“Maybe I don’t deserve a good man,” I say, trying to monitor the level of pathetic pandering in my voice.
“Maybe most of these soft men don’t deserve you. You have to find the strong one who does.”
“Hopefully while I’m still able to breed. I’ll be too old before I know it.”
“Oh good Lord! First things first, my girl.”
“Right.” I shrug.
“And you’ll get through this. You’re tough! Remember what they voted you in your senior year?”
I let out a long-suffering sigh. “Most likely to survive the apocalypse.”
“Yes!” she exclaims.
Just then my dad approaches us. We fall silent as he wraps an arm around each of us and pulls us into a three-way hug. After we step apart, Dad leans in close to me.
“You know I want to kill him, right?” he whispers in my ear. “Yer Ma hid my rifle.”
“No!” I exclaim.
“She did!” he insists.
“What are you two going on about?” she asks, with a frown.
“None of yer business, woman,” he says with a pretend stern expression.
An idea occurs to me and I turn to my father. “Hey, can we go to the shooting range this weekend?”
If he’s worried by my request, he hides it well. “Sure, lass, let’s go Saturday. Twenty bucks my score beats yours,” he taunts.
“Oh yeah?” I tease.
“Yeah.”
“Well, never underestimate an angry woman with a gun.”
The tone at the dinner table is subdued. Patrick is explaining the new tax laws, and if he keeps going on like this I’ll want to stab him with my steak knife. When he goes into the pros and cons of IRA restrictions, I slap my hand over my forehead.
“What?” he asks.
“Oh nothing. Nothing at all. Pay no attention to me, I’m positively riveted to your every word.”
He huffs and folds his arms over his chest. “No need to be rude, T. Rex. What would you like to talk about?”
I narrow my eyes as I give him the death stare. “How do you know about that?” I hiss.
“Your nickname?” he asks. “Did you forget that Bradley is one of my clients?”
“Bradley, as in Bobo?” I ask, horrified.
He nods with a goofy grin.
“And what else did he tell you about me?”
“That most of the guys are scared of you.”
Elle looks at him and shakes her head abruptly but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Is that so?” I ask.
He nods. “And that’s why they call you T. Rex.”
I roll my eyes. “And all this time I thought it was because my arms are really short for my body.”
Paul laughs at my joke, and Patrick seems confused.
“Your arms aren’t short, Trisha.”
Dad slaps his forehead.
“Paddie, she’s teasing you,” Ma says gently.
“Oh.” His cheeks turn red. “Well you could try being nicer to them, Trisha.”
I sigh. “But what fun would that be?”
Later when Paul and I are doing the dishes, he nudges me.
“Hey, you doing okay?”
“Not really.”
He sighs. “It sucks. I’m really sorry, Sis. Have you talked to him?”
I shake my head. “Other than leaving messages for him to come get his stuff? No. I just can’t. I think I’m still in shock. It’s a lot to process when you find out your marriage was a lie.”
“I know . . . but I do believe that he loved you.”
“Yet I wasn’t enough.” I blink back the tears.
“Don’t say that,” Paul responds with sad eyes.
“Am I ever going to stop hurting?”
He takes the soapy dish out of my hand and sets it down, then pulls me into a hug. I rest my head on his shoulder as the tears slide sideways down my face.
“Shhh,” he whispers and he gently rocks me. “It’s going to take time but it’ll fade and then one day you’ll realize you aren’t hurting anymore. You’re strong. I know you’re going to be okay.”
Chapter 4: Big Man in a Tiny House
The question isn’t who’s going to let me; it’s who’s going to stop me. ~Ayn Rand
My next day working at the station, I sit off on my own at lunch and eat silently. The guys glance over at me once in a while with wary expressions but otherwise they leave me alone.
T. Rex is not coming out to play today, boys.
I’m almost done with my Mexican casserole when Joe storms through the door. It takes me aback because I’ve never seen him seem so openly agitated. He slams his keys down on the table and then walks over to the kitchen so he can grab a bottle of water. Sinking down into his chair with a huff, he grumbles as he unscrews the cap and takes a swig.
“Hey, dude, what’s wrong?” Peter asks.
Joe growls and tips his head back.
I notice Bobo and Peter give each other nervous looks.
I fixate on the veins protruding along Joe’s neck. If I were a vampire I’d be all over that man, sinking my teeth into his warm, thick neck until I got my fill of him.
That wasn’t weird at all.
I pinch myself in the arm. Get a grip girl.
“I’m so angry,” Joe finally offers.
“We can see that,” Bobo says. “Wanna tell us what’s going on?”
“It’s my house.”
“In Calabasas?” Peter asks.
“Yeah. Well, it was in Calabasas. I’ve been informed that I have to vacate the premises in five days.”
“I thought you had another couple of months to find a space for your rig?” Bobo asks.
“Apparently not,” he grumbles. “The developers changed their plans.”
“Where are you going to move it to? I remember you were researching it a few weeks ago.”
Joe gives him a hard look. “That’s the thing . . . I have no friggin’ idea. The place I had been looking at in Woodland Hills is no longer available. The tenant decided not to leave.”
