by Emily Bishop
“No new leads for you. Not until you’re recovered.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I demand but he doesn’t yield. Preston can be a real asshat like that.
He lifts one furry eyebrow at me. The room reeks of cigarette smoke, and my throat constricts. I hold back a cough.
“Sure. Be here. Just stay out of trouble and you can keep your job. I don’t need a murdered reporter, Smith. That’s only good press when it happens to someone else.”
I thank him and head for the door, waving goodbye before stepping out. Preston stares back at me thoughtfully.
“Careful out there, Smith,” Preston warns. “You’ve been having some real bad luck lately.”
5
Isaac
They leave, and for a beat I think about following them to make sure she’s actually going where she should be. Something about her work friend “Gareth” doesn’t sit right with me.
Scarlett may have been through some crazy shit but she’s still a capable woman, and she knows the man as a friend, I remind myself. I have more important things to think about, like the fact that I’m likely going to have to stand up to my chief, and it’s not going to be pleasant.
Buster whines at me as I enter my apartment, his amber-colored eyes wide with need. I brush my fingers along his bony head.
“All right, boy, one minute while I get dressed.”
I rinse my hair in the sink. It slides into place, as it always does, but I still feel more unkempt than usual. I like being clean. I work a job where I sweat my ass off all day every day, so showers are an essential part of my life. I don’t have a choice this morning, though, unless I want dog piss all over my rug and my boss’s eyes to bulge entirely out of his head, perhaps rolling across the floor.
I can’t help but grin at the thought. Rory Cole is an excellent fire chief but the man’s face never dulls down from that shade of candy apple red. Or maybe that’s just when he talks to me. We don’t always see eye to eye when it comes to making saves. Buster whimpers again. I’m running out of time if I want to spare his bladder and my house.
“Let’s go,” I say, opening the door. My pup bursts out, his nails clopping against the stairs as he plummets downward, nearly crashing into the door in his anticipation.
I press it open, allowing him to do his business as I open my truck door. Together we ride through snowy streets, reaching the brown brick fire station building. All the trucks are parked in the garage, signaling a quiet morning. I’d like to say that I enjoy a quiet morning but I don’t. Silence usually means something’s wrong, but it’s not being resolved.
I’ve learned that the hard way.
I step out of my truck and Buster runs to a spacious dog bed some of the guys bought when we arrived. It was a real show of comradery, and something I appreciated. It’s impossible to work as a fireman if you don’t totally trust and respect your team. That was one step in the right direction for me, even if the only person I trust is myself.
No one else is worth relying on, really.
A whistle, and I turn to see a few of my buddies eating breakfast sandwiches and drinking coffee out of paper cups. The other newbie, Chris, leans back in his chair, eyeing me with a knowing glance.
“Boss man is back from his trip,” he says, his tone suggestive.
I know what he’s getting at. I’m not an idiot.
“I’m sure he had a great time,” I say, preparing to walk past them, not taking the bait.
“He’s asked us to inform you that he would like to see you the minute you arrive.”
“Well, I’ve missed him, too.”
“Isaac, get your ass in here,” Rory’s growl emanates from down the hallway.
I don’t give a shit what he sounds like. I have no reason to feel anything but proud of my actions the night of the warehouse fire, and I’m not afraid to stand up for what I believe to be right. I don’t bother looking back at the gaggle of gossips sitting behind me, instead strolling casually to the back office, where I find Rory sitting in a torn-up chair.
His hair is shockingly white. His skin is like tanned leather, the wrinkles deeply etched into each feature. I don’t know whether the lines on his face are from laughing or screaming. Personally, I’ve not seen much of the former.
“Sit down,” he commands.
I continue to stand in the doorway, staring at him with my arms crossed. “I’m good. I’m sure this won’t take long.”
He looks up at me then, his blue eyes watery with age or rage, likely both. “You are a cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“Name calling? Really?”
I can tell that my nonchalance is pissing him off, and a part of me is glad for it. I don’t like getting too comfortable with people, and for some reason, authority rubs me the wrong way. His voice lifts a decibel, and I can tell I’m in for a reaming.
I hope he gets it out of his system in time for me to still grab a cup of coffee before it’s gone.
“You disobeyed a direct order from your lieutenant, several times. How the fuck are you supposed to be on a team when you do whatever you want, whenever you want?”
I smile and slowly shrug. A vein protrudes from the side of Rory’s face. While his cheeks started out red, they are now a fantastic shade of tomato.
I can’t have pissed him off this badly.
“I take it you missed the part of the report where I saved a woman trapped inside?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Oh, I caught that part. That part’s great. It’s the part where you both nearly died anyway from the collapsing building above you. You knew that the state of that fire was beyond the realm of safety, yet you refused to listen to your superiors. It’s reckless, Isaac, and it’s a trend I’ve seen in you since you joined us. It may have been tolerated in New York but that shit isn’t going to fly up here.”
“Our job is made up of risks. If we don’t take them, people die.”
“You think I don’t know that? What you don’t know is that heroics can endanger an entire squad, and we don’t need your kind of behavior at this station.”
