“Cain and Abel.”
“Gin and Tonic.”
“Ernie and Bert.”
My stomach feels like a bottomless pit, but I stop short of eating the last piece. Every pizza box is empty, and I know Evan is going to be starving, so I wipe my hands and pick up the plate to bring the last piece upstairs.
“I’ve got it,” Logan says. “Master and Bates.”
Everyone breaks into laughter, so long and loud, I barely hear the house alarm buzz.
I close my eyes and drop my head back. “Can’t we catch a fuckin’ break?”
While the laughter didn’t seem to bother the kittens, the alarm makes them claw a path straight up Logan’s shirt, each hiding in the crook of his neck. He pries the kittens off himself and puts them back into the box, securing the flaps. “This may not be the best place for them.”
“Ya think?” Tucker tosses Logan a napkin. “You’re bleeding.”
“They’ll get used to it,” Bobby says. “Look how great we turned out.”
That brings on another wave of laughter as we file into the engine bay. When I reach the fire pole leading to the second floor and don’t see Evan, I yell up to him, “Evan, let’s go.”
He’s the only person I know who can sleep through the blast of these alarms. Between buzzes, the dispatcher tells us what we’re headed for—in this case, a structure fire a few blocks away.
“Comin’,” he calls back.
In the engine bay, I kick off my unlaced boots, step into my turnouts, and pull the suspenders over my shoulders, then shove my arms into my jacket. In twenty seconds, I’m dressed and dropping my helmet into place. I open the passenger’s door on engine three, grab a rail, and hoist myself up on the running board.
“Where’s Evan?” Sorenson barks, just as surly as the rest of us by this point. He’s on engine one with Tucker and Carter. Logan and Bobby take the rescue. The volunteers who are coming on the call either find a place on the engine or jump in their own vehicles to follow.
Engine three sits idle, waiting for me and Evan.
“Go get him,” Sorenson orders, “then get your asses to the call.”
Evan’s response times have been shit since his back injury last year. He’s been blowing off physical therapy and skipping doctor’s visits. I’m annoyed—and worried—by the handicap he’s become.
“Evan,” I yell, taking the stairs two at a time—no small feat in turnout gear. I swing into his room just as he tosses back pills from a prescription bottle in his hand. “What the hell, man?”
“Comin’, comin’.” He sets the bottle on the nightstand and rubs his palms against his eyes, swaying a little. “God damn. This is the shift from hell.”
“What are you taking?” I swipe the bottle and look at the label—Oxy. “What the fuck? You told me you were clean.”
“I’m trying. You have no idea how fucking hard it is to kick this crap.”
The OxyContin is new but still in the opioid family and just as dangerous as the Vicodin and Percocet he’s been jumping between since he injured his back a year ago. Meds he should have been off after two months, tops. The label reads Betsy Cliff, his mother-in-law.
Evan starts toward the door, but I lift my hand to slap it against his chest. He tries to knock it away, but I hold on to his shirt. We’re the same height. Used to be the same weight too, but Evan’s been convalescing his back injury so long, he’s lost a lot of muscle.
“You’re stealing this shit from Natalie’s mother now?”
“I didn’t steal them. She gave them to me.” Evan shoves me aside, heads down the hall, and flies down the steps. I pocket the drugs and follow, my mind heavy with dread.
Evan steps into his turnout boots and yanks his suspenders into place. He opens the driver’s door and tosses in his turnout jacket and helmet.
I grab him as he steps on the running board and jerk him backward. “You’re not driving, asshole.”
He rounds the truck, bitching at me like a chick. But instead of you spend all your free time with your friends or your job sucks, Evan’s spitting triple-X-rated curses.
We’re on the street, code three, before I talk to him again, lifting my voice to be heard on the headset over the siren. “We’re depending on you. Our lives depend on you. You can’t do this shit.”
It never fails to amaze me how often I’ve had to remind Evan of something that is embedded in our bones.
“Easy for you to say,” Evan says. “You didn’t fuck up your back. You don’t have a house payment and a wife to support. A wife who’s nagging you for kids.”
I know kids have always been important to Natalie. She wants them. Lots of them. But this is the first time Evan has talked about it since they got married. At least to me. I can totally see it. She’ll make an amazing mother. I’m wishing he hadn’t mentioned it, because the thought of Natalie pregnant, Natalie with a baby in her arms, makes my insides tug and twist.
“Don’t talk about her like that. She’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”
I don’t need to ask if he’s told Natalie about the drugs. She’d never put up with this kind of reckless disregard for Evan’s life or any of the men and women Evan works with.
“You told me just last week you were clean.”
“I was. Today is just a really bad day.”
“I told you one more slip and I’d go to Natalie.”
“Don’t you fuckin’ breathe a word to Natalie. She’d force me into rehab, and I can’t afford to lose this job or have this on my record.”
“She can’t afford to lose her husband either. And better on your record than on your obituary.”
I turn the last corner and find flames lighting the night sky, smoke billowing into the darkness. The house is a total loss, I can already tell. The real danger is the way flames lick out of the windows, threatening the homes on either side.
I pull up behind the ladder truck and grab Evan’s arm before he gets out. “You stay on pump, do you hear me?”
“Go fuck yourself. You’re not my boss.”
“You stay on the pump or Cap will know exactly what kind of liability you are. I swear to God, if you go into that house, I’ll kill you myself.”
He shakes me off and pushes the door open.
“Evan, you tell Natalie about this, or I will.”
“Motherfucking sonofabitch. How did I ever think you were my friend?” He slides out and slams the door so hard, the truck rocks.
Sorenson is already striding toward me when I jump from the cab.
“About fucking time,” he says.
“Sorry, Cap.” I look over my shoulder, but Evan’s gone. “Evan’s on pump.”
“Last time I looked, I’m the one who’s got the brass to give orders. Take the probie and get to the third floor. Knock down that fire before it jumps roofs.”
“Got it.”
I grab Carter, and we drag a hose inside. My focus is split as I climb the stairs—one half on the fire, the other half on Evan. I really don’t want to be the one to tell Natalie that Evan’s got a problem. They’ve only been married two years, and she’s already had to quit college to nurse him back from his injury. She’s planning on returning to college in the fall, and this news would rock her world—in the worst possible way. Other than Evan dying, of course.