Burn (L.A. Untamed #2)

by Ruth Clampett

  “There’s a lot of mundane tasks in all of our lives, but what about the other times, like when we had fun?”

  “When was that?”

  “Like when we’d go to Greenblatt’s deli and have pastrami sandwiches and then see the acts at the Comedy Store on Sunset. That was great.”

  “We haven’t done that in at least two years, Mike. You were always working at the shop.”

  “Well, how about we go next weekend?”

  “You aren’t getting what I’m saying.”

  He lets out a long sigh. “I get it. Believe me, I do. What makes you think I’m not dead inside, too? Especially now that you kicked me out. I think we won’t really feel alive again until we get back together and work things out.”

  He was always so fucking stubborn. He always has to get his way.

  He clears his throat. “I know! Let’s go to Italy. You’ve always wanted to go there.”

  Really? He’s the one that wants to go to Italy. My head suddenly feels hot and I’m fired up. Am I transforming like the Hulk or something? Because I’m pretty sure T. Rex is in the building.

  “Will Stanley be joining us in Italy?” I ask between gritted teeth.

  “No Stanley won’t be joining us,” he says with a gruff voice. “You aren’t going to make this easy, are you Patricia?”

  “Why should I? You don’t deserve easy. I think my disdain for you is well deserved. On top of it, you knew I was dead in our marriage and you didn’t even mention it.”

  “Mention it?” he says, his voice an octave higher.

  “Yeah, fuck you for not mentioning that I was dying a slow death right before your eyes. But oh yeah, I forgot you were never home enough to notice.”

  “Says the firefighter who spent over half her life living with a bunch of hot men who wear suspenders with no shirts and slide down poles.”

  What the hell with the suspenders with no shirts?

  My fingers grip the phone so tight my fingertips turn white. He must have a secret stash of those sexy firemen calendars. What do you bet he gets off looking at them?

  “Says the cheater who’d gladly trade spots with his wife to be around all the hot men.”

  “Oh Jesus, would you just stop? For God’s sake. I bet you’d be happy if I were dead. Not this bullshit pretend-dead, but really dead. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m not playing into your emotional blackmail. Screw you, Michael Irving Castallani the third. Screw you and the Sasquatch you screw!”

  I poke my finger at my phone’s screen to end the call when I desperately want the satisfaction of slamming the receiver of an old-school phone down so the sound is like a gunshot in his ears.

  Stupid fucking smart phones.

  I spend the next hour storming through the house ranting and throwing things until I have nothing left in me. I head to the bedroom, strip naked—too drained to care about my pj’s—and crawl into bed. Why I start crying like a baby when my head hits the pillow, who the hell knows? I guess it’s just one more sign that, like it or not, I’m finally alive.

  I’m trying my best to focus the next day, and I’m doing pretty good through the morning’s equipment check, and gym time. But we’re filing into the training room when Joe steps up close behind me, and leans in to whisper in my ear, “I need to talk to you. Meet me in the office after.”

  I don’t turn around, just silently nod as I try to maintain my composure. But damn, his breath on my neck and the whiff of his aftershave have sparked a throb between my legs and I squeeze my knees together tightly. Suddenly I’m feeling extra alive.

  Needless to say, the training session on disabling hybrid cars in an emergency becomes a hopeless cause due to Joe distracting me. It’s all blah, blah, blah . . . propulsion system . . . blah blah blah . . . live ignition recognition.

  Considering how many hybrids we have in L.A. with all these do-gooder ‘anything to help the environment’ folks, I really should learn how to extricate one of these kale munchers out of their toy cars in the case of a pile-up.

  Sorry environment, but give me a beefy pick-up truck any day, so when one of those do-gooders rear-ends me while texting on the 101, it’ll be their car folding up like an accordion while their battery explodes, and I’ll have a few scratches on my bumper.

  I look over at Joe and he’s taking notes and asking pertinent questions. It pisses me off. I’m squirming in my seat imaging sitting on his lap and kissing him, and he hasn’t glanced my way once. I remind myself it’s likely that all I am to him is a piece of land he can park on until he’s ready for greener pastures.

  Yes indeed, I’m a piece of land . . . and a drought parched, barren one at that.

  When I let out a long, sorry sigh, Scott looks over at me and gives me a stern look. I narrow my eyes at him until he turns back around.

  I practice a pretend conversation with Joe in my head a few times so that by the time I follow him into the office, I’m as cool and contained as an unskinned cucumber.

  “What’s up?” I ask, plopping down into the chair facing him.

  “Chief gave me the A-okay,” he says.

  “A-okay for what exactly?” I reply with an arched brow.

  “To park at your place until I can find something else.”

  “And he’s not worried about us being inappropriate?”

  He shrugs. “It never even came up. He must not be worried about it.”

  My eyebrows furrow together. “Should I be offended?”

  “Why would you be?” he asks with a confused expression.

  “That I’m not appealing enough for someone to be inappropriate with?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re over thinking this. Damn it must be exhausting to be you.”

  “You have no idea,” I grumble.

  “So you’re still okay with this?”

  I nod. “Sure.”

  He lets out a deep breath. “Good. We’re both off tomorrow, can I land my rig late morning?”

