by Sarah Monzon
My head pounded, but I struggled to pay attention to her rant. She was trying to make me feel better, bless her heart. Dutifully, I surveyed my humble dwellings. The kitchen and living room shared the same space without even enough room for a proper dining area. A row of cabinets and outdated olive-green appliances lined one wall of the kitchen, and the sofa and coffee table comprised the living room. A bedroom barely large enough to fit a full-size bed and dresser, and a small bathroom with just enough room to turn around in finished the place off. Lisa was right. It did look more like a shack than a home, but it served its purpose. It gave me a roof over my head, and, really, wasn’t that what a house was for anyway?
But, like she said, the house was tiny. Fit for one person. Me. Alone. By myself. Maybe that was the way it was supposed to be. My nose started to burn, but I clamped my jaw tight.
I would not cry. Not again. Not over James. Not over any man.
2
Luke
THE SOUND OF country fried potatoes sizzling in a skillet on the stove battled with the hum of the refrigerator as I stuck my head inside. Now where was it? My face split into a grin as I snagged the cool bottle. This was going to be great. I glanced up at the clock hanging above the sink and quickened my step. Not much time left before the two shifts converged and the feeding frenzy started. Six bubbling pancakes cooked on the electric griddle sitting on the dark granite countertop. Stacks of perfectly round flapjacks were keeping warm in the oven. I twisted the lid on the bottle, my nose instantly tickling from the pungent heat. Just a couple of drops would do. I put the cap back on and shoved the bottle toward the back of the fridge. The spatula twirled in my hand. Slide, lift, flip.
Bang!
Baxtor. Our newest rookie—a bit on the scrawny side and in need of some discipline, but overall a good kid. Needed a new car though. His ancient Pinto was in dire need of a new muffler. It coughed and sputtered more than a chain smoker. I glanced at the golden-brown circles on the griddle. Maybe the kid needed more than a new car. Like some welcome-to-the-team pancakes. I mean, we couldn’t let him feel unwelcomed.
The recruit entered, making exaggerated sniffing sounds and rubbing his hands together. “Something sure smells go-od.”
“Get it while it’s hot.” I slid the pancakes onto a plate and handed him the bottle of syrup.
His eyes went wide. “Wow, six?”
I pinched his shoulder. “You need to muscle up.” I nodded to the potatoes and scrambled eggs still in skillets on the stove. “Don’t forget those.”
Heavy footfalls sounded behind me, and two more guys came in through the door. I spooned eggs onto my plate and grabbed a couple of pancakes before sliding onto the bench seat beside the long roughhewn table. Out of the corner of my eye I looked at Baxtor’s plate. Still piled high with pancakes. Dan and Pete dropped onto the bench, and I passed them the ketchup and syrup.
A hand slapped the table, and five heads swiveled. Red-faced and bug-eyed, Baxtor’s hand covered his mouth while his jaw still worked. He swallowed, eyes glistening. “Water,” he croaked.
Laughter erupted around the table, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. Baxtor received hard smacks on the back. Chuckling, I stood and grabbed a cup from the cabinet and the milk from the fridge. Milk would cut the heat better than water.
“Hot sauce in the pancakes, Luke? Classic. Better than the ashes Dan put in my brownies when I first started,” Pete said as I poured the milk.
I walked back to the table.
Baxtor snatched the cup from my hand and gulped it down, white rivulets streaming from the corners of his mouth.
“Welcome to Station Five.” I cuffed his shoulder.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His forehead glistened as he turned toward me, his wide smile showing crooked teeth. He’d do. It was a hard job, but he’d do.
Dishes started to pile in the sink as everyone finished breakfast. Gathering my gear, I followed the crew into the apparatus bay. Instead of staying for roll call and assignment duty, I continued out of the fire station and into my Jeep to head home.
My eyelids grew heavy as I drove along Highway 31. Every blink felt like sandpaper rubbing against my sockets. I pressed the heel of my palm to one of my eyes. Visine would help, but then again, so would a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
My body would never fully adjust to having its sleep interrupted. And no matter the reason for the call, as soon as the tones dropped, adrenaline punched my veins. Every time. Great for getting me up in a flash, but when it was all over, it left me drained.
