“I don’t even trust my instincts anymore. Do you know that I’ve only slept with two guys, and the experiences with both of them were messed up?”
“Paul told me about your college boyfriend, Sam. He said he turned out to be an asshole.”
I nod. “He did. But Paul only knows the half of it. Sam was abusive.”
Elle’s expression falls. “Oh, Trisha, I had no idea.”
“He was a real hot-head and so am I, so we used to argue a lot. As time went on, when we’d fight, if it got heated enough, he’d shove me against a wall, or pin me down. He even hit me a few times.”
“Asshole,” Elle snaps with gritted teeth.
“Oh believe me, I hit him back but that only made things worse. It was crazy. Three times I broke up with him, and he promised he’d change. It was my first real relationship, and I thought maybe I was doing something wrong . . . I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with. So I’d give him another chance.”
“Paul said that he also left you when you thought you were pregnant. Is that right?”
“Yes, and the asshole asked me to take him back after he found out I wasn’t pregnant after all, but I’d finally come to my senses and was completely done.”
“Good for you,” Elle says.
“But then one night he showed up on my doorstep to pick up something he’d left at my place. I was an idiot to let him in. He’d been drinking and he kept trying to pick a fight and I refused to take the bait. So then he . . .” Pausing, I fold my arms over my chest and look down.
“Oh no,” Elle whispers.
I nod and when the memory hits me I close my eyes for a moment to regain my focus. “He didn’t just hit me that time. . . .”
“He raped you?” Elle says. Even though I’m not looking at her I can hear the rage in her voice.
“He did. And I didn’t think that could happen with someone you had once loved. It wrecked me. It took me a long time to get back on my feet.”
“Of course.”
“At the end of that year I met Mike and he ended up being my savior—he made me feel protected. It was healing for me at first after what Sam did to me, but then after a while having a passive sex partner, who wanted me to take the lead in the bedroom, got old. It was so confusing to me. Truth be told, I’d like a man to be a man. Is that too much to ask?”
Elle leans forward with a determined look. “No it’s not too much to ask. You deserve that kind of passion.”
“So you can see that in my only two relationships, sex was a failure. How can I help but think it’s me? What if it never gets better? Maybe I just bring out the worst in men.”
“That’s not it, Trisha. It’s about finding the right person. For most of my first marriage, the sex with my ex-husband wasn’t good at all. So it makes me appreciate what Paul and I have all the more.”
“I guess, but how will I meet the right guy? I’ve been told that I’m attractive, but I’ve never dated much. I think I scare a lot of guys. And frankly if they can’t handle a strong woman, what would I want with them?”
“You need a real man, Trish. You’ve gotten through two wrong relationships and now you know what you need. So what I want is for you to start believing you deserve it. Okay?”
I study Elle and it hits me that she genuinely wants what’s best for me. And although she and I are pretty different, she’s become the sister I never had.
I give her a confident nod. “I promise I’ll try.”
The next morning at breakfast, I let Paul and Elle know I’m feeling more grounded and I’m ready to move back home.
“Are you sure?” Paul asks, trying to hide the relief he must be feeling. Watching his sister crying into her soup every night is probably getting old.
“I can stay there with you tonight, if it’d help,” Elle offers.
I shake my head. “That’s really nice of you, Elle, but I’ve got to face it and move on. I already told Mike to take his crap out of the house, so being there is going to feel different anyway, and that’s probably good.”
Paul scratches the back of his neck. “Wasn’t all that fancy furniture and stuff Mike’s?”
I nod. “And good riddance to it. I never liked his stuff. I don’t really need much furniture. Just a bed, and maybe a table and chair.”
Elle glances over at Paul alarmed.
She puts her hands on her hips. “I’m coming by after my morning meeting. Will you be there?”
“Yeah, I’m not scheduled back at the station until Thursday.”
