Soaring

  My phone on the nightstand clattered as it rang.

  I opened sleepy eyes and stared at the light coming from it as I looked at my alarm clock.

  It was the night after Mickey and I connected (literally).

  It was also the middle of the night.

  My heart started racing because a middle of the night phone call could mean anything.

  I reached out, grabbed my phone and saw the caller was Mickey.

  I took the call and put the phone to my ear. “Everything okay?”

  “Open your door, Amy.”

  My skin ignited and my body flew into action.

  I threw back the covers, jumped out of bed and ran down the hall to the front door. I unlocked it and pulled it open to see Mickey, in his firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire outfit sauntering up my walk toward me.

  I waited, my eyes locked to him, his eyes locked to me, the burn building with just a look, and when he was close enough, I jumped him.

  He caught me, kissed me, backed me inside, closed the door and locked it, all without taking his mouth from mine.

  His tee hit the top step to the sunken living room.

  My nightie fell to the first set of steps that led up the hall to my bedroom.

  In the morning, I’d find my panties dangling off the arm of the daybed in front of my fireplace.

  But we didn’t make it to the bed.

  We sunk down on the rug under it and that was where Mickey fucked me.

  When he was done with me, I was too replete to go searching for my nightie. So when he lifted me in his arms, deposited me in my bed, went to the bathroom to deal with the spent condom and came back to me, we slept together naked.

  It wasn’t one of my top things to do. I wasn’t big on naked sleeping.

  I didn’t give it a thought with Mickey.

  * * * * *

  The next evening, nervously, I walked on my silver pumps into Magdalene’s firehouse.

  As arranged, I was there to have dinner with Mickey and the boys.

  It was coming clear that when he said he’d make time for me, he meant it.

  It was also coming clear that when he said we were building something, he’d decided not to waste any more time doing that.

  Meeting the boys at the firehouse, in my opinion, was one step down from telling your children you were seeing somebody and you were all going out to dinner.

  Thus, I was entering the firehouse with a stack of containers holding blonde brownies baked in cupcake tins with a wedge of Dove chocolate shoved in the top of each.

  I was doing this in my silver pumps, a pair of boot-leg dark wash jeans, a filmy, blush, sleeveless blouse with understated silver threads and profuse ruffles up the front and my hair in a loose bun at my nape, curling tendrils pulled out around my face.

  I jumped when I heard a male voice shout, “Hot chick on the premises!”

  I looked toward the sound and saw a very big man in Mickey’s firefighter-not-fighting-a-fire uniform standing at a bank of lockers against the wall, head turned my way, grinning at me.

  “Hey,” I called.

  “Yo,” he called back.

  “Is Mickey here?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  He bellowed, “Mickey!”

  “Jesus, Jimbo.” I heard Mickey mutter loudly and my eyes went his way. He was grinning and walking to me. “Hey, baby.”

  “Hey,” I said quietly, slightly shyly, grinning back tentatively.

  He stopped in front of me and his eyes dropped to the containers.

  “You baked,” he noted.

  I lifted them up a smidge. “Blonde brownies with Dove chocolate.”

  His eyes came back to mine and they were dancing. “Buyin’ the boys approval with baked goods?”

  I didn’t deny this because it was clear I was doing just that.

  “Just so you know,” the man called Jimbo joined us, his gaze resting on my lower half. “You got my approval with those jeans.”

  I felt my cheeks flush, but I did this fighting a gratified smile.

  Mickey cut narrowed eyes to his colleague.

  Jimbo caught his look, lifted his hands, but said, “Bud, you asked her here and you know I’m not blind.”

  “I know that. But I knew it thinkin’ you got manners,” Mickey returned.

  Jimbo looked at me. “I offend you?”

  “Not exactly,” I told him. “And I’m pleased you like my jeans.”

  He settled a bit back, remarking, “Good jeans. More what’s in ’em I approve of.”