I arrived at the complex and trudged up three flights of stairs to the place I called home sweet home. I fished my keys out of my pants pocket and then unlocked the door. Dumping my gear just inside the entrance, I stumbled the fifteen feet to my bed and collapsed. Moments like this made me glad I lived in a studio apartment rather than a large house.
It might be a guy thing, a firefighter thing, or something simply unique to me, but I literally fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Some people needed to watch TV or read a book to unwind after a shift, but that’d never been the case with me.
Six hours of sleep and a hot shower later, I felt human again. Good thing. I was going to need all the strength I had to get through the next hour if I couldn’t avoid Marty’s mom.
The image of Joseph in front of Potiphar’s wife played out before me whenever I stood in the same room as Colleen Stabler. I could run into a burning building without a second thought, but being in close proximity to that woman made me more nervous than…well…honestly, I didn’t know what to compare it to. Let’s just say it was as if I was in the Savannah and a hungry lioness was crouched down behind tall grass ready to pounce on some unsuspecting prey. And I was the prey.
It wasn’t that she was unattractive. In fact, the exact opposite was true—and she flaunted it. But I wasn’t looking for what Ms. Stabler was offering. Unfortunately the offering was getting more forceful every time I saw her.
Thankfully Marty was outside shooting hoops when I pulled up to his house.
“Hey, squirt,” I said as I shut the Jeep’s door. Marty seemed to be alone, and I let out a sigh of relief that his mom wasn’t in sight.
“Hi, Mr. Luke.”
I signaled the gangly eleven-year-old to pass the ball, and dribbled it a few times against the concrete driveway. The ball soared out of my hands for a nothing-but-net three-point shot.
“Nice one.” Marty grinned as he rebounded the ball. I caught him around the neck in the crook of my elbow and rasped my knuckles back and forth on his head. Ah, the classic noogie.
“Hey! What’s that for?” He protested while rubbing the top of his head when I released him. He tried to look offended, but the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.
I grinned and braced myself. Three…two…one.
Sure enough, the pipsqueak launched himself at me, and we tumbled to the ground. Squeals of delight and half-hearted protests burst from Marty, interrupting the quietude of the suburban cul-de-sac.
“All right, go get your homework.” At least some of his pent-up energy had been spent. “We’ll work out here today.”
He trotted into the house, and the screen door slapped shut behind him. Moments later he reappeared toting his backpack. He plopped down cross-legged beside me and took out a thick textbook with an abacus on the cover. Opening it to the right page, he handed it to me.
“Mean, median, mode, and range,” I read aloud.
Marty chewed his bottom lip and pulled at the grass by his feet.
Boy, did I have my work cut out for me. I searched my brain for a way to explain the challenging math concepts so a sixth grader could understand.
The ball under the hoop snagged my attention. Brilliant.
I pushed the textbook aside and stretched out on the lawn, resting my weight on the palms of my hands behind me and crossing my legs in front of me. “So who won your basketball game last night?”
At the unexpected
question, Marty’s head snapped to attention. The glazed-over look in his eyes faded away, replaced by an enthusiastic grin. “Mr. Luke, it was such a great game. We won forty-three to twenty-seven, and I scored eight points!”
“Way to go, squirt.” We high-fived.
I nodded toward the notebook on the other side of Marty. When the boy handed me a piece of paper, I jotted down the number eight.
“Who else scored?” I asked, pencil poised to write down the numbers.
His face scrunched in concentration. “Matt had a couple of good lay-ups and some free throws so I guess he scored six of the points. Billy made two lay-ups. Pedro had an awesome three pointer. You should have seen it. No one thought it was going to make it in.”
Marty continued to give me a play-by-play of the game, and I wrote down the points scored by each player.
“Okay, Marty, you know how all the NBA players have different stats, right? I bet you could even tell me what Kobe Bryant’s average points per game are.”