His words sound eerily like termination. Is he seriously going to fire me after I saved Scarlett’s life? Is he fucking serious right now?
I take a step into the office and lean down, leveling my eyes with his. I don’t care who this man is. I don’t care if he’s destined to become president of the fucking United States of America. No man threatens my job without reason. I’m a damn good firefighter. He has no reason.
“What are you saying, Rory?”
My voice is muted but it’s corded with steel. To his credit, the man doesn’t back down. He stares me down without hesitation, measuring me before he sits back in his chair, lacing his fingers together.
This ought to be good.
“When you came to us, we got the reports about your… history.”
He might as well have kicked me in the gut. I step back, but I don’t leave. I’m not a coward. I face my past every fucking day. Why should today be any different?
He sighs, rubbing his eyes with crinkled fingers and thumbs before he looks back up at me.
“I’m not firing you, Isaac. You know you’re a good fighter. What I am doing is placing you on sabbatical until further notice. I hope this teaches you that boundaries matter here in Somerville, and a little time off to start valuing your fucking life can be a good thing.”
My eyes narrow as I prepare to protest but he lifts his hands and continues.
“I recommend, professionally, that you find a local therapist and continue the work you started in New York. I know why you’re running into those buildings. You can’t change what happened, Isaac. You’re going to end up killing yourself.”
I’m not going to talk about it with this red-faced son of a bitch. I take another step out of the office, done.
“Is that all then? You’ll call me when you’re ready?”
Rory nods. “Your check for the week is in your box. Don’t forget to grab it.”
“Thanks,” I say, unable to keep the bitter sarcasm from my voice.
The kitchen is silent as I pass by my coworkers, all of whom have a great interest in their breakfast. I ignore them as I pass by, swiping my check from my mail slot and pocketing it.
He didn’t mention whether my sabbatical would be paid or not, and I guess I can’t care at this point. I’m pissed and disappointed and all I want to do is get the fuck out of there.
“Buster, let’s go,” I say, and my voice is stern.
Buster jumps to attention, by my side in an instant as we make our less-than-grand exit, stepping out into frigid December air. I’m too angry to drive. I reach in the back of the truck and pull out a leash for Buster, taking a walk around the block to my bank.
The least I can do in this moment is contribute to my fund for Penny. Usually, that makes me feel a little better but then I think about the fact that I have nowhere to go and a whole day in front of me, and nothing feels right.
I make my deposit before I meander into a local dive bar. When I step inside, the odor of stale cigarettes and rancid beer meets my nostrils.
Good. I deserve to spend time in such a place. After all, I’m basically unemployed at this point. Isn’t this what unemployed people do? Drink away their misery?
There is a stained bar lining the back wall, cheap liquor stacked on shelves behind the bartender. I settle onto a stool and order whiskey, straight.
“Is that going to get in the way of your calorie count?” one of the older patrons jabs at me.
“I’m sorry, did I initiate a conversation with you?”
I’m not in the mood for bullshit.
The bartender pours a cheap brand of booze into a suspiciously clouded glass and slides it over to me. I down it in one go, feeling the intense burn as the amber liquid works its way down my throat and into my empty stomach.
Calorie count, my ass. I could eat ten thousand calories in a day with my workout regime. It’s the only thing that keeps my mind off of things it shouldn’t be dwelling on.
Maybe Rory is right. Maybe I should go to therapy.
I dismiss the thought, pushing the dirty glass away from me and pulling a few bills from my pocket as I prepare to leave the bar. It was a bad idea, getting a drink first thing in the morning, and now my stomach feels as sour as my brain.
Sabbatical. Fucking sabbatical. Might as well be a death sentence.
At least Scarlett’s work chair has her ass in it, instead of on some slab at the morgue. Because of my “recklessness.” Sure, you could call my dick plunging into her trembling little pussy reckless, and that would be accurate, but everything before that was damn heroic.
Buster doesn’t leave my side, and I’m glad I chose the kind of place no one would question bringing a live animal. I pat his head and we exit back out onto the street, once more left with endless amounts of time.
Rory has taken the one thing that keeps me sane, and I am faced with the terrible concept of silence. The last thing I need is time to fucking think.
I won’t feel bitter about it, though. If I had to, I would make the same decision over and over again with no regrets. I will never regret saving a life.
I can only regret the ones that I failed to save.
I plunge ahead, distracting myself by my surroundings, and end up spending the rest of the day wandering around Somerville and Cambridge with Buster. I pull the cold air into my lungs, feeling it burn the warmth there before releasing it in a puff of steam, walking aimlessly on and on, going nowhere.
What a shit storm this turned out to be.
As the sun taps against skyscrapers, I lead Buster back to my truck, panting and ready for a good night’s sleep. Whether I’m talking about the dog or myself, I don’t even know at this point. I don’t know anything. My truck’s engine purrs, the cabin familiar and comforting as I drive us back home.
There’s a parking lot across the street from the building for overflow, and, seeing the curb packed with cars, I pull into a spot facing my building. I turn off the ignition and sit in deafening silence.
