10. Dane

Shift change was a funny time. Seven o'clock wasn't an ungodly hour, but it was still early. In the winter, the sun had yet to rise, and it felt like a blanket was still spread across the sleepy sky.

In the station, the departing crew was busy with last-minute chores: cleaning the kitchen, putting away equipment and personal gear. The rule of thumb was to always leave the station in good order for the incoming crew. It was how we'd want to receive it, so it was how we left it.

It would be easy to think the teams should be well rested. They slept at the station, and would've only woken an hour or two before the change. But that assumed a quiet night with no calls, which rarely happened. Some nights, especially when there was heavy rain and storms, we barely got back from a call before the next one sounded.

The bags under the guys' eyes told me everything I needed to know about their night of so-called rest. They'd had a long one and would probably crash the moment they made it home.

I gave the universal 'sup nod to each one I passed and headed directly to my locker. As I sat on the bench, unzipping my gear bag, my phone buzzed.

AJCPatrick: You walked right by me.

That was odd. I'd come straight in from the lot. Patrick was nowhere to be seen. Besides, I hadn't expected him for a couple of hours.

Me:Really? Where?

AJCPatrick: The parking lot. I'm two cars down from where you parked.

Well, shit. He was an early riser.

Me:Give me a minute. I'll come out.

AJCPatrick: Thanks.

Something in the simple answers prickled my neck. It wasn't like I expected hearts and roses in his text, but the cold, businesslike nature of his answers felt odd somehow. Had our night together actually been a one-time fling, an excuse for him to get his story? My heart had hardened like old leather, but still, it stung a bit to think he might've used me like that.

I grabbed my bag, hauled it to my spot by the truck, then headed outside.

Patrick stood leaning against his vile-colored Ford whatever. A light breeze blew his hair across his face, almost hiding the wide black rims of his glasses. His sky blue dress shirt bloused in the wind.

He smiled, then ducked his head quickly.

"Hey," I said.

He looked up and shoved hair out of the way. "Hey." His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile, forcing them to maintain a neutral line. "So, what's the plan today?"

Alright, we're all business. I can handle that.

"Plan? Same as any day, really. Morning routine, consisting of equipment and stock checks, maybe a drill or two. If you're lucky, Sami and Alex will get into a Wii battle. Those can be pretty funny, especially when she kicks his ass, which is basically every time they pick up the controllers."

"Wii? Really?"

I shrugged and turned to head back into the station. "Twenty-four hours can take a long time to pass. We can only do so many drills and checks."

He shuffled behind. "What about emergencies?"

"You mean calls?" I glanced back to find him scribbling on a tiny notepad. "They happen when they happen. We can't exactly plan for car accidents or house fires."

"Right."

As we approached the side door, a tired-looking man stepped out, followed by an equally exhausted-looking woman.

"All yours, Walkman," the woman said, lifting downcast eyes to make brief contact.

"Get some rest. You two look like shit," I said.

The guy glanced up, a smirk playing at his lips. "At least we have a long shift to blame. What's your excuse?"

The pair bumped fists as they passed, and the woman brushed shoulders with me, a friendly gesture needing no reply.

"Do all firefighters like each other?" Patrick asked as I held the door.

"Nope, but most get along okay."

We strode inside, passing a long table covered with boxes and bags bearing medical labels. I stepped up behind Alex and placed both hands on his shoulders. "This is Happy. He's doing his morning expiration check."

Alex grinned in Patrick's direction, a wide, goofy smile that made everything feel … happy.

"Alex, this is Patrick Pierce, an AJC reporter hanging out for the day."

Alex eyed Patrick, grunted, then turned back to his work.

"Expiration check?" Patrick asked.

Alex held up a bottle of clear liquid without turning. "We have a ton of medicines here. If we don't stay on top of things, we'll be shooting old meds into old ladies' arms. They'd either be ineffective or concentrated to a dangerous strength. A lot of meds get stronger the longer they sit. Not a good thing."

Patrick scanned the table, then scribbled more notes.

I patted Alex's shoulders and stepped away. Our truck sat parked beside the ambulance. "This is our rig. Sami should be out here any minute to go over safety checks. We could do most of this morning stuff in our sleep."

"That's for damn sure," Alex called over his shoulder.

I helped Patrick climb into the truck and showed him some of the instrument panels and gear. He ran his fingers over every hose, dial, and monitor. At one point, I'd stopped talking and was watching him examine some mundane item—I think it was an axe—when he glanced up.

"Why are you smiling like that?"

I cocked my head. "Can't a guy smile?"

"Not you. You aren't a smiler. What are you thinking?"

I leaned in and whispered, "You touch everything, like it's some new, undiscovered country you need to not just see but experience."

"Well, it is all new … to me, at least," he said, shoving his pen in the spiral of his pad.

My grin widened. "It's like watching a kid see a giraffe for the first time. It's cute."

"Cute? Really? That's what you think?" He leaned back against the metal of the truck's wall. "I'm writing an article to show people what you go through every day, to make you look good, and you think me trying to get a feel for your truck and equipment is cute?"

The way his lower lip pooched out and quivered a little almost had me laughing. He'd moved way past cute and into adorable.

"I want to kiss you right now."

His eyes widened, and I was pretty sure, if he hadn't been trapped in a fire truck, he would've backed up a step. "I think … we need to be professional here. Okay? It was a mistake to … do spaghetti … and all that."

I laughed then. "Spaghetti and all that? Are you referring to the part where you tried to swallow my children?"

"Dane!" he hissed, glancing around like a dozen firemen might be listening. "My job is serious. I'm trying to do something good here."