He gave me a knowing smile.
“Well, statistics like those are figured out using things like mean, medium, mode, and range.”
I glanced at Marty.
His face scrunched up. Still didn’t get it.
I took the paper and placed it in front of him. “If we take all the numbers and add them up, then divide that number by how many numbers there are on this list, we get the mean. To find the median, take this list of numbers and then write them in order from smallest to greatest. The median is the middle number. The mode is the number repeated the most, and to find the range you subtract the smallest number from the largest. Get it?”
His mouth formed a silent O as he snatched the paper out of my hand and grabbed his textbook. Stretching out on his stomach, he spent the next fifteen minutes figuring out the problems in his book that were assigned for homework.
A feminine voice cut the relaxed air. “Oh, Luke, can I have a word with you for a minute?”
Turning, I lifted my hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun’s glare. I cringed.
Marty’s mom stood in the doorway dressed a little too scantily for even the warmth of late August. Her miniskirt showed the smooth length of her legs, and the deep V-neck cut to her blouse revealed the soft curves of full cleavage. She must’ve had Marty at a young age, because she didn’t look old enough to have an eleven-year-old son.
Do I have to? “Sure thing, Ms. Stabler.”
Her eyes narrowed in dissatisfaction. She insisted I call her Colleen. I insisted on calling her Ms. Stabler. I wanted as much of a professional line between us as I could build. More than a line, really. The Great Wall of China would be better. As I walked up to the house, the lyrics of “Maneater” ran through my head.
“Now, Luke,” she purred as I stepped through the door, “I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for my Marty.”
“It’s my pleasure ma’am. He’s a good boy. Bright, too.” Maybe if I stood right by the door, I could make a quick escape should this conversation take a turn for the worse.
Slender fingers, tipped with hot-pink nails, curled around my forearm and directed me farther into the house. If the talons of an eagle had seen a manicurist, there would probably be a resemblance.
The woman indicated a chair in the living room.
Great. My mother’s voice echoed in my head. “Be polite, Luke.” Did Mom ever have this scenario in mind? My shoulders drooped, but I sat anyway. The moment my backside hit the cushion of the teal wingback chair, the walls closed in and drew the man-eater closer as the space shrunk.
She stalked toward me, her hips swaying dramatically like the models on a catwalk. Her head tipped down and to the side, and she looked at me through long dark lashes. Placing one polished finger on my shoulder, she pivoted until she stood behind me. Every muscle in my body tensed as she cupped my shoulders and then gently stroked my biceps.
An involuntary shiver swept up my spine. And not the good kind. My knuckles were starting to turn white from the grip I had on the armrest.
“Ms. Stabler—”
She leaned down behind me. Peppermint filled my nostrils as her warm breath caressed my ear.
“Colleen,” she breathed as her hands slid around my shoulders and down to my chest.
Whoa. That was enough. I shot out of the chair faster than water out of a fire hose. Mama might have taught me manners, but she also taught me not to get burned, and this woman was pure fire.
Her eyes flashed. I knew I’d insulted her, but what could I do? If I thought I’d done something wrong, I would’ve apologized. Shoot, if I thought it would make any difference at all, I would’ve apologized, whether I was at fault or not. But it was her problem. She kept crossing the line. I groaned. I guess it was my problem too. The only reason I’d stayed with the job was because of Marty. The kid didn’t have a father figure in his life, and I thought I could make a difference for him. Not to mention, he was finally starting to catch on with his school work.
I’d made it clear in the past where I stood with this woman, but it looked like I needed to say it again.
“Ms. Stabler,” I ground out. My voice was firm, but she needed to know I was serious. “I am here for Marty and only for Marty. Got it?”
Her bottom lip pushed out in a well-formed pout. She took a step toward me, the lioness stalking her prey. I stepped back. This woman needed to keep her distance, and if she wouldn’t, then I would.
“If not,” I continued, “then you can find another tutor for your son.”
She crossed her arms, and a scowl contorted her face. Her pouty lips closed to form a tight, thin line, and her once-fluid body became stiff and rigid. A storm was brewing, and I was about to bear the brunt of it.
