Burn (L.A. Untamed #2)

by Ruth Clampett

  “What have I been doing? Oh, you know, shopping, eating bonbons by the pool. Oh and don’t let me forget those pesky facials and massages. It’s all so taxing.” She lets out an exaggerated huff.

  I lower my sunglasses, and narrow my eyes at her. “Who are you and what did you do with Jeanine?” I ask in a threatening voice.

  She arches her brow and gives me a scowl. “I was in New York on business. I’m pretty sure at this point that the lawsuit with Aston Noveo is never going to end. I’ll be an old lady still working on that damn case. They’ll have to wheel me in to the courthouse and their lame-ass legal team will still be asking for extensions and pushing back the court days.”

  “That’s messed up,” I say with a groan.

  She shakes her head. “You have no idea.”

  I take a long sip of my iced tea as Jeanine checks her cell phone. Everything about her is razor sharp and uncompromised. She’s the most determined woman I’ve ever known, and I’m proud to call her my friend.

  She sets down her phone and leans toward me. “Is the jackass still leaving you messages?”

  She was never a fan of Mike’s, nor he of her. It’s a relief to not have to mediate them anymore.

  “Um, actually I talked to him once, and talked to his lawyer once. Both ended really badly.”

  “I warned you not to do that!”

  “I know, I know. I lost control. But believe me, I learned my lesson. I’m not doing that again. I probably made things worse, but I couldn’t help it. I’m so full of rage, Jeanine.”

  “I know you are. If I weren’t your lawyer I’d go off on him too. What an ass. You know how I feel, Trisha . . . you deserve so much more.”

  “I know,” I say, and for the first time I think I’ve actually embraced that idea.

  “And do not talk to his lawyer. You will only screw things up. I’ve already heard from him and had to straighten him out.”

  “Okay,” I say quietly, with my proverbial tail between my legs.

  “So William needs to know if you want him to fight for you to keep the house.”

  William is her firm’s divorce specialist, so she’s working with him to make sure I get the best outcome possible.

  “How much money will I have to come up with to be able to stay in the house?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Not sure yet. Naturally his lawyer is undervaluing his floral business, so it’s going to be a fight.”

  I look over at her with wide eyes as I bite my lip.

  “Don’t worry about your fees, babe. I’m taking care of you.”

  “Thank you, Jeanine. You’re the best. “

  She smiles at me.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  She nods. “Of course, anything.”

  “Is it going to be a problem that I let a friend park their tiny house on the property?”

  She purses her lips. “What?”

  “I’m helping out a friend from the station and letting him park his rig there until he finds a permanent spot.”

  “A friend?” she asks. “I thought you had issues with those guys.”

  “I do . . . well, except for him. He’s really cool.”

  She leans back in her chair and observes me.

  “What?” I ask, squirming in my seat.

  “Cool? Have you slept with him?’

  “N-nooo,” I stutter.

  “Do you want to?”

  “Most certainly.”

  She grins. “This pleases me excessively.”

  I grin back.

  She waves her hand dramatically. “Carry on, my dear.”

  Chapter 8: A Man with a Tool Box

  I want to do it because I want to do it. ~Amelia Earhart

  When my doorbell rings, I look through the peephole and smile to see it’s Joe and not a creeper. I pull the door open wide.

  “Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”

  He holds up a mug of coffee. “Just wondering if you have any milk for my coffee. I ran out.”

  “Why are you drinking coffee at night?” I ask.

  “Because I like to,” he responds like my question is lame.

  I pull the door open wider.

  “Sure, come on in. Is low-fat okay?”

  He nods, but I notice his gaze skims the living room before settling on the pile of sealed boxes. He silently follows me as I walk toward the kitchen. We’re halfway through the dining room when he stops in his tracks.

  I turn toward him. “What?”

  “You didn’t tell me that you’re moving. When will you be out? Do I need to get out too?”

  He looks a little frantic, his eyes wide and searching.

  “I’m not moving. Well, not until the divorce is final and that takes a while. Why do you think I am?”

  He waves his arm across the room. “Why? This place is almost empty, other than the moving boxes in the living room.”

  “Those aren’t moving boxes. That’s furniture my brother’s girlfriend made me buy from Ikea.”

  He rubs his forehead like he can’t compute what I’m saying. I guess it does look pretty crazy to someone wandering in here the first time with no warning.

  “But if you’re not moving, where’s the rest of your furniture?” he asks.

  “Mike took it. Most of it was his.”

  His lips tighten and his face gets red. “What do you mean, he took it? What kind of an asshole leaves you in this situation?”

  I’m taken back at how angry he is, but I’ve got to admit that I like it. It’s hot.

  “A Mike asshole,” I reply. “But in fairness, I told him to take it.”

  “And what about the stuff in the living room?”

  “What about it?”

  “When are you putting it together?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea. Frankly I’m not very inspired lately. This must be what depression feels like.”

  He gives me a concerned look, and then turns and starts walking to the door.

  “Hey, where you going?” I ask.

