Burn (L.A. Untamed #2)

by Ruth Clampett

  “Not tonight. Besides, it shows better in the day.”

  I huff. “I don’t care about how it shows. I want to see your bed. Is it one of those dealies where you have to climb a ladder and then flop flat on the mattress because there’s no room to sit up?”

  “I don’t have a loft bed. So no ladders, no flopping.”

  “Where do you sleep then?”

  He takes a long drag of his beer. I wonder how many he’s had. “Why do you care where I sleep?” he asks.

  “Maybe I want my very own tiny house. And once I have it I’ll park it next to yours and never leave you alone.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I know, hot, right?” I wink at him, just to kick it home.

  He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you flirting? It seems like you want to butter my biscuit.”

  “Ha! I don’t even know how to flirt, but if I did, maybe I’d flirt with you.”

  He smiles against the mouth of his beer bottle. “Yeah, what would you do?”

  It occurs to me that maybe I should stop drinking but then the thought slips right back out of my head. “I don’t know—press against you and whisper dirty things in your ear? By the time I was done you wouldn’t be able to resist me.”

  “I can only imagine,” he says with a long sigh. “I can barely resist you now.”

  “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?” I’m a little fuzzy from the beer, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t serious. Just to be safe I give him a warning. “Be careful with teasing me—I can be fierce.”

  He stands up and holds out his hand to me. Damn, he’s tall.

  “Come on, fierce Ms. T. Rex. It’s way past your bedtime, and we have to be at the station bright and early.”

  He starts down the ladder and then waits for me to get on right after him. It only takes a few steps down the rung for me to realize that he’s created a body shield so I can’t fall off.

  We work our way down, rung by rung, and I’m almost sorry when I’m finally down on the ground.

  I have a weird compulsion not to let the evening end. I turn to Joe.

  “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we do a friend’s sleepover in your tiny house? That’d be fun, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure it would be, Trisha, but no, I think you should sleep in your own bed tonight.”

  “All right, but now you’ll never know what an awesome cuddler I am.”

  “True, but my guess is that you’d never stop talking.”

  “Oh, shut up!” I say with a laugh.

  He grins. “There you go . . . now we’re even.”

  Chapter 7: Happy Betty

  If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun. ~Katharine Hepburn

  The next day at work, Joe, the guys, and I are on grocery shopping duty so we drive one of the fire trucks to the grocery store. We always take the trucks for errands in case we get a call.

  Turns out Joe can cook. Holy hell. Just watching him pick out produce, the focused way he squeezes the tomatoes and breathes in the scent of fresh herbs, is enough to fire up more inappropriate thoughts about him.

  “What’s for dinner?” I ask.

  “I’m thinking lasagna. Can you get the lettuce for the salad? Romaine would be good.”

  Scott wanders off to get the ingredients for garlic cheese bread. Alberto is scouting out other items. I realize their exit gives me a chance to talk to Joe.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, what?”

  “For as far back as I can remember we were on opposite schedules. I’ve been around you less than any of the other guys, and now we not only have the same schedule but we’re assigned to do chores together.”

  He just silently stares at me with a box of pasta in each hand.

  “What’s that all about?”

  “Maybe Chief wants me to watch out for you?” He responds with a tone like he isn’t sure of the answer but is willing to guess.

  “Really?”

  He nods. “Sure. You’ve been through a lot lately. Maybe having a friend in the squad helps.”

  I blink several times. “So I’m like your buddy? Like when you go into a new school and you get teamed up with someone who can show you the ropes?”

  “Yeah . . . like that I guess,” he agrees, yet seems unsure. He rubs the back of his neck and scrunches up his eyebrows.

  “Oh for fucks sake,” I growl. I toss the heads of lettuce in the cart and storm off. Do they really think I’m that pathetic? I know I’m not at my best lately, but it’s feeling like every time I think I’m moving forward in my life, I discover I’m not getting anywhere.

  Still in a huff, I wander out the exit and sit on a bench right next to the Buzz Lightyear Rocket Adventure rocking ride. I’m half-tempted to dig through my pockets for some quarters to ride Buzz to infinity and beyond.

  See that, even my innocent thoughts sound perverted these days.

  A few minutes later Joe and the guys roll the cart out of the store. They scan the parking lot, and Scott spots me and points me out.

  Joe pushes the cart over to Scott and tells him something, before slowly walking over to me.

  He jams his hands down into his pockets. “You ready to go?”

  I look up at him with wary eyes. “I don’t need a babysitter you know.”

  He studies me for a minute silently, and then nods. “Okay.”

  Rising, I brush off my ass. Who knows what was on that bench. “Good, as long as we’re clear on that.” I pull my shoulders back and start walking to the truck, while he follows close behind.

  I steer clear from Joe the rest of the day, and the following afternoon I’m at home, finally facing the bills that have piled up since my marital Armageddon. When I threw Dickwad out I wasn’t thinking about how the bills would still be coming but now it may be just me covering them. As I start adding things up it becomes clear that I’m in a shitshow of epic proportion.