  My eyes got big and Mickey turned fully, and a little scarily, to his fellow firefighter.

  “Seriously?” he asked dangerously.

  “Mick, dude, you cannot be pissed I’m glad you scored a hot chick with a great ass who makes brownies,” Jimbo returned. He looked to me. “No offense.”

  “Not certain I can take offense to you thinking I have a great ass,” I replied.

  He smiled big.

  At that point, I found myself divested of the containers and Mickey was shoving them into Jimbo’s hands.

  “Take those to the kitchen,” he ordered.

  “Gotcha, captain,” Jimbo said through his smile, took the containers and strolled away.

  I moved closer to Mickey. “Captain?”

  He stopped scowling at the departing Jimbo, looked down at me, hooked me with an arm and pulled me to him whereupon he laid a hard, swift kiss on my mouth.

  He kept hold of me with one arm as he lifted his head and gave me a much nicer, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I gave it back. Then repeated, “Captain? Is that a nickname?”

  “Rank,” he stated.

  I felt my brows draw together. “Rank?”

  “I command this company.”

  I was no less confused. “You…sorry?”

  “Chief is the Battalion Chief. He commands five houses in the five big towns we got across the county. Each house has a captain who commands the company, which is the rig and the men who work it. But also the house, which is everything to do with this department that isn’t handled by the chief. We got two lieutenants as well as me. Chief schedules it so each shift, I’m on it or one of the lieutenants is on it, takin’ charge of the equipment and the boys and managing shit if we go out on call, at least until the chief gets there. Don’t really got enough to go around for all shifts, so we got acting lieutenants with enough experience in to take shifts if that’s needed.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled. “So you’re kind of second-in-command head honcho.”

  His eyes again started dancing as he confirmed, “Yeah.”

  “That’s pretty impressive,” I noted.

  His eyes warmed on his muttered, “Thanks, Amy.”

  I lifted my brows. “So your chief commands five houses?”

  “Yep.”

  “Isn’t that a lot?”

  “Nope.”

  I tipped my head to the side. “It isn’t?”

  “Not really. In a bigger city, a Bat Chief would command all the houses in that city.”

  “Part-time?” I pushed and he gave me a squeeze.

  “That would be a no.”

  I did not like this. I didn’t like it because Mickey wanted this position and it seemed a lot more work, overseeing five fire departments in five cities across the entire county, rather than just Magdalene’s.

  “Want a tour before dinner?” he asked, taking my mind off this.

  A tour of a firehouse?

  What girl would say no?

  I focused on him. “Absolutely.”

  That earned me another squeeze before he took my hand and guided me around.

  They had a big red truck (obviously). On the lower level with the truck there was a bank of lockers down one side. They had a variety of equipment like axes, wound hoses and such mounted on the walls.

  There were also pictures in cheap frames put up here and there. They depicted the crew either formally arranged for an official photo or with arms thrown a
round each other’s shoulders in a line. There were also candid shots of everything from someone grinning while washing the fire truck or someone wearing a tee shirt that had a big “MFD” on the front and jeans, swinging a bat during a softball game.

  Close to the truck there was firefighter-actually-fighting-a-fire gear (which Mickey told me was called bunker gear) set out and ready for men to jump into boots, pants and grab jackets and helmets.

  They even had a shiny brass fire pole.

  Which meant they had an upstairs, and although there were equipment rooms and a small bathroom downstairs, upstairs there were full showers with more stalls (Mickey called out for an all clear before we peeked in) as well as a workout room that was small and held mostly weight equipment.

  There was also a dark room that had bunk beds (four of them, lined head to foot against the walls) another room with a beat up couch and a couple of even more beat up recliners, all facing a massive, old console TV I knew for certain didn’t provide HD. That room also had mismatched end tables with ring stains in the top of the wood, these dotted around for easy reach.

  And last, there was a kitchen that had once been new and state of the art.

  In 1956.

  Now it was dinged up and old.

