Noah sits up, brow furrowed once more. “The hell are you talking about?”
“When the campaign ends, she’ll move out and be free to date you. So, you know, just… be good to her.”
The crease in his forehead only gets deeper. “You’ll just give her up that easily? You won’t even fight me about it?”
He seems almost offended on her behalf.
“Trent, she’s your age. You’re both bright little balls of sunshine. Outgoing and funny and devoted to your careers. You’re very well matched, and I think it’s obvious to literally everyone. You and Lila make sense.Meand Lila, on the other hand…”
Noah scoffs. “And what if she prefers Evan? She’s got a mouth on her when she gets worked up, but they’ve both got that diplomatic streak going for them. Effortless kindness, too. Plus, Leo’s obsessed with her.”
I fall quiet. It’s a good point. I guess that’s the real problem. I can picture Lila with both of them, and I’d like to think that I could picture her with me, too. I’d like to imagine that I could be a good man for her, a worthy partner. But I’m not exactly working with a good track record—or a record at all for that matter.
At last, I let out an exhale and rise from the mat.
“I guess we’ll just have to see who she chooses,” I say. “If she chooses anyone at all, that is.”
Noah nods. “Yeah, I—”
The alarms start blaring. The radio on my belt crackles to life.
“Multi-alarm structural blaze. Upper West Side. Evacuations underway. All available units respond immediately.”
Chapter twenty
Chapter Twenty: Lila
Call it instincts or blossoming experience, but the moment the alarms go off that evening, I know it’s bad.
Badbad.
Not the kind of bad they dealt with a few days ago with the apartment building in Chinatown and the child who risked his life to rescue his puppy.
This is much worse.
It takes only one minute to confirm it, too, because I’m on my way to Hale’s office when the alarms go off, and then Evan goes sprinting past me with the words “one confirmed casualty, two in critical condition” echoing in his wake.
Someone has already died tonight.
My stomach drops—then my brain snaps into a different gear. The one that counts risks, optics, angles. The one that knows fear doesn’t stop a narrative from forming—it just guarantees someone else will write it.
Of course, people die all the time. Every night, in fact. Especially in a city this big.
But so far, the emergencies I’ve witnessed Station 47 dealing with haven’t had any fatalities. At least, none that the guys have felt the need to inform me about.
It’s good timing that Jake and Sam are here, having stopped by to get some more B-roll footage to beef up the rest of our content. When I skirt the edge of the organized turmoil that the station becomes, I find them both peering over the edge of the mezzanine, camera equipment clutched loosely in their hands.
I take the stairs two at a time.
“Come on, we’re heading out with them,” I say to Jake, raising my voice to be heard over the sound of 47’s first engine roaring out of the bay.
“Withthem?” Sam gasps.
“If it’s as bad as it looks like, the media will already be gathering. We can join them.”
Because, in a way, Noah was right from the beginning. The people want to see their heroes in action. Controlled, mediated, and carefully articulated action, but action nonetheless. We won’t livestream, but we will capture as much as we can. Then we’ll edit it with intentional precision and use it as further proof that Station 47 needs to exist.
I consider calling Lou, but I know she’s out to dinner with Gina, so I’ll handle it on my own. At least one of us should get to have a normal romantic life.