“Damn, that sucks,” Peter says.
The table goes silent as Joe downs half the bottle of water. I try not to stare at him as he drinks, but suddenly everything about him fascinates me.
How are his teeth so white?
Where does he buy shoes big enough to fit his supersized feet?
Does he notice that I’m sitting over here obsessing over him?
I guess being rejected by your husband for another man makes you want to immediately attract someone else, just to prove you can.
I force myself to turn away and keep my focus on my own lunch.
After I’m done eating the restlessness gets to me. It’s messed up, but I’m kind of hoping for a big call so I can get my ass in gear and think about nothing other than putting out a fire or extricating a victim safely out of a freeway pile-up.
I pace the day room and when I pause to look out the window, I notice Joe in the back patio doing chin-ups on the outdoor equipment. I watch, fascinated. For a big guy he moves in smooth sweeps, his body arcing up as he lifts himself up and juts his chin over the bar.
I should know better, but my legs have a mind of their own and they start moving toward the staircase. Before you know it I’m in the back patio, close enough to Joe to see the fine sheen on his face.
He jerks five more chin-ups before releasing his grip and landing back on his feet.
I can’t help but stare as he moves to the gym mat and starts doing squats, every thigh muscle rippling under his shorts. He still hasn’t acknowledged me. It’s like I’m not even here. I’m not sure if I should walk away or take my chances.
What the hell? What do I have to lose?
He’s deep in a squat when I finally pipe up. “So what’s this about you having to move your house?”
He doesn’t reply to me, but continues with his count and after what feels like forever he rises to his full standing height. He finally looks at me with a
steady gaze.
“Why?”
I shrug. “I’m curious.”
“The owners of the land sold it to developers, after telling me they weren’t going to sell it for a couple of years.”
“That blows.”
He nods, then lowers himself to the mat and starts doing sit-ups. I wait patiently for him to finish but damn, he does a lot of them. No wonder his stomach is flat as a board. I imagine he thinks I should leave him alone to work out, but he doesn’t say anything, just keeps at it and I’m pretty persistent when I want something.
“So what kind of house is it that you can move it around? Like one of those mobile homes with metal siding?”
“You sure have a lot of questions. Why aren’t you working out? We have a training meeting after this.”
I shrug. “Couldn’t sleep, so I hit the gym before breakfast.”
Falling silent, he starts up with the sit-ups again.
“So don’t those mobile homes have to be taken apart to move?”
He groans and rolls over and rises up on his knees. I suspect I’m irritating him.
“No, mine is built on a trailer bed so it can be towed. It’s a wood structure.”
I try to picture what such a house would look like while he drops and does push-ups. Jesus, his arms are so cut. I imagine running my fingers over the hard curves of his shoulders. It’s hypnotizing watching the muscles in his arms bulge and flex. His face is starting to get flushed but he doesn’t appear to be sweating.
Before I start thinking inappropriate thoughts I try to focus back on his house. Suddenly, I remember a HGTV show I saw at my parents’. “Wait a minute! You have a tiny house?” I ask excitedly.
He scowls. “I hate that term. Don’t call it that.”
I can feel my eyes grow wide . . . a giant man in a tiny house. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing or saying something snarky. The situation makes me think of the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales Ma used to read to us when we were little. They were full of tiny people, giants, fairies, and witches. They freaked me out, but the idea of tall Joe in a tiny house makes me happy.
He stretches his arms over his head, which gives me a peek of a sliver of skin from his washboard stomach. “Anything else you want to know?”
I’m sitting on the edge of the picnic bench, swinging my legs.
“Nope, that’s about it.”
He shakes his head, picks up his towel, and wipes his face down.
“The thing is . . . I was just thinking that I could help you out. It’s not a long term solution but it would buy you some time.”
He pulls the towel down, his expression somewhere between confused and curious.
“My house is on a double lot in Valley Village, just north of Studio City.”
He stares at me without saying a word. It makes me nervous so I just continue on; for all I know I’m babbling like a crazy person. This man unnerves me.
“Mike, also known as Dickwad, my soon-to-be-ex-husband, had the idea of building rental units to the side the property but the zoning wouldn’t allow it.”
He narrows his eyes and scrunches up his face. I guess this is too much information about my ex.
“So I was thinking you could park your tiny house on the empty part of the lot. Of course, just as long as you need it before you find where you really want to be. You wouldn’t owe me anything . . . I mean, you wouldn’t have to pay me or do stuff.”
“Do stuff?” he mumbles with a wary look.
“Nope. I promise,” I say, raising my hands to make my point.
“Why?”
“Why what?” I ask.
“Why would you offer that to me?”
“Out of the goodness of my heart?” I squint noting how ridiculous that sounds coming out of my mouth. I’m no angel, and I’m sure he knows that.
He folds his arms over his chest and waits.
“Maybe I’m not used to being alone there. It’s a big place. It would make me feel better knowing someone I can trust is nearby.”
“And I’m someone you trust?”
I think about the firefighter’s oath, and the band of brothers. The trust between us is paramount—it can make the difference in surviving a crisis, or not. But there’s something about Joe which makes me feel extra safe. I don’t even know him that well. Not really. But it’s a feeling I have, and I trust that feeling.
