by Tara Lain
“No. No.” If he screamed, would they call the cops? “Not happening. Going to go back to Norco. Get out of that fucking fire station. I’ll marry Jezebel.”
“And live happily ever after?” Jerry wiped his eyes. “Don’t do it, Mick. I know this is harder for you than for most guys, but you’ve kidded yourself long enough. You deserve to be happy.”
Kidded himself? Holy God, what was happening? “Happy? With you?”
“I like you, Mick. A lot, actually. But if you can’t be with me, be with someone who’ll let you be who you are.”
Who I am? Who am I?
A fist beat on the bathroom door. “Hey, did somebody die in there?”
Die? Yes, he died. Everything died. He grabbed the door handle and pushed, but it didn’t open.
Jerry nodded toward the door. “It’s locked.”
Mick stared at it. Locked. Then he turned the latch and ran out the door. Behind him he heard Jerry say, “Sorry. We were talking.”
Mick bumbled his way down the crowded aisle and made it onto the porch.
Straight looked up. “Mick, your sandwich is cold.”
“Sorry. Sick. Got sick.”
TL peered at him. “Yeah. You don’t look so good. Maybe it’s the same thing you got at the dance. Like a virus or something.”
He nodded. “Gotta go.” He grabbed his jacket from the chair. “Sorry. Really sick. Appreciate it.”
He ran off the porch, out the front door of the restaurant, and toward home. The sidewalk was a tightrope, narrow and terrifying, between two choices so god-awful he couldn’t stand to think about them. He was balancing, but he had very big feet.
MICK’S SCARED shitless. Jerry watched Mick practically mow down a dozen people on his forward rush to the exit. He disappeared on the deck for a couple of minutes, then went plowing out the front door. Who would Jerry find if he looked on that deck? Man, he had a bad feeling.
He sighed and walked back to the table.
Rod had a big crease between his arched eyebrows. “What in hell was that all about?”
Jerry frowned. “The guy doesn’t want to admit he’s gay.”
Andres looked up from his cell phone. “Been there.”
Hunter nodded. “Done that.”
Jerry sipped the last of his warm beer. “I tried to tell him it would get better if he could just face it, but I think his actual life is in danger if he comes out, man.”
Hunter’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Yeah. From what he’s said about his preacher father, the guy ain’t exactly about God is love.”
Hunter leaned in. “What can we do?”
What a great man. Mick had insulted Hunter and his family beyond anybody forgiving, but here Hunter was, wanting to help. “I don’t know, man.” He shook his head and kind of shook something loose, because his face got wet.
Rod leaned over and put a warm hand on his arm. “I’ve never seen you cry.”
“I don’t much. I learned to man up real young. But I just feel so bad for him. I got a lot of crap in life, but, man, he wins.” He wiped a sleeve across his face. “Sorry.”
Hunter blew out a breath. “I never thought I’d ever feel sorry for that guy, but I think you need to help him, Jerry.”
“Me? Hell, I’m the last person he wants to see. Besides, he’s got real problems. I haven’t got the brains to deal with stuff like that.”
Andres had been quiet, but he leaned into Jerry. “You’re probably the only person he wants to see, guapo. You’ve already been through everything he’s experiencing.”
“Yeah, but I was twelve or thirteen. He’s twenty-four.”
Rod tapped the table. “Still, your parents hated you being gay as much as his.”
Jerry gave a little laugh. “They just wrote me out of their businesses. They didn’t shoot me.” His mouth was dry, so he drank a couple of swallows of water. “There are some bad guys at the firehouse, man. Worse than when you were there, Hunter. This new guy, Straight. He’s got evil vibes, you know. I hate to see Mick mixed up with them. Lethal, man. Lethal.” He stared toward the restaurant’s deck.
Chapter Ten
MICK SAT on his couch dressed for work, his math puzzles up on his computer and the Bible open on his knee.
