Page 159 of Rising Heat

Captain’s been riding my ass about it for months, finding excuses to stick me behind the wheel whenever he can. Every shift it’s something different—back the Truck into an alley, thread it through streets that were never meant for something that size, squeeze it into spots that make everybody else nervous.

“If you can put it there,” he likes to say, “you can put it anywhere.”

He’s probably right, but it doesn’t mean I’m telling him that.

A helmet thuds onto the bench behind me.

“You look like shit,” I say without turning around.

“Thanks.”

“How’d RIT go?”

Tyler groans as he drops onto the running board beside me.

“They passed me.”

“That bad?”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“They made us drag a two-hundred-pound dummy up three flights twice.”

I snort and shut another compartment.

“You still throw a ladder like a rookie?”

He shoots me a look.

“You still pretending you’re not nervous about Chauffeur?”

“I’m not. Been driving that engine for months now.”

“You’re full of shit.”

I glance over.

“You done?”

“Not even close.”

I shake my head, fighting the smile anyway.

Some things don’t change.

Tyler drains the rest of his water, then watches me for a few seconds. I keep working instead of looking at him, setting a wrench back into place, popping another latch shut. The silence stretches just long enough that I know he’s waiting for me to acknowledge him first.

“So,” Tyler says eventually.

“So.”

“You gonna make me drag this out of you?”

I don’t look up from the open compartment.

“Drag what outta me?”

He grins.