Kellan swallowed the urge to dish up the good-natured fuck you the guy deserved. He needed to dodge the topic, not shine a spotlight on his tardiness—or worse, the reason for it. “Thanks, Ace. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sleeping in. But clearly McCullough here was kind enough to get enough beauty sleep for the both of us.”
The smartass deflection struck a bulls-eye, prompting Shae to give him the finger and Parker to laugh, and Kellan exhaled in silent relief. Ducking into the equipment room, he grabbed his bunker gear from the oversized cubby where he’d stored it just before he’d clocked out after last shift. The sharp scent of smoke and soot invaded his nose despite the fact that both the gear and the equipment room where it was always stored off-shift got very regular, very thorough cleanings. But some things simply couldn’t be blotted out or washed away.
Stifling heat, scorching his lungs with every inhale. Rectangular patterns of merciless sunlight burning in through the glassless windows. A shift of unexpected motion, the pinch of dread that arrived in his gut just a second too late.
“If you move, I will kill your friend…”
Kellan’s chin snapped up, his heart going Mach 2 against his navy blue RFD T-shirt. Dammit, all the intensity of last night’s recon mission was really cooking his composure. Thank fuck Isabella was going to get what she needed from Angel in order to put DuPree’s bastard ass in a federal prison.
Isabella, with her iron will and her gorgeous face and her deliciously wicked smile. Isabella, who’d opened up to him this morning, giving him a taste and making him want more. Isabella, whose tight, sweet body had trembled beneath his as the sun rose, and yeah, he needed to get all these emotions locked up right now.
Walking back out to the engine bay, Kellan stored his gear in his regular spot in Engine Seventeen’s back step, checking, then double-checking his SCBA tank and mask before securing them in the compartment behind his well-worn seatback. He stuck his head into Bridges’ office to officially check in with the captain and start his shift, but he hadn’t even made it six steps out of the man’s office before the shrill sound of the all-call turned his pulse into a playground.
“Engine Seventeen, Squad Six, Ambulance Twenty-Two, Battalion Seventeen. Structure fire, hazardous materials, forty-two fourteen Oakmont Boulevard. Requesting immediate response.”
Kellan moved toward the engine bay out of pure instinct, and he was far from alone.
“Woohoo, looks like they’re playing our song, y’all,” Hawk drawled, hustling his way into the hall from the fire house’s common area with the rest of the rescue squad on his heels.
“Nothing like a hazmat call to make your dick nice and hard in the morning,” Faurier said, tacking on an apologetic shrug as he caught Shae’s eye roll from the doorway to the engine bay. “No offense, McCullough.”
But Shae just smirked in response as she beat feet to Engine Seventeen and grabbed her bunker pants from the operator’s seat. “All good, Sammy boy. If you’ve got to apologize for your dick, you’ve got bigger problems than offending me.”
Faurier laughed and lifted his hands in concession before quickly hoisting himself into Squad Six’s vehicle. Although the conversation seemed relaxed, maybe even to the point of being inappropriate considering the potential seriousness of the call they were about to go on, Kellan knew better. Every single one of their adrenal glands was pumping out a fucking truckload of go-go-go right now. Letting the conversation crank that tension even higher wouldn’t do them—or the people they were hustling to help—any favors. Keeping cool was an absolute imperative if they wanted to get their jobs done right. One split second of panic could be the difference between life and death.
Focus. Block out everything that isn’t right now. Kellan set his shoulders around his spine and rounded the back side of the engine, where Gamble greeted him with a single lift of his chin.
“Nice timing. You fucking slacker,” his lieutenant added, toeing out of his plainclothes work boots and yanking his turnout gear over his navy blue RFD T-shirt in a well-practiced move.
“Yeah, yeah.” Kellan was tempted to jaw back, but he’d already ducked the radar with McCullough and Drake. Plus, something out there was on fire, and from the all-call, it didn’t sound like a family barbecue gone awry. Hazmat was no joke.