The score is calculated by taking the product, rather than the sum, of the two numbers shown on the dice. On a particular game, the score for the second roll is five more than the score for the first; the score for the third roll is six less than that of the second; the score for the fourth roll is eleven more than that of the third; and the score for the fifth roll is eight less than that of the fourth. What was the score for each of these five throws?
It felt like his brain clicked. The answers floated in his mind: ten, fifteen, nine, twenty, twelve.
His eyes shifted. The angels came to Lot. The men of the town wanted to have sex with them. The angels blinded them. He slammed the book shut. God condemns the sin not the sinner.
Ten, fifteen, nine, twenty, twelve.
Time to go to work. Go to work and talk to the cap. He’d leave now. Resign. Go somewhere no one knew him and start over. Get off the damned tightrope. Leave everyone. Leave his father and Straight and all the people he knew. Leave Jerry. Oh God, Jerry.
He covered his face with his hands and soaked in the darkness.
He’d thought and thought. All the things he’d told Jerry. Go back to Norco and marry Jezebel. But he couldn’t. There was no way to unring the bell. He’d been ignorant, now he wasn’t, and like they said, ignorance was bliss. It had been comforting, being so sure of everything, but now he couldn’t do it. Blindly agreeing with his father wasn’t possible now. He couldn’t go back there, even if he wanted to, and a part of him wanted to, so bad. He’d like to be that guy who knew how the world worked. The guy people looked up to. Well, some people. He’d like to be that guy who knew he was better than other people, and he sure as hell didn’t want to be that guy who people snickered at and made fun of. But now he didn’t know what was true, and that felt fucking awful.
He closed the computer, tossed the Bible on the couch, and headed for the door. Start over. Do this fast. Get it over with.
His old Ford ground a bit starting, but he managed to get going and arrived at the station in time for his 7:00 a.m. start. He stowed his stuff in his locker, walked around the outside of the station house to avoid TL, and went to the captain’s office. Nobody. Damn. He paced back and forth for a couple of minutes.
Footsteps thumped on the linoleum. The cap was a hard walker. Mick nodded as the short, stocky man who had given him a second chance came into speaking distance.
“Cassidy.” The cap nodded back. “What can I do for you?”
“Got a couple minutes, Cap?”
“Sure, come on in.” He unlocked his office and walked in. Mick followed him. He’d been here before, so he knew the drill. Mick sat in the old straight-back chair in front of the desk.
Whoa. This is hard. He’d fought to keep his job, and he loved it. But hopefully he’d be able to find a firefighter position in another state.
The captain sorted a few envelopes, then sat behind his desk. “What’s up?”
Both their cell phones buzzed and the siren went off all at one time. No thinking. The captain pulled the phone to his ear as Mick ran past him toward the apparatus room.
He was in his turnout gear in seconds flat as guys around him pulled on boots and grabbed breathing apparatuses.
A hand landed on his shoulder. “Mick, I want you on FAST with Straight.”
Damn. “Uh, Cap….”
“This is a bad one, Mick. I need somebody big and capable.”
“Yes, sir.”
He double-timed over to Straight, who was grabbing up the rapid intervention RIT bag with the extra SCBA breathing apparatus and the mask in case a downed firefighter needed it.
Straight smiled. “Honored to have you on the team, Mick.”
That felt kind of nice. He grabbed gear
, and the two of them swung onto the engine as it tore out of the station. Mick sat next to the cap.
The captain leaned forward, and the guys listened up. “Three-story residence. Fire started in the kitchen, apparently. It got pretty far before the call. Watch yourselves. We’ve got FAST standing by.”
The truck squeezed onto the tiny street with cars still parked on both sides. They didn’t have hook and ladders in Laguna because no building over thirty feet high was allowed, but this one was at the limit.
The rig slowed, and men jumped off and began pulling hoses and ladders. Mick and Straight set up as close to the structure as they could get and still be safe. Damn. He wanted in there. FAST might be necessary, but flames leaped out of the second-story window already. They needed every hand. He couldn’t help it—his eyes searched for Jerry. Hard to tell the men apart in their turnout, but Jerry had that jaunty, easy way of moving even when he was running.