“You are.”
He looks down, deep in thought and I know he’s considering my offer.
“Don’t make up your mind now. Why don’t you come by after our shift ends in the morning and look at it? No hard feelings if you pass on it . . . I promise.”
There’s a long pause and then he clears his throat. “Let me think about it. Okay? As you know, I’m in a bad position right now . . . so a temporary move would be really helpful.”
I smile realizing that there’s a chance he may say yes. “Okay, just let me know if you want to see it in the morning.”
Late that evening I’m holed up in my room watching a training video on my iPad about new procedures for handling brushfires. I missed the formal presentation this afternoon because we got a call when some asshat teen T-boned a minivan, before wrapping his car around a fire hydrant.
I’m just about to shut the video off when there’s a rumble downstairs as the wide doors roll up and the trucks pull in. Glancing at my alarm clock next to my bed, I realize how long the guys were out on that call. I wonder how bad it was.
I lie still and listen to the familiar pounding of footsteps up the stairs. A minute later the plumbing rattles with too many showers getting turned on at once. My stomach sinks. It must have been a rough situation with a lot of soot and smoke.
As I wait for the plumbing to quiet, I let my gaze settle on my sparse surroundings. Besides my cot and side table, there’s a set of drawers, a plain desk and a matching maple wood chair. It’s a purely utilitarian space.
Because I was living in an over-decorated house that my husband filled with too much stuff for my liking, I always found comfort in the simplicity of this room. Some guys put more personal stuff in their space, but not me.
The one thing I used to have on display was a framed picture of me and Mikey on my nightstand. It was taken in Monterey on our first anniversary.
I remember when that picture was shot vividly. That was the day we went to see the Monterey Aquarium. Afterwards, we took a long walk in the brisk sea breeze, and while stopping at a lookout point to take in the view, we asked a passing woman to take our picture.
In the photo our cheeks are pink and my dark brown hair windswept with wisps wrapped around my neck and fingers as I hold it off my face for the shot. We’re grinning like fools and I’ve loved that photo as a reminder of one of our happiest times.
There’s now an empty spot on my nightstand where the picture once stood. You’d think I would’ve taken it down right after I threw him out of the house, but for some reason I couldn’t do it.
But that damn dream I had a few weeks ago was my snapping point, the moment that made me hurl the framed picture in the trash. In the dream Mikey and I were walking hand-in-hand through our neighborhood, but it was that weird dream-thing in that it wasn’t actually our neighborhood, yet I seemed to think it was. The sky was strangely hazy with the thick L.A. smog of my childhood days before all the emission laws went into effect.
I remember feeling perfectly content as we strolled along until a tall man with dark hair and a leather jacket came walking toward us. He passed us without a word or gesture but a moment later Mikey let go of my hand and lengthened his stride forward. As he moved farther and farther ahead of me my world started crumbling, the sidewalk breaking apart under my feet.
I woke up with my face wet with tears. In the quiet darkness my heart was aching for what I’d lost and how much I was still missing the man Mike used to be to me. For a while I held the framed picture to my chest and cried but then when the tears stopped the anger set in, and in the trash it went
.
The next afternoon Bobo caught me in the station’s dumpster digging through the garbage for the picture. My regret of tossing it had gotten the better of me.
“What are you up to, T. Rex? Disposing of a body . . . one of your victims?” he asked.
“Yeah, right,” I snapped. “Watch it or you could be next.”
Unfortunately my threat didn’t dissuade him—instead it apparently intrigued him. He walked right up to the dumpster and peered inside. “You did a good job. I don’t see the carnage.”
“I’ve got skills,” I replied with a shrug.
“What are you really looking for?” he asked.
“A framed picture I didn’t mean to throw away.”
“Huh,” he said, his gaze moving over the mess. “Is that it?”
On the other side of the dumpster from where I’d been digging around, I saw the corner of the black frame rising up out of the garbage where he was pointing. I reached over and lifted it out only to see that the glass was shattered and the picture badly scratched.
“Hey, that’s you. Is that your—”
“Yeah,” I cut him off. “It’s my ex.”
His expression fell and he looked down. “Oh. And now it’s busted. Sorry, McNeill.”
“Me too,” I responded as I held it for a moment and then dropped it back down onto the pile of crap that was no use to anyone.
I suddenly snap out of my memory and realize that the plumbing has quieted so that means that the showers must be over. Swinging my legs over the side of my bunk, I stand up and stretch, then head out my door. Hopefully someone will be in the dayroom to tell me what went down.
I find Alberto and Scott sitting at a table nursing bottles of water. Scott is hunched over, resting his head in his hands, and Alberto is leaning back with his legs stretched out wide. They look beat.
“Hey, McNeill, be glad you missed that call. What a bitch that job was,” says Alberto.
“That bad?” I ask, feeling remorse I wasn’t there to help despite the fact that I wasn’t on the call list.
Scott nods. “Abandoned warehouse in Sun Valley. Someone said it was a porn studio back in the day when the Valley was our nation’s porn capital. Now it’s just a shithole.”
Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) Page 3