Burn
Copyright © 2016 by Ruth Clampett
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-9966857-4-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Design:
Jada D’Lee
Cover Photograph: Luis Rafael
Cover Model: Jay Amato
Content Editor:
Angela Borda
Copy Editor:
Melissa of There For You Editing
Interior Formatting:
Christine Borgford of Perfectly Publishable
My Grandma Dossie was
the toughest woman I’ve ever known.
This story is dedicated to her
and all the badass women in my life.
Women of strength and courage
leave their mark in many ways.
They’ve inspired this story.
Table of Contents
Burn
Dedication
Chapter 1: The Reign of T. Rex
Chapter 2: Thin Walls & Swedish Meatballs
Chapter 3: The Gentle Giant
Chapter 4: Big Man in a Tiny House
Chapter 5: Landing his Rig
Chapter 6: The Muffin Lady
Chapter 7: Happy Betty
Chapter 8: A Man with a Tool Box
Chapter 9: She’s a Man-eater
Chapter 10: The Dali Lama of Fire Fighting
Chapter 11: Burning Man
Chapter 12: Crack in his Armor
Chapter 13: Topsy Turvy
Chapter 14: A Badass Queen
Chapter 15: Our Own Hero
Chapter 16: The Babysitter
Chapter 17: Have a Little Faith
Chapter 18: The Walking Dead
Chapter 19: The Return of Sasquatch
Chapter 20: The Open Door
Chapter 21: The Three-Ring Circus
Chapter 22: The Rulebook of Joe
Chapter 23: Wrangling Wildfires
Epilogue: Alive
Also by Ruth Clampett
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter 1: The Reign of T. Rex
The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off. ~Gloria Steinem
Cutting the crotches out of my husband’s pants is harder than you’d think. The dress slacks were okay after I’d sharpened the scissors, but now that I’ve worked my way to his jeans, my hands are getting numb.
Rage can do funny things to you. It can tear you apart, or if you take control of it, it can calm you down and give you an unfiltered, laser focus. Now as I sit on the floor of my bedroom surrounded by the contents of my husband’s side of the closet, I’m eerily serene.
I have given myself a task, the first of undoubtedly many which will extricate Mikey out of my heart and home. I set the scissors I’ve been gripping down for a minute to rub the cramp out of my hand.
The irritating thing is that the bastard always looked exactly the same no matter what he wore. Why the hell did he need so many pairs of pants?
“Lying asshole,” I repeat under my breath with each snip of the scissors. I toss his favorite jeans, now crotchless, to the other side of the room.
The sage green walls of our bedroom suddenly take on the sickly pallor of a hospital ward. My gaze scans the room full of trendy furniture that Mikey dragged me up and down hip Beverly Boulevard in West Hollywood to find.
What a colossal waste of time those weekends were as he tried teaching me about mid-century design versus regency style, which he haughtily claimed to prefer.
At this moment I sorely wish I had an ax in the garage so I could re-style all this pretentious crap too.
I hear a door open and close, but refusing to get distracted, I unfold the next pair of jeans in the pile.
“Trisha?”
I brush my hair off my sweaty forehead with one hand as my fingers from the other hand tighten over the scissors. Then I hear a woman’s voice echo the man’s.
“Trish!”
Elle and my brother, Paul. I let out my breath with a huff.
“In here,” I call out.
They tumble into the bedroom with my other brother, Patrick right behind them. I’m strangely relieved to see them. It’s like a mod squad’s here to save me . . . well, a squad with two mods and a well-meaning geek.
“You got here fast,” I say.
“Well, you were screaming in the phone . . . we were freaked out,” Patrick explains.
“I’m still freaked out,” Paul says, gesturing to the ravaged pants all over the floor.
Elle studies the fabric wreckage and looks up with an expression brimming with intrigue. “Whatcha doing?” she asks with a lilt to her voice, apparently trying to keep things light.
Good luck with that one, sister.
“Altering my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s clothes. And for the record, he’s now going to be referred to as dickwad or asshole, not Mikey.”
Paul nods at my response, his eyes widening as he takes in the spoils of my fury.
“You call that altering?”
“Paul,” Elle whispers as she gestures toward me. “She’s got sharp scissors.”
He takes a step back.
I nod as I wave my scissors at him. “Yeah, watch out for the crazy, enraged woman.”
Patrick steps forward and drops down to his knees, so we’re eye to eye. “What happened, Trisha?” he asks in a gentle voice like he’s addressing a toddler on the verge of a meltdown.
My gaze shifts to Paul, who is dragging his fingers through his hair, and Elle who’s tapping her finger on her chin as she watches me.
It’s all so humiliating but there’s no point beating around the bush. The truth will have to come out eventually. I clear my throat. “I dropped by the shop after dinner and became an unwilling witness to Mike being violated by Sasquatch.”
“Oh my God!” exclaims Elle.
