Indeed, Hale, Noah, and Evan seem to be in agreement that it makes perfect sense for all three of them to want me at the same time.
“But it doesn’t make sense at all,” I mutter. “I can’t have all of them. I can’t have any of them, actually.”
Lou’s lips part as if she’s going to offer a real solution, but then her laptop makes a littlepingnoise.
She glares at the screen. “What does that slimy little motherfucker have to say now…”
“What? Who?”
“I have Barry’s post notifications turned on…”
“You—”
“Bitch,” she whispers, followed by several other elegantly chosen expletives that I won’t repeat.
Instead of offering an explanation, she turns the screen toward me.
It appears the snake has finally slithered out of hiding.
Barry Pelavin @PelavinPRSolutions:This #AllThree trend has more truth to it than people realize. Lila Hart is clearly using her so-called “agency” as an excuse to sleep her way through the FDNY. Typical. Honestly, Station 47 deserves better.
“I smell a defamation lawsuit,” Lou growls.
But I’m speechless. Because all it takes is a few more scrolls to see the mess that has exploded underneath that single post. Likeminded, disgusting men who don’t even know me have leaped at the chance to call me a “firehouse groupie” and “phony slut.”
It’s just the algorithm, I try to tell myself. Bots and AI-generated nonsense. The website is designed to fuel flames and create spectacle in order to draw in traffic for ads.
But I can’t logic away the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Because, as horrible as Barry is, he’s right.
Chapter nineteen
Chapter Nineteen: Hale
Suffice to say, morale is in the gutter.
I can feel it in the sluggish pace of the morning routine, can see it in the dullness of everyone’s gaze, and hear it in the way the usual noise inside these walls has become muted.
You’d think that I might even be grateful for a break in the constant commotion, but I’m definitely not happy about this.
Not when Noah is wandering around like a kicked puppy, his metaphorical tail between his legs. Even though nobody on the staff is giving him a hard time for the livestream, he’s beating himself up enough for it on his own.
Evan hasn’t been himself either. His default state is quiet and reserved, but he’s been more than that lately, and something tells me it doesn’t have anything to do with this recent scandal.
All the while, Lila is trying to stay upbeat enough for all of us. Still, she’s been keeping to herself the past couple of days. I haven’t really seen her since that stolen moment in my office. I know she took a meeting with the Hawk in the conference room yesterday, but I wasn’t asked to be part of it. None of the guys were.
On top of that, donations haven’t budged in days. The sentiment online swing between outrage, disinterest, and performative pity. I’m worried the city council is one nudge away from making a decision we won’t be able to bounce back from.
Station 47 is losing the fight.
Except it’s my job to pretend that we aren’t.
Although I’ve never been known as a captain with ample social graces, I make my rounds. I start in the bay, casually maneuvering throughout the station until I end in the kitchen, making conversation and offering help in hopes that acting like everything is normal will make it normal.
Around noon, I find Evan in the lounge attached to the kitchen, nursing a mug of coffee and staring off into the distance while Old Bill mutters at the crossword in his lap. The local news is on in the background, covering something of international relevance instead of our downfall for once.
Evan glances up when I settle down on the sofa beside him. He’s all dark circles under his eyes and bowed shoulders, and itmakes my chest clench when he makes a visible effort to perk up in my presence.