  Land my rig?

  It takes everything I have to keep my voice light. “Sure thing. I’ll be around if you need anything.”

  “Thanks.” He gives me a big smile like he’s genuinely happy, and I realize it’s the first time in a long time, maybe ever, that I’ve seen him smile like that.

  I did that. I made him smile like the sun had just broken through the clouds, and not to be a softie or anything, but I feel pretty awesome about it.

  Chapter 6: The Muffin Lady

  She looked as if she had been poured into her clothes and had forgotten to say ‘when’. ~ P.G. Wodenhouse

  Late the next morning, I’ve settled back into my home routine after two days at the station. I’m rolling the full trashcans out to the street when Joe and his tiny house come slowly roaring down my street. My heart starts thumping wildly. This is really going to happen. All of a sudden my life feels wild and out of control, and I like it.

  I’ve already opened the wide gate on the right side of the property when he pulls up in his truck with his house, and motorcycle hitched to the back. His tiny house is a grand sight, all wood and rustic looking, and as soon as he notices me I wave widely.

  He rolls down his window.

  “Hey! You ready for me?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply. “I’ve got the gate open. Do you want me to help direct you in?”

  Maneuvering rigs is a particular skill of mine, and it’s frequently put to good use at the station when the guys have to back the truck into the apparatus bay.

  He points at me, and we signal each other as his home slowly slides alongside mine.

  I give him a thumbs-up when the position looks good to me. “You want to get out and make sure it’s how you want it?” I ask.

  He nods, throws the door open and jumps down before surveying where his rig is positioned. He rubs his chin as he walks front to back, finally turning to me. “Looks good.”

  I stand awkwardly in the yard while he shuts everything down and starts to prepare for t
he water and electrical hook-ups.

  “Can I help with anything?” I ask.

  “No, I’m good, thanks,” he responds.

  “I’ll be in the house then. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  “Will do,” he says.

  I’ve probably spied on him through my kitchen window over a dozen times and it’s not even lunchtime yet. I’m going to have to get a grip, but those long legs clad in worn jeans, work boots, and his bright white T-shirt are like a shining beacon in my otherwise dull day.

  I’m digging up the flowerbed in the front yard to prepare for a new planting, when he rolls his bike out to the driveway.

  “Where you off to?” I call out.

  He slings a bag over his shoulder so that it crosses over his chest. “I’m going to go check on Bernie, the homeless guy from the fire. Then on the way home I’ll go to the gym,” he calls out.

  I give him a nod before he pulls on his helmet and takes off. I watch his bike turn the corner and keep staring even after he’s out of sight. I really better get a grip. It’s day one and I’m already coming undone.

  Joe hasn’t been gone that long when my doorbell rings. I peer through the peephole and when I confirm it’s not a mass murderer or a cookie-pushing Girl Scout, I open the door. Standing before me is a full-figured woman in one of those wrap dresses wrapped just a little too tight. Her face is pretty enough but she should really tone down the tomato red lipstick. It’s just a few steps short of clownish.

  She gestures toward Joe’s rig. “Do you happen to know if Joe’s around? I knocked on the door but he didn’t answer.”

  “He’s at the gym.”

  She sighs. “That’s Joe all right. No wonder he has such a great body. Will you tell him Nicole dropped by?”

  I lean on the door jam and size her up. She looks like she wants to butter his biscuit and I don’t like it. Not one bit.

  I shrug like I couldn’t care less. “Sure thing.”

  “Is this your place?” she asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Well it’s really nice you’re letting him stay here.”

  “Happy to do it,” I respond with a big fake smile. Can she fucking move on and get out of my face?

  “I baked him some muffins. Will you do me a favor and give them to him for me? They’re his favorite.”

  As she hands them to me I picture pitching them in the trash as soon as she’s waddling her fat ass back down my driveway. I probably won’t, but the idea of it makes me happy.

  I also realize that I’m done with our Joe bonding session. I point inside. “I’ve got something to take care of.”

  “Oh sure!” she says brightly. “Nice to meet you . . .” She waits for me to say my name.

  “Tricia, but the boys at the station call me T. Rex.” I give her a teeth-baring smile that’s more of a snarl, and get exactly the reaction I hoped for. She backs away from the door with a startled expression and gives a quick wave, before speed-walking down to the street where she’s parked her compact car complete with flower decals on the door panels.

  “Don’t hurry back,” I whisper as I firmly shut my front door and lock it.

  It’s late evening before I return home. Once I made up my mind to get out of the house and away from my kitchen window, I ran every errand I could think of. After that I visited Patrick and the folks, and even stopped by Elle and Paul’s for dinner.

  I’m disappointed when I look through my kitchen window and see that the tiny house is dark. Joe must have gone out. I fold my arms over my chest. How nice for him that he has a night-life.

  I busy myself by cleaning up the kitchen and taking out the trash. I’m only a few steps into the backyard when a voice startles me.

  “Where are my muffins?”

  My mouth drops open as I scan the yard. “Joe! Where are you?” I yell.

  “Up here!”

