Pressure grows in my chest with the thought of having to choose between the possibility of being written up, or worse, and living to finish my probationary year.
Screw my life, six ways to Sunday.
Chapter 17
MILES
The annual crew cookout is in full swing. At the end of our shift block, Heids and Sandy insisted we still host the annual event where every other station who wants to hang out with 53 for a night of food and chatter is welcome to.
41 and 37 arrived early to help out, and Heids has been with them, reminiscing their days with Kirwan since they crossed the threshold.
Sandy is never too far away from her, and I watch with a sliver of envy as they are so at ease with each other despite still being with the crew.
“Where do you want this, Cap?” London says, stopping at the long grill. I flip open the cover on the dish she’s holding.
“Over on the table,” I say, nodding to the long table that’s starting to fill up as more and more crew bring their dishes for the potluck dinner.
The grill flares, sending flames over the meat, and I turn the gas down before flipping the steaks and burgers and turning the sausages over. Davies skips down the house’s back stairs, a bowl in his hands, tears streaking his face. His Hawaiian shirt flaps over a forest green T-shirt and board shorts, the outfit complete with flip-flops.
I chuckle at his party clothes, and he brushes his dark hair out of his face with a hand. “Mission accomplished, sir.”
He holds out the bowl of onions like they’re radioactive.
“Great. Thanks, bud. Have a seat, you earned it.”
He drops to the bench seat beside London, and I train my gaze back to the grill. Her laugh drifts through the space, and my focus is back on her less than a minute later. Davies is entertaining her with a story, which apparently requires much gesticulation.
It’s only when Davies finishes the story and her hand cups his jaw that my grip around the tongs turns biting.
What the fuck could be so damn funny?
And why is she touching his face... like she’s?—
“Someone’s going to get to her first, Cap, if you keep sulking and not making your move.” I turn to find Heids rearranging the cooked meats on the tray by my side.
“That’s not?—”
Her hand lands on my forearm. “Yes it is. Stop worrying about everyone and everything else, just for once.”
She pats my cheek like I’m some school kid who landed sage advice from a grandparent. Picking up the tray of meats, she wanders to the long table and sets it down. As she rounds the table, coming directly behind London, she mouths something I have no desire to hear.
I think.
Someone cranks the tunes up, and the cooler is wheeled out as Cap strolls in with his family. Now we have a party.
An hour later, our rear outdoor training space—the backyard, as we call it—is pumping with a beat and too many firefighters in one space. Randoms from every house in a ten-mile radius have turned up for our cookout. It’s exactly what we need after the month we’ve all had. Losing Kirwan being the most notable, for Heids and 41.
I sit at the end of the table nearest the grill and sip my beer as the crew dances and chatters. The probies are nowhere to be seen.
I sit forward, scanning the groups of folks talking and dancing.
I don’t see London . . . anywhere.
Rising, I down the last of my beer and wander through the party, pushing through the back door to the house. After walking the ground level and coming up short, I take the stairs two at a time.
I make a left and find Davies on the sofa, staring at the flatscreen, a beer in his hand. The air conditioning blasts his tropical-clothed body that’s stretched over the arm rests at each end.
“Seen Tennison?” I ask.