The world is dark around me, even with street lights. I’ve managed to keep my thoughts on my surroundings all day, enveloped by the bustling city as I walked. Now, alone in my car, Buster dozing in the backseat, all I can think about is my sabbatical. My job is my life, and it’s obvious Rory is almost aching to fire me.
My hands grip the steering wheel, and I stare at the bones of my knuckles as they press into my skin. I am lost in a town I barely know.
Fuck my life.
I glance up at my apartment building, not sure if I can even call it home. Nothing ever feels like home, really. Warm lights pour from the windows of the floors above and below mine.
Above me, a woman moves from one window to the next with a duster, a baby settled comfortably on her hip. Below me, the lights are on but it takes a moment for Scarlett to come into view, dancing into my line of sight.
She moves around inside. She wipes down her kitchen table with elegant sweeps, cleaning like a ballerina, her cherry curls perpetually in her face. She’s managed to actually put the entire place back to rights. I’m impressed, given the condition it was in this morning.
She sets her rag down and moves out of sight. The light in another window pops on. The drapes are drawn but they gap apart, and I watch as her fingers go to the buttons on her work blouse.
I shift and lick my lips, subconsciously praying she forgets the blinds. Forget the drapes. Just get on your jammies, my feisty vixen.
She flicks each button open, silk falling away to reveal plump breasts encased in white lace. She reaches around to her plush rear and unzips her skirt. My mouth floods with literal saliva, like I need to fucking devour something right now, as the bombshell shimmies out of her jeans. She’s wearing a white lace thong, and my dick pulses knowingly against my jeans.
Meanwhile, Scarlett tugs her wild red curls back into a light-blue headband. I wish I had binoculars, so I could see that sprinkle of freckles on her nose.
She reaches back and unfastens her bra. Okay, fuck the binoculars. I shift in my seat as those juicy, swaying tits swing into view. I skin my teeth over my lower lip. How bad would be if I got caught masturbating in the fucking car?
Maybe I should go up there and see if she needs help. With anything. Right now.
Scarlett pulls a white t-shirt and blue pajama bottoms over her curves. I scowl and my dick throbs sadly.
I don’t mean to, because it’s the last thing I need. But as I watch Scarlett move into the living room, I admire how she bargained with that nurse to get her freedom from the hospital. She fought through the pain she had to be in, pretending to be fine, walking out on her own two feet, stubborn and willful and beautiful. But then, when we were alone… she had the strength to be weak. She had the perfect instinct to give herself over to me and let me heal her.
She picks up a bowl of popcorn and a remote control and crosses to another window, where she plops down on the living room couch, covering herself with a blanket. She turns on the television. Is she a Game of Thrones girl? Friends? I want to know her.
Ha, maybe that Gareth ass has plans to drop in later unannounced for a midnight carpool.
Thinking about that “friend” of hers has my wheels turning. I know something isn’t right about the guy. It was obvious he wasn’t thrilled with my presence either, though that isn’t an uncommon occurrence for me. I have a tendency to rub people the wrong way. There was something more to it this time, though.
The man was acting weird. Like he was seeing a ghost. And why was he at her apartment, ready to pick her up for some “carpool” when she’d been in the hospital for days before? She works at a newspaper. They had to have known where she was. The man looked like he was about to cry at the sight of her, all the while shocked at seeing her in the first place.
I get that Scarlett wanted to cling to anything familiar but I know that there’s something off with the guy. My instincts are ex
ceptional. Even Buster barked down the stairwell at him, and my dog only barks at the wrong kind of people. Gareth has to know something that he’s not letting on but what is it? And how can I get that information without hurting Scarlett?
I see sudden movement in Scarlett’s apartment. Her face changes from relaxed to terrified, and she charges at the television. Popcorn flies everywhere. I can’t tell if she’s hitting it or pulling it or what but my need to protect goes into full gear, and I’m out of the car in an instant.
“Buster, let’s go!”
My dog is out of the car before I slam the door shut, bolting across the street. He’s right by my side, and I know if there’s an attack I can sic my dog on someone… if I don’t tackle them first. I throw open the front door to the building, turning to Scarlett’s door. When I try the knob, it’s locked.
“Scarlett! It’s Isaac. Open the door!”
She’s sobbing inside, and I pound on the wood, not caring if my entire fist is filled with splinters. I will break the fucking thing down if I have to.
“Scarlett, if you don’t open this door, I am going to break it down.”
It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. I will help her, no matter the cost. Her sobs get closer, and several bolts clack back. She throws the door open, her eyes wide with terror, tears streaming down her face.
I place my hands on her arms, searching her face as I try to figure out what’s wrong. I scan the room but see no one there. There is no immediate threat. I look back down at her but she’s not looking at me. Her eyes are frantically scanning the apartment, as though she’s looking for something, too.
“What is it?” I demand, gripping her arms a little harder. I realize what I’m doing and lay off, releasing my grip a little while not entirely letting go.
Finally, Scarlett chokes out a word. “Look.”
She gazes at the television, and my eyes follow the path she has indicated. There, on her massive flat screen TV, is an image of her apartment from the inside.
My blood runs cold.
