One Bride for Three Firemen

“Hey!” he bellows, scrambling to his feet. “What the fuck!”

“Time to get up!” I grin, feeling the strain in my muscles.

He’s a big guy. Huge, even. That was a good bit of exertion.

“Fuck you, man,” he growls, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “No it isn’t. It’s only six!”

“Yeah and I told you we were getting to work on some new drills,” I remind him as I start kicking the end of Stephan’s bunk. “You too. Up!”

Stephan sits up, apparently aware of the situation and unwilling to get dumped on the floor.

“Come near me and I will kick your ass,” Stephan growls as he stretches his arms over his head.

“Then get dressed,” I snap as I grab my towel off the back of the door. “Don’t make me embarrass you in front of Trigger.”

“What? Me?” Trigger asks, confused.

He is a good-looking kid—they both are—but Trigger is not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. We make a good team, but part of it is understanding we each have our strengths. Trigger’s strength is… well, strength. Stephan is smart, clever.

Me?

I am the boss.

As I snap on the shower, determined to get in and out before the old water heater runs out of water, I try to get my thoughts organized. The three of us can knock out probably half the inspection forms today, if we really focus. It is going to suck.

That’s kind of the point.

The water feels great as it beats on my shoulders. It relaxes me, washing away the remainders of stiffness from last night. I hate to admit it, but sometimes I do feel a bit over-the-hill. Maybe even a little physically intimidated by these guys. Luckily, I have ten years of experience on them, and I can still kick both their asses if I have to. (Hopefully I will not have to.)

When I get out of the shower, swiftly wrapping the towel around my hips, I see Trigger already obediently waiting by the door. He gives me a quick salute before ducking into the bathroom. I am glad to see he is on board.

Stephan has a little bit more attitude, as per usual.

“You know, you don’t have to be so critical all the time,” he sniffs as he makes his bed with tight, military-style corners.

“Critical?” I ask wryly, letting the towel fall to the floor.

He looks away, rolling his eyes. The truth is, my dick is a lot bigger than his dick. A whole lot. Times may change, but some things keep their value. And a big, swinging dick is not just a clever phrase. It really does put people in their place.

“All I am saying is that we put that barn out without a problem,” he continues. “There’s no reason to punish us.”

“Work is not punishment,” I inform him as I finish dressing.

He mutters something else under his breath, but wisely chooses to let go. Work may not be “punishment,” but I am definitely hopeful it will help sort out his attitude.

Bubba already has a pot of coffee ready in the kitchen when I get there, so I just pour myself a cup and dump a spoonful of sugar in it.

“You guys are up early,” he says, grumpy and glowering.

“We’re getting the permits caught up today,” I answer.

“You could probably take care of the electric in the stable too,” he adds.

“All right. I’ll make sure that’s on the list.”

He drinks his coffee. I can hear the clock ticking on the wall.

“Anything else?” I ask, not rudely.

He raises his bushy eyebrows and stands up straight, puffing up his chest. A massive guy in his time, age has changed him, but I can see the vague outlines of the man he used to be. He’s a local hero. One of the good guys, everyone is always quick to point out. I respect the guy. Probably more than he realizes.

We’re happy to have him around here—not like we have a choice anyway. But since we are the historical station, I guess it makes sense we have the old fire chief here too. He hovers around us, criticizing, challenging, and generally keeping me on my toes.

He knows his way around the paperwork. In fact, he probably invented most of the paperwork we have to do. He even wrote a couple of the old training manuals which are sitting on shelves near the engine, preserved in four-inch, three-ring binders with glossy covers.

A modest guy, he lives in the smallest room. It’s like a monk’s cell. Just a bed and a dresser, with a small table by the window and a recliner that faces an old-fashioned tube TV. Mostly he keeps to himself.

“I’m thinking I might take a few vacation days,” he announces, taking me by surprise.

“Oh yeah?” I ask carefully. “I bet Michigan would be a nice getaway from the heat. Maybe get out on the lake?”