing, rips the oxygen mask off her face, and accosts the teen. “This is all your fault! What were you doing? Smoking crack? Huffing paint?”
“What do you care?” the boy yells and tries to sit up. “You don’t give a shit what I do since Dad died.”
The woman pushes him back down. “You could have killed us.” She motions to the burning house. “Look what you did to our home.”
“Let it burn,” the kid says. “You hate that fucking house. We all do. Maybe his goddamn ghost will die with it, and we can all get on with our lives.”
I can’t help feeling sorry for the kid. He lost his father. I’m all too familiar with what it does to a child when they lose a parent.
I knew a lot of kids who lost a parent in 9/11. We all handled it differently. Fortunately, I was able to turn my grief into a career. Emma buried hers in boys. But more often than not, kids dealt with it by turning to drugs and alcohol.
We put the fire out quickly, and after a few hours of overhaul, we pack up our gear as the sun is rising. Before I get in the rig, I do something I rarely do—I talk to one of the neighbors who’d been watching from his front porch.
“Sir, do you happen to know the boy’s name? The older one?”
“Jaylen Tiffin,” the man says, shaking his head. “Seemed like a decent kid until his dad passed. Shame.”
“Do you know how his father died?”
“He had himself a bad heart attack—you know the kind no one survives.”
“They call them widow-makers,” I say.
“Yeah, that kind. Poor guy was only forty-five.” He pounds his chest. “I done been smokin’ and drinkin’ for sixty years, and mine’s still ticking. Don’t seem fair.”
“And Jaylen’s mother. What’s her name?”
“Brandi, with an I.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome, son. Thank you for your service. You boys did good today.”
I tip my helmet at him and return to the truck.
Jaylen and Brandi Tiffin. I pull out my phone and add their names to my notes so I won’t forget.
~ ~ ~
Back at the firehouse, fresh from a shower, Denver walks up behind me and whacks the back of my leg with a rolled-up towel.
“What’d you do that for?” I ask.
“I thought it might wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.”
“The what?”
“You got something going on today?” he asks.
“No,” I say innocently.
“I’m calling bullshit,” Bass says, coming around the corner. “I know exactly why you’re in a good mood, and it has nothing to do with baked goods.”
I shake my head and smack my lips together, admitting nothing.
“You gotta keep that one around,” Justin says, emerging from the shower. “The woman can bake.”
“I’m not with her, guys. She’s not mine to keep around.”
“But you want some of that, right?” Justin asks.
I shoot him a scolding look.
“What? You gotta quit living like a monk one of these days, Lieutenant. Why not today?”
Yeah, why not today? a voice rings in my head.
“Lieutenant!” someone yells from down the hall. “Someone’s here to see you.”
I throw on clothes and a little extra cologne. When I pass the mirror and get a glimpse of myself, I realize Denver was right. I do have a shit-eating grin.
Chapter Twelve
Emma
Brett rubs his stomach as we leave the firehouse. “You’re going to make me fat, Emma.”
No way could he ever get fat. He’s pure muscle. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. I notice the tattoo on his left arm again. I really want to see how high up it goes. I have the strangest urge to reach out and trace it with my finger.
I try not to smile when I see him adjusting himself. God, that’s sexy.
My attention is drawn to a girl running down the street with her father, and suddenly, I remember who I am, where I came from, and what Brett is.
When I turn back to him, he’s eyeing me strangely. “What just happened?” he asks. “You seemed happy and then you were sad.” He notices the girl and her father. “Are you still missing your daughter?”
“It’s not that. She got back two days ago.”
“I’ll bet you’re glad she’s home. I’m not sure I could go two weeks without seeing Leo.”
I want to ask him about his ex, but I don’t.
“How’d the talk go?” he asks. “You told Evelyn what happened, right?”
I’m mildly impressed that he remembers her name. We
start slowly toward the school and I’m grateful he’s trying to distract me with conversation.
“I told her. I think it was harder on me than her, however. She’s a kid. Don’t all kids think they and their parents are invincible?”
He looks at me sadly. “Not when the kids are us.”