  “To get my tools. Ikea furniture won’t do you a damn bit of good if it stays in the box.”

  I smile. “I guess you’re right.” I could tell him that I have my own tools and can take care of assembling the furniture, but he seems so pleased with himself that I keep my mouth shut.

  He leaves the front door cracked open and returns a few minutes later with a toolbox. The sight is about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Joe is a real man and he’s going to tighten all my screws.

  My chest feels hot and I unbutton the top two buttons on my Henley T-shirt.

  After he sets down his toolbox, I hand him his coffee. He takes several long sips before handing it back. Next thing I know he’s carefully laying out various tools from hex wrenches, to screwdrivers and a mat knife. He grabs the knife and slowly cuts open the first box.

  “Shall I grab my tools and join in? I’m an Ikea master, you know, and you’ve inspired me.”

  “Sure, the more the merrier.” He looks up at me and winks.

  I grin back. “Okay.”

  When all the parts of the table are out, I get a kick out of how meticulous his approach is. While I dive in and start screwing in the legs, he carefully reads the instructions first and follows it to the letter. I’ve finished three legs by the time he gets one attached.

  I step back with my hands on my hips. “Look at that, we made a table!” I tease as we stand it upright and move it to the dining room.

  “Looking good, and in record time,” he remarks.

  I want to point out that if the assembly had been a race, I would’ve beat him by a mile, but decide I’m better keeping my mouth shut. Instead I show my appreciation.

  “I’m going to have to make you dinner now,” I say.

  “Do you cook?” he asks with a hopeful look.

  “Sort of. If you have low expectations, then my cooking should be tolerable.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re one-a-kind, Trisha.”

/>   “Hopefully in a good way.”

  “Definitely.”

  When we’ve finished screwing the squatty legs into the couch base and putting it into position, I turn to him. “Wanna take a break? How about a beer?”

  He nods.

  When I come back from the kitchen, he’s sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out wide and his head leaning against the sofa’s back. I have an image of myself straddling him, and I run my cold beer bottle along my lust-fevered forehead as I hand him his.

  “Did I wear you out?” he asks with a grin.

  “Hardly,” I huff. “All that work and this damn room still looks empty.”

  “Maybe that’s good. Frank Lloyd Wright said that ‘space is the breath of art.’”

  “That’s the architect, right?”

  “Yes. He was amazing. You know I wanted my rig to be in his organic architectural style, but we didn’t quite achieve that. There really wasn’t a practical way to achieve his low-pitched roof and casement windows.”

  “So I take it you read his biography, too?” I’m impressed to be learning all these things about Joe.

  “I did. Did you know that two of his major homes were destroyed by fire and he rebuilt them both?”

  “Wow.”

  “I had a dream once that somehow I got my rig perched over a stream. It was like the poor man’s Fallingwater.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of that house. Actually, that would be cool.”

  He nods with a smile.

  As we sit and drink our beer, I like that we’ve found a comfortable silence with each other. I notice him looking over at me.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

  “I was thinking about how when I ask you that very question you always say ‘nothing,’ and now I see that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment.

  “Thanks for helping me with this. I imagine those boxes would’ve remained unopened for who knows how long.”

  He nods. “No problem.”

  “When you and your ex broke up, what did you do with your part of the furniture and stuff? Obviously it’s not in your rig.”

  He turns the bottle in his hand a few times and I can see the tension in his jaw. I regret asking but I can’t take it back. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about—”

  “I packed a bag, walked out of that house, and never looked back.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. And I haven’t spoken to her since. The lawyers can fight over shit. None of it matters to me anymore.”

  “Is she still in your house?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  My breath hitches. I didn’t think the gentle giant had it in him to be so frigid. It makes me feel cold inside. Something really bad must have happened. My curiosity overtakes me.

  “What happened?”

  There’s a long pause that’s only broken by him finishing off his beer and setting it on the coffee table we just put together. Dragging his fingers through his hair, he clears his throat.

  “My younger brother Jason and I were always close. So when his construction company started to do big projects in L.A., he was always welcome to stay with us. He was fun to have around, and Sharon liked having him at the house when I was at the station.”

  My stomach is churning as I begin to see where this is going. “Oh no,” I whisper.

  He nods. “I stopped at the house in the middle of one of my shifts to grab something, and they were fucking in our bed. Apparently it had been going on for a while. I swear, if he wasn’t my brother I probably would’ve strangled him.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t anyway,” I growl, not hiding the fury in my voice.

  “I couldn’t have done that to my mother. Her kids are her everything.”

  I can’t help myself—I reach over, grab his hand and squeeze it, then lace my fingers through his. He doesn’t pull back but instead his grip tightens over mine.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “And your family?”

  “I’m sure my parents are completely ashamed of him, but we don’t talk about it, and I don’t go home anymore.”

  It all hits me hard. “You lost so much more than just a wife.” I scoot closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder. I don’t know if my comfort is helping him or making him uncomfortable, but I can’t not offer it. I’m so heartbroken for him.

