Riley Anders, our newest probie, is the last to climb into the truck, seating himself on my left, and then, we’re off. We fly out of the station, bumping over potholes, the sirens blaring overhead.
He rubs at his eyes, groaning and mumbling.
I’m silent, listening alertly to dispatch over the radio, waiting for instructions and cataloging every detail.
The universe eases me into my first day. It’s a minor call. Grease fire. Commercial kitchen. Two injured. Minimal injuries. Flames controlled.
The chatter in the engine fades as I run through hundreds of scenarios, preparing myself for any outcome. This has been my routine en route to every call for years. My crewmates are used to my silence.
Riley is new and almost half my age.
He’s alive with adrenaline.
And a fucking chatterbox.
“O’Connor, did you catch the game last night?” He jabs me in the ribs with his elbow. “Spencer took a swing at that last ball like it was his last day on Earth.”
I grunt in response and scoot away from him, which he takes as his invitation to get comfortable and spread his legs.
“I’m hosting a barbecue at my complex in a few weeks. You should come. Most of the crew are coming. Baseball. Ribs. Beer. Partners are welcome too,” he rambles on and on and on.
There’s a snort from the front seat. Marcus turns toward us, a smug grin on his face.
“Anders, new lesson for you,” he says.
Riley perks up like a puppy, paws raised while he waits for a treat orgood boy. “Yeah, Captain?”
“O’Connor doesn’t socialize. Save your breath. We’ve tried for years.” He gives me an incredulous look, almost daring me. A bet he’d usually win.
I don’t break eye contact. “I’dloveto come. I’ll bring my girlfriend. Maybe she can bring a plate of something.”
Marcus’s brows shoot to his hairline. It’s the first time I’ve referred to Harriet as my girlfriend. She’s so much more, but it does the trick in shutting him up.
“Oh. Is this the same girlfriend who baked us cookies?” Riley asks.
“Sure is.”
I wouldn’t put my crew through her strange concoctionsagain. Though, if she offers, I’m not telling her no, and they’ll have to persevere and eat every crumb.
My gaze drifts to the window, ignoring Marcus’s probing stare. This is Riley’s second week. He’ll learn I’m not the warmhearted big brother type soon enough, but I pride myself on showing new members the ropes and keeping them on track. My knowledge is his knowledge and I want him to succeed.
We arrive at the location. Marcus talks to the owner while Riley and another crew member head inside to ensure the fire is completely contained. This leaves me to tend to the two injured line cooks, both sitting on the curb with icepacks on their burned arms.
I stomp toward them with my medical bag slung over my shoulder. “Take them off,” I instruct.
My bedside manner could do with some work, I’ll admit, but neither of them protest as they follow my instructions.
After treating the burns, I advise them there’s no risk of infection or need for hospital treatment and walk them through the appropriate aftercare for first-degree burns. Job done, I dispose of my bag and head to where Marcus waits by the rig.
“Am I needed inside?” I ask.
“Nah, they’re almost done. Small grease fire a line cook tried to extinguish.” He grinds his jaw. “With water.”
“Fucking hell.” I grimace. “Fire safety is a myth these days.”
Thirty minutes later, we wrap up, but not before the owner of the restaurant is given strict instructions to train his staff or he’ll be slapped with a notice from the local fire safety officer.
Somehow, I end up sitting next to Marcus, who usually sits with the driver. He’s not subtle, and I concentrate on the passing city lights until he breaks the silence.