Brave Patrick crawls several feet toward me. “Trisha, you know Sasquatch is a fictional creature, right? Did you forget to wear your contacts today or something?”
“I know what I saw!” I yell at the top of my lungs. The trio leans back like a fierce wind is about to topple them.
“And you saw Sasquatch?” Paul asks, clearly playing along to placate me. “What was said Sasquatch wearing?”
“Sasquatch doesn’t wear clothes,” Patrick says in his accountant voice.
“You guys are idiots. I don’t mean literally Sasquatch! It was the flower shop manager, Stanley. You’ve met him. He’s the tall, husky one who’s sporting what I’d consider a fur coat of body hair.”
“That big dude with the black curly hair and beard?” Paul asks.
I nod with a grimace. “He even has that fur covering his ass.”
“How do you know?” Patrick’s eyes are wide with shock.
I wave my scissors in the air dramatically and snap them open and closed. “I know because his jeans were around his ankles while he had Mike pinned down over the work table in the back room!”
The color drains from Paul’s face and the room goes silent so I snap my scissors again. “I thought he was being violate
d. I mean, he was yelling out foul words and pounding his fists on the table.”
“Oh good God,” exclaims Elle. “What did you do?”
“What any good wife would . . . I grabbed the nearest weapon, which in this case was a heavy oversized crystal vase, and lifted it to smash it down over Stanley’s head.”
“Did you split his head open?” Patrick asks.
“I wish. No, as I charged forward I heard something that stopped me in my tracks.”
They wait silently for me to continue and I take a deep breath.
“Mike was begging . . . well, I can’t repeat it, but it was clear the violation was consensual.”
“Oh, Trisha, I can’t even imagine . . .” Elle sinks down to her knees next to Patrick.
“Don’t even try to imagine it. It was horrible, and now I can’t unsee what I saw.”
“What happened then?” Patrick asks.
“I lost my grip on the vase and it exploded when it hit the cement floor. That sure slowed them down.”
Paul lifts his hands up in the air and takes a step back. “Wait a minute . . . wait a minute. Dickwad Mike is gay?”
Elle turns toward him. “Bi, you mean.”
He ignores her attempt at being politically correct. “Imagine that . . . holy stereotyping! Your florist husband who loves to decorate, and is a gourmet cook, is gay?”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Patrick chimes in.
Paul slaps the doorjamb and curses. “I’ve defended that fucker a thousand times from being called gay. Oh holy hell, wait ’til Dad hears about this.”
“The issue here isn’t just his being gay, it’s that he’s a low-life cheater,” Elle points out.
I look down and jab the scissors into the crotch of a pair of dress slacks as I blink back the tears stinging my eyes. I may be a badass, but even I have my limits. My heart feels like it’s hollowed out and will never be full again. Mike had been my savior at one point in my life, and now he’s a complete traitor.
I was a wife and a lover, and now I’m a statistic. I feel like I’ve been discarded, my insides dusted with the blackest soot.
“Did you see this coming . . . any signs?” Patrick inquires.
I shake my head and return my focus to stabbing the pants over and over and over as my vision blurs with tears.
I have a vague sense of Elle crawling closer to me and I feel her hand lower over mine to still me. When I let out a wail, she gently wiggles the scissors out of my grip and hands them to Paul. Next thing I know she’s pulled me into her arms.
“I’m sorry, Trisha,” she murmurs over and over. “I’m so sorry.”
As she rocks me I allow myself to be comforted and the thought passes through my head that who knows when I’ll be held again. The tears start flowing faster and I bury my head into her shoulder.
In this haze, I hear Paul swear, “Oh hell no!” and stomp out of the room.
“Darn,” Patrick curses as he gets up off the floor and follows him.
“What?” I pull away from Elle and study her. Her head is tilted toward the hall like she’s trying to hear something in the distance.
She holds her index finger across her lips to quiet me. “He’s here.”
“Mike?” I say between gritted teeth. My inner battle begins whether to go after him with something more threatening than a crystal vase, or to hide and trust that my brothers will make sure he leaves less gracefully than he entered.
“Paul has the scissors?” I ask, a spark of evil surging through me.
Elle nods. She leans toward the door and then turns back to me. “He’s telling him to leave.”
“I hope he kicks his ass,” I whisper.
“Me too,” she agrees.
There’s a flurry of sounds from the hallway. My stomach tightens as I cross my arms across my chest protectively.
“Trish!” Mike yells out as he lunges out of Paul’s grip and into our bedroom—or what used to be our bedroom. Now it’s the tomb of shame.
“Get the hell out of here,” I growl, not even recognizing my own voice. I can’t help but notice that his face is red as a beet and his eyes are bugging out like a crazy man.
Patrick starts jabbing his finger at Dickwad, and his eyes narrow and his jaw locks. “Do you have any idea how punitive cheating is in divorce proceedings? Before you dropped your drawers did you even consider the tax implications and lifestyle adjustments that will occur when your assets are split?”
