Page 7 of Second Alarm
Ty doesn't look at me. Ty pours a mug. Ty holds the mug out toward me. It's black. It's filled exactly to the three-quarter mark, which is how I like it. I haven't told anyone at this station how I like my coffee. I haven't drunk coffee in front of Ty Brennan in ten years.
I take the mug.
"Thanks."
"Yep."
Cal beams. Cal doesn't notice anything. Cal has never noticed anything, in the history of Cal, and this is going to be the thing that wrecks me.
Over Cal's shoulder, I catch Rivera watching.
Rivera looks down at his clipboard and writes something on it.
It's nothing.
The tones hit before I can put my coffee down. Medical call, possible cardiac, six blocks over at the assisted-living place on Juniper. I grab my kit. Cal grabs turnout gear and hands it to me — gear I don't technically need for a medical call.
We're on the road in under ninety seconds. Gemma meets me at the ambulance and we ride together. She's got strawberry-blonde hair coming loose from a bun and the kind of smile that would make a stone trust her.
"Larsen! Nice to see you again."
"Gemma. Cal's told me all about you."
She climbs in after me. "He's told me about you too. Half of it's wrong. You don't actually have a black heart, do you?"
"I've never claimed to have a black heart."
"He's writing you a lot of checks, is what I'm saying."
"He loves me."
She glances at me sidelong. "He's very proud."
"Yeah, that, too."
Gemma tips her chin at me, the look of a woman reading the room and not needing anyone to confirm it. "First day is the hardest day."
"It is."
"Mm."
"I'm steady."
"Okay."
The call goes fine. An elderly woman at the assisted-living place with chest pain that turns out to be acid reflux. Gemma and I work it clean. The shorthand between us is natural, the way it is with any competent paramedic, and we're back in the rig inside thirty-five minutes.
When we roll back into the bay, Ty is standing at the open doors of the engine, talking to Rivera. He stops talking. His eyes cut to the ambulance, then away, then back to Rivera. Rivera keeps talking like nothing happened. Rivera is rapidly becoming my favorite.
I get out of the rig. My knees are weirdly unsteady — first-day jitters, adrenaline shakes, nothing more.
The mug is still where I left it in the kitchen. Half full. Still a little warm. I take a sip. He made it exactly the way I take it.
"Larsen!" Cal calls from down the hall. He's my brother — why can't he call me by my name? "Come meet Beck before he loses patience. He's got paperwork for you."
"On my way."
I set the mug down on the counter. I look at it. It's a white ceramic mug with a small chip in the lip. It's a mug, just a mug, and this is totally fine.
