Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) (5 page)

In the photo our cheeks are pink and my dark brown hair windswept with wisps wrapped around my neck and fingers as I hold it off my face for the shot. We’re grinning like fools and I’ve loved that photo as a reminder of one of our happiest times.

There’s now an empty spot on my nightstand where the picture once stood. You’d think I would’ve taken it down right after I threw him out of the house, but for some reason I couldn’t do it.

But that damn dream I had a few weeks ago was my snapping point, the moment that made me hurl the framed picture in the trash. In the dream Mikey and I were walking hand-in-hand through our neighborhood, but it was that weird dream-thing in that it wasn’t actually our neighborhood, yet I seemed to think it was. The sky was strangely hazy with the thick L.A. smog of my childhood days before all the emission laws went into effect.

I remember feeling perfectly content as we strolled along until a tall man with dark hair and a leather jacket came walking toward us. He passed us without a word or gesture but a moment later Mikey let go of my hand and lengthened his stride forward. As he moved farther and farther ahead of me my world started crumbling, the sidewalk breaking apart under my feet.

I woke up with my face wet with tears. In the quiet darkness my heart was aching for what I’d lost and how much I was still missing the man Mike used to be to me. For a while I held the framed picture to my chest and cried but then when the tears stopped the anger set in, and in the trash it went.

The next afternoon Bobo caught me in the station’s dumpster digging through the garbage for the picture. My regret of tossing it had gotten the better of me.

“What are you up to, T. Rex? Disposing of a body . . . one of your victims?” he asked.

“Yeah, right,” I snapped. “Watch it or you could be next.”

Unfortunately my threat didn’t dissuade him—instead it apparently intrigued him. He walked right up to the dumpster and peered inside. “You did a good job. I don’t see the carnage.”

“I’ve got skills,” I replied with a shrug.

“What are you really looking for?” he asked.

“A framed picture I didn’t mean to throw away.”

“Huh,” he said, his gaze moving over the mess. “Is that it?”

On the other side of the dumpster from where I’d been digging around, I saw the corner of the black frame rising up out of the garbage where he was pointing. I reached over and lifted it out only to see that the glass was shattered and the picture badly scratched.

“Hey, that’s you. Is that your—”

“Yeah,” I cut him off. “It’s my ex.”

His expression fell and he looked down. “Oh. And now it’s busted. Sorry, McNeill.”

“Me too,” I responded as I held it for a moment and then dropped it back down onto the pile of crap that was no use to anyone.

I suddenly snap out of my memory and realize that the plumbing has quieted so that means that the showers must be over. Swinging my legs over the side of my bunk, I stand up and stretch, then head out my door. Hopefully someone will be in the dayroom to tell me what went down.

I find Alberto and Scott sitting at a table nursing bottles of water. Scott is hunched over, resting his head in his hands, and Alberto is leaning back with his legs stretched out wide. They look beat.

“Hey, McNeill, be glad you missed that call. What a bitch that job was,” says Alberto.

“That bad?” I ask, feeling remorse I wasn’t there to help despite the fact that I wasn’t on the call list.

Scott nods. “Abandoned warehouse in Sun Valley. Someone said it was a porn studio back in the day when the Valley was our nation’s porn capital. Now it’s just a shithole.”

“Three stations were called. At least there was no chemical crap to deal with,” Alberto says.

“Standard stuff, if it weren’t for Murphy and his damn heroic stuff.”

I frantically look around hoping to see Joe. “What do you mean? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, but no bullshit, there was a few minutes where we thought we lost him,” Alberto replies.

I feel a surge of fear. Even though they say Joe is okay, it’s as if I can feel myself at the scene and that the horror of knowing one of our men is at high risk, especially Joe.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Murphy was working a line and a homeless guy came out of nowhere and grabbed him to say that his buddy was still inside.”

“It was dangerously late, and Murphy knew it. The ceiling could’ve collapsed at any minute, and he went in anyway. That heroic stuff only works when you come out alive,” Scott grumbles.

“And he did,” I state defensively.

“He was lucky,” Alberto says, shaking his head.

“Where is he?” I ask.

“After the shower he said he needed some air. I think he’s down in the yard.”

I stand up and look out the window. Joe’s sitting facing out on the picnic table bench, still as a statue.

“I’m going to go check on him.” Grabbing a bottle of water, I thank the guys for the update.

I’m sure he sees me approach from the corner of his eyes but he remains silent and still. Sitting down on the bench a few feet from him, I offer him the bottle of water. He accepts it, unscrews the cap, and downs half without pausing.

“I heard you saved a man. You okay?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. They say you shouldn’t have gone in. It was too late and the risk, Joe—”

He holds up his hand to silence me.

He has the haunted look about him that I’ve seen in guys who took big risks on the job, challenging the Grim Reaper head on. As firefighters we can never be sure of the outcome. I think of all those firefighters who charged up the stairwells of the Twin Towers and my heart twists for the millionth time.

Challenging death changes us, and we can sense the shift in our psyche like we’ve just shed a layer of who we used to be.

I know how private a guy Joe is, but I think it would help if he could talk about it. I wait patiently to see if he will.

After what feels like a minute he clears his throat. “It sounds reckless, but I felt pretty sure I could get back out. And what was I going to do, let him suffocate on the smoke and then burn to death? He was homeless, Trisha.”

I nod. “Yeah, they told me.”

We sit silently, processing all that we aren’t saying. We occasionally have to deal with the homeless at fire scenes. Sometimes they start the fires, sometimes they just get trapped in them. Either way I’ve at times sensed an attitude like they aren’t worth the risk to save. Obviously Joe doesn’t feel that way.