The minute I walk into the house, I realize that Mike took my direction to get his stuff out of the house, and apparently he ran with it. I know I threatened to drag all his stuff out to the driveway for a deeply discounted yard sale, but this is ridiculous.
Asshole. Maybe he was afraid I’d cut holes in everything.
The place is cleaned out. The living room is empty other than a side table, desk chair without the desk, and a small landscape painting on the far wall that belonged to my namesake, Nanna Pat.
The fragmented room is so ridiculous looking that I laugh out loud.
The rest of the house isn’t much better. The dining room is empty and all that’s left in the bedroom is the new firm mattress I bought last year when I couldn’t take his old soft one any more. I peek in the closet to see if he altered my clothes but everything appears untouched and sad. Seeing his side of the closet and his bathroom drawers empty stings.
For some reason that’s what makes me feel more empty than anything. I used to smell his aftershave if I got home while he was still at work, and it made me long for him. Now there’s no aftershave, and no Mikey. I realize that I long for the man I thought Mike was, not the disappointment he turned out to be.
Sinking down on the corner of the mattress in the bedroom, I cry fat tears so full of anger and loss that they feel heavy on my cheeks.
“Mikey,” I whisper in between my heaving and gasps for breath, folded over like a broken toy.
I’m finally starting to get tired of listening to myself sob when I hear Elle calling out for me.
I hear her footsteps pause in the living room. “What the hell!” she howls.
Next thing I know she storms into the bedroom and gasps when her gaze scans the room, finally landing on my sorry face.
She gestures to the empty walls and then points to the living room. “Are you fucking serious? Where’s the bastard? I’m going to kill him.”
“Go ahead,” I mutter.
“What was he thinking?” she yells, and then steps back with an alarmed expression. She continues on with a much softer tone. “Sorry, I’m just so pissed off! He’s left you nothing.”
“I told him to take it. I don’t want his stuff, Elle. I never liked it anyway. It was a big deal to him, so I let him do what he wanted in the house.”
She stares at me like I’m an alien, or that I’ve got horns growing out of my head. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Judging from her place, she really likes home design. Folding her arms over her chest, she regards the room like she’s making a list in her head.
“Besides, I’m glad it’s gone. I needed it to be gone.”
“Okay, but I’m taking you shopping tomorrow,” she says with such command, that I’m hesitant to disagree with her.
“It’s really not necessary—”
She juts her hand out like a traffic cop. “This isn’t up for debate. We’ll start at Restoration Hardware, their new home store is very chic.”
I shake my head.
“Pottery Barn?” she asks, with a hopeful look.
“Ikea,” I reply, sitting up straighter. “And only if we can have lunch there. I love those Swedish meatballs.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, but we’ll have to take your truck since they don’t deliver.”
I nod. “Deal.”
Chapter 3: The Gentle Giant
The most courageous act is still to think for yourself . . . Aloud. ~Coco Chanel
I’m at the
station with the guys trying to wind down from our last call. We thought it was a straight-forward kitchen fire, but it ended up something much messier. When our truck pulled up a couple was screaming at each other and the woman was holding a frying pan like a weapon.
Fires or accidents caused by domestic disputes are my least favorite response. We can put out a fire but we can’t fix what’s broken inside. No one ever wins in a domestic dispute.
I’m drained from the call but for some reason, our dramatic evening creates fodder for this group of goofballs.
“I was kind of hoping she’d nail that dude with the frying plan,” Scott says.
Bradley, also known as Bobo, shakes his head. “Someone needed to gag that woman. She didn’t shut up the whole time we were there.”
“Really? Gag her? Shut your trap, Bobo,” I snap.
He turns to me with narrow eyes. “Screw you, T. Rex.”
Glaring at him, I stand up and step away from the table. The guys think I hate my nickname, and as a result they’ll never stop using it. What they don’t know is that I think T. Rex is a lot more badass than Trisha, and badass is my middle name.
“Where you going?” Bobo asks.
