Page 4 of Venus
He nods, no pressure in his expression. “Okay.” I grab my purse and slide off the stool, but before I reach the door, he calls out, “Wait!”
I stop, one hand on the handle.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I smile faintly. “Bye.”
And then I’m gone.
Chapter 3 | Vulcan
“…and then he didn’t even get her name!”
Jackson is practically wheezing with laughter as he slaps Trevor’s back and doubles over, tears in his eyes.
Trevor’s leaned halfway across the common room couch, reenacting my bar interaction with an invisible ponytail and the most dramatic impression of me I’ve ever seen. “‘Uh, hi, you’re beautiful, can I buy you a drink?’Insert tragic rejection and walk of shame here.”
I glare at both of them from the lounge chair in the corner, arms crossed like a pissed-off dad at a Little League game. “Are you done?”
“Not even close,” Jackson says between gasps. “You got full-on rom-com rejected, my guy. She walked out without giving you her name like a sexy Cinderella and left you holding your—”
“Dignity?” I offer.
“Beer,” he finishes. “She left you holding your beer.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” I huff.
I shake my head and try to tune them out, but it’s no use. The image of her in that hoodie and those scrubs is already tattooed across the backs of my eyelids. And her soft, worn-out voice has been stuck in my head for days.
Even if our only conversation was a long winded rejection.
It’s been four nights.Four. And I’m still thinking about a woman who gave me absolutely nothing to go on.
Just enough of an impression to haunt me. But, like, in a good way.
“She didn’t seem creeped out, right?” I say aloud before I can stop myself, interrupting their banter.
Trevor raises a brow. “Dude, you kissed her hand. What was that? 1940’s foreplay?”
“She looked sad,” I mutter, as if that explains everything.
Jackson quiets down a little. “Yeah,” he says, thoughtful now. “She did.”
Before I can spiral into another round of self-inflicted overthinking, the department alarm shatters the mood. The lights in the station flicker red, and the sharp buzz triggers a switch in all of us.
Engine One respond. Major vehicle collision with confirmed fire. I-16 eastbound. Semi-truck involved.
Our Captain’s already calling out roles as we move. I toss aside my water bottle and sprint for the bay. The others do the same, and within seconds, we’re suiting up and loading into Leroy—our beat-up, beloved engine.
“Jesus, Westwood,” Rodriguez says as I clip my radio in place. “Are you sure you’re not an arsonist?”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Hey, I’ve got an alibi. You saw me getting roasted by my own wingmen just now.”
Laughter fades fast as the doors open and Leroy pulls out into the street, sirens screaming. There’s nothing like the feeling of being inside that engine. Adrenaline pounding. Heart thumping in time with the siren. The air charged with purposeful tension.
We hit the highway fast. Smoke is already visible on the horizon, thick and black against the early dusk. My fingers flex around the shoulder strap of my oxygen tank. This is what I do best. The chaos. The fire. The mission.
This is why I’m Vulcan.