  And even though the entire house was spic-and-span (this, Mickey explained was because the new guys had to go through a period of serving the station, the men testing their mettle in a variety of ways, including the duties of keeping the entire house, rig, equipment and gear performance ready and exceptionally clean), at its age, it couldn’t be anything but dingy.

  I couldn’t spend a lot of time upset at the fact that, although their rig and gear seemed to be in good shape, the rest of the space was an afterthought. That these men spent a lot of time there, did that without pay and did it with the possibility they’d be saving lives, property and putting their own lives on the line. And because of that, they deserved at least a nice flat screen with HD and a microwave that didn’t look like it was the prototype before the prototype before the prototype they actually produced the year microwaves were introduced to the masses.

  I couldn’t spend this time because Mickey introduced me to the crew.

  There was Jimbo, the driver, who I’d already met.

  There was also Stan, a man I figured was around Mickey’s and my age (in the dearth of communication with Mickey the last two weeks, I had learned during our thirty minute phone call that he was forty-eight). But Stan was shorter and losing his hair. Then there was Mark, who I’d put in his thirties, who had a gleaming wedding band, a smile almost as easy as Mickey’s and really nice biceps.

  And last, there was Freddy, who was young, maybe mid-twenties, but that was at a push. He had a shock of thick, dark, messy hair, a smile he knew was effective, veins that ran his forearms and biceps (Mickey had these too) and he was perhaps four inches taller than me and I was five three.

  He was their recruit.

  After I got my introductions and shook hands with everybody, I was offered a seat.

  I noted that the contents of one of the three containers of brownies was decimated (and I bit my mother’s tongue not to remind them they shouldn’t spoil their dinner at the same time delighted they dug in so quickly).

  I sat and saw that Freddy was making dinner with Jimbo and Stan busting his chops as he did it (Mark was more quiet and less of a ball-buster).

  Freddy didn’t appear to care. Freddy appeared to care solely about flirting outrageously, if innocently, with me, something Mickey didn’t protest because, it seemed, it gave him fodder to join in busting Freddy’s chops.

  It was teasing. It was lighthearted. It was funny. It was quite an experience to have the opportunity to sit with these men who spent a lot of time together, perhaps did some harrowing things trusting each other, and had an easy camaraderie.

  The dinner was sloppy joes and baked frozen tater tots with brownies for dessert.

  I ate it and almost the whole time I did it smiling.

  Or laughing.

  When everyone was done, we lounged while the guys started busting Freddy’s chops again as he did the cleanup.

  Then Mickey tugged a tendril of my hair.

  I turned my attention to him and he said quietly, “Time to get you on the road.”

  I nodded and pushed away from the table without objection. They were hanging around waiting for a call that might not come, but if it did, they couldn’t have distractions.

  And regardless of how clean and neat it all was, it was very much their world, their space, and although they’d all been welcoming, I got the sense that they were on their best behavior because of me and it would be better that they were free to let loose and do and say what they pleased.

  Farewells were exchanged and Mickey took my hand and walked me downstairs.

  We were at one of the two opened bays to the house when he gave my hand a tug to stop me.

  I turned into him and pulled our hands free so I could put both mine to his chest. In return, Mickey curved an arm around me.

  “You need a new microwave,” I announced and he let out a deep chuckle.

  But he didn’t say anything.

  “And a TV,” I went on. “And it’s shocking you have a kitchen that’s surely a fire hazard situated in a firehouse.”

  His eyes were still amused when he replied, “We make do, Amy.”

  “I would be of the opinion that men volunteering to put their lives on the line should expect more than making do.”

  He didn’t lose any amusement but I could still see a hint of serious seep into his eyes when he said, “Okay, you don’t got a dick so you’re just gonna have to go with me on this when I say it’s okay for my girlfriend to make the guys brownies. It is not,” his arm gave me a squeeze, “okay for you to buy us a TV.”