Mick scanned the structure. Two firefighters stood outside the door as water poured against the house. One of those was Jerry. He knew it.
The figure leaned into the front door, then pushed through the smoke and was in. About a second later, he ran back out, shielding a woman who was carrying a kid. Holy God. Children in the house. Two paramedics hurried over and took the child from the woman. Her eyes were huge, and she was screaming, “Bobby. Bobby. Bobby.” But she wasn’t looking at the kid the medic was carrying. She was reaching toward the burning house.
He felt like someone shoved an icicle up his back. He took two running steps toward the house.
“Cassidy. You can’t leave,” Straight barked through the rush of water and flame.
Damn. He needed to be there.
Mick looked up at the loping, easy gait on the firefighter who ran toward the door.
Just as the guy reached it, a huge rush of flame flared out and the man—the man Mick knew was Jerry—fell back. Then Jerry rushed to a side window and broke the glass, and just like that he was gone. Jerry dived inside the house, and Mick’s guts went with him. One minute later, another firefighter followed him. Mick’s whole body vibrated. Want in. Have to get in. He wanted to fight the fire. He wanted to protect Jerry. The guy was too audacious. He’d take a risk if it would help someone else. He needed Mick to help him.
His heart beat—No. No. No.
Minutes ticked by. The hoses did their work. The mother stood in the arms of a female medic and alternately cried and screamed. Soot, ash, and smoke poured from the house. Other firefighters evacuated neighbors.
Glass crashed, and a firefighter climbed from a front window carrying a small, limp body with a breathing apparatus applied to its face. The mother’s shriek pierced through every other noise.
“Bobbbbbyyyy.”
Not Jerry. Not Jerry. Mick’s eyes searched the flaming building.
Medics ran to take the child from the sagging firefighter as the mother broke free and raced to her son. The firefighter turned over his burden and looked around frantically.
Not Jerry. Not Jerry.
“FAST!” The firefighter waved a hand.
Straight hit Mick on the arm. Not Jerry. Not Jerry.
The firefighter stumbled to them as they met him on the lawn. It was Donovan, the rook. “Jerry’s hurt, I think. He got the kid. He was behind me. Handed the kid to me, and then he looked back to be sure there wasn’t anyone else. I heard a crash. Don’t know.”
Mick gripped his arm. “Where?”
“Second story, but the flames were heavy up through the floor. I don’t know, Mick. Oh God.”
No. No. No.
Mick was halfway to the building before Straight caught up. They approached the window. Mick took the lead. Straight might be the FAST leader, but Mick was the senior firefighter.
He peered through the window. Flames crawled along the ceiling in the corner, but the floor was clear. He pushed out the last of the glass with a hard fist and stepped through. Even in full turnout gear with the respirator, heat hit like a wall. He crouched, looked back to be sure Straight was through the window with the RIT bag, then moved quickly across the room. Weird. He felt pretty awkward everywhere—except here. In a fire, he felt at home.
The room was some kind of office or den. Lots of charred books. But since it was ground floor and fire burned up, the walls and two chairs near the window looked barely damaged. Still, mama fire hissed at him from the ceiling by the open door into the next room.
Hell no, bitch. You don’t get him.
Staying low, he looked out the door, keeping an eye on the blaze above him. The entry of the house was charred, but the structure seemed whole. A staircase swept down into the entryway, and at the top, flames consumed the wooden railing and ate up the walls. He scurried across to the bottom of the stairs with Straight behind him.
He hand signaled to Straight. They had speaking diaphragms, but the noise made it easier to signal. He was going up. Jerry had to be up there. That’s what Donovan had said.
Straight nodded and positioned himself at the foot of the stairs.
Mick tested each stair before he applied weight. One gave way, but he jumped to the next.
The heat was searing now. He bent double and moved like some round-backed animal up three more stairs to what would have been the top if much had been left. Damn. Where is he?
He pressed against the only wall not burning and sidled his way down the hall to what must have been the bedrooms. It seemed like it took a year of inching, but he got to a doorframe and looked in. On the far wall, he saw what was left of a single bed like for a kid.