  I get my answer when he tips his head so it’s leaning on mine. He lets out a deep breath and it’s ragged.

  “The only person I’ve told is Chief. Not even the guys at the station know the whole story.”

  “I won’t tell a soul, I promise.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I know you won’t. You’re a good woman, Trisha.”

  I blink back tears and try to keep my voice steady. “And you’re a good man.”

  After sharing more of our stories, and drinking a second beer, we finally accept that we have no motivation to continue with Ikea parts. How can I care about a bedside table when we’ve laid out the broken pieces of our hearts? No hex wrench is going to put those parts back together. Things feel heavy and dark but at least we can share the pain.

  When he gets up to leave, we give each other a long hug, me on my tiptoes, him leaning down into me. I wonder when he was last hugged like this. I’m a good hugger and I can tell he needs it.

  His fingers brush my cheek when we part. “Thanks, I needed that.”

  “I’m here whenever you need a shoulder or a hug,” I reply. I inwardly cringe at saying something so corny, but judging from his warm gaze, it was okay with him.

  When I close the door and walk through the house turning off the lights and double-checking the locks, I feel my pulse flutter.

  What’s happening to me? Is this feeling the desperate need to connect with someone who’s merely willing to listen, or is it the beginning of something more? The only thing I know for sure is that when I get into bed, I’ll be thinking about Joe and there’ll be a lot more than hugging going on in my head.

  Late afternoon the next work day, Joe and I give each other knowing glances as the truck charges down Magnolia Boulevard, the wail of the alarm amping our adrenaline. Scott, sitting just to the left of Joe, seems particularly tense. This kind of call, a child found at the bottom of the pool, is particularly tough to control our emotions over. I grip my fingers along the edge of my seat.

  This is my third child drowning call since I joined the force, and all three times I’ve felt sick inside because of the senselessness of it. Mother fucking swimming pools.

  We’re the first to arrive, hauling up to a small ranch-style home where an old man is yelling and frantically waving his arms. Neighbors with frightened expressions are gathering on the lawn of the house next door.

  Joe and I are first off the truck, running down the driveway toward the unmistakable sound of a mother screaming. My heart is thundering in my chest as my gaze scans the yard for our victim. Once I see her my brain computes: little girl, lifeless. There’s a panicked man attempting to give her CPR. We are twelve minutes from the call . . . it may be too late, or we may only have moments left to save her. Focus, shut down surge of emotion, focus, damnit, focus.

  Sinking to my knees before the little girl, I scan her head to toe. She’s in a colorful swimsuit with a ruffle around her waist and appears to be about four or five, with soggy pigtails and blue lips. The man attending to her looks up at me frantically.

  I wrap my hand around her wrist with one hand and press my fingertips against her neck with the other. I’m not sure if I’m actually feeling a faint pulse, or just want to so much that I imagine it, which makes my heart sinks.

  I look up at Joe, who’s flagging Alberto to get details from the hysterical mother, he glances down and I shake my head with a quick jerk. His jaw sharpens as he pulls the man aside and sinks down across from me to confirm her vitals. Scott is unwinding the cords for the defibrillator as I clear her airways f
or mouth to mouth. Meanwhile Joe starts the cycle of compressions to her chest.

  Alberto rushes toward us, and leans down next to Joe. “The EMT team is just pulling up now.” Everything is a mad blur around me and all I can see clearly is the little girl’s unresponsive face.

  Joe nods as he continues his counts with a steely focus. Alberto takes over keeping the mother back, while explaining what’s happening. He has a gift for getting focus from the most hysterical victims and their families.

  “Come on, come on,” I whisper before I push air into her small, cold lips.

  The next round of compressions start. “One, two, three,” Joe chants as he firmly applies pressure to her chest. “Four, five, six.”

  I hear more screaming and the sound of the gurney rattling toward us.

  “Seven, eight, nine.”

  I glance up at Joe and he seems determined, but I don’t see the confident look when we know progress is happening.

  “Come on, baby girl. Come on!”

  I hear a gurgle, and we both arc up and turn her on her side while water starts cascading out of her mouth.

  Joe checks for pulse and gives me a quick nod.

  We settle her back down and continue, with a renewed resolve that she has a chance to pull through. She’s still unconscious but there’s a pulse, there’s a pulse.

  I glance up and recognize there’s five of us around her now, working in a carefully crafted synchronicity.

  The EMT, Brian, lowers his monitor. “Sherman Oaks, stat.”

  The ground crew backs off while she’s lifted and secured on the gurney. As I watch them roll her down the driveway toward the ambulance with Joe by her side—continuing the compression—I feel the ache of knowing that we may not hear if she pulls through completely, or holds onto life in some compromised state.

  Back in the truck, Scott and I are silent. It feels wrong not having Joe with us, but he’ll return to the station after the hospital staff takes over. I’m exhausted, more emotionally than physically, and it leaves me haggard and down.

  “Think she’ll make it?” Scott asks.

  “I hope so,” I answer.