“The bathroom. Got a problem with that?” I stalk out the door before he can reply.
“I’m halfway down the hall when I hear Joe’s deep voice, and I stop in my tracks and edge back toward the door. Our work schedules are rarely in sync, so I’m not around him that much. I’m curious what he’s going to say.
“Why don’t you lay off her, man,” he says.
“T. Rex?” Bobo asks.
“Her name’s Trisha.”
My breath hitches. I never thought Joe paid much attention to me. Why is he defending me?
“Yeah, give her a break, Bobo. Her marriage just fell apart,” Scott states.
“Is it true that she walked in on him with a dude?” Jim asks.
I hear several groans, and my head drops with the sting of humiliation. I press my back into the wall I’m leaning against.
“That’s some fucked-up shit,” Bobo mutters.
“So give her a break.” Joe’s commanding tone gives me comfort. From what I’ve heard, no one ever challenges him. There’s something about him that demands respect, and not just because he’s lieutenant.
“Yeah, sure, Joe. Whatever.”
Taking a deep breath, I continue down the hall. The rest of the night I keep thinking about Joe defending me.
I’m keeping to myself the next day when Joe calls me into the office. I follow behind him into the room feeling not just nervous, but small in every way. The man is well over six feet and standing next to him makes me feel like a miniature person.
Once I’m seated, he shuts the door so quietly I don’t even hear the latch catch. He’s a gentle giant and I can’t help but study his every gesture. It’s a relief to be focused on anything other than the endless empty ache inside of me.
“How tall are you anyway?” I ask as he slowly lowers himself into the desk chair.
He runs his thumb around his angular jaw. “Six-five. Why?”
I shrug. “Just wondering.”
His gaze scans over me like he’s sizing me up. “How tall are you?”
“Five seven. Not like I’m short or anything.”
One of his eyebrows arcs up. “No, nothing small about you, Trisha.”
“Thanks . . . I guess.” I give him a weak smile as I twist my hands together. “So what’s up? Am I in trouble or something?”
He slowly drags his large fingertips across the surface of the desk. “No, you’re not in trouble. It’s just Chief and I were talking and wondering if you could use some time off.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Because?”
He looks me straight in the eyes, with unwavering focus. “Because as I understand it you’ve just been through rough stuff at home, and—”
I cut him off. “Rough stuff?”
He clears his throat and his gaze makes me squirm.
“Why are you talking to me about this and not Chief?” I ask.
“Because he knows that I’ve been through something . . . well, let’s just say that I can relate to what you’re going through.”
“Oh,” I say quietly.
I study my surroundings in more detail while I wait for him to speak again. There’s a faint smell of lemon furniture polish. The vibe in the office is type-A all the way—every paper, manual, and pencil in its place.
The silence is making me twitchy so I speak up. “Am I not doing my job? Am I causing problems around here?”
“You’re doing your job fine. As for problems, no more than usual.” He smiles, and it’s such a small smile for a big man that I can’t help but smile back.
“I know, I know. My parents always told me I was a handful.”
His smile gets a little bigger. “Well, I think you’re all right.”
“Thanks.”
“So what do you think? Do you want some time off?”
“No way. Actually, can I get more hours? It’s really lonely at home, and it helps being here, having stuff to do. I helped wash the trucks this morning and it wasn’t even my turn.”
“Okay then. I’ll tell the Chief you want to be put on double duty.”
“Hey, can I retract that offer? On second thought I don’t think I could take that much of Bobo.”
He presses his lips together. “Me neither.”
And then he winks at me, and even though it’s not a flirty wink, but more of a ‘I get you’ wink, I feel a flutter inside. For despite the fact that I feel like a complete loser, like the biggest failure in the marital world, this giant of a man is being kind to me. He’s showing me care when I probably don’t deserve it.