"I still want to kiss you. That lower lip is begging for it. Just think, I could press you against that stack of hoses over there and—"

He reached up, yanked his glasses off, shoved them back on his nose, adjusted them, glanced at his pad, pulled the pen out of the spiral, tapped it on the pad, then shoved it back into the spiral.

I blinked a few times.

"You two done with the tour? I need to do my checks." The female baritone sauced with the flavors of Puerto Rico had Patrick fumbling with his pad.

"Hey, Sam," I said. "This is Patrick from the AJC. This is Samantha Rodriguez, the best damn EMT in Atlanta."

"Damn straight I am," she said without a hint of a grin. "Is that a ‘yes' to you're done in here? Burton 's cooking breakfast, and I want to get this done in time to eat hot eggs for a change."

I leaned toward Patrick and whispered, "You don't want to miss Burton 's cooking. He's a beast in the kitchen."

"You got the bottles?" Sami called over her shoulder.

"On it," I replied, then motioned for Patrick to follow.

We left the bay, climbed stairs into the sprawling combination kitchen–dining room–den. Burton waved a spatula as we passed, and two of the exiting shift greeted me with a nod and fist-bump.

"Smitty?" I asked one fist bumper.

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing toward the communal office. I nodded in thanks and led us in that direction.

A lone firefighter sat at a computer watching a training video.

"Morning, Smitty," I said, earning a raised middle finger. Patrick's eyes bugged out. "That's friendly for Smitty. Take what you can get."

"Fuck off, Walkman."

"There's my baby boy. Did you miss Daddy?"

Patrick choked out a cough behind me.

Smitty shot another bird, still without turning around. "Who's your date?"

I felt Patrick cringe. He had no idea what life with a bunch of testosterone-hyped meatheads was like. They had no idea we'd hooked up, Smitty was just giving me shit.

"Pretty, ain't he? You should see his tits and ass," I replied, refusing to give an inch. Smitty finally turned to get a look at our guest. "This is Patrick Pierce, a reporter with the AJC."

"Aw fuck." Smitty's smart-ass grin faltered. "Sorry, don't print that, please. I'm sure your ass is great. Nice to meet you."

"Um, thanks, I think." Patrick shoved his glasses up his nose with his middle finger, clearly not recognizing the return salute he offered. "You too. And don't worry, I promised not to print anything without clearing it first."

"Fuckin' A, then."

"Anything to pass?" I asked, saving Patrick from further embarrassment and beginning our handover ritual.

Smitty stared back at the screen but said, "Not really. Might want to check the bottles. We had one fire call. Everything else was old ladies and stairs. Barely got a bite down before the damn bell sounded."

"Livin' the life," I echoed the overused refrain.

"Something like that," he replied.

It may as well have been a Catholic liturgy as much as we recited it.

"Alright. Thanks, Smitty. Burton 's cooking if you're still hungry. You know he can't portion control."

He glanced back again, a wide grin splitting his face. "Why you think I waited around? Nobody cooks like Yoda."

"Got that right." I chuckled, then turned toward Patrick. "Come on, I'll show you the bottle room."

We leave the office and walk to the end of the long hallway, entering a small room whose far wall is dominated by a stainless steel machine. Rows of oxygen tanks with their tops facing us lay neatly on racks.

"Oh!" Patrick stops in the doorway. "Bottles are oxygen tanks."

"Ding-ding-ding." I nod and grin. "I wondered how long that would take. Not many people guess right."

"You guys really do have a language all your own, don't you?"

I nodded as I reached up to the tanks nearest the door, checking their levels. Thanks to the fire call from the night before, we were down to a dozen or so spares at full capacity. I grabbed the first couple of empties and loaded them into the machine, then pressed a few buttons. The machine roared to life, then a whine replaced the roar of the motor.

"Now we wait," I said. "Shouldn't take too long. I'll need to fill ten or twelve before we head down for breakfast."

"Do you do this every day?"

I shrugged. "The check, yes. Filling them, no. Fire calls aren't as common as people think, so we don't burn through bottles very fast."

He smiled, and a mischievous twinkle sparked in his eyes.

"What?"

"You said, ‘burn through the bottles.' That's a fireman pun, isn't it?"

I groaned. "Unintentional. Promise."

His spark dimmed. Something in the way his shoulders dipped—just a little—made me want to rescue him. "You can still use it, if you want."

He whipped the pen from its spiral and scribbled furiously.

I watched him write, his blond hair flopping wildly as he cocked his head one way then the other. Every sentence or two, his pen would rise to his mouth and he'd nibble, but only the part you pressed to make the inky thing pop out, never the main pen. That made me smile.

What the fuck? I was staring at him like he was some lost puppy I'd brought home and I wanted to keep him.

"What?" He noticed me staring.

I turned away and fiddled with a knob on the machine that definitely required no fiddling. When I peeked back, his twinkle was bright and strong again.

Five rounds of tank-filling later, we followed the mouthwatering smell of bacon that now dominated the entire floor. Burton , Sam, and Alex were sitting around a long table. Smitty was perched in an oversized leather chair in the den, cradling a plate near his chin while shoveling eggs into his mouth.

"Bottles are good. Smitty spent the night getting high on oh-two, so it took a while."

Smitty raised his favorite finger.

"Grab a plate." Burton pointed to bowls of steaming food at the table's center. "Wanna introduce our guest?"

That's when I realized we'd passed right by Burton without so much as a name exchange.

"Sorry, Yoda. This is Patrick. He's the AJC reporter spending the day with us."

"Nice to—"

Midway through whatever Burton was about to say, ear-piercing beeps sounded from speakers above the table, and a blue light flashed.

"So much for breakfast," I said to Patrick. "Ready for your first run?"