  It occurs to me that since Dickwad cheated, he should pay up. He should’ve thought of the financial ramifications before he dropped his drawers and bent over the flower shop worktable.

  I pick up my phone to call Jeanine and remember that she’s heading to Boston today. Why not go straight to the source? I find a letter that I’d gotten from Mike’s law firm and dial the number printed on the bottom of the page.

  I have to go through a few people to get the guy, but when I do it becomes clear that this ass is a great example of why people hate lawyers.

  I clear my throat. “Hi Steve, I’m Mike Castallani’s ex, Trisha and I need to check on something.”

  “You do realize, Ms. McNeill, that your lawyer should be the one contacting me, correct?”

  “Well, she’s traveling today and I can’t wait for an answer. I’m paying bills right now and I need Mike to pay his half of the mortgage. The bills already late so he needs to get right on it.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well Mike isn’t paying half of the mortgage unless he’s living there, and my understanding is that you threw him out on the street and threatened to give away his collection of regency furniture.”

  “Oh he’s such a drama queen. I didn’t throw him into the street even though I probably could, and I said I was selling his furniture, not giving it away.”

  “You acted with hostile intent, and we are considering approaching the judge assigned to our case to allow Mike his rights to live there with you until you decide to sell it and split the equity.”

  “Over my dead body,” I growl.

  “I’ll make note that you said that,” he replies in a creepy calm voice. “You need to understand that it’s his right.”

  I slap my hand down on the table and the bills go flying. “What about my rights? Huh? We made a promise to each other when we got married, and I kept my promise and your client didn’t. Shouldn’t he have to pay for that?”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Ms. McNeill.”

  “Well it should! T
hat asshole should pay me for every time he bent over and took it up the ass while I was at home doing his laundry. And you know what else? I should get extra for the time I walked into his place of business while he was going at it! Do you know what kind of noises he was making? I can’t unhear that, and I sure as hell can’t unsee it either—”

  “Ms. McNeill,” he says loudly, interrupting me. “You really need to talk to your lawyer about this. I have a meeting and this conversation can’t continue.”

  I’m working up for my next rant when I realize he’s not there. I look down and my phone screen is blank.

  “I’m not done!” I yell at the blank phone. My hands curl into fists. “I’m not done,” I repeat as tears start streaking down my face.

  Sweeping my arm across the table’s surface, I send the scattered pile of bills soaring off the table. I get up and stomp all over the mess and then take my checkbook, wind up my pitching arm and then send it flying down the hall toward the living room.

  Fucking mother fucker!

  I press my hands over my face and realize that despite my streaks of tears, my skin is so flushed with heat it feels like it’s burning. Stepping up to the kitchen sink, I turn on the faucet and douse my face over and over with cold water. After about a minute I’m starting to feel human again, and I shut off the water, lift my wet face up and look out the window.

  Through my blurry view I’m fairly certain that Joe is watching me from his kitchen window.

  Yikes! I wonder how much he saw of my storming around my kitchen. I reach out for a dishtowel and blot my skin. When I look back up my vision is clear and Joe is smiling and waving at me. Just seeing him makes me feel better.

  I squeak out a tiny smile as I wave back.

  This time he motions for me to come over, so I set down the dishtowel and step out my back door. He’s on his tiny landing as I approach.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “You wanted to see the inside of my place. Do you still want to?”

  I figure he either didn’t see me throwing a fit or he’s kindly pretending he didn’t see it.

  I shrug. “Sure.”

  He steps aside so I can pass through the door.

  “Wow,” I exclaim as I turn back and look at him.

  “Please don’t say it’s tiny,” he says.

  I shake my head. “No. I think it’s really cool.” I take a couple more steps in to marvel at the craftsmanship of his place. It’s like an intricate puzzle that someone put together. Every inch seems thought out as my gaze trails over the bookcase, fold-down table and chair, and miniature kitchen.

  “Who built this?” I ask.

  “My cousin’s best friend designs and builds them. I helped some with the build. I brought it all the way down here from Portland after he finished it.”

  “That must have been some drive.”

  He grins. “Yeah, I got a lot of attention for sure.”

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  He points behind us and I slide into the space that’s smaller than my linen closet. “Whoa. No soaking in the tub for you!”

  “No, but wherever I land next I want to build a deck, do an outdoor shower, and get a hot tub.”

  I nod, imagining it. “That’d be cool.” I wiggle back out of the bathroom. “So you said you don’t sleep in a loft.”

  He points to the other end of the structure and I see a surprisingly large day bed set in an alcove with bookshelves on either side. It’s cozy and I have to resist the urge to crawl inside.

  I let out a low whistle. “This is a much better plan than having to climb a ladder to go to bed.”

  “I had to give up having a couch or seating, but I’d rather spend my reading and thinking time sitting on top of my rig anyway. I like the open air.”

  I take note of the drawers and nooks which are built in everywhere, and everything seems to have a place. It’s pretty amazing, and a complete contrast to my big empty house. I feel cozy in here, and I like it.

  “Do you get claustrophobic?” I ask.

  “Not really. I think the fact that I’m at the firehouse three to four days a week helps. It’s good coming back here to simplicity and privacy.”