Holy God!
The floor of the room was mostly missing. Burned through.
He leaned forward. No. No, God. Lying on the floor a story below was a firefighter. It had to be Jerry. Crumpled like some bad voodoo doll or something. His breathing apparatus stuck out from under a burning board. The caved-in floor had caught fire to the fabrics in the room, and a huge blaze was consuming a couch and fallen floorboards only feet from his head.
No!
Mick pressed himself against the wall again and forced himself to go slow. If he died, so did Jerry. When he finally got back to the stairs, he ran down, with charred wood cracking under his boots. He hit the ground, pointed, and ran toward the hall that led to the back of the house on the first floor. He rounded a corner and staggered back. Flames licked up the walls on both sides like an arc of fire. He crouched real low and burst through to a short section of hall barely burning. Straight volleyed through behind him.
Then he stared.
The space ahead must have been a family room. Now it was pure inferno. He knelt and peered under the fire. Yes, Jerry lay beyond a wall of flame. Mick’s heart and head disconnected. One wanted to leap headfirst through the flames and grab that fallen body in his arms. But the firefighter’s brain calculated. There was a chance of slipping through the burn low and on the right side.
Straight knelt beside him. Mick pointed at the area and mimed his going through. He reached for the RIT bag in Straight’s hand. The man pulled it back and shook his head. What the hell? Mick used his extra reach to grab the bag and pull. Straight pulled back.
Mick screamed through the speaking diaphragm. “What the hell?”
Straight peered into Mick’s mask. “Our chance. Leave him.”
What? “No way.” He waved his arms wildly.
“Your father’s mission. One less fag.”
Mick stared at him. Every ounce of blood felt frozen. Everything he’d been taught stared through his mask. Discriminate… judge… despise… hate… and finally kill.
The scream came from somewhere he’d never been. Some place in his soul that had never seen light before. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!”
Straight stepped back.
Mick wrenched the bag from Straight’s hands. The guy tried to pull back, but he was so off base. No one, certainly not this pip-squeak white trash, was keeping Mick Cassidy from trying to save the kindest, best man he knew.
Mick t
hrew an arm toward Straight, and the guy fell backward on his ass. Get out of my way.
He crouched, focused, breathed deeply, and hurled himself through the flames. It felt like a mountain of fire. Please God, let there be another side.
And there was. The solid wall of burning hell thinned, and Mick fell through.
Jerry.
Quiet, still, broken like a rag doll. One of his long legs lay at an odd angle.
No. No. No.
He scrambled to Jerry’s side, pulled the respirator from the bag, and pressed it over his face.
“Breathe. Breathe, Jerry.”
A new hot spot flared up beside him. Damn!
He looked over his shoulder, back the way he’d come. Wall of flame. No exit. Embers rained and a chunk of the ceiling fell a foot away. He leaned over Jerry’s still body to shield him and felt the heat closing in. So this is it.
He stared down at the closed eyes of the man he had rushed to save. No question. No hesitation. Funny. It felt like a choice. A choice that had been no choice.
He looked up. Was God up? Up in that flaming ceiling? Up in the roof that now opened to the sky?
He took a deep breath and bowed his head. Okay, God, I spent my whole life hearing what you love and what you hate. According to my father, you hate the man who’s lying here, and I should hate him too, and leave him here to die. If he’s not already dead.
He looked up, and sparks lit up a disintegrating beam. It would fall real soon.
The thing is, God, if you hate this man and love my father, your priorities are screwed up. And if that’s true, I guess I don’t care so much about dying because I’ll be going to hell, and I know it will be full of people I like. People like Jerry.
I sure wish I could have saved him, though. The world is better with him in it.
He looked down at the man who had said he cared about him. That and being a firefighter were about the only things he could think of that amounted to much in his life, but they were a lot. He lowered his head to Jerry’s chest.
Crrrack.
Heat flared and flashed against his body. Stewed chicken.