Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 46257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
With all that shit we gotta breathe in on the job, why on earth would he need to smoke a pipe?
Being Chief is something I never really think about either, but after twenty years of active service, I’m not sure I could do what Stack does. He can hold a hose and run a ladder just as well as me, but the office side of things chews up most of his time.
I’m just a regular guy doing his job. And the thought of being behind a desk all day instead of fighting fires and helping people makes me wince inside. Ever since I can remember, all I wanted was to be a fireman. I was always that kid who said, ‘that’s what I’m gonna be.’ And here I am.
I’m not a kid anymore, and I feel every one of my years of service every time I get outta bed or after a two-week stretch without proper sleep. Every time I see my graying temples or try to count the scars on my body from active duty.
But what else is there for me?
All the other guys have families or a girlfriend. A ‘significant other,’ I think they call it nowadays. Hell, even grumpy old Stack has a wife he always makes sure he gets home to every night when he’s not on the job.
Me? I guess I’m just a solo bird, a lone wolf.
“And for Chrissakes, Ash,” Stack calls after me, slipping into his coat, and readying himself to go for one of his little walks.
“Get a belly. Grow some good old-fashioned fat over all those muscles. I’m sick of seeing you so goddamned…fit all the time,” he teases me, catching up and following me to the bay doors, clapping a firm hand on my shoulder before I walk in the opposite direction he’s headed.
“Take time off, Ash. We do need you, but we need you fresh and rested too,” he murmurs.
It’s about as close to emotion a man like Stack could ever show, but seeing as we’re alone, I know how much he means it.
It all sounds like a great idea until I’m driving, on the way home, circling areas I know from experience that have the most calls any day or any time.
The digital emergency scanner crackles from under the dash of my own truck.
Bad habits, I know, Stack. You got your pipe, and I guess I’ve got my scanner.
Even on my few and far between days off, I’m usually first on the scene if I’m close enough.
I just can’t live without the job. The peace I get from helping someone who really needs it in a life or death situation, or even the more regular everyday emergencies we get called out for.
Plucking a kitten stuck up a tree, cutting a stuck ring from someone’s finger, or simply being there for someone who’s lost everything after watching it go up in smoke.
The job is a lot more than just putting out fires.
But this morning, it’s a little quiet on the emergency front, which is a good thing.
‘Too quiet,’ I’d usually tell myself until I remember the Chief’s warning to actually have some real time off for a change. Remind myself that I should follow his advice.
37 days? But who’s counting? I guess I should head out to the old place….
I bought the old farm over a decade ago with plans to renovate it and retire there when I was…hmmm, about the age I am now.
Jesus.
Forty-two sounds young but in firefighter years? That’s pretty long in the tooth to still be rushing into burning buildings or holding a hose. Stack is the only exception next to me from our battalion.
Groaning but smiling to myself, I think about the work that needs to be done on the farm, and I almost run a red light and stop suddenly.
Screeching to a halt but way before the line.
A light drizzle has made the freshly repaired roads slick. The smell of hot tar and grit mixed with gasoline fills my nose as I lower my window.
And I’m glad I do.
I see her across the way, getting out of a car in front of an old bank building.
I mean, I see her.
Hips and ass first out of the car she was driven to work in. And I hear a low growl come from somewhere inside my truck that feels like someone just put a gas explosion under.
I don’t make a habit of ‘checking out anyone,’ and this isn’t like that anyway. It’s something else.
My first real thought, apart from how fucking perfect her rear end is, is the fact that someone else is driving her around, not me.
Sounds crazy, but I’m feeling overprotective and even jealous of a complete stranger’s butt. Like a wild animal who spotted his mate, and this one mates for life, he needs to know what is his is really his.