  That was precisely what I intended to do (plus a microwave) but I read the seriousness in his eyes and decided not to push that partly because I didn’t have a dick, he was right. He did, it was a very good one and he knew how to use it.

  But mostly because he’d called me his girlfriend and I liked that a lot.

  I didn’t want to appear eager and scary by sharing that fact with him so I asked, “Does the town give you any money?”

  “Bobby’d lose his mind and the boys would not show up if our rig and gear was not all it needed to be. They keep us equipped that way, Amy. We’re guys. We don’t need a lot more.”

  “Not even a better TV?” I queried incredulously.

  “Gotta admit,” he mumbled, lips twitching. “That TV sucks.”

  “Even when Archie Bunker was watching it, it sucked,” I mumbled back and he chuckled again. “Do you do any fundraising?”

  He nodded. “Every year ’round Christmas, the wives and some wealthy broads in town throw a Fire and Policemen’s Ball, and ’round Valentine’s Day all the guys in the county step up for a Firefighter and Police Officer Bachelor Auction. But what we make on that goes into a pot to divvy out in case something happens in the line of duty.”

  I ignored the “line of duty” business and asked, “Bachelor auction?”

  He grinned and replied, “Things keep goin’ the way they are, this year, I won’t participate.”

  This year?

  I ignored that too and stated, “Oh yes you will. I’m loaded. I could go the distance to beat any woman who thought she could get her hooks in you for a dinner.”

  His grin got bigger as his body started shaking. “Then next year, I’m first to sign up.”

  I leaned closer, enjoying his humor and that I gave it to him. I still felt it important enough to push.

  If gently.

  “So, seeing as I’m not properly equipped to get it, but I still get it, and a direct donation from me is out, would it be unacceptable if a certain someone leaned on some local businesses that sell electronics to get them to donate a new microwave and TV? These efforts being anonymous, of course.”

  His eyes warmed and his arm squeezed.
“You wanna put the effort into that, knock yourself out. This keeps goin’ where it’s goin’ and you meet some of the other wives and girlfriends and wanna arrange somethin’ like you did for the junior boxing league so the guys got it better when we’re hangin’ around waitin’ for a call, that wouldn’t be a problem either.”

  So I could get someone else to donate or raise money. But Mickey Donovan’s wealthy new girlfriend was not going to become the Magdalene Fire Department’s patron.

  Understood.

  I let that go and asked, “Do women invade the sanctity of the firehouse very often?”

  “Yeah, considerin’ we got one in the company.”

  This surprised me. Not that firefighters couldn’t be women, just that what I saw appeared to be a man’s domain.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She’s tough. She’s good. Been with us four years. Name’s Misty.”

  A firefighter named Misty was incongruous and humorous for several reasons.

  I did not smile.

  I mumbled, “Misty the firefighter.”

  Mickey gave me one of his easy grins. “Yeah. She took a lotta shit about that girlie name while she was a recruit.”

  “There aren’t a lot of women named Butch,” I pointed out and got another chuckle. “Was she okay with that?” I asked.

  “She didn’t have a choice,” he answered. “You take it or you get the fuck out. She gets sensitive and pissy about gettin’ shit about her name, no way she has it in her to aim a hose at a wall of flame.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that last part but I didn’t let on and instead queried, “So, how about wives and girlfriends?”

  “It happens. They show. Necessarily, this is a family. You’re part of the family, you’re welcome.” He bent his neck to put his face close to mine. “But everyone knows, the men and their women, our woman and her man, there’s an unwritten rule. Dinner’s okay. Occasionally. Droppin’ in to drop shit off or have a chat, that too. The boys may look laidback but they gotta do that bein’ prepared. So we keep distractions at a minimum.”

  I nodded.

  Then I didn’t know why I did it, but I figured I did it because I had to know.

  This being asking, “Have you fought a lot of fires?”

  He lifted his free hand to curl his fingers around the side of my neck and used his thumb to stroke the skin under my jaw when he replied carefully, “Seen a fair few.”