“I think you were very brave. I admire what you did.”

He glances over at me. “Really? The other guys thought I was an idiot.”

“Screw the other guys,” I huff.

I watch his face as his expression reflects appreciation for a moment before slowly darkening again.

“What?” I ask with a gentle tone. I’d like him to feel like he can confide in me.

He takes a deep breath, which sets off a coughing fit. He probably got too much smoke despite the mask. I pat him hard on the back until he nods that I can stop.

“The guy’s friend, the one who told me where to find him, kept saying,
‘He’s a good man, he’s a good man,’
and that got to me. So I masked up fast knowing there may only be a few minutes left. Luckily, despite the fact that parts of the ceiling and beams were falling, there was enough of an open path in for me to find the storage room he’d been living in.”

He pulls his fingers through his hair and sighs. “I can’t even tell you the feeling I had when I found him. The first thing I see is that this guy did his best to make this place his home. Everything was neat and seemed to have an order, when his life must have been chaos.”

I blink at him, trying to imagine the scene he’s describing.

“So I get to the guy and he’s unconscious but still hanging on. He’s so thin that it’s not hard to lift and hoist him over my shoulder. But right before I rushed us out the door I had the strongest feeling hit me . . .”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“There but for the grace of God go I,”
he says with a faraway look.

I have to stifle my gasp. How could Joe possibly compare himself to this homeless man barely surviving in an abandoned warehouse?

“I’ve been knocked down hard, but at least I’m employed and I have my rig as my refuge. When I was at my lowest, my home gave me hope that things could get better. What if in a matter of minutes it was destroyed and I didn’t have the resources to rebuild? What would I do?”

“Well, you
do
have a good job,
and
friends. We would all help you get by and rebuild.”

He nods. “I’m blessed. Despite my disappointments, I can never forget how lucky I am.”

I nod. “As am I.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to check on the guy and see if I can help in some way. They took him to county.”

My heart swells. Lieutenant Joseph Murphy is a good man. I’m taken aback by his compassion. I’ve never known anyone quite like him and it only makes me want to know him more.

“Let me know if I can do anything . . . anything at all,” I say.

He looks over at me, his gaze intense and searching. “Thank you, Trisha. I will.”

I’m glad we’ve had this talk. It’s like it’s given us a foundation to our friendship . . . something that feels real.

I stand up. “You ready to come inside? Don’t forget that in the morning you get to see my homestead for your rig.”

He smiles. “Right. Another thing to be grateful for.”

He stands up and we silently head back inside.

Chapter 5:
Landing his Rig

Do not bite at the bait of pleasure, till you know there is no hook beneath it. ~Thomas Jefferson

Early the next morning I see Joe in the day room having breakfast with several of the guys and smiling as they joke around. Thank goodness he woke up in a lighter mood. Maybe our talk last night helped.

When it’s time to leave I load up my truck and fire up the ignition. I have the radio on really loud, playing the oldie station as I truck down Magnolia Blvd. from Van Nuys to Valley Village. I sing along with Tina Turner as she howls,
‘What’s love got to do with it
?’ I bob my head as I sing. Tina knows her shit—she’s been through it, too.

Joe trails me on his motorcycle and it takes everything I have to keep my eyes focused forward. What in the hell is wrong with me? When we were leaving the station and he pulled on his helmet and straddled the seat of his bike, I had a strong urge to get out of my car and ride with him. I can picture it vividly. I’d be pressed up behind him with my arms wound tight around his waist.

Of course then I immediately feel guilty to have these thoughts when just last night I was thinking about the lost picture of Mikey and I.

Hell, I’m a spinning top, a flickering of light from dark to bright, then dark again. I really need to slow down and get my head on straight.

When we get to Addison Street, I make a sharp turn into the driveway and he pulls up alongside me. I try to look away as he swings his leg over the bike and lifts off his helmet. This bad-boy, motorcycle-riding side of him is unexpected. I swear, I thought he drove a truck.
What do you bet he has tribal tattoos on his back?

It occurs to me that I’m becoming obsessed with Joe because he’s everything Mike wasn’t. And maybe that’s ridiculous or maybe it’s okay for now.

He stands tall in the driveway taking it all in. I try to imagine how the house looks to him.

“This is yours?” he asks.

“For now it is,” I answer.

He nods his head.

“Come on, let me show you what I was thinking.”

He follows me down the driveway and through the side gate.

I point to the wide patch of land bordered by fruit trees. “This is where you could park. The water and electrical lines are over there, the only thing I’m not sure about is sewage.”

“I have a composting toilet,” he responds.

I turn to watch his gaze take it all in.

“What do you think?”

He nods, seeming to be calculating something. “This could work.”

I try to sound lighter about it than I feel. “Well, it’s yours if you want it.”

We start walking back to where we parked.

“Let me talk to the chief about it.”

Surprised, I turn to him not trying to hide the confusion I’m feeling. “Why do you need to talk to him about this?”

He lifts his helmet off his bike and sorts the straps, preparing to put it on.

“Well, just to make sure it’s not inappropriate.”

“Why would it be?” I ask, not hiding the irritation in my voice.

“You know . . . like if I’m taking you up on your offer so that I can do inappropriate things with you whenever I want.”

My breath catches and I have to fight to stay composed. “But you aren’t,” I insist.

He swings his leg over his bike and pulls his helmet on, then fires up the engine. I’m frozen in place, waiting for his reply. Right before he tears out of the driveway our gazes lock together. “No I’m not,” he states. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to.”

I’ve gone to visit Elle for advice when Paul comes rambling in to where we’re sitting. I look at him and point toward the door. “You need to leave.”