My grandfather.
I hesitated, then I hit ‘decline’ on the call. I’ll call him back as soon as I get home from work, I told myself.
“Joshua!” a voice called out suddenly from behind me. I had been watching as the photographer positioned my brother on an engine in the center of the bay, but when I heard my name, I snapped my head around. My eyes locked on Walker Wright. He was jogging towards me, and the expression on his face spelled out trouble.
“Hey buddy,” he said in his thick southern drawl. “We’ve got a situation out back and uh…well, I think you’re gonna wanna see this for yourself.”
Born and raised on a cattle farm in some forgotten corner of Texas, Walker Wright was a real bonafide cowboy. He was also a smooth-talking southern gentleman, and that made him an exotic commodity this far north of the Mason-Dixon. With a face like Joe Manganiello and a drawl like Matthew McConaughey, he was wrangling women left and right.
Right now, he was wrangling me toward the rear exit doors at the back of the vehicle bay. He pushed open the double doors, then he guided me through them and out towards the gravel parking lot.
“What’s going on?” I turned around, just as Walker slipped back into the firehouse and let the door slam shut between us. I turned towards the parking lot, and then I saw exactly what the ‘situation’ was.
“Ho-ly shit,” I muttered under my breath as my jaw slumped open.
Standing there, in the center of the parking lot, was Duke Williams. He was wearing his black turnout pants and no shirt. None of that was what caught my attention, though. What my eye was immediately drawn to was the patch of red, splotchy welts that covered the entirety of his chest. And dead center, there was a telltale strip of wax paper.
“Dude,” I cupped my hand over my mouth to hide my grin. I knew I shouldn’t laugh at my roommate, but… “What the hell did you do to yourself?”
Duke blinked down at his chest and sighed. The small act of inflating his chest for a breath was enough to make him grimace in pain.
“Isn’t it obvious, Josh?” he asked snidely. “I tried waxing my chest and it didn’t exactly work out.”
“I can see that. But…why?”
“Well,” Duke huffed, clearly not pleased with the way this conversation was going. “As you may recall, Joshua, I very recently became poor.”
“Right…” I said slowly, trying to figure out how ‘becoming poor’ had led to the terrible, ridiculous situation that was unfolding before my very eyes.
“As a direct result of my financial hardships, my membership to the Hartford Country Club was terminated.”
“Ok...” I said again, still confused.
“And as a direct result of that,” Duke continued, “I no longer have access to the Hartford Country Club Spa and Bathhouse amenities. Which, consequently, means that I no longer have a weekly appointment for a full body wax and blowjob from the personal esthetician that I have been seeing for the last five years.”
“You were seeing your esthetician?”
“On a professional basis,” Duke rolled his eyes at me.
I bit my tongue before I could say something snide. Duke’s on your side, I reminded myself, thinking back to that heart-to-heart we had on moving day.
“So…why didn’t you just book an appointment to get waxed somewhere else?”
“I tried,” Duke sighed. “Everywhere was booked. I couldn’t get an appointment before the photoshoot today. So…I panicked.”
He glanced down at his chest again and grimaced.
Just then, a car zipped into the gravel parking lot and squealed to a stop next to Duke. The engine cut off, the door flew open, and a tall blonde stepped out. I recognized her as Duke’s realtor friend…the one who had showed us the apartment. What was her name again? Briana? Britney?
“Brie!” Duke waddled towards her, clenching his fists in pain.
“Oh my God,” Brie’s face wrinkled in horror as she stomped her stiletto heels across the parking lot. “What did you do to yourself?!”
“You know those wax strips that you gave me?” Duke grunted, puffing out his chest in a way that made the burns look at least ten times worse.
“Yeah…” Brie said reluctantly.
“Are they made with molten lava, by any chance?”
“This is from the wax strips?!” Brie’s jaw fell open as she craned her neck forward to inspect the damage. “I use those strips all the time,” she shook her head in confusion. “I’ve never had a reaction like this.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Duke held out his arms. “I’m supposed to be the month of March, but I can’t go in front of the camera looking like this!”