  “I can understand that. Maybe when the house is gone I should get one of these.”

  He doesn’t say anything just opens the little fridge and pulls out two bottles of water and hands me one. “Want to hang for a bit?”

  “Sure.”

  We step outside and scale the ladder to the roof. We sit silently in the lawn chairs as I take in the daytime view of my neighborhood. When I turn back I realize Joe is staring at me. He smiles.

  “Is this going okay?” I ask.

  He gives me a confused look.

  I wave my hand across his roof. “I mean with your being here. Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, it’s great, and I think Betty likes it here, too,” he says patting the deck railing affectionately.

  “Betty? Your tiny house is named Betty?”

  He scowls. “My rig is named Betty.”

  “Sorry . . . right, your rig.”

  He settles back into his folding chair. “Yes, and as I was saying, she’s very happy here.”

  I take a sip of my water. “How can you tell?”

  “It’s just a feeling. Besides, she hasn’t been creaking or groaning.”

  I grin. “Is that so? Well, I’m glad she’s happy. So did you really help build her?”

  He nods. “I would’ve liked to have done the whole thing, but I didn’t have the time or all the skills necessary.”

  “I bet it’s super complicated. It’s so clever how they designed it with all those nooks, drawers, and fold-down thingies. It’s like everything has a purpose and thought behind it.”

  He sits back and smiles with a satisfied look on his face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I did the design.”

  My eyes grow wide. “Really? I’m so impressed. How’d you have the idea to do all that?”

  “When I was a kid my parents had a camper, and I was obsessed with it, the way you could take such a small space and give it so much purpose. So when my cousin told me about carpenters building trailer-like houses—structures on wheels that had woodwork and architectural detail—I was all over the idea. It was during the beginning of my divorce and it gave me something positive to focus on. I was constantly doing research and sketching out designs.”

  “I’m so impressed,” I say with a grin.

  “I joke that it’s my life’s work, my masterpiece, but it truly is the thing I’m most proud of.”

  I reach over and push him in the arm. “See that. Now I really want my own tiny house, or rig as you call them. Maybe you’ll design mine for me.”

  Tipping his head sideways, he smiles. “Maybe.”

  We look back out at the view, and he clears his throat.

  “Hey, I hope you know how much I appreciate you letting me park here.”

  I study his expression. It’s a simple statement but it feels like there’s a lot behind the words. He hasn’t mentioned when he plans to leave and I don’t bring it up because I dread the day he does.

  I smile at him. “Honestly, it’s been good to have you here.”

  “How are you doing with all the changes?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I’m taking things one day at a time.”

  Of course I don’t mention that only a bit ago I was cursing out Mike’s lawyer in a fit of rage.

  “Have you talked to your ex?”

  “Yes, but only once. He’s apparently still in the denial stage. He says he wants to work it out so we can give our marriage another chance.”

  Joe’s eyes widen. “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “No. I’m not even sure what our marriage meant anymore, and believe me, my ego’s taken a real beating. It doesn’t feel good at all to know you weren’t enough.”

  “But—” Joe starts to argue before I cut him off.

  “I k
now what you’re going to say. What happened was about him wanting men, and not about me. But if deep down he’s always wanted men then he should live that life and make peace with himself. I need a man who wants me one hundred percent.”

  Joe looks down as if unscrewing his water bottle is the most interesting thing on earth.

  “Besides, fucking around when you’re married is a deal breaker for me, no matter who he’s with.”

  Joe suddenly looks up with a haunted look in his eyes, and it feels like I’ve struck a chord. I remember back when he talked to me in the office and suggested that he had been through something that made Chief think he could be a support to me.

  “Is that what happened to you?” I ask softly.

  His fingers work the bottle cap back and forth and his lips press down into a straight line. He nods.

  “I’m sorry.” I wait for him to say more but he doesn’t. “How long ago did it happen?”

  “Two years,” he states in a tight voice.

  “Wow,” I whisper. It’s unsettling that two years later he’s still clearly really messed up over it. Damn. Is that what I’m going to be like?

  He turns away like he wants to be lost in the view, and I lean forward in my chair. I have an overwhelming desire to comfort him and I’m not sure how but I want to try.

  “Joe,” I say softly.

  His gaze darts back to me.

  “I’m so sorry.” I say each word slowly and with as much weight as a word can have.

  We have that moment as our gazes lock, where I feel like we are coding a language between us . . . the sad murmurings of two broken hearts determined to keep beating against all odds.

  He nods. “Me too. We deserve better, Trisha.”

  I have a surge of compassion for this wounded man. I want to go sit in his lap and hold onto him with my hand pressed right over his heart.

  We are comrades now in our own private battles of the heart. I’m willing to fight alongside him because for the first time since I walked into my husband’s flower shop to witness the end of my marriage, I think there’s a chance I can win.

  “Woman! Where’ve you been?” I grab my bestie Jeanine and give her a big hug. I’ve only talked to her a few times in the last few weeks, and it was always about my impending divorce. Bitch is traveling on business so much we barely get to hang anymore. That’s what I get for having a high-powered lawyer for a best friend.