Harris wakes up groggy, on the third alarm. His night has gone to the dogs.
"Oh, f...." Ablaze did it again, stole his rest away. If this investigation continues, he risks becoming a chronic insomniac. She's better than his bank at that, though, unlike the bank statement, it's partially pleasant. In a are-you-a-masochist-now? sort of way.
The coffee grinder buzzes from downstairs. His dad sings the same line again and again, trying out various interpretations.
Harris flies down the steps, sticking his arm into his jacket's sleeve. "I hate to break it to you, Dad, but you don't have a future with the Metropolitan."
"Lord preserve us from cock-rot and our children's judgment!"
Even light-hearted, the barb scratches Harris' nerves, already raw from insomnia. "Touchy, touchy..."
The whole world is. They dig into everything a man says, hunting for insults, and, while doing this busywork, they miss actually shitty people. And the worst of them never say a single wrong word. Maybe Villarreal should have put Jung in charge of the Ablaze's affair, not him. He's incapable of opening his mouth without rubbing someone the wrong way, even his dad.
"Want a thermos of coffee to go?" Pique is gone from Sarkisian Senior's voice, thankfully.
Harris' shoulders relax. He wish he didn't have to wave off the offer. But there is no time to mourn his missed slumber, nor compensate for it. "Thanks, but I'm late. Will have to wait till the station."
Sarkisian Senior harrumphs his opinion on the mighty Keurig Machine, the pride and joy of the Firehouse 17. If it ain't roasted, then grinder by one's own hand, it ain't coffee to him.
"Why don't you plant the yard with the coffee trees, I wonder?" Harris grumbles. It seems to be weird to trust a grower, but not a roaster or grinder.
His dad chuckles, then calls, "Say hi to Ablaze from me!" just before he dashes outside.
He doesn't let the request bug him. Too much in a hurry. Heck, he's going commando, because if he's late for work when he's keeping banking hours, they'll never let him forget it. And the holier-than-thou expression on Jung's face? No, he won't give him the reason!
Not for the first time Harris wishes his truck had a siren and blazed red. But it's dark-gray, with a standard horn. He only honked at someone twice since his parents' accident. Whenever he hops behind the wheel, the memory of his Dad's Mazda jammed into the railing, caved in, haunts him. He sees the mangled car plunging in slo-mo, his dad still inside—and he applies gentle pressure on the gas instead of stomping on it like he used to.
That's why he's the only guy in the station, from the candidates to, he suspects, Chief Villarreal who loves fire trucks, but doesn't itch to drive one. The way he drives, grandmas would be passing him on the left, giving him a finger.
***
Colin and others are just coming off shift. They congregate in the corner of the garage, trading the last-minute jibes. Only unsociable Brady has gone home already. Harris is usually like Brady, a few pats on the back, throw his duffel over his shoulder—and ciao, bambino, sorry!
The familiar scene sours his already wound-up, coffee-deprived, under-slept mood. They're off now, for their honestly earned 48 hours off. And he's stuck here doing another day of the asexual guided tour of the facility for—
Speaking of the devil!
Ablaze glides toward him. There's no other way to describe her walk. She's the sight for sore eyes! Her pants are almost a skirt, in steel-gray shade. Her top is black, with white-and-red accents. Her cheeks are insufferably pink, her eyes sparkle and in her hands she cradles the largest cup Starbucks has to offer.
YOU ARE READING
Ablaze
Mystery / Thriller||Love Triangle between a Firefighter, an Arsonist and an Heiress ♡|| Deeply wounded by his mother's betrayal, Harris, a Milwaukee firefighter, doesn't accept human failings, including his own. That's until he saves a redhead from a burning hotel...