“You could always wear a shirt?” I suggested, reminding them both that I was still standing there.
“No fucking way! I’d be the only guy wearing a shirt in the calendar. Do you know how dumb that would look? Everyone would assume that I was fat!”
“Nobody would assume that,” Brie said. “Josh might have a point…”
“Nope. Not happening.”
“This is supposed to be a calendar about firemen,” I reminded him, “Not ‘twelve months of infectious diseases.’”
“Fuck off, Josh.”
Welp, I cocked my head. So much for ‘brotherhood’...
I decided to leave Brie to fight Duke’s fire for him, and I turned on my heel and headed back into the firehouse.
Brady was still the center of attention in the vehicle bay. The photographer had him recreating his signature pose in front of the fire engine, gripping a thick length of hose in place of his dick. That was the money shot; the picture that made my big brother a legend, and had made the last calendar sell out faster than tickets to a Pats playoff game.
I gotta do better than that…I thought to myself.
“Hey, February!” a voice called out from behind me. At first, I didn’t recognize my new nickname…but then it registered, and I turned to see a reporter waving at me.
“Hey, sorry,” I smiled, offering a small wave back. “I guess that nickname is going to take some getting used to…”
“Well you better get used to it fast,” the reporter beamed back. “I just heard that the calendar pre-order already sold out. This is going to be big!”
“Great,” I grinned. All the more reason to upstage my big brother…
“Do you have a minute?” she asked. “I have a few questions for you.”
“Sure! What is this for, exactly?”
“I’m doing a Q&A with every firefighter featured in the calendar. It’ll be printed in a little blurb, right underneath your picture.”
“Oh, cool,” I nodded. “So what are the questions?”
“Ok,” the reporter said, squirreling through her notepad. “Umm, let’s see…how about this one: Who is your hero?”
The reporter’s eyes shot up to me, and I had a feeling she had already picked the answer that she wanted to hear. My lips folded into a flat line and I crossed my arms across my chest.
“Your big brother, maybe?” she hinted eagerly.
“Sure,” I said dryly. Why not…
The reporter’s grin grew bigger, and she scrawled down my answer on her notepad.
“What made you decide to be a fireman?”
I shrugged. “My dad and brother were both part of Firehouse 56. It’s sort of a family legacy, I guess.”
She seemed to like that answer, too. Why am I sensing a theme here?
We went through a list of questions -- everything from how I liked to kill downtime at the station, to my favorite breakfast cereal, to how I stayed in shape...
“Last question,” she announced. “What are you most excited about for the new year?”
“That’s easy,” I said without giving it a second thought. “Becoming a father.”
The reporter’s face lit up. “You’re going to be a father?”
“Yeah,” I hesitated. I still hadn’t told Br
ady the news. Actually, I hadn’t told anyone besides Duke.
I did have a plan in place, though. And truth be told, I was actually excited about finally sharing the news. The guys at Firehouse 56 were like my family, and I wanted them to be the first to know. But now, thanks to my big mouth, I had essentially just spilled the beans to all of Hartford.
“That’s so exciting!” the reported gushed. “Do you know what you’re having?”
“No,” I shook my head. “We’re keeping it a surprise.”
“Well congratulations to you and your wife!” the reporter said. “You must be so excited!”
I thought about correcting her and pointing out that Vanessa wasn’t actually my wife. But I realized that if I was to correct the reporter, I had no idea what to call Vanessa. What was she? My…friend?
“And your brother, too!” the reporter said, already moving on. “Brady must be so excited!”
“What am I excited about?” out of nowhere, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I jerked around to see Brady standing behind me.
Fuck.
“The calendar!” I stammered quickly. “We were just talking about how exciting it is, to be shooting another Firehouse 56 calendar!”
The reporter blinked at me, confused. I winked, and that seemed to satisfy her. If there’s one thing women love, it’s being let in on a secret...
