Page 3 of Ablaze
I’ve only seen pictures of her over the two years I’ve known the guy who has become one of my closest friends, and yeah, these other horny assholes aren’t wrong–she’s adorable as fuck. But I’m entirely too attached to my dick to open my mouth.
I don’t blame him for being overprotective. When you’ve raised your little sister practically on your own since she was ten, I’d assume you’d think of her more like your own child rather than a sibling.
I’m just about to pull out my chair to sit next to the others, half-heartedly nodding to the play-by-play Coolidge is now giving the guys about his kid’s recent basketball game, when the alarm sounds and the familiar radio announcement comes through the speakers.
Well, hell. So much for hoping the last four hours of my shift would be action-free.
“Calling Engine One, Engine Two, Battalion One, Ladder One, and Medic Eight. There’s a residential fire at four-two Sugarfest Avenue, South Lake Tahoe.”
I suppose lunch isn’t in the cards today.
As with every emergency, everyone at the table shoots into action. Before anything more is said, we’re leaving our meals where they are, hustling back up the stairs and getting our gear. And even though my stomach isn’t happy about taking a backseat, this is what we all live for.
It’s what we sometimes die for, too.
A truth I’m reminded of every time I visit my eighteen-month-old goddaughter.
Less than two minutes later, we’re pulling onto the street, sirens blaring, toward the address of the fire. Additional information coming in through the radio lets us know that the woman who reported the fire has evacuated the house safely, along with a couple of pets.
Within five minutes, my crew and I are pulling up to the older American-craftsman style home with smoke floating out of one of the side windows. A woman is huddled on the front lawn, sitting next to a cage with a few parakeets, and holding a small white dog that looks like it’s trying to escape to anywhere but here.
Me and Coolidge grab our equipment while Malcolm and Samantha rush toward the woman to ensure she’s okay.
Malcolm shouts over at us, “Kitchen fire. Looks like it originated in the oven.”
Me and my team are inside in the next minute. Thankfully, the smoke isn’t terrible, but there’s an active fire still inside one of the ovens, along with a fire extinguisher sitting on a countertop. The other oven is turned off, but there is smoke inside it as well. From the looks of it, she tried to put out the fire herself, but it relit so she left and called 9-1-1.
After extinguishing the fire, verifying that there are no other people inside the house, and quickly assessing the damage–two ovens and the cabinets near them–we head back outside and take off our breathing apparatus.
Malcolm squeezes the woman’s shoulder in a comforting way, but I can’t see her face hidden behind him. “You alright?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. But, ugh,” she groans, putting the white dog on the ground next to her before rising up. Her hand clasps the end of its leash “Can you not tell my brother about this? He literally just left my apartment a few hours ago after helping me move all day.”
Malcolm throws his thumb back toward the house with the oven fire. “So, this isn’t your house?”
“No. I came here to pet-sit for my neighbor and thought I’d make some treats . . .”
I pick up one of the said treats from the pan I’m holding. They’re a little crispy, but I don’t believe in wasting food. If it doesn’t have visible mold, it’s edible. I walk toward Malcolm and the woman still hidden from my view, examining the design.
It's a unique spin on a rocket, but not exactly how I would have constructed it. She’s clearly a novice at the fine art of baking and design. Everyone knows a rocket shouldn’t have a bulbous tip. And the protrusions under it don’t look like the swirls of fume she was going for. Instead, they just look like a couple of small circles where there should have been billowy-looking smoke.
It would be aerodynamically inaccurate and physically impossible to get something like this off the ground. Clearly, the girl’s not an aerospace engineer.
Still, my stomach begs me not to be a snob. Beggars can’t be choosers, and right now is not the time to be the latter. I take a bite off the end, crunching it between my molars.
It’s an interesting taste–a little bland and flaxy–but again, it beats not eating anything at all. Still, this woman has her work cut out for her. Hopefully, she’s not considering opening a bakery anytime soon.
“You mean, these rocket ship treats?” I ask Malcolm’s back.
He turns and my eyes trail up the woman now in view–tan and toned bare legs under denim shorts, with an oversized Iowa University sweatshirt hiding any curves she might have underneath.
I stop chewing for a moment as recognition flashes inside my irises. Dark eyes–the same color as her brother’s–under a thicket of dark lashes and shapely brows observe me. I get the sense she might have put together who I am, too.
She covers her mouth with the tips of her fingers, and her gaze travels from the half-eaten cookie in my hand to the tray of others.
“No,” she retorts, visibly containing her giggle. The leashed white dog near her ankles yips as if mocking me alongside her. “Those penis-shaped dog treats.”
Malcolm pinches the bridge of his nose. “Seriously, Dean, only you would think a penis was a rocket.”
