“You’ll see. Don’t worry you don’t have to talk to him.”
He presses various buttons and then looks up at me. “He’s not in the ‘M’s. Where do you have him?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh yeah, sorry I forgot that I moved him. He’s listed under Dickwad now.”
“Dickwad,” he repeats as he presses more buttons. He accepts the news like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I bite my tongue to keep from laughing.
He hands the phone to me. I listen as it rings and rings. Finally, I get his voicemail and it pisses me off. I make a fist with my free hand while I wait for the message prompt beep.
“Michael, why the hell don’t you answer your phone anymore? Are you trying to piss me off by not getting back to the lawyers? I mean what the hell? I want this divorce done, like yesterday, and you’re holding everything up. If this is some kind of fucked up strategy to take my money or something, can you just give it to me straight so I know what’s going on? Get back to me, man. I mean it.”
I thrust my index finger over the hang-up button about five times as I grip the phone hard so I don’t hurl it out the truck window. Instead I slam it into the tray on the center consol.
After I calm down enough to drive, I look over at Joe and his arms are still folded across his chest but his index finger is pressed over his lips as he stares straight ahead.
“Now what?” I challenge him.
“Oh, nothing. Shall we get a move on?”
“Do you believe now that I’m dead serious about getting this divorce finished?”
“I never doubted it,” he says quietly. “But now he knows it, too.”
As soon as we arrive, Joes goes over and shakes Dad’s hand, and then Paul’s. They look pleased that he’s joined us. Secretly, I’m also pleased.
“Glad for the help,” Dad says.
“Anything for Trisha, sir,” Joe replies with a smile.
Geez, he’s laying it on thick.
“Besides, I’d like to learn more about landscaping. I plan to own some of my own land one day, hopefully by the end of the year,” Joe says.
My ears prick at the comment. It kind of bugs me that he has plans I had no idea about. I mean, I knew him staying at my place wasn’t forever, but it sounds like he’s had a plan for a while.
“Where are you thinking?” Paul asks as he hands him a shovel.
“I have my eye on some property in the hills above Burbank.”
“Burbank is a solid investment,” Dad states as he nods. “Can’t go wrong there.”
I like Burbank but it makes me think of Michael and his floral business. His business is far from the hills but still too close for comfort. Maybe Joe doesn’t care what matters to me. Feeling a dark mood settle over me, I grab a shovel and get to work while the boys stand around gabbing.
The sun is hot and I’m glad I slathered sunscreen on every exposed inch of my pale skin. I’ve only turned the soil on one small bed, and I’m already sweating.
Every time I look over the men are working and talking like old pals. I should be glad that my family likes Joe so much but the tick about his future plans is moving up my spine.
I remain quiet when we stop for a break, eating cookies that Ma made and drinking cold bottles of water. Paul gives me a curious look; he knows something’s up but I’m not spilling.
After our break everyone focuses in with the last group of stuff to be planted and works hard to finish, while Dad double-checks the irrigation system he installed for the new design. With the first round of plantings placed, we wrap up the day, depositing empty bags of soil, mulch, and plastic tubs in the back of Dad’s pick-up.
I give everyone a semi-embrace since we’re all sweaty. “Looking good. Jeanine is going to love this. Thanks, guys. I owe you. “
Dad brushes me off like I’m being ridiculous. “You don’t owe us, Trish. We’re family.”
I smile. “And you guys are the best.”
I’m quiet in the truck on the way back and thankfully Joe doesn’t push it. When I pull up to the house and park, I ease out the truck door. “Thanks a lot for helping, Joe. It was really cool of you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad it all worked out. Her yard looks great now.”
“It does. I think I’m gonna jump in the shower.”
“You okay? You were quiet today, especially on the ride home.”
I shrug. “Just stuff on my mind. I’m okay. So see you later?”
He looks bewildered but nods as I turn and head for the front door.