“It is exciting” Brady agreed obliviously.
“Wonderful!” the reporter gushed, turning her admiring glance away from me and onto my big brother. “Do you have a moment to answer some questions for me, Mister January?”
“Sure,” Brady said. He glanced at me and added: “The photographer said he’s ready for you, by the way. You’re up, February!”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN | VANESSA
Twenty-Four Weeks
“FIFTEEN MINUTES TO SHOWTIME!” the production assistant barked, peeking his head into the green room. His eyes landed on me: “What’s taking so long? You almost done in here?”
“Almost!” I assured him. “Just a few finishing touches!”
“Well hurry it up,” he snapped. “We’ve still gotta get Zoloft mic’d up!”
“Actually, my name is Zoie,” my client corrected him, but the P.A. had already disappeared from the door frame. The green room door slammed shut behind him, and we could hear his sneakers squeak on the tile floor as he scurried back down the hallway towards the main soundstage.
“Umm…yikes!” my client winced up at me and giggled from the black canvas director’s chair that she was sitting in. “That guy could probably use some Zoloft!”
“I’ve seen worse,” I rolled my eyes and chuckled.
I definitely had seen worse. Since founding Fairy Godmother Beauty, I had booked several gigs doing hair and makeup for live TV. And while those jobs were always exciting and rewarding -- who wouldn’t want to see their handiwork broadcast on national television?! -- they could also be the most stressful. That was mostly thanks to the type-A production assistants that lurked behind the scenes, barking orders and making ridiculous last-minute demands.
I shrugged it off, reminding myself that dealing with an anal production assistant was a small price to pay for a major business opportunity like this.
Today’s job found me in New York City. I had been hired to do the hair and makeup for Zoie Zoya, an Instagram fitness guru and self-help book author who would be appearing on The Harvey Show, a national late-night talk show broadcast out of Time Square. As far as opportunities went, this one was pretty major. This was exactly the kind of gig that was going to put Fairy Godmother Beauty on the map, and help us transition out of the tiny fish bowl of Hartford, Connecticut and into the ocean that was Manhattan.
I can revel in my success later, I reminded myself. Right now, I’ve got less than fifteen minutes to get Zoie out of the green room and onto that soundstage!
“I just need to add some blush and highlighter, and then you’ll be camera-ready!” I told Zoie as I fluffed my MAC Cosmetics 135 blush brush through a NARS compact of pressed powder, then tapped off the excess sparkly pink pigment.
“Perfect!” she grinned at me through her reflection in the green room mirror, which was framed with bright white light bulbs. Then her eyes flicked to the pressed powder palette in my hand, and she added: “Please tell me that’s the same shade you’re wearing?”
“Oh, umm…” I glanced down at the NARS compact, then I looked at my own reflection in the light-framed mirror. “Actually, I’m not wearing any blush at the moment.”
I wasn’t wearing anything on my face. I had been in such a rush to get my supply kit packed up that I hadn’t had the chance to paint on my own face of makeup before leaving Hartford earlier that afternoon.
“You’re kidding!” Zoie gawked at me. “Shut the hell up. You’re, like, glowing!”
“Thanks,” I said uncertainty. I inspected my reflection in the mirror and noticed that a rosy pink sheen had indeed settled along my cheekbones. Where did that come from?
“Must be the pregnancy glow,” Zoie said, seeming to read my mind. She nodded at my rounded baby bump and grinned.
“Is that a real thing?” I joked, wrinkling my nose.
I had heard about this ‘pregnancy glow,’ but I had assumed that it was just an excuse that pregnant women made up, to explain why a simple act like climbing a flight of stairs or tugging on a pair of non-maternity jeans was enough to leave us flush in the face and dripping with sweat.
“Oh my God, it’s totally a thing!” Zoie gushed. “Look at yourself!”