Dickwad looks at Patrick like he’s crazy and then focuses back on me.
“Trish, we need to talk!” His voice is raspy and breathless, possibly due to the fact that Paul is trying to drag him out of the room by the back of his shirt, and the collar is hiked so high on his throat that it’s choking him.
“Talk about what? That our entire marriage is a sham and you’re a cheating bastard?”
“It’s not a sham, Trish. You know I love you.”
“Do you know what I know? I know the look on your face when you were taking it up the ass.”
Elle gasps, and Patrick sputters something between a cough and a gag. I can’t blame him, I want to gag too.
“Can we please talk privately?” His begging tone is pissing me off. He finally looks down at the pile of pants strewn all around me, and his mouth drops open. “Hey, what are you doing to my pants?”
“I’m altering them.” I hold up the pair of jeans I just hacked up with the scissors. “Look, they’re chaps! I hear you gay guys like to wear chaps.”
“Oh for the love of God, Trisha,” he moans. “Please, can we just talk privately?”
“Anything you have to say, my family can hear.”
“What you saw was a mistake. A horrible mistake.”
Paul eye’s narrow, his hands clenched into fists. “So you’re saying that was the first and only time you and Stanley—”
“No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying it’s a mistake!”
“Well infidelity is more than a mistake, it’s a violation,” Patrick states.
I shake a fist at Mike. “Yes, I’ve been violated!”
“And your vague statements are making me think you’ve done this repeatedly,” Elle says to him, her fists pressed down on her hips.
It’s a good thing I’m not still holding the scissors because as soon as I see the sheepish look on Mike’s face, I know the truth and the truth makes me want to cut more than the crotches out of his pants.
The calm serene stage of my rage is over. As I scramble to get up to find another weapon, I let out a feral howl the likes of which I’ve never heard. It scares everyone including me, and my legs get tangled in the web of ravaged pants. I fall back down on my ass, but before I hit the floor my head clips the corner of the dresser.
“Get out . . . Out . . . Out!” I scream. The last thing I see before the room goes black is Paul and Patrick dragging Mike down the hall.
Chapter 2: Thin Walls & Swedish Meatballs
When you have no problems, you’re dead. ~ Zelda Werner
Three weeks later . . .
The muffled moans from down the hall are killing me. I’m pretty sure Elle and Paul have no idea how the paper thin walls and shared heating vents provide stereo sound for their impressive marathons between the sheets. I flip over in bed and pull the pillow up on the sides to cover my ears. Do these two ever stop fucking? They’re like a couple of amped up rabbits.
When they brought me to their place to stay the night my marriage ended, I should’ve realized that a sex-addict and nymphomaniac wouldn’t make ideal housemates. All I knew was that I couldn’t stay another moment in the house I had shared with my cheating husband.
I hear a squeal that even the pillow can’t muffle. What the hell? Sitting up, I glance at the clock—4 a.m. And to think I heard them going at midnight when I slipped into bed.
One time Paul told me that he steadfastly refused to sleep with Elle for months, until he knew they were in a committed relationship. I didn’t honestly think the former man-whore
had that kind of restraint in him, but he proved me wrong. So apparently now they will forever be making up for lost time between the sheets.
The next morning I’m slow getting up. I rub my eyes, wander into the kitchen to grab some coffee, and search out Elle. I know Paul’s at work already, but I find Elle typing away in her office. She’s dressed up like she’s going to work, with her long hair pulled back with a fancy barrette and make-up on.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” she says, then waves to the chair. “Have a seat, I’m almost done with this email.”
I settle down and sip my coffee as my gaze wanders across the walls of the den. There’s a striking framed black-and-white print of Elle and Paul on a bridge I hadn’t noticed before. “Where’s that?”
Elle glances up to where I’m pointing. “Huntington Garden in Pasadena. Paul had it done for Valentine’s Day.”
I shake my head. “Who knew that the big lug was such a romantic?’
She smiles. “He’s pretty great.”
“Can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure, anything,” Elle replies, scooting her desk chair closer to me.
“How important do you think sex is in a relationship?”
“Sex?” she asks with wide eyes.
I guess she wasn’t expecting that from me first thing in the morning.
“Yeah, sex . . . well like great sex. After sleeping in the room down the hall from you guys for three weeks, it’s apparent to me that it’s pretty important to the two of you.”
“Oh God,” she moans, slapping her hand over her eyes.
“But do you think it’s critical to a relationship working?”
She sits up straight like she’s at a business meeting. “Are you asking because of what happened with Mike?”
“That’s part of it. He left me a message last night begging me to give him another chance. It broke my heart, and on the third listen I almost caved and called him, but all I could think of was why would he want that if he desires men? And why would I want that? I don’t want a cheater. As it is, I’d never want to sleep with him again.”
“I understand. It’s hard for me to imagine you taking him back, honestly.”
Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) Page 1