Sweet Southern Nights

Jake glanced up, cracking a smile, making Eva’s heart skip a beat. Why did the man have to be so gorgeous? Why did his T-shirt have to cling so spectacularly to his torso? Why did—

The radio crackled, distracting her, as Martin relayed that the apartment was clear. Time to clear the scene.

Eva tugged off her helmet and bunker coat and found a pen. Normally, she’d help stow the equipment, but since Hank had pulled her around front and several volunteer firemen had arrived to assist, she filled in the paperwork normally done by the driver. Might as well save Hank some time and earn her some brownie points. With Wendell contemplating retirement in order to run a yard service full-time, Eva wanted to make captain.

Only Jake stood in her way.

And that was a huge problem.

Not because she loved Jake, but because he deserved the promotion as much as she did.

And she might get it over him just because she didn’t have a penis—which didn’t sit well with her. Not the not having a penis part—she really didn’t want one—but that she’d get the job not based on merit but rather on her gender. The word token flitted through her mind again.

“Hey, miss.”

Eva ripped her gaze from the paperwork fluttering on the clipboard to find Kiki standing beside her. “Hey, Kiki. You need me?”

“I’m just worried about Zeke.”

Zeke? Who was that? A cat? Eva had forgotten to ask about pets. “Who’s Zeke?”

“He lives in 30A. He’s only eight.”

Eva grabbed her mic. “Did we clear 30A?”

“No occupants detected. All secure,” Hank responded.

Eva looked at Kiki. “We didn’t find anyone.”

“Well, he ain’t gonna answer. He ain’t supposed to be home. He said he was gonna stay home because Jarvis Bell said he was gonna whip his ass for telling Mrs. Haydell he cheated on his spelling test. His Big Mama will whoop him good if she knows he’s home.” Kiki looked at the closed door of the apartment housed next door to hers.

“Christ,” Eva breathed, grabbing her mask and attaching her accountability tag to the PVC pipe atop the cone. “Stay here, Kiki.”

Eva ran toward the closed apartment, calling into her mic. “FD2, reassessing apartment A. Resident indicates possible child on the premises.”

“Shit,” Hank shouted.

Eva pulled on her gloves and connected the mask to the tank, sucking in the cool oxygen. She hopped onto the porch stoop and tried the front door—it was locked. Behind her she saw Jake and Martin coming toward her with the battering ram in hand.

Eva eyed the flimsy doorknob.

Then she kicked in the door. The wood of the jamb splintered and the door flew back, slamming against the interior wall. The apartment revealed in the morning light showed a place that was definitely lived-in, with breakfast dishes piled in the dated kitchen sink and a tired tweed green couch covered in laundry.

No active smoke.

Eva pulled off her mask, sucking in the acrid smell. “Zeke?”

No answer.

“Jesus, Eva. We had the beast,” Jake said behind her. “But nice kick.”

She didn’t say anything. Just moved toward the dark yawn of the hallway.

“Zeke?” she shouted again.

The heat in the apartment wasn’t a result of the fire they’d extinguished next door. The combination of a humid August and the heavy bunker gear she wore made Eva feel as if she’d entered the mouth of hell. She flung open the first door she came to—an empty room with a floral bedspread and lace curtains.

She motioned Jake inside as she stepped toward the other bedroom.

The door stood open, a huge fathead of some basketball player dominating one wall. A small unmade twin bed sat in one corner; pajamas and tennis shoes littered the carpet.

“Zeke?” she called.

From the open closet a head emerged. Two big brown eyes, popped wide, met her gaze.

“Zeke?” she asked, softening her voice.

“Yeah?”

Eva released a pent-up breath of relief. “What are you still doing inside? Don’t you know there was a fire next door?”

He crawled out, a small Matchbox car rolling as he emerged from the depths. “I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

Zeke looked about eight years old with closely shorn hair, gorgeous chocolate skin and—Lord help her—the cutest dimples she may have ever seen. “Trouble smouble. No one stays in a burning house.”

“Y’all put it out,” he said, shuffling toward her. His feet were bare, and he wore only a pair of faded athletic shorts that clung to his small hips.

Jake appeared at her shoulder. “Jesus. He was in here the whole time?”

“Yeah.” Eva toed the tennis shoes toward Zeke, nodding her head for him to slip them on. “Chief is gonna freak. Who was supposed to clear?”

Martin appeared in the room, looking like a thundercloud. “I did. Front door was unlocked and I came in each room. Even opened the closets. Never saw him. Cleared it and locked the front door, you know, outta courtesy.” Martin glowered at the boy, who studied the shoelaces he’d just tied sloppily. “Young man, why didn’t you answer me when I called out?”

The little boy didn’t look up. “’Cause you’re a stranger, and I ain’t supposed to talk to strangers.”

Eva slid her gaze over to meet Jake’s laughing eyes. She tried not to smile, but her lips twitched in spite of herself.

Martin grumped. “So she’s not a stranger?”

“She knew my name,” Zeke said, shrugging thin shoulders. He looked up and tilted his head. “’Sides, I seen her on the field trip. She let us climb on the fire truck.”

“Pfft,” Martin said, turning around and trudging toward the front of the house, muttering under his breath things no eight-year-old needed to hear.

“Come on, Zeke. We need to call your grandmother,” Eva said.

“No. She’s gonna whoop me good. I ain’t supposed to be here. I faked getting on the bus.”

“You’ll have to deal with those repercussions. Even without a fire next door, you put yourself in danger. Small boys cannot stay home by themselves.” Eva placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the front door.