I glanced up at my reflection again. Besides the natural dusting of pink that filled my cheeks, my skin looked smooth and dewy. The mirror’s white lights were reflected in a milky sheen on my forehead and along the ridge of my nose. My bare face did seem to be glowing, and I had to admit: my complexion hadn’t looked this good in years.
“If you could find a way to bottle that up and sell it, you’d be a gazillionaire,” Zoie insisted admiringly. “And I’d be your first customer!”
“Well, in the meantime,” I said, turning back to the NARS compact in my hand, “How about Orgasm?”
That was the name of the blush: a shimmery peachy-pink shade.
“I’ll take what I can get,” Zoie grinned and shrugged. She sucked in her cheeks to accentuate her cheekbones, and I made soft feathery strokes with the brush to apply the blush.
“So how far along are you?” she asked, nodding at my baby bump.
“Just hit six months,” I sighed as my hand traced my protruding stomach absently. I felt like I should be further along than that by now: I looked like I was waddling around with a watermelon stuffed under the front of my shirt.
“That’s sooooo exciting! Have you picked out a name yet?”
“Not yet.”
The other day, Josh and I had flipped through a copy of 100,000 Baby Names with a pair of highlighter pens. I had drawn a hot pink streak over the names that stood out to me, while he had highlighted his favorites in bright blue ink. We had ended up with about a dozen names that we both liked, but none that we loved. Turns out, picking a name for a human you’ve never met before can be pretty daunting work...
“I bet it’s tricky,” Zoie nodded understandingly. “Are you having a boy or a girl?”
“Actually, we decided to keep that part a surprise,” I reached for the jar of Laura Mercier setting powder and selected another brush from my makeup toolbelt.
“Really?! Wow, I can’t imagine being that disciplined! Don’t you want to know?”
“I am getting pretty curious…” I admitted.
I had read that some women just got a ‘sense’ about whether they were carrying a boy or a girl. I kept waiting for my own premonition, but so far the only thing that I knew for certain was that my baby would be a black belt in karate by the time he or she was born. The constant kicks and jabs that I felt in my stomach were proof of that.
But besides the obvious, I hadn’t felt any strong in
klings or suspicions. In fact, I’d probably have better luck guessing a winning combination of numbers for a lottery ticket, than guessing the gender of the baby growing inside of me…
“What about your boyfriend?” Zoie asked. I must have frowned when she said that, because she quickly added: “Sorry, I noticed that you weren’t wearing a wedding ring, so I just assumed…”
“Oh, umm…yeah,” I hesitated, wondering if I should clarify that the father of my unborn child wasn’t technically my boyfriend.
No way, I decided. What would be the point?
“He’s been really great,” I said. “He’s been super supportive and involved…I couldn’t ask for a better partner, really.”
After I said the words, I felt them sink in and I realized that I had meant it. Josh really had been supportive and involved…he really had been there for me, just like he promised he would be.
I felt my heart patter as a weird sensation swirled in my stomach, somewhere far too deep to be blamed on the baby moving around or practicing those karate kicks on my bladder…
“All set!” I chirped to Zoie, ignoring the fluttering feeling in my stomach. “Let’s get you to the soundstage!”
***
“Oh God, yesss…” I moaned as I pressed my body deeper into the deliciously soft white duvet, arching my back and stretching out my arms and legs in all directions.
After a long day of working on my feet, there were few things that felt better than collapsing onto a soft mattress covered in crisp, cool linens, and the king-sized bed in my room at The W Hotel fit that description to a T.
Since working my late-night TV gig in Manhattan meant that I would miss the last train of the night back to Hartford, the network had graciously paid to put me up at a hotel a few blocks away from the studio. And they had put me up in style, with a king-sized suite at a four-star hotel on Broadway.
Did I mention that my room also came with a king-sized bathtub?
I had perched my laptop on the edge of the bathtub so I could stream Zoie’s live interview on The Harvey Show while I soaked my weary limbs in warm bathwater. She looked beautiful on camera; the Orgasm blush had been a good choice.
The Complete Firehouse 56 Series Page 29