Being the new guy in town was hardly an uncommon experience for him, so as he cruised over the White Pine Memorial Bridge and into the village limits, he sighed with accepted resignation. A new job, a new town, a new life, it all held such a familiar ring to him. Strangers into friends, friends into lovers, lovers into memories. Such was the nomadic existence of the dark-haired, mocha-skinned, goateed Angel Montero.

He gazed into his rearview mirror, as though looking back at his former life one last time, and then he focused on the now. Something he was adept at. Downtown White Pine was small, with the usual attractions of mom-and-pop stores and greasy spoon restaurants, places with clever names like Shiner’s Diner, as well as the necessary bank, post office, ice cream parlor. He followed the GPS directions to the firehouse, two blocks south of Main Street on Acres Way. It was hard to miss. A big redbrick building, straight out of central casting for a Hollywood set, loomed large on the tree-lined street. Both of the over-size garage doors were wide open and a few guys meandered in front of the firehouse. One of them leaned against a gleaming red engine with his arms crossed, a used rag in his hand. Looked like he’d just finished giving that prize engine a fresh coat of wax.

Angel pulled his Porsche, black, sporty, his favorite indulgence, into the side lot, easily catching the attention of the three men. As he unfolded his six foot one frame from the confines of the compact vehicle, he found all eyes staring at him. He pulled off his sunglasses, exposing chocolate brown eyes, and nodded a pleasant greeting.

“Morning, all,” he said. “Name’s Angel. Chief O’Connell around?”

Two of the men, both young, both fit, said nothing as they just continued to stare at the new arrival. One them, with curly dark-blond hair and a sneer on his face, his stare lingered for more than was polite. What the hell was that about?

“In the office, second floor,” said the older, burly man, still leaning against the engine’s shiny metal grill. His thick, hairy arms remained crossed over his big belly, his body language clear. Don’t mess with me. “You Trent’s replacement?”

“Don’t know any Trent. But yeah, I’m the new guy if that’s what you’re asking.”

Angel was well accustomed to this, skepticism from a closed brotherhood. This far up north in the Empire State, men were men, grizzled, hardened vets who lived tough lives. Here comes Angel with his jazzy sports cars, his good looks, his breezy style and designer shades, it sets off bells in the minds of some close-minded men. Like they could read which bent he had to his sexuality right away, and they would be right in thinking he liked men, not that Angel cared what anyone thought. Life was short, you had to live it your way. But once settled he always told them the same thing, not like he’d be competition for them with the ladies, because if he was, they’d never get laid again. That won some over, made others squirm. People were funny.

“So, second floor you say?”

“Make a right inside, stairs go up.”

“Except when they’re going down,” Angel said.

His attempt at humor found no takers, or maybe they just didn’t get it. He decided to skip any further acts of friendship and check in. It was just after noon and Chief Devon O’Connell was expecting him. He took the steps two at a time, his Prada shoes gentle against the hard cement. A door at the end of the corridor was closed, marked “Chief Rodgers.” Months since the fire had happened, still they hadn’t taken down his name. Classy move like that Angel appreciated, it showed respect for a man and his worth, said a lot about the men here. For a moment he was sorry for the circumstances that brought him to White Pine.

He knocked once, heard a gruff “yeah, what?” and supposed that was the man’s way of saying come in. Angel did so, opening wide the wooden door and finding the new chief staring directly at him the moment he entered.

“Montero?”

“That’s me, Chief O’Connell.”

The Chief’s tiny eyes narrowed even further. Angel felt self-conscious, feeling as though the man’s gaze was looking right through him, and he could see all his flaws right then and there. Angel shifted nervously; he’d met many chiefs over his ten year career and they all had one thing in common: they were scary as shit. O’Connell dropped his pen, stood up and walked around his desk. He measured up evenly next to Angel, though his body was not quite as fit as it probably had been in his youth. He pegged Chief O’Connell as early sixties.

“Saw you pull in. Nice car,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Fancy clothes, shoes. What, you got a rich wife?”

“Not married, sir.”

Again, his eyes narrowed. “We’re pretty regular folk here in White Pine.”

“I like that, so am I,” Angel said, “but there’s nothing wrong with liking nice things.”

“Suppose not,” Chief O’Connell said gruffly, looking more closely at his new recruit. “My old pal down in Jersey, he says you’re a good fighter, brave…we like brave, but stupid is another thing. Don’t confuse the two.”

“Got it.”

O’Connell’s face scrunched up as he assessed Angel further, his bulbous nose twitching. “Those…necklace things around your neck, they gotta go. Too dangerous in the line of duty, any of them could get caught on wires, hose, anything, then we have to rescue you. Don’t want stuff like that here. We have a strict policy, no jewelry. Most of the guys here, they ain’t got a problem with it.”

“Those” the chief referenced were a series of gold chains hanging from Angel’s neck, one of them adorned with a shiny medallion, a gold heart, the size of a quarter. With his shirt opened a cool three buttons, the chains were hard to miss, nestled as they were in a thick blanket of dark hair. Angel nodded with acquiescence.

“Not a problem, sir. I wear them only when off duty; the medallion was given to me by my father, said I should one day have a jeweler break that heart in half, give the other half to the love of my life.” At the mention of his father, Angel touched the medallion before letting it fall back against his chest.

Chief grunted. “So I guess that means you haven’t found her yet, huh?”

“Something like that, Chief.”