I want to drink all the attention in until I’m drunk with it. He better stop with this stuff or I’ll have the most epic crush in history on him that will destroy me when it undoubtedly goes unrequited. He already sports my favorite look in a man: strong, masculine features, dark blue eyes, thick black hair, and a built, solid body.
I sigh inwardly. I’m not exactly a man magnet, and there’s not a single reason to think that Joe Murphy, the giant, would be any different. Before I get up to leave I stare at his hands as he spreads his fingers over the desktop. It’s like watching porn, those strong, rough fingers spreading apart and closing. Holy hell. If rebounding is a religion, I’m ready to be baptized in the church of Joe, just to have those big manly hands on me.
That Thursday I start dreading our weekly family dinner from the minute my eyes open in the morning. Although we’ve talked on the phone since my marriage’s untimely demise, I’ve managed to avoid our Thursday nights. Now it’s time to suck it up and finally face my parents.
Depending on the nutso L.A. traffic, there are several routes I take to their place, and tonight I feel like the slow, scenic route. I start out on Moorpark heading east so I can pass the Saint Charles church. I’d always liked the look of the architecture and Paul told me that it was built almost a hundred years ago in this cool Spanish Colonial style. That surprised me since I’d always figured it was built for a film set or something and then just left there. Either way now it’s our little bit of Europe in North friggin’ Hollywood.
In the early part of the twentieth century this area was mainly orange groves, so I bet this church has seen a lot of crazy as the L.A. metropolis sprung up around it.
Next I cut through Toluca Lake, driving right past Bob Hope’s former estate. I saw an overhead shot of the property once and holy hell, for an entertainer who became famous in the forties, that guy had some serious bank. I wonder if he paid to have the Burbank airport named after him? Whenever I pass his estate I wave and call out, “Thanks for the memories, Bob!” and then chuckle to myself.
Toluca Lake ends where the Warner Bros. Studio Lot begins, so I turn right there and head up the hill toward the Lake Hollywood turn. My favorite part of the drive is slowly driving the winding road around the tree-lined r
eservoir that’s pretending to be a lake nestled in the hills. You feel like you’re at a manufactured mountain retreat but it’s only minutes from crazy town also known as Hollyweird.
Back up the hill from the lake, I dodge the groups of amped-up tourists taking pictures on the plateau facing the Hollywood Sign like they’ve reached fanboy Mecca. From there I wind down into freaky-deak, bohemian Beachwood Canyon before turning onto shit-show Franklin near my folks.
By the time I pull in front of their house I’m glad I pushed myself to come. Elle suggested that she and Paul could pick me up on their way over, but I passed on the offer. I just needed to pull on my big girl panties and get on with it.
“Hey,” I call out once I’m in the front door.
Ma comes rushing down the hallway, twisting a dishtowel in her hands. “My baby,” she wails while extending her hands in a wide sweep. She grabs me and holds on so tight that I feel smothered.
I slowly unpeel from her embrace. “It’s okay. I’m okay, Ma.”
She places a hand on each of my shoulders and pushes me back far enough for her gaze to run from the top of my head to my toes. “You don’t look okay,” she says with pursed lips. Her Irish brogue is thick tonight.
“Gee thanks.” I roll my eyes.
Her soft hand cups my cheek. “I can see, my girl, you’re broken.” She taps her fingers on my chest. “You’re broken in here.”
I resent my instant tears, and I blink them back furiously as I nod. “Yeah, I guess I am. I loved him, Ma.”
She smooths my hair down like she did when I was a child and it comforts me. “Yes, of course you did, sweet girl. You married him and loved him with your whole heart, and you know what that makes you?”
“An idiot?” I ask, trying to push the picture of Mike bent over the worktable, out of my head.
She shakes her head furiously. “No! It makes you brave, Trisha. You’re not like all those shallow girls who are putting on a show—out there just looking for someone to spoil them. You are true-blue. No games, just you, the rough edges and all.”
Rough? All I can picture is sandpaper and more rough edges than anyone has time to smooth down.
Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) Page 2
