The Anti-Social Season (First Responders #2)

Chapter One

One

T hea’s hands were sweating. They seemed like they were always sweating these days. She hated it. Especially since she’d once gotten an adrenaline rush from suiting up and fighting fires. But the adrenaline rush was now a thing of the past.

Forget fighting fires. Today she was going to set her career on fire. She fidgeted in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area. Agita , her nonna would have called it. Finally, the door swung open and Gary Landseer, the administrative officer, beckoned her inside and gestured to the chair across from his desk. She complied, taking the seat as he closed the door.

Sitting behind his desk, he glanced over the open file of paperwork in front of him, then peered at her through steel-rimmed spectacles. His brown eyes were so kind she felt like her insides had been scooped out with a giant melon baller. “Are you sure about resigning, Thea? You’ve been an exemplary firefighter for a decade.”

She nodded. Her neck was stiff and the motion felt jerky and unnatural.

His mouth tightened and he looked at the paperwork again, humming to himself. “Do you know what you’re going to do next?”

“No.” Her voice was as creaky as her neck.

“That seems awfully rash.”

She nearly laughed out loud at that. Her squad mates would tell him that was what she was, down to her core. Rash, brash, immature and a total goof—at least in the station house. On the job, they knew they could count on her.

Until Sean’s injury.

She hadn’t realized that anything was really wrong at first. Injuries happened, sometimes even catastrophic ones, and they could rattle you. She should know that better than anyone. The very reason why she’d joined the squad instead of taking a corporate job out of college was because of her favorite cousin. Luca had nearly died from smoke inhalation, and his wife had insisted that not only he get out of the job, but that they pack up and move nearer to her family in Illinois. Replacing one Martinelli with a newer model had made sense to her twenty-two-year-old brain. She’d learned the job, she’d made her mark, she’d done her part. Seen injury and loss and triumph and miracles. Seen the worst that people were capable of, and the best. She’d thought she had seen it all and could handle anything.

She’d been so wrong.

The therapist she saw after trying to power through the anxiety had said that sometimes trauma reverberated in funny ways. The echoes of Luca’s accident, of him moving away, had come roaring back when Thea had seen Sean on his hospital bed. It was like watching Captain America bleeding out. Impossible. Unthinkable.

And damn. That just made her think of Luca again. His big laugh. The way he’d talk earnestly about comic books when he was a teenager and she was a kid. He’d always taken her seriously. Believed in her. Given her that first Inferno Girl comic, the beginning of a lifelong obsession. And here she was, unable to do the job that had meant so much to both of them.

She took a deep breath. “I...” Could she even say it? Landseer just looked at her, his eyes so damn kind behind those glasses. The kindness and emotion clogged her throat, choking her.

He spoke for her. “I don’t need to know why you’re resigning. I knew your cousin. He was a good firefighter. A good person.”

“I was fine,” she said in a rush. “My cousin didn’t enter into it. I did the job for ten years.” Why was she arguing? This was ridiculous. Get it over with, get out, figure out her next act. That was the plan.

Landseer nodded. “I know.” His eyes flicked to the paperwork again. “It says here that you got an undergraduate degree in communications.”

Okay... “Yeah.” She hadn’t known what she wanted to do when she was eighteen. It sounded creative. Fun, even. The reality was neither. What did her college major have to do with the price of beans, anyway?

Landseer rubbed his chin. “What do you know about social media?”

Mary-Pat was at it again.

Simon’s jaw ached with tension as she gave an audible harrumph in front of the holiday display and carefully relocated a glitter-laden snowflake on the backdrop while glaring at the empty spot on the table. She didn’t seem to get that the point of a library book display was to increase circulation, not discourage it. But Mary-Pat always seemed to think her displays were akin to an ice sculpture at a fancy wedding. Something to be admired and not touched. Ever.

She’d probably get even more bent out of shape when such a sculpture had the gall to actually melt.

Without saying a word—because it was pointless—Simon got up from the reference desk and fast-walked back to the children’s section. He snagged a copy of My First Kwanzaa and returned to the display table that Mary-Pat had abandoned, presumably in a huff. For a display that was supposed to honor multiple winter holidays, Mary-Pat’s selections were suspiciously Christian. Of course, this was the same woman who didn’t put How to Catch a Turkey in the Thanksgiving display, deeming it “too silly for such a solemn holiday.”