I’ve got the water running and am about to step in when I hear a knock at the backdoor. Really? Shutting off the water, I wrap a towel around me so I’m covered before going to see what Joe wants.
I pull open the door to find him buck naked except for a towel cinched around his waist. He’s holding a bar of soap and has a sheepish expression.
I arch my brow, giving him a curious look.
“Some days I really hate my tiny shower.”
I’d laugh at him if I wasn’t in such an emotional mood. “It’s tiny all right.”
“I thought maybe you’d share your shower with me.”
“You did, huh?” I fold my arms over my chest, partially to keep the towel from falling down.
“I could just stand in your backyard and use your garden hose, but I’d really like a hot shower where I’m not in a sardine can right about now. I got really sweaty helping you out with all that yardwork.”
“True. I guess sharing my shower is the least I can do.”
He nods with a smile. “I brought my own soap.”
“What about shampoo?”
“Well, if you won’t share yours I’ll just use soap.”
I roll my eyes playfully and pull the door open wide. “I’ll share. Get in here you hot, sweaty man.”
He follows me into the bathroom and stands back while I get the water running again. “So what was up today, Trisha? I’ve never seen you that quiet.”
“I dunno. I’m feeling emotional. I think I’m about to get my period.”
His eyes grow wide. “Thanks for the warning.”
I pull off my towel and set it on the counter before stepping into the shower. The spray feels so damn good on my skin but I’m waiting for Joe to get in and he’s taking his own sweet time. I stick my head out. “Hey, what’s up? Aren’t you getting in?”
Chuckling, he shakes his head before joining me.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, trying to focus when all I want to do is watch the water cascade over his broad shoulders and down his washboard abs. We take turns getting under the water spray until we’re both thoroughly soaked.
“Nothing’s funny, I just love how comfortable you are in your own skin. It’s sexy.”
“Well I’m still not crazy about my thighs, but you clearly like them so I’ve made peace with them.”
“Yes, I love your thighs. Do you want me to soap them up?”
“Sure.” I hand him the fancy mango vanilla bath gel Elle gave me for Christmas. “Have at it.”
He squeezes a liberal amount in the palm of his hands and suds it up, then starts by rubbing it into my shoulders working the sore muscles from our landscaping work. When I let out a low moan he steps up behind me so my back leans against his front.
“Good?” he asks.
I nod and lean back farther into him.
His hand trails down along my midriff. Meanwhile, with his other hand he’s stroking the outer part of my thigh, and then he leans over and slowly starts kissing my neck and along my shoulder.
I shiver under his touch. “You getting sexy with me, Lieutenant Murphy?”
“I am,” he whispers before lightly biting my earlobe.
I close my eyes as his hands slowly stroke up and down my thighs and across my belly and up to my breasts.
“Does this feel good?”
I nod. “Yes,” I whisper. I’m glad he’s behind me so he can’t see that I’m starting to tear up from all the pleasur
e of his hands, and the pain of his future plans coursing through me. I bite my lip when I realize that his fingers are trailing up my inner thighs. Oh God, now he’s stroking me between my legs.
“Joe,” I moan.
He slips his slick finger inside of me, while his thumb rubs me in the most distracting way. Whoa . . . this teasing just makes me want more. I feel his erection pressed against my ass.
“Relax, baby,” he whispers in my ear as the water falls around us like warm rain. “I just want to make you feel good.”
I take a sharp breath, which becomes a sob, and he freezes, then turns me around. I feel the foam slowly slide off my skin.
“Trisha, what’s the matter?” he asks.
“You’re leaving me and moving to the hills of Burbank.”
His eyes bug out. “What are you talking about?”
“You told Dad you were looking at property in Burbank. When are you planning on leaving me?”
He pulls me tight into his arms. “Oh sweetheart, I’m not leaving you. Why would you assume that?”
“Because you said—”
“But I said by the end of the year. And you said this house would be sold as part of the divorce. When that happens do you really think I wouldn’t take you with me?”
