Showtime Dalton
Standinginapairof shorts, shirt off and draped over my shoulder to cover the tattoo on my chest, I stare at the camera. Behind me is a wooded area, scarred and burnt by the fire from weeks ago. The day I tripped and sprayed my whole crew.
There’s no hat on my head. No sunglasses on my face.
Just lethal glaring. My chest rising and falling with every even breath I take.
I look pissed.
Look ready to murder someone.
Look ready to hunt down an arsonist who touched Bryn.
I don’t say a single word. The silence is threat enough.
PeepersInPages:
Damn. He can put his boots under my bed anytime.
KarlaEBooksta:
Touch her and die vibes
PaigersTurnsPages:
Is it wrong the angry look is hotter than his other looks?
FictionalFeline:
I'm losing my mind very disrespectfully
FiretoFire831Station9:
The sirens wailing all the way, music to my ears.
Chapter 33
Wyatt
“Slowissmooth,smoothis fast, boys,” Nate calls from the front passenger seat of the truck. He turns to look in the back where me and Brody are gearing up. “Do not focus on the outside world, do not focus on looking for patterns. Your only job is knocking down the fire.”
Chatter around the firehouse the last week has revolved heavily around the arsonist. Nate has been consistent in his messaging. We aren’t to get distracted by onlookers. We’re not the ones to watch and scout for the man who has haunted my dreams since the day at the massage clinic. We get in, focus on our job, protect lives, save structures.
The small house on the corner that comes into view, engulfed in flames, has my adrenaline kicking into gear. The structure isn’t huge, but it’s a scorcher, devoured by fire. This thing went up in a hurry, and there won’t be much we can do to save it. It’ll be a defensive position, ensuring no nearby structures meet the same fate.
Luke slows down to let Brody out when we’re a couple houses away at a hydrant he can hook up to. He’s out in seconds, grabbing the hose from the back where it drags along the road as Luke continues forward until Nate tells him to stop.
Jumping out of the truck, I’m pulling a line, Luke there to help ensure all the kinks are out before I’m shouting for water.
It takes us half an hour and a second engine to get the fire under enough control that nothing surrounding the building is at risk, and over another hour to knock it back.
Sweat runs down my back, pours off my temples, my heart rate slowing as I finally get a second to catch my breath. The one-level home has been reduced to ash and cinders. There’s nothing left of it. The tough part of the job is seeing the destruction left behind.
There are groups of people gathered at different spots along the streets, a couple here, five there, all looking like neighbors. No one standing out.
I pretend to be looking for the homeowner, someone heartbroken and inconsolable, but I know what I’m truly searching for.
Him.