Apparently, the age two to six set were supposed to be serious about a holiday that was mostly about eating lots of food as far as they were concerned? The only thing Simon could be sure of was that Mary-Pat was probably talking about the highly fictionalized version, filled with Christian religious concepts and strangely absent of colonialism. He didn’t understand Mary-Pat and didn’t want to. It was bad enough that she thought she was better at everything than everyone else, forever snagging assignments like holiday displays for the events and holidays she deemed “appropriate” while ignoring events like Pride and any and all non-Christian holidays.

Simon shuddered at what she’d deem appropriate for those tables.

It was even worse that she had been absolutely furious when Simon snagged the role of social media manager for the library system. It was a half-time gig, but one he had hopes would turn full-time at some point.

The better to be able to avoid people like Mary-Pat. Well, people in general. When he got his masters in library science, he had been focused far too much on the information-finding portion of the job and not enough on the patron-facing part. By now, he was feeling more than a little burned-out.

He sat back down behind the reference desk just as a young girl, maybe about twelve, came up with a serious face. “Can I help you?” he asked. Her slightly skeptical expression said she was suspicious of his professional demeanor. But he always treated all patrons with professionalism. He hated it when librarians—or anyone else—talked down to kids.

“I’m supposed to write a report on ancient Egypt,” she said. “My teacher said you’d have books about it.”

“We do,” he said. “Can you be more specific about your report topic?” He hoped for daily life on the banks of the Nile, religion, agriculture—anything other than what he both feared and knew it would be about.

“Mummies,” the kid said firmly.

Yup, that.

He showed her how to search the catalog, then took her over to the children’s nonfiction section, which abounded in age-appropriate books about ancient Egypt, including lots of facts about mummies. The girl’s face lit up like he’d just given her a present.

Kids could be morbid little beasts, but it was fun to get that excited reaction. He asked her if she needed anything else, and she shook her head, pulling a volume off the shelf with rapt concentration. At that point, a guy about Simon’s age joined them in the stacks, smiling with pride as she exclaimed, “Daddy, there’s books and books and books about mummies here!”

“Thanks,” the guy said to Simon before crouching next to his daughter to examine what was on offer. Aw. Simon loved it when parents had their kids come to the reference desk on their own, giving them an essential taste of early independence. The ones who talked for their kids, as if they couldn’t be trusted to navigate a fairly simple reference interview on their own, were the worst.

But the kids themselves? They sure as heck weren’t the problem.

“Social media?” Thea couldn’t figure out why the conversation had taken this turn. “I mean, I have some accounts on some platforms.” They couldn’t possibly be interested in the fact that she’d blocked her racist uncle Joey in Toledo two years ago, right?

Landseer’s eyes were serious. “Yeah. We’ve just been approved for a full-time communications and social media manager position in Emergency Services. You could be a good candidate for the job.”

Thea blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Yeah. There’s two schools of thought on hiring for the position—take someone who already knows how to do professional social media and teach them about emergency services, or take someone who already knows ES and have them get up to speed on the communications part. With you, you have the ES piece and your degree gives you a head start on the second component. What do you think?”

“Um...” Frankly, the idea was appealing, but she couldn’t figure out if it was because the opportunity was good or if it was because up until two minutes ago, she had no idea what she’d do next. Her living situation was inexpensive, but her savings weren’t going to last forever.

“I’m sorry,” Landseer said. “I don’t mean to spring this on you and make you make any kind of snap decision, but your battalion chief was aware of your issues and the wheels started rolling on this a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh.” Words seemed to have entirely abandoned Thea at this point. She didn’t have any idea that people were even aware of her, let alone having an inkling of her issues. It was unnerving. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m really grateful that I’d be considered for this, it’s just...”

“Sudden?” Landseer’s pale eyes twinkled. “Yeah. I get it. But we’d like you to try it on a trial basis, especially to get us through the winter holiday season. You know what that’s like.”

Thea made a face. She did. The winter holidays: fun, family and increased fire and other hazards. Which had meant that her family fun was only intermittent as everyone on her squad took their turn at being in the holiday hot seat, on call in case celebration turned to disaster. Her parents had become philosophical about it. Her sister less so, but at least this year she could spend time with them without the specter of a callout hanging over her like the Ghost of Christmas Five Minutes from Now.

Landseer seemed to misinterpret her facial expression. “We were really hoping we could have someone hit the ground running before people turned their Thanksgiving turkeys into cinders, but we’re a little too late for that. However, an awareness campaign before the winter holiday season could have all sorts of helpful effects... I mean, if you have something else lined up, we can certainly open a search.”