“Really?” I ask with a frown. Why am I acting like a spazzy little girl?
“Don’t you understand how I feel about you?”
“Why don’t you tell me so I can make sure I have it straight.”
He reaches over, turns off the water, and opens the shower door. A moment later he’s gently rubbing the towel across my skin before he wraps me up like a burrito. He then does the same to himself, just rougher and faster, but the towel can’t cover his tall frame, so he wraps it around his waist.
Next thing I know I’m being led into my bedroom and being pulled into his arms and lifted onto my bed. He joins me there and pulls me tightly against him, kissing me on the forehead as I nuzzle into him.
“So you don’t want me to move away?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
He rakes his fingers through my damp hair. “Will you come with me, then?”
I start to cry again. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Shhh baby,” he says. “Don’t cry. I want you to come with me.”
I hiccup as I gasp for air. “But Betty isn’t big enough for the both of us.”
“How do you know?”
“We’d end up killing each other.”
“Aww have a little faith, sweetheart.”
“You don’t know how I get. I can be scary.”
He shrugs. “You don’t scare me, but if it makes you feel better I’ll lock the knives up at night.”
“Quit teasing me,” I grumble.
He pulls back and looks down at me with a worried expression. “I’ve never seen you like this. Do you always get this way before your period?”
I burrow my face into his shoulder. “Only when the man I love says he’s moving away from me.”
I silently gasp as I bite my tongue. Oh. My. God. I slipped and used the L word in a clingy context. I’m so screwed. Who needs knives when you can scare a man away with desperate clinging, cinched tight by misuse of the dreaded ‘L’ word?
I wedge my eyes closed tightly as we both lie still—the silence between us so big it’s loud. I remind myself that he told me he loved me during that romantic night under the stars. So maybe this faux pas won’t be too damaging.
He pushes me away far enough so he can turn me toward him. “Trisha, I love you too, and that’s why I want you to come with me. What can I say to make you believe me?”
I’m feeling like such a pussy that my cheeks heat up.
“I believe you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for being so emotional.”
“Don’t be sorry. Being vulnerable around the people closest to you is part of being strong.”
“I much prefer being the badass version of strong.”
“Believe me, you’re still badass. And you shouldn’t think twice about it. When it comes to strong women, you own your own category.”
I sniffle. “Oh I like that. You’re not just saying that?”
“Nope. I mean it.”
I tilt my face up and kiss his jaw. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing.”
“And I’ll go wherever you and Betty go, and you won’t have to lock up the knives. Okay?”
He grins and pulls me close. “Deal.”
Chapter 18: The Walking Dead
Don’t be afraid your life will end. Be afraid it will never begin. ~Grace Hansen
Two weeks later it’s a low-key evening in the firehouse. A bunch of us are in the lounge watching the latest episode of The Walking Dead. I’m not into zombies too much, but naturally Bobo is, and he won the coin flip.
We all groan when at a really suspenseful part of the show the dispatch tone goes off and starts getting louder. So much for zombies.
As we climb in the truck Jim asks, “What’s the call?”
“Reported possible suicide in North Hollywood. We’re the closest so we’ll be the first responders. Step on it Henderson.”
We’re silent on the short ride to an apartment complex on Oxnard. We pull up to a tan stucco box of a building that looks like every other apartment building on this street. It’s an usually warm night, the air thick with the scent of blooming orange blossoms.
As soon as we come to a full stop, Joe and Jim jump out of the truck and hurry to the upstairs apartment where the apartment manager is waiting for them with the door wide open. Meanwhile, Bobo and I grab the medical kit and equipment. We’re halfway up the stairs with the gear when Jim steps out the door. “McNeill,” he yells, “we can’t get a gurney in here. Hurry and grab the long spine board.”
My eyes widen, wondering what the scene is inside. But I nod and run back to the truck.
