Page 4 of Faking the Heat

I pull into the firehouse bay, slow and careful, and for half a second the world is almost quiet except for the cat’s post-game commentary. The engine is already back from the scene; I spot Jake through the plexiglass, feet up on the bumper, posture of a man who’s waiting for a show.

I put the rig in park, kill the lights, and walk around to the back. As I open the door, Mandy is already gathering her stuff. Bowie’s carrier, her backpack, the laptop, the whole circus. She attempts to hop down one footed and instantly regrets it, landing hard and almost losing her grip on the computer.

I reach out to steady her. “You want me to carry something?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m good. Really.”

I don’t press. I know how to recognize the look of someone who needs to carry their own load, at least for a few more feet.

Jake’s grin is slow and wide, like a dog who’s just found a new flavor of garbage.

“Saint Sterling strikes again,” he says, not moving from his perch. “You go out on a call and come back with a girl and a cat.” he laughs.

I give him the dead-eyed stare, but he’s immune. You have to admire the man’s commitment.

Mandy, to her credit, doesn’t wither. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her hands are shaking, but only a little, and tries to flash her customer service smile.

“Hi, Jake. Long time.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t realize Sterling here was running a rescue service for damsels and felines, but, you know, I support it. Power to the people.”

A beat of silence passes. The crew, pretending to be occupied, is absolutely watching every second of this.

Someone in the back (could be Ramirez, could be Jace) murmurs, “Saint Sterling got another one.” The phrase loops down the line in a half laugh, half hum, and even the guys on clean up pause to glance in our direction.

I can feel my jaw tick, but I don’t take the bait.

“Guys, this is Mandy,” I say. “She’s with me for a few days. Be decent.”

Jake nods, all fake solemnity, and Mandy gives him a little wave, which he returns with a salute. It’s not hostile, exactly, but the crew dynamic is what it is: a haze of competition and affection, where you only take a punch from the people who like you most.

I jerk my head toward the hall. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t ask for a tour, but I give one anyway, because it buys us both a few seconds of normalcy and it’s not quite time for me to clock out yet.

“Kitchen’s down that way,” I say, pointing towards the fridge covered in magnets shaped like every state except Nebraska (nobody’s ever been). “Bunks are upstairs, but if you want to crash out, you can use my cot. Nobody will bother you.”

She nods, lips pressed tight, and I wonder if she’s going to break down or just power through by sheer force of sarcasm. Maybe both.

I check my watch it’s almost 8 o clock. I lead her towards the locker room and point to the bench. “Have a seat Sparkles.” I say opening my locker and pulling out a pair of thick fuzzy socks.

“Becca?” Mandy questions with an arched brow. The side of her lip twitch into a half smile as she eyes the socks in my hand.

“You know it.” I laugh and offer her the socks in exchange for her laptop. She hands me the device and takes the socks slipping them onto her feet and discarding the singular slipper. “When you’re the best big brother in the world you get care packages.”

Mandy scoffs, “I suspect it’s just because she thinks you can’t take care of yourself.” She laughs, stretching her legs out and wiggling her toes examining the socks.

“Wow. Here I am sharing my emergency luxury hosiery, and this is the thanks I get?” I clutch a hand to my chest. “And for the record, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Says the man with cartoon llama socks in his locker.”

I point a finger at her squinting.

“Emergency llama socks.”

“There's a difference?”

“A huge one.”