Leaving Normal by Stef Holm (whitelam books txt) 📗

about Tony Cruz. His male confidence exuded without effort.

Unwillingly, she found herself responding to him, knowing full well he was married.

Then it hit her.

He was safe. Unlike a single man who she'd have to put herself out there for. With Tony Cruz there wasn't any emotional investment. It was just plain lust.

Of course. That was it.

She wanted him because she couldn't have him.

* * *

"Someone in the city just shot himself with a .45," Tony said as he unloaded Station 13's dishwasher.

The bells had just gone off through the station, a female dispatcher's voice relaying the information on the radio speaker. Every Boise Fire Department was hooked into the same system so they could hear where the other engines were being sent.

Station 5, the busiest in Boise, was being called to the scene. It was a morbid thought, but Tony thought it just the same: Now, that would be a good call.

One thing about the holidays, shit happened 24/7. The fact that it was seven o'clock in the a.m. didn't mean anything. If someone was going to harm themselves, they didn't necessarily do it when the bars closed. The guy had probably been up all night contemplating shooting himself; he just now got the courage—or someone found him and tried talking him out of it, and that alone was all the catalyst he needed.

"Number five," Captain Rob Palladino commented over the open newspaper on the table. "Those guys never sleep."

The blades of a blender spun, churning through the words of Jim "Wally" Walcroft as he said, "Toss me that aspirin from my food locker, Captain."

The captain tilted back on his chair legs, reached for a small plastic bottle and threw it across the kitchen. Wally swallowed two tablets, then kicked up the speed several levels and blended his protein shake.

Hoseman Tony Cruz, Captain Rob Palladino and driver Jim Walcroft were coming off A Shift as sunshine tried to break through the gray winter sky. Their three reliefs from B Shift gathered with them in the kitchen.

The six heavily built men wore blue pants and blue button-down shirts with the IAFF logo.

With the dishwasher unloaded and having already taken out the trash, Tony leaned his backside into the countertop, his big arms folded across his chest. He lowered his right hand, laid it flat on his belly and thought about eating a slice of the half-eaten pumpkin pie on the table—food had been coming in steadily since Thanksgiving. Citizens had this need to feed firemen and the doorbell to the station house was always ringing with someone bearing food—especially during and after the holidays. The guys were committed to doing Atkins after the first of the year.

While coffee brewed, Tony talked with his relief, Doug Frye, and filled him in on the calls they'd taken during the last twenty-four hours. All of them had been medic calls. People didn't understand that firefighters didn't fight many fires. Whenever the bells sounded for that, they were in their turnouts faster than they could think, but, usually, they were sent out to be EMTs.

Rob Palladino glanced at Tony. "How many carbs do you think are in beer? I've got a wedding to go to on January fifth."

A rough calculation was made by one of the reliefs and Rob's expression became contemplative as if he were figuring out how many he could drink without blowing his diet five days into it.

The conversation moved away from Atkins as pie was dished up by two of the firemen.

Wally drank his shake in several long gulps, taking a breather to say, "Yesterday we got a call when Tony was making an omelet. Had it pretty nice—cheese, mushrooms, salsa. We get back and half of it's eaten."

Tony frowned, still pissed as he recalled the care he'd taken cooking that damn omelet, only to get a nursing-home call and having to leave his masterpiece on the plate—uneaten. His voice tight, he clipped ins words while explaining, "Station 3 thought they'd come over for a visit while we were out."

Rob continued the story with a grin. "We get a call to Spring Brook and when we get back—Tony's omelet is half gone."

One of the reliefs laughed. "Gable. You know it's gotta be him."

"I know it was Gable," Tony said, crossing his booted feet over one another in a casual stance. "He's that kind of guy."

The phone rang. The incoming captain snagged the receiver. His eyebrows lifted. "Gable. We were just talking about you."

Tony's mood darkened. So it was only an omelet, but he wasn't much of a cook and he'd really taken his time on it. Perfection didn't come easily and that damn omelet had been perfect. Pranks were always happening between the firehouses, and Tony had participated in many. But this time he wasn't laughing.

With the receiver next to his ear, the captain gazed at Tony. "You really want me to ask him that?"

Lifting his chin a notch, Tony asked, "What?"

"He wants to know what kind of cheese you used."

"Give me the phone." Tony took two long strides to reach the captain who was holding out the receiver and laughing. "Gable, you shit. I'm going to get you back."

Several choice f-bombs were traded, the call ending with Tony good-natured and planning his revenge. He was thinking an open can of tuna taped somewhere discreetly beneath one of Station 3's kitchen cupboards. In a couple of days, they'd be wondering what had died.

Fifteen minutes later Tony was in the fire-station garage helping Doug wash the engine. If he had time he usually pitched in with the daily duty. It was sort of therapeutic. A wind-down from the adrenaline surges that were always ready to go full throttle while he was on a twenty-four-hour shift.

The radio was playing and, as Tony hosed water off the red paint, he sang along to an old Bread song. '"I want to make it with you,' Doug."

Frye's face soured. "You're making me nervous, Tony."

Tony simply grinned.

Tony Cruz had a masculine confidence that rarely, if ever, buckled.