“No!” Thea didn’t know why she was suddenly so emphatic. “I mean, it sounds like an interesting opportunity. But I honestly don’t know anything about social media. I mean, not as a professional thing.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “The division chief’s sister-in-law is the county library director. They’ve had a part-time person doing their social media for a couple of years now, and the library director has offered him up to help get you trained.” This time, he looked at her over the steel rims of his spectacles, his eyes going a little stern. “But you have to know that this isn’t like being on a squad. You can be personable, but keep the crude humor out of it, especially with people that high up the food chain watching you. And since it’s a big change, you’ll be on new-hire probation until just after the New Year.”

“That sounds...” Terrifying was what she wanted to say. Having the pressure and focus of people that far up the county’s organization chart was more attention than she wanted. But instead, she managed a weak smile and said, “Great.”

“Fantastic,” Landseer said, flipping the file folder with her past—and maybe her future—closed. “I’ll get IT to issue you some equipment, call the library to get a meeting set up, and you can get started. Does Monday work for you?”

Half an hour ago, she thought she’d be unemployed by now. She swallowed the anxiety that still clogged her throat and said, “Monday’s fine.”

Released from his reference shift, Simon had ten minutes to use the restroom and drink a glass of water before his monthly meeting with Amy, his branch supervisor. He knocked on her open door, and she looked up from her desk, shooting him a distracted smile. “Come on in and have a seat,” she said, waving at one of the guest chairs. He settled himself with his laptop and his phone, ready to show her the various things he’d done over the last month as well as his plans for December. But before he could open his computer, she raised a hand, arresting him mid-motion.

“I’ve already reviewed your work from the last month and it was great, as usual. Pretty sure I don’t need to look over the coming month’s plans. I have something a little more urgent I need to talk to you about.”

Simon closed his half-open laptop and straightened in his seat. “Okay. What’s up?”

Amy sighed. “The higher-ups in county government are up to their usual shenanigans, it appears. Emergency Services is hiring a new social media manager—a former firefighter—and they’re going to need some help getting their sea legs. The call’s come from the county director. Apparently, there’s some sort of personal, family connection with the fire chief.”

Something self-protective shifted in Simon. He had little enough time to do his social media duties, what with it being only considered half a job. But if the order was coming from that high up, maybe he’d be able to leverage this visibility into moving toward a full-time role. “I’m already pretty pressed for time with what I do as it is,” he said. “Is there any way I could get some other things taken off my plate?”

Amy smiled. “I’m way ahead of you there. I couldn’t swing things to full-time yet.” She tilted her head in apparent sympathy. She knew how much he wanted that. “But the county came through with a grant. I can do three-quarters of your hours in social media, including the cross-training with the new ES person, at least through December. They’d come in a couple of days a week for a while to meet with you and get some mentoring.”

Simon drew in a deep breath, trying to figure out what to say next. It was obvious that his agreement wasn’t being called for. He was being told, not asked. But Amy seemed to want something from him. Enthusiasm, maybe? Enthusiasm wasn’t generally in his wheelhouse, but he’d try. He nodded. “Okay. That sounds good. When do they start?”

Amy tapped her desk with the end of a pen. “Monday. The county’s not wasting any time since the holidays are coming and they want a lot more public awareness about things like fire safety.”

“That makes sense.” Thanksgiving had been just one week before. The first one spent away from his family since his parents moved out to California to be closer to his sister and her family. Pro in Ashley’s column: she got free babysitting. Pro in his column: his family couldn’t try to meddle as actively in his life from three thousand miles away.

A win for everyone, even though Simon wasn’t sure how long his reprieve would last. Sometimes, modern communication was a curse.

Amy drew his thoughts back into the present, wincing as if he’d reacted negatively. “I know this isn’t exactly what you signed up for when you became the library’s social media manager, but ‘other duties as assigned,’ right?” She followed this up with an apologetic smile.

Simon hated it when she did this. He got that she didn’t want to be the bad guy, but he also wasn’t responsible for her happiness or comfort. Especially since she was his boss, not the other way around. “Well, I guess I have a few days to get some posts planned and scheduled, before whoever it is starts.”

Amy nodded. “They’re going to come here on Monday morning at ten. I’ve reserved the small conference room for you.”

It was only after he’d left her office and was logging into his social media scheduler when he realized he didn’t even know the guy’s name.