“That oatmeal I left in the freezer—”
“Appreciate the thought, but I’m not starting my shift with microwaved cement. I’ll grab something from Flora’s.”
She sighs. “Fine. But you better have more than just a coffee and a flirt. You get mean when you’re hungry.”
“I’m a delight.”
“You’re your father’s son,” she says with fond brutality. “Which means you’re full of shit.”
My eyes roll, but I laugh. “Love you too, Ma.”
I hang up and toss the fridge door shut with my hip, reaching for the milk when my phone buzzes again. Not my mother this time.
RedRiot.
I tap it immediately, then lean back against the counter. Her low and lazy voice pours through the speaker, clearly still half-asleep.
“Mm, morning Fireboy… don’t start something you can’t finish. Because now I’m thinking about you in that shower. About dropping to my knees, and taking you in my mouth until you forget what time your shift starts.”
She exhales a sleepy yawn. Soft and a little breathy, and my entire body tightens.
“I love giving head in the shower. Messy, hot, water everywhere… My hands on your hips. You fisting my hair, controlling the pace. Mmm,sogood.”
The message ends, and I have to plant a hand on the counter.
Holy. Fuck.
This double shift better be quiet, because now all I can think about is being alone in my bunk room, with Red’s voice describing in fine detail exactly how she’d suck me off.
***
The frost on my windshield hasn’t quite melted yet, and the station’s only a five-minute drive, but my brain’s still full of Red when I pull into the lot.
The bay doors are cracked open, morning light spilling and glinting on the truck bumpers. The place hums, already buzzing with life, and the scent of bacon hits me the second I step inside.
I shoulder through the side entrance and toss my duffel on the bench just inside the day room.
“Morning, sunshine,” Colt Lawson calls from the stove top, flipping bacon in a pan.
“That for everyone, or just whoever you’re trying to bribe today?”
He grins. “Depends. You getting coffee this shift?”
“Don’t I always?”
“That’s debatable,” Beck Holloway mutters from the corner booth. He’s nursing his own black coffee in a chipped mug he refuses to replace. Our Captain’s got the build of a tank and the vibe of a bear just out of hibernation—with exactly none of the patience.
“Someone’s chipper this morning,” I say, tapping the table as I pass him.
“I’m chipper every morning you’re not here.”
“That’s a lie and you know it.”
Evan Prince strolls in behind me, calm as ever in his faded ball cap and station hoodie. “Why are you two flirting before seven a.m.?”
Beck shoots him a look, but he just smiles and starts fixing his tea.
Evan’s one of the most solid guys I know. Rock steady on scene, soft as hell when it comes to his daughter. It’s just the two of them—and their Dalmatian, Gus, who’s basically the station’s unofficial mascot at this point. Elle’s four, fierce as hell, and half the crew helps to look after her when shifts get wild. We never talk about her mom. We all know she walked out a few years back.