“It’s strange. Evelyn knows what happened to my father but since he was never a part of her life, it has no real effect on her.”
“That’s a good thing,” he says. “Not that she never met him, but that she didn’t have to experience losing him.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more. But don’t you worry about Leo? About putting him through that?”
“Not really,” he says.
“But what you do is so dangerous.”
“Emma, what you and I are doing right now is dangerous. We’re walking the streets of Brooklyn. We could step off the curb and get hit by a bus. We could—”
“Get abducted by a gunman?”
He shrugs. “It happens.”
I slow my steps. “You’re making me want to run back to my house and never leave.”
He puts a hand on my elbow and nudges me forward. My eyes close at his touch. His large hand wraps around my arm, and I decide I like the feel of it. I like it way too much.
I wiggle free. “I’m fine. I was kidding. Kind of.”
“Where is Evelyn now? She didn’t want to come with you?”
“She goes to a day camp in the summer. All her friends go, too. It’s good for her, and it keeps her busy and active and off her phone for the better part of the day.”
“What keeps you busy and active in the summer?”
I try to think of something that makes my life sound more interesting than it is. But nothing can sugarcoat the boring existence I lead. “I teach an online English class for high school students. I hang out with other teachers. We work out and sometimes go to dinner. I play softball in a league for teachers. And I do some volunteer work.”
He looks amused. “Volunteer? That’s commendable.”
“It’s kind of a given when your mom runs the charity.”
He spends the next few minutes asking me about her work and then, before I know it, we’re back where we were on Friday, across the street from the school.
“Here we are.” He motions to the bench we sat on the other day. “Want to sit for a minute?”
“No.”
“Do you want to cross the street?”
“No. Yes. No.”
“Well, would you look at that? A woman who can’t make up her mind,” he jokes.
I playfully punch his arm.
“Ouch,” he says, rubbing it melodramatically. “You must work out a lot.”
“Oh, shut up, Lieutenant.”
He smirks. He likes it when I call him that.
He motions to the school. “You have to do it sometime. Why not now?”
“Are you saying you’re going to make me cross the street?” I ask.
“Of course not,” he says, looking appalled that I would make such an insinuation.
I stare him down. “Are you saying that if I don’t move my legs, you’ll drag me across the street like a child, so I have no choice but to walk with you or get hit by a bus?”
He smiles. He gets my game. “Yes, Emma. If you don’t do this on your own, I will make you cross the street.”
“Well then, I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“No, you don’t, do you?” he says with a snarky rise of his brow.
I draw in a long breath and then blow it out. I can do this.
The hand on the crosswalk turns green, and Brett steps off the curb into the street. He looks back at me, waiting.
“I’m coming … maybe.”
He reaches back and grabs my hand, gently pulling me into the street with him. The crosswalk hand flashes yellow.
“Remember what I said about us being more likely to get hit by a bus?” he says. “Come on, Emma. I was in that room with you. I know how strong you are.”
His hand holding mine gives me the courage I need to cross the street. But then I stop dead on the other side. My feet are cemented to the pavement. I can’t take another step. All I see when I look at the front steps of the school is Kenny Lutwig, pointing a gun at me and forcing me back through the doors.
My heart pounds when I think about that day. “I … I can’t.” I turn my back to the school.
The worst thing I can imagine happens. Tears roll down my cheeks. I will them to stop, but I have no control over myself at this moment. I don’t want him to see me like this. I’m an emotional wreck. I look away, shielding my face from him as I turn into a blubbering fool.
“Emma?” he says, angling himself so he can see me.
The look in his eyes is one of horror, and I’m positive mascara is running down my cheeks. I frantically wipe my face. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry. I don’t understand why, uh, … this isn’t like me.”
I’m lying to him. To myself. I’m anything but fine right now. I can’t get the tears to stop flowing and my body is beginning to shake uncontrollably.
“You’re sorry? Emma, I’m the one who’s sorry. I pushed too hard. You weren’t ready.”
Why is he trying to take responsibility for my mental breakdown?
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you back across the street where you can sit down.”