When I return and finally pass through the front door I stop in my tracks. Holy hell. Whoever lives here must be the neatest hoarder we’ve ever seen—and we’ve seen all kinds. Pristine moving boxes are stacked floor to ceiling. To add to the problem, furniture covered with moving blankets is bunched up in some weird puzzle around the boxes, leaving only a narrow path through the apartment.
“I’ve got the board!” I call out, but there’s a flurry of activity in the back so I wait for more instructions.
A minute later Jim steps into the path from what I assume is the bedroom and takes the spine board. “Is the person alive?” I ask.
He nods. “Just barely. Pills. Damn good thing we got here when we did. We just intubated him.”
When Bobo finishes using the radio to contact the hospital, I turn to him. “Who called this in?”
“Apparently the dude called his mom and was saying stuff that made her suspicious. She called the apartment manager to check on him, and then we got the call.”
I nod, feeling sorry for the poor guy. “A cry for help.”
“Sounds like it. What a sad loser. The guys almost have him ready to go but they’ll have to get him through this narrow path first.”
He lifts up a frame that’s face down and perched on the edge of a stack of boxes like it could fall into their path. He turns it around and stands it upright on a shorter stack of boxes out of harm’s way.
From where I’m standing, and the look of the black and white shapes, I assume it’s a wedding picture. Jim leans into it to look closer and then pulls back, glances over at me, and leans down to look at it again. My stomach falls when his face pales, like the blood has drained from it. He carefully turns it back face down.
“What?” I ask, pointing to the frame.
His doesn’t look at me but his eyes are bugging out. “Um, nothing, T. Rex. Just a picture.”
My gut is telling me otherwise and I march over and grab the frame before he can stop me. When I turn it around it almost slips from my fingers and my breath catches in my throat.
This picture has haunted
me before and it all computes instantly. How can I forget the damn cascade of starched curls that the perky wedding coordinator talked the hair lady into doing to me? I hated it . . . I looked like a fucking poodle standing next to Mikey looking all proud and debonair in his tux on our wedding day.
Mikey always insisted that I looked beautiful that day and kept the fancy framed portrait hanging in this office. What straight guy does that? Just another gay clue that I managed to be oblivious to and now apparently we’re paying dearly for.
I feel an imaginary blow to the gut and I almost lose my footing. My stomach lurches and I choke back the bile as my wave of guilt roars over me.
Oh my God . . . What if Mikey’s in the next room on the razor’s edge between life and death because I abandoned him when he needed me? What if we can’t save him? Or what if we got to him late enough that the liver and brain damage has set in?
Pressing the frame to my chest, I barrel toward the bedroom.
From inside the bedroom, Joe looks up with an alarmed expression and points my direction. “Stop her!” he yells at Jim who turns to block me before I can pass through the door. When I see Mikey pale and lingering in the shadow of death the picture slips out of my hands and crashes on the floor.
Joe barks at me as he rushes forward. “McNeill!”
I struggle to push past Jim who seems equally determined to keep me back.
“Let me pass!” I cry out.
Joe grabs my shoulder. “Wait outside, Trisha. You don’t want to see this.”
I shake his hand off of me. “I’ve got to, so get out of my way! He’s my husband, for God’s sake, and he needs me right now.”
Joe’s expression falls but I don’t pay attention as I push past he and Jim until I’m at the head of the bed with Mikey. I reach out and place my hand on my husband’s cold forehead, feeling almost out of my body as if I’m observing the macabre scene from above. Scott is rechecking the breathing tube as the other guys strap him on the board. I’m hearing commands somewhere in the back of my consciousness.
Tears sting my eyes. No. No. No. He can’t die.
“Mikey,” I cry out as I lean in close to his ear, “I’m here. It’s Trish. Listen to me . . . you need to hold on and fight. I’m here . . . I’m here.” I brush my arm across my face, wiping my tears away.
Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) Page 16