Leaving Normal Read Online Free PDF

coffee brewed, Tony talked with his relief, Doug Frye, and filled him in on the calls they'd taken during the last twenty-four hours. All of them had been medic calls. People didn't understand that firefighters didn't fight many fires. Whenever the bells sounded for that, they were in their turnouts faster than they could think, but, usually, they were sent out to be EMTs.
    Rob Palladino glanced at Tony. "How many carbs do you think are in beer? I've got a wedding to go to on January fifth."
    A rough calculation was made by one of the reliefs and Rob's expression became contemplative as if he were figuring out how many he could drink without blowing his diet five days into it.
    The conversation moved away from Atkins as pie was dished up by two of the firemen.
    Wally drank his shake in several long gulps, taking a breather to say, "Yesterday we got a call when Tony was making an omelet. Had it pretty nice—cheese, mushrooms, salsa. We get back and half of it's eaten."
    Tony frowned, still pissed as he recalled the care he'd taken cooking that damn omelet, only to get a nursing-home call and having to leave his masterpiece on the plate—uneaten. His voice tight, he clipped ins words while explaining, "Station 3 thought they'd come over for a visit while we were out."
    Rob continued the story with a grin. "We get a call to Spring Brook and when we get back—Tony's omelet is half gone."
    One of the reliefs laughed. "Gable. You know it's gotta be him."
    "I know it was Gable," Tony said, crossing his booted feet over one another in a casual stance. "He's that kind of guy."
    The phone rang. The incoming captain snagged the receiver. His eyebrows lifted. "Gable. We were just talking about you."
    Tony's mood darkened. So it was only an omelet, but he wasn't much of a cook and he'd really taken his time on it. Perfection didn't come easily and that damn omelet had been perfect. Pranks were always happening between the firehouses, and Tony had participated in many. But this time he wasn't laughing.
    With the receiver next to his ear, the captain gazed at Tony. "You really want me to ask him that?"
    Lifting his chin a notch, Tony asked, "What?"
    "He wants to know what kind of cheese you used."
    "Give me the phone." Tony took two long strides to reach the captain who was holding out the receiver and laughing. "Gable, you shit. I'm going to get you back."
    Several choice f-bombs were traded, the call ending with Tony good-natured and planning his revenge. He was thinking an open can of tuna taped somewhere discreetly beneath one of Station 3's kitchen cupboards. In a couple of days, they'd be wondering what had died.
    Fifteen minutes later Tony was in the fire-station garage helping Doug wash the engine. If he had time he usually pitched in with the daily duty. It was sort of therapeutic. A wind-down from the adrenaline surges that were always ready to go full throttle while he was on a twenty-four-hour shift.
    The radio was playing and, as Tony hosed water off the red paint, he sang along to an old Bread song. '"I want to make it with you,' Doug."
    Frye's face soured. "You're making me nervous, Tony."
    Tony simply grinned.
    Tony Cruz had a masculine confidence that rarely, if ever, buckled. He was secure in himself, knew what he was good at, what his strengths and weaknesses were. He didn't have an ego, wouldn't know what to do with one if he did. Acknowledging he was well liked was something he prided himself on. If he gave his word, he meant it. If he said he'd take someone's shift, he was there.
    He stepped around the shoreline—the electrical cord that kept the engine charged to a battery. When the truck was washed and dried he stepped out of his work pants and boots, put on a pair of jeans and Nikes and he swapped the button-down for a long-sleeved, navy tee with Boise Fire Dept. written across the back.
    As he drove down the residential street where the fire station was located, he noticed all the people out shoveling snow. The