Wax

Twenty Two

A/N: Le many hours were spent researching into this but hooray for some moving on with intimacy. It was worth it. Next week's is packed with goodness. Hehe. Meanwhile, I'm done with the manuscript for Vanilla and have a little more to go on the design aspect of things before sending it for publishing. I'm keeping everyone updated on my progress on IG hehe so if you want to know anything, send me a message there at hisangelchip.

Enjoy!

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[Leroy]

The thing about holding boxes of condoms in your hands, one variety in each—I know, the benefit of choice, amirite—was that it somehow turned out to be a cool ritual favored by the fire gods above because all of a sudden, my pager was going off with the tone of a call-back for an emergency. Across the room, standing at the door, was my personal snowstorm. Also known as the person on the receiving end of said condoms. Or at least in the future, according to the fire gods. I hoped.

"Leroy, is that...?"

"Yeah," it took me a second to cross the room head down the hallway into his living room where I'd left my coat, still holding on to the palm-sized miracle boxes that were going to have to wait. I mean, depending on the call-back instructions.

I checked the screen of the pager, making sure that it was set to the right zone and tac channel for my station. It was. I rang the chief. Waited a couple seconds. Couldn't get through; the line was busy. Which meant other off-duty crew members had also been paged. Could be something big.

"Is everything okay?" He caught up from the bedroom and I turned with the pager in hand, night stuff in the other. His eyes went to the latter and with blushed ears, hurriedly retrieved them. "You focus on that. This can wait. Do you need the car? Is this a station call or um, a general one from the district?"

"It's from the station, which probably means the fire's in our area but maybe not big enough for a general call in the main dispatch channel." I scrolled the knob on the top of the pager just to check what was going on in the main dispatch. The same call. "Scratch that, it's big."

"Alright, be safe," he handed over my wallet that was over on the counter while I grabbed my coat and continued to ring the chief. "Call me if you need anything."

I was already heading down the hallway to the entrance, phone at my ear, calling over my shoulder. "Need you to decide which box we're gonna use!"

"Shall I ask the police on your behalf?" He called back.

"I am the police."

*

When Dispatch pages for a call-back, we're expected to be on the scene in less than thirty minutes with heavy traffic. It was eleven in the evening on a Sunday so a car wasn't going to cut it for an emergency. Chief returned my call a minute after I hit the road; the call lasted ten seconds and all I could make out over the blast of sirens and whatnot in the background was that the call-back was an all-hands situation and that if I was near the station, make my way there under five. And if I wasn't, to report directly to the scene. They'd bring my gear in the engine.

I was a ten-minute ride away, weaving through traffic and heading in the general direction of my station until the firefighter's GPS app on my phone alerted me to the exact location. One look and I nearly swerved.