  I look up and see that he’s sitting on his roof. It appears like he’s attached railings around the rig’s edges to create an outdoor deck, or a landing pad for a really tiny helicopter.

  What the ever-loving hell? Dude is yelling about muffins from the top of his tiny house? He’s looking smug and sitting in one of those folding beach chairs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Is this a side of Joe I’ve never seen? It occurs to me that I’m glad I didn’t follow through with my compulsion to throw the muffins out.

  I put my hands on my hips. “You want the muffins now? Should I throw them up there?”

  “No just climb the ladder and bring them up. You’re a firefighter, you can handle a ladder with a basket of muffins.”

  “So demanding!” I huff before marching inside. After pulling on my hoodie, I grab the muffins and march back outside.

  He gestures toward where the ladder is attached to the backside of the rig. “Grab a chair while you’re at it.”

  “Anything else? A pitcher of margaritas? My iPad so we can stream a movie? A lap blanket?”

  “Alright, alright . . . you made your point. Shut up and get up here.”

  I take several steps back and wind up my arm before hurling a muffin at him. My softball years pay off when I nail him right in the back of his head.

  “Was that a muffin?” he yells.

  “Yup. Tell me to shut up again, and you’ll have another chance to see how good my pitching arm is.”

  “Hey, I meant it affectionately. My mom tells my dad to shut up all the time.”

  “That’s friggin’ weird, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He falls silent and I take the ladder slow and steady, since I’m hauling his crap. When I get to the top he reaches over and takes the chair from me, unfolds it, and sets it down across from his chair. I plop the basket of muffins down as I step onto the roof.

  It’s fascinating to see not just my house and yard, but the entire neighborhood from this viewpoint. “This is cool,” I remark since he seems to be watching me intently for my reaction. “Do you sit up here a lot?”

  “Almost every night that I’m home.

  “And what do you do when you’re up here.”

  “Look at the stars and think.”

  “What do you think about?”

  “Everything. Nothing.”

  “Ah, so you’re a deep kind of guy.”

  He huffs, and then reaches into what looks like a backpack. “Want a beer?”

  That explains why he’s been acting differently. This must be Joe with a beer buzz. “Sure,” I answer before I settle into the second lawn-chair.

  He hands me the beer and when I crack it open I notice a book lying next to his backpack. “What’s that?”

  “A book I’m reading. I like to read up here until there isn’t enough light.”

  “That’s cool. So what are you reading?”

  He lifts up the book and shows me the cover. “I like biographies. This one is about Thomas Jefferson.”

  I grin. “Wow . . . old school!”

  He shrugs. “He was fascinating. Did you know that he invented the swivel chair?”

  “Really?” I try to picture the old guy with knickers and a ponytail turning circles in his new contraption, the swivel chair.

  “Yeah. Somehow he fit that in between writing the Declaration of Independence and running the country.”

  “A multi-tasker, apparently,” I say.

  “And he spoke six languages.”

  “Show off.”

  “No, it came in handy for his skillful handling of international relations.”

  “I barely remember much Spanish even though I took three years in high school.”

  “He was passionate about so many things. I think what I like best about him is his belief in personal rights.”

  “Very cool, I’m with Thomas on that. Maybe you’ll let me read it when you’re done.”

  “Sure.”

  He gazes off in the distance. “So where were you this afternoon?” he asks.

  “Ah, you know . . . errands and stuff. Also I went
to see my family.”

  “They live nearby?”

  I nod. “Sometimes it’s too close. Plus, we all have dinner together every Thursday. But they’re good people.”

  He doesn’t say anything but stays focused on the view.

  “Where’s your family?” I ask.

  “Eugene, Oregon.” He reaches down into basket, pulls out a muffin and takes a healthy bite.

  I guess we’re done talking about his family.

  “So Nicole, the muffin lady . . . is she your girlfriend?”

  “No, why?”

  “I don’t know. She just acted like she wanted to butter your biscuit.”

  He chuckles into his beer. “Yeah, there’s a bit of that.”

  “So does she butter your biscuit?”

  He arches his eyebrows. “We used to get together once in a while.”

  “I thought so,” I say with a frown.

  “You’re pretty forward, you know.”

  “It’s part of my charm.” I sigh inwardly.

  It’s crazy but I’m feeling kind-of heartbroken, without having any right to feel that way. I should be heartbroken over my husband betraying me, not over a co-worker who I didn’t really start becoming friendly with until a week or so ago.

  Joe had overnight become my fantasy gentle giant, intriguing because he was such a mystery. Now knowing that he has nailed the muffin lady takes the intrigue away. Is that fair? No. But life isn’t fair, so why should I be?

  He clears his throat. “For the record, she hasn’t buttered my biscuit for a long time . . . not since college, actually.”

  I fight back a smile. I like that he wants me to be clear on his status. Maybe this woman isn’t anyone to worry about after all.

  He holds the basket up toward me. “Want a muffin?”

  “How about a bite of yours?” He grins and hands me his half-eaten muffin. His eyes grow wide as I take a huge bite and then hand him back the remnants.

  Take that, muffin lady.

  I’m three beers in when I ask him to show me the inside of his tiny house.

  “Please,” I beg when he gives a deadpan look at my request.