LARKIN
I couldn’t sleep, though it wasn’t for lack of trying. I stared at the ceiling for three hours while my dragon vibrated and the sensation reminded me of an idling engine.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw sandy hair, gray eyes, and a grin aimed at someone who wasn't me. I smelled of wet earth and crushed leaves that shouldn’t have been attached to a Station 12 firefighter. And I felt the kick from where our fingers touched over and over.
At two a.m. I gave up and got myself some water. At three I reorganized the spice rack. I did push-ups on the living room floor until my arms shook at four thirty.
Station 12 was quiet when I arrived at five thirty, half an hour early because sitting at home with nothing to do was worse than being at the station. The engine and ladder truck gleamed under the bay lights. I did a walkaround out of habit, even though everything had been checked the night before. Routine kept my brain from wandering to places it shouldn't go.
Colin and Dustin rolled in at six, followed by Ken, our engineer, and Janice, our paramedic. The shift change was theusual bedlam of gear swaps, equipment checks, and the outgoing crew giving a rundown of the previous twenty-four hours.
“It was a quiet night,” the off-going lieutenant told me, and he ran over the details.
It was a Monday, and Mondays at the station followed a rhythm I could set my watch by. There were equipment checks and inspections, followed by station chores. Colin mopped the bay floor while Ken ran the engine to check fluid levels and Dustin restocked the medical bags.
All of it was run-of-the-mill, except I kept reaching for my phone.
Colin leaned on his mop. “Are you expecting a call?” I tucked the phone in my pocket. “Because you've checked your phone four times since we started.”
“Stay focused." I pointed to a spot he'd missed near the bay door, and he went back to mopping.
I pulled an SCBA pack off the rack, but my hands fumbled the regulator test, something I'd done hundreds of times. The face piece slipped, though I caught it before it hit the floor.
“Butterfingers,” Janice called from the medical cabinet.
“The seal was slippery.” I held it up, and she turned back to her inventory.
At ten, we ran a drill where we advanced a hose line into the training room and put water on a simulated fire. I demonstrated the technique first, crouching low with the nozzle. The hose was stiff with water, and I had a hundred and fifty feet of it snaking out the door behind me.
“Do short bursts," I told my crew. "You're not trying to drown the room. Cool the gases overhead then hit the fire."
Colin took the nozzle next, and he did great, but my attention kept drifting. I'd be watching the drill and evaluating his technique. But my mind would wander back to the drinks table with my hand on a water bottle and an omega saying, “See youout there, Lieutenant,” with a sharpness that made my chest ache.
After the drill, I retreated to my office which was just a desk crammed in the corner of the watch room. I pulled up Station 9's page on the county fire department website. The staffing information was public, and I scrolled through the roster until I found him.
Percy Madden. He hadn’t been on their competition roster last year.
There was no photo on the official page, but I opened my personal phone and searched his name. I found him on social media, and I was a little embarrassed that I’d gone looking for him. And why didn’t he have his account set to private? Any weirdo could check him out.
His posts were mostly food pictures, selfies at the gym, and photos with his crew. In one he was sitting on the bumper of Station 9's engine and he was grinning at whoever was behind the camera. I sniffed, thinking I might have been able to pick up his scent through the screen, which was silly.
I put the phone face down on the desk. But a reminder of Percy’s fingers gliding over mine and a hint of his scent that I’d backed up in my memory closed the gap between us. I looked at the pic of him on the bumper again. Then put the phone down. Seconds later I picked it up again. Gods, I was like a kid, permanently attached to my device.
My dragon disagreed but didn't argue, which was his version of letting me stew in my own stubbornness.
We got a medical call in the afternoon, and I did my assessment on scene while Janice took vitals. The patient was a middle-aged man with a history of cardiac issues. We put him on oxygen, got a line started, and the ambulance crew transported him to the hospital. I wrote up the report back at the station anddidn't think about Percy once during the call because I was a professional and I had a job to do.
But as soon as the paperwork was done and my pen hit the desk, the vibrating started again. Percy’s scent crept back into my head as if it was stalking me.
By four o'clock, I'd talked myself into and out of going to The Sidedoor six times. Harold, the owner, was a wolf shifter who'd been running the bar between Danvers and Trenton for a decade. He knew everyone. He also had a talent for not asking questions, which made him the perfect person to approach for a phone number without it turning into gossip.
At five, my shift ended, and I was in my truck heading toward The Sidedoor before I convinced myself to go straight home. The bar was quiet, as it was too early for the evening crowd. Harrold was behind the counter wiping glasses.
“Larkin.” He nodded. “I’ve not seen you here in a while. Beer?”
I asked for water and fidgeted with a coaster, flipping it between my fingers and tearing sheds off it. “I need a favor.” He gave me the water. “I need a phone number. It’s for someone from Station 9.”
I tensed, waiting for questions, though Harold was pretty good at minding his own business. His brows shot up, though.