“How dare you,” she seethed, her voice growing louder with each word. “How dare you talk to me that way. How dare you give me an ultimatum. Get. Out. Now. Get out of my house this minute. And don’t you dare come near Marty again, you hear me?”
She continued her tirade as I exited the house. Marty was staring at me, his lips pulled down, and his chin trembling.
“So I guess I won’t be seeing you anymore, huh?”
“Guess not, squirt.” I squatted down so I could be eye level with him. Ripping off a piece of his paper, I took his pencil and jotted down my phone number. “If you ever need anything, call me, okay?”
“Okay.”
I tousled his hair before turning and then hopping into my truck. A crank of the ignition fired the engine, and I drove away. Don’t look back. I was really going to miss that kid. I prayed God would send another man who could make a difference in Marty’s life. Kids, boys especially, needed male role models in their lives. Dads preferably, but I understood that couldn’t always be the case.
Anger boiled in my veins for the way things had turned out. I needed to blow off some steam before I exploded. Flicking on my blinker, I turned down Bartlett Avenue and headed to the Bunker.
After I parked in the front of the old red brick warehouse-turned-boxing gym, I grabbed my green gym bag from behind the passenger’s seat and went inside. The smell of stale air and sweat greeted me as soon as I opened the door. The tense muscles in my shoulders eased. Safer in the ring than in that house.
I snagged a pair of hand wraps from my bag and wound them around my wrists and knuckles. Typically, I used boxing gloves on the punching bag, but today the wraps would do. The look of disappointment on Marty’s face ate at me, and if my hands ended up stinging a little, then that was punishment I deserved.
Walking over to one of the available bags, I bent my knees and clenched my fists in front of my face in a boxing stance. Pivoting on my front foot and throwing all my weight behind my punch, I jabbed at the bag.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
A few hooks and uppercuts added variety to the routine. Salty sweat beaded on my forehead and ran down my face, stinging my eyes. Not taking the time to wipe it away, I continued to strike at the stuffed leather cylinder.
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“Hey, hey, hey—what is up my friends?”
Rolling my eyes, I glanced over my shoulder. Yep. Angelo Moretti with his long slicked-back black hair and signature wifebeater shirt. I thought he wore them because he didn’t want to hide the twin tattoos on his deltoids. He thought they gave him street cred, or some such nonsense. Not that he needed any in the Midwest, except for perhaps Chicago. Maybe someone needed to give him a map, because Niles, Michigan, wasn’t Chicago.
I swung my arm wide in a cross and connected with the bag with more force than before. My knuckles throbbed from the impact. Instead of shaking it off, I went into double-time jabs.
The scent of garlic permeated the air. My nose wrinkled, whether from the acrid scent or the man it came from, I couldn’t tell. With the amount of hair gel Angelo used he should reek of it, but even those chemicals were no match for Mrs. Moretti’s famous bruschetta. And from the smell of Angelo, he’d enjoyed a bit too much of his mama’s cooking.
“Masterson.” He smacked his gum as he came up beside me, thumbs hooked in belt loops on a pair of pants a few sizes too big. “How about you and me go a few rounds in the ring?”
“No thanks, Angelo.”
“C’mon.” He winked and nudged me with his elbow. “I’ll go easy on you.”
I stopped punching and grabbed the bag so it would stop swinging. I gave him what I hoped was a withering glare before turning my back and walking to a bench, unwinding my wraps as I went.
“What? Afraid I’d whip you, pretty boy?” He taunted as if I were a child. Although this was Angelo, and I guess he figured if such tactics would work on him, they might on me as well.
“Drop it,” I snapped.
“What’s up with you today, man?” He faked a one-two at my arm. “Some skirt turn you down or somethin’?”
I glared, but he continued heedlessly.
“What’d she do? Throw a beer in your face when you tried to smack her—”
“Enough!”
“What?” He shrugged. “Happened to me once.”
“Well, that’s not what happened to me. In fact, it was the other way around.”