I nod, but when he tries to lead me, my feet won’t move. I can’t force myself to take even one small step. I’m frozen in place, shaking. I am in a full state of panic and feel as if I’m going to faint.
He grips my head in his hands and looks into my eyes, which I’m sure are glazed over. “Emma!”
He talks to me, but my head is spinning, my ears are ringing, and I can’t hear anything he says.
When I don’t respond, he just looks at me. Then, without any exchange of words, he picks me up, cradling me in his arms as he carries me across the street.
When we get to the other side, panic turns to pure mortification. This may be the most embarrassing moment of my life, being hauled across the street like a helpless woman. At the same time, the feeling of being in his arms is unlike anything I’ve experienced. I want him to hold onto me forever. I’ve never felt so protected in my entire life.
He stops walking and just stares at me. I just stare at him. Then I see some passersby looking at us and I think maybe this is getting a little weird.
“We’re at the bench,” I say.
He’s still staring at me, but I’m not sure he hears me.
I nod my head at the sidewalk. “Brett, we’re at the bench. You can put me down now.”
The loud sound of a car horn in the street startles him and he finally breaks his stare. “Oh, yeah, sorry,” he says, embarrassed that he’s still holding me.
He sets me on my feet, and I sit, trying to process what the hell just happened—and I’m not talking about my panic attack.
He sits next to me. “It’s no big deal,” he says, like whatever just happened between us wasn’t the most confusing thing of all time. “Next time I bet we’ll make it all the way through the front doors.”
I don’t miss the way he says we’ll make it, like he has something to work through too.
I look back at the school, ashamed that I couldn’t make it all the way there today. Then I glance at the grocery store on the corner, wondering if the Shettlemans are as pathetic as I am, or if they’ve gone back to work. I’ve been stopping there for years for my morning coffee. All the teachers have. The lovely old couple know us all by name. They treat us like family. They must have a soft spot for teachers being that they’re right next to the school.
I sometimes patronize another store closer to my house, but it almost feels like I’m cheating on the Shettlemans. Most days I go out of my way to visit their place.
“Actually, I think I’d like to go there.” I point to the corner grocery.
He stands, putting himself between me and the school. How does
he always manage to do the exact thing I need him to do? He holds out a hand as if he knows I need it to cross the street. “Come on, then.”
I don’t find it hard to walk into the store. My eyes immediately go to the counter, where I see Mr. Shettleman selling a Coke to a teenager. Then I notice Mrs. Shettleman perched in her regular spot, on a chair behind the counter, working the usual crossword puzzle.
It’s like nothing happened. Like they weren’t held at gunpoint and robbed by that maniac.
Mrs. Shettleman looks up from her crossword, drops her newspaper, and comes toward me with her arms out. “My dear Emma.” She wraps me in a hug from which there is no escaping until she decides it’s over. “I was hoping you’d come in. I’m so, so sorry to hear what that man put you through.”
“I could say the same for you.”
“Pish. It’s not the first time we’ve been robbed, and it won’t be the last. It goes with the territory. We’ve learned to cooperate so no one gets hurt.”
“But someone did get hurt, Mrs. Shettleman. A man lost his leg.”
Her head bobs up and down, empathy bleeding from her wrinkled face. “I know. And I heard what you did while being locked in that dreadful closet with him for hours on end. You’re a hero, my girl.”
“I’m not the hero,” I say, motioning to Brett. “He is. Mr. and Mrs. Shettleman, meet Lt. Brett Cash. He’s the firefighter who saved Carter’s life and got the rest of us out of there unscathed.”
Mrs. Shettleman’s eyebrows shoot up and then she looks back and forth between Brett and me like she’s watching a tennis match. “Is that so?” she says, taking Brett’s strong hand into her old, weathered one.
“You were right, Mrs. Shettleman. Emma was the hero.”
“Why don’t we just call you both heroes?” she says.
Her husband comes over to shake Brett’s hand. “Thank you for your service, son.”
“Just doing my job, sir.”
“How is that feisty daughter of yours?” Mrs. Shettleman asks me.
“Still feisty.”
Engulfing Emma (The Men on Fire Series) Page 7