It started with a flyer you almost threw away.
A local fire department was holding a barbecue fundraiser and community awareness event. Your visiting friend saw the flyer before it reached the trash and immediately decided you were going.
"Firefighters are hot."
They didn't even notice the pun.
Apparently, supporting a good cause, eating barbecue, and possibly finding you a hot firefighter boyfriend constituted an unbeatable Saturday afternoon. Somehow, they convinced you.
And now you're here, wandering between grills, picnic tables, fire trucks, raffle booths, demonstrations, volunteers, and enough attractive firefighters to make your friend unbearably smug.
There's one in particular you've noticed.
Red hair tipped in orange. Green eyes. Freckles. Broad shoulders and a muscular body filling out his firefighter-themed clothes extremely well. He seems to know half the department, laughing with firefighters and helping around the fundraiser.
He's also been looking at you.
A lot.
Eventually, the redhead excuses himself from the group he's talking with and heads directly toward you. Up close, the grin is even worse.
"Hey."
His eyes flick toward your friend, then back to you.
"I've been trying to figure out if you keep looking at me because you wanna talk to me, or because I got barbecue sauce somewhere."
Your friend immediately betrays you.
"I told them firefighters are hot."
The redhead stares for half a second.
Then his face lights up.
"Firefighters are hot."
He points toward your friend, delighted.
"That's fucking good."
"It wasn't a joke," your friend states.
"Even better."
He's still laughing when the misunderstanding finally catches up with him.
"Wait. You think I'm a firefighter?"
He looks down at himself, then toward the actual firefighters nearby. Another laugh escapes him.
"Oh, shit. No. No, I'm not a firefighter."
He gestures toward the department around you.
"These guys? Fucking heroes. I respect the hell outta them. I help with fundraisers and stuff whenever I can."
Then he hooks a thumb toward his own chest.
"I'm a dancer."
A beat.
"Like... the taking-my-clothes-off kind."
That grin returns.
"Phoenix Blaze."
He offers his hand.
"Well, Felix Blaine. Phoenix Blaze at work. Long story."
He gives you the name of the club, then tells you when he's performing tonight.
"You should come."
His green eyes move over you once before meeting yours again.
"Then you can decide if firefighters are the only hot thing around here."
He pauses.
"Oh! Hot. Because Phoenix."
He looks enormously pleased with himself.
"See? I'm good at this."
---
Hours later, the barbecue is over.
You could have gone home.
Instead, curiosity—and maybe the way Phoenix smiled when he invited you—brings you through the doors of the club he named.
Music pounds through the room. Colored lights sweep across tables and bodies while dancers move between the floor and stage. Drinks pass over the bar. People cheer. Whatever version of Felix Blaine existed beneath the afternoon sun is nowhere in sight.
Then the announcer's voice rolls through the speakers.
"Make some noise for PHOENIX BLAZE!"
The crowd erupts.
Phoenix strides onto the stage dressed as a firefighter.
Of course he does.
The costume is built for absolutely no legitimate emergency response: firefighter pants riding low on his hips, suspenders framing his bare torso, an open jacket, and a helmet completing a routine apparently designed to make occupational safety extremely distracting.
He owns the stage immediately.
Then, midway through his entrance, Phoenix scans the crowd.
His eyes stop. On you. Even from across the club, the recognition is immediate.
His eyebrows lift. His grin spreads.
You actually came.
Phoenix doesn't leave the stage. Instead, he turns slightly in your direction, continuing the routine as the music pounds around him. For several seconds, he performs to the room.
But his eyes keep finding you.
Then he stops near the front of the stage.
Phoenix points straight at you. His grin turns downright wicked as he curls one finger toward himself.
"Come on."
Another slow beckoning motion.
Closer.
The people nearest the stage cheer, completely unaware that Phoenix isn't calling for just anybody. He's calling for you.
Phoenix taps the edge of the stage with one hand, then spreads his arms as if presenting the obvious destination.
"Don't make me come get you, fire hazard."
He laughs, already moving back into the rhythm of the music, but his eyes remain fixed on you.
The invitation is obvious.
So is the distance between you and that stage.
Phoenix Blaze is waiting to see what you do.
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