Page 58 of Book and Ladder
“A bodice ripper?” Dustin asks, wagging his brows.
“A what?” I ask.
“You know, those ones with some pirate on the front with his flowy shirt unbuttoned to his navel and he’s holding a woman in a dress that looks like it took two hours to put on and will take even longer to get off. So … bodice ripper.”
The three of us crack up. Greyson walks in carrying his laptop, glances at each of us and takes a seat in a recliner one over from mine.
“Not a bodice ripper,” I mutter, praying nobody notices the heat crawling up my neck.
The side of Greyson’s mouth ticks up momentarily. He tilts his laptop partially shut. “In the words of Shakespeare … ‘Methinks thou doth protest too much’.”
“Greyson. You read? Shakespeare?” Dustin teases.
“I graduated high school,” Greyson basically grunts.
Dustin’s eyes gleam as he returns his attention to me. “The suspense is killing me, Patrick.”
I jam the bookmark inside and slam the cover shut. My eyes lock on Dustin as he pushes off the counter and stalks toward me, obviously intent on wresting my book from me. He reaches out. I hold the novel high overhead, dodging him. We shuffle around the room.
Dustin lunges, and the book jolts in my hand. The dust jacket I had wrapped the book in starts to slip off the novel. My stomach bottoms out.
“Bodice ripper! I knew it!” Dustin bellows, swiping for the book, oblivious.
I tighten my grasp, holding the dust jacket onto the book with one hand, heart pounding. Bouncing from foot to foot, I juke left like a wide receiver desperately avoiding the tackle.
Dustin’s making pirate sounds, like “Aargh, lassie!”
He dives for me. “Give me the book, Patrick!”
“Walk the plank!” I shout, practically admitting what he suspects.
Dustin’s built like a tank, but we’re well matched. We stare one another down, both of us bent in a preparatory hunch, ready to move on impulse. His brows wag and he lurches forward. I twist and shoot in the opposite direction.
Cody’s cracking up. Greyson watches, smirk tugging at his mouth.
The alarm blares, cutting through our skirmish like a ref’s whistle halting the play.
The book is forgotten. Muscle memory kicks in.
My crew mates jog toward the door. I linger behind them, purposely setting myself up to be the last man out. I open a cupboard we never use and toss the book into it and then I hustle out the door to suit up.
Captain’s voice blares overhead: “Cletus Bader’s stuck in his Lay-Z-Boy again. Tipped like a cow in the pasture.”
We stop scrambling for our turnouts and eye one another. A moment later, we’re in the truck, wearing our station uniforms, headed to Cletus’ house to right a recliner and help pry him out of the seat. People would not believe the non-fire-related calls we take on the regular.
We manage to free Cletus from the grips of his chair. When we’re back at the station, Captain comes out into the bay to greet us.
“A shipment of books got delivered today.”
“A shipment?” Dustin asks, looking at me. “How many bodice rippers does one man need, Patrick?”
I shake my head, chuckling.
“They’re not for Patrick,” Captain says. “They’re an order for Moss and Maple. Jill messed up the delivery. She dropped our order of restocks to the bookshop.” Captain looks aroundat the four of us. “Patrick,” he says. “Handle the mix up with Daisy.”
“Could Dustin do it?” I ask on impulse.
Captain only has to look at me and I nod. “Got it. I’ll handle the mix up.”
