All She Wanted (2) (8 page)

Briggs

This new eight-to-five workweek was very
odd.

Since becoming Charlie’s manny over two
weeks ago, this was the schedule we had worked out. Chief had made it clear to
me (several times) before he left, that
she
was the priority. There was no reason to make her pull night shifts, so I was
simply taken out of the normal rotation so that Charlie could get her office
tasks done during the day. It was quite an adjustment from my usual twenty-four
on, forty-eight off.

Honestly, I much preferred my old
schedule to this one.

It had been said that life as a fireman
could be compared with marriage—we ate, slept, worked, cleaned, played and
lived at the station together. When Chief Max hired me, I couldn’t fully grasp that
idea, until I experienced it for myself. Acting as one, working as one,
fighting as one for a common purpose had changed the way I saw the world.

We were a family.

Family
.

Working for Chief had completely
redefined that word for me.

Angie and I had grown up in a family
that was nothing short of dysfunctional. It was no wonder why she had chosen
Dirk straight out of high school. She had been looking for the same sort of
escape I had been—only mine had come in the form of fighting, drinking, and
women.

Angie was fifteen months older than me,
but I would forever see her as my little sister—no matter what our birth order
said. I had always felt responsible to protect her, maybe because no one else had.
Our parents were a tangle of co-dependence and self-destruction. They never saw
past their own needs or wants. They never
saw
us.

Our home had not been one of violence,
but neglect left scars that violence couldn’t reach. There was no stability, no
consistency, no refuge inside it—we were merely a pit stop in their search for
greener grass.

They never did find it.

My mom was a master manipulator,
holding an invisible power over us all. She was the kind of crazy that stayed under
the radar, too well kept to be noticed, too unhinged to be healthy. My dad was a
passive man, letting his work have the best of his time and attention,
meanwhile letting his family drown in the chaos.

Their fights would last for hours, some
for days. Their verbal battle of insults was enough to drive even the most
lucid person toward the brink of insanity.

I was sixteen when they divorced.

Though I’d spent years craving
peace—the way one craved water in a desert—it was my endless hours of training that
had filled the deep void inside me. But that irony only served as a reminder to
my own dysfunction, which in turn caused me to push harder and train more.

Fighting quickly became my whole existence.

When I moved Angie to Dallas, I started
at the station soon after, working as a volunteer. I was desperate to find work
that could support my sister and soon-to-be nephew, outside of my winnings on
the weekends. Though I had saved every penny that I could, the day I was hired
into a permanent position was a huge sigh of relief. Kai had been the one to
convince Chief to hire me, ultimately securing my loyalty and respect.

Kai never sought praise or affirmation;
he was humble, kind, and
good
—likely
the best man I would ever know.

I loved him like a brother.

He had been there for me during the
darkest time of my life—the night I almost lost my sister.

When Tori crashed into his life
unexpectedly, I was none-too-pleased. I was leery of her—suspicious. Kai wasn’t
weak, but he trusted people to a degree I couldn’t understand. I felt it my place
to reveal her blind spots to him—to clue him in on the tragic mess that love
really was…only that wasn’t what happened.
 

Instead, I watched them battle through
hardship, hurt, and heartache. I watched them fight for each other—loving each
other with an intensity that I couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard I tried to.

 
And
what I had seen, what I had witnessed, had slowly and painfully peeled back the
calloused layers of my heart.

The life I had chosen had always
felt
right, until it didn’t anymore. Until
no amount of drinking, fighting, or sex could
fix
me, or the destruction I had caused.

I had never loved any of the warm
bodies that had filled my bed. I didn’t know their likes, or their dreams, and
I certainly never knew their laughs. Women had only been a means to meet a need,
one that only pacified itself for so long before the emptiness found its way
back in.

When it finally caught up to me: the past
I couldn’t escape, the shame I couldn’t hide, the truth I had to accept, I was
done living for the empty.

**********

I’d been sitting in my truck for nearly
ten minutes waiting for her to come out. I kept thinking that any second I would
see her open the front door with her
greek
yogurt in hand, but the only thing I saw was the minutes ticking by.

Did she
feel awkward about what happened between us last night?

Is she
avoiding me?

I drummed my fingers on the steering
wheel. That moment had felt…intense, but I couldn’t even begin to analyze
Charlie. Who knew what she thought? I sure didn’t.

I watched the clock for another five
minutes after shooting her a text.

No response.

Do I go
in?

Do I
leave her and go without her?

Why are
women so dang complicated?

I turned off the engine, and knocked on
the front door. When there wasn’t an answer, I started to get a little bit freaked—or
a lot bit freaked. I snatched the key from my glove box that Chief had given me,
and walked inside a second later.

Why do I
feel like I am in a constant state of
deja
vu with
this girl? What is this—my third time breaking and entering since I met her?

Just as I opened my mouth to call her
name, I stopped short. There she was—asleep in her flannel pjs, on the couch.

Why is
she sleeping on the couch?

I wasn’t sure what to do at first; this
was a new conundrum for me. Finally, I did the only thing I could; I left,
shutting the door behind me quietly.

 
And
then I rang the doorbell.

Several times.

In a row.

To the beat of
Jingle Bells
.

Charlie

Something hideous was clanging inside
my brain.

My eyes snapped open as I covered my
ears in a panic, trying to understand what was happening.

Jingle
Bells?

I stumbled off the couch toward the
door, seeing a familiar silhouette beyond the fogged-glass. There was only one
person I knew who could match that level of annoying. I marched to the door and
jerked it open.

“Oh hello, Shortcake! Welcome to the
land of the living.”

“Did you get dropped on your head as a
kid? Or does
this
,” I pointed to the
doorbell, “just come natural to you?”

“Someone needs her coffee today,” he
mumbled, pushing past me to walk inside.

“Oh—well, please come on in.” Though my
voice was no better than a croak, I hoped it still held the necessary dramatic
inflations.

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” He looked
at the couch and then back at me, “Why were you sleeping down here?”

“Wow, nosy
and
annoying...your list of qualities just keeps growing by the
minute.”

He grinned as if I had just
complimented him, “Aw, stop…you’ll make me blush.”

Rolling my eyes, I decided to let that
one go as I saw what time it was. “Can you give me twenty minutes, or should I
just drive myself?”

“I’ll wait,” he said simply, walking
into the kitchen.

**********

Though my sleep had been short, my hot
shower had revived me.

It felt a little odd knowing that Briggs
was downstairs waiting—but strangely comforting at the same time.

Last night had been…
what had it been?

For a moment I had been nearly certain
that he was going to kiss me, but instead he practically ran from me.

Had I
wanted him to kiss me?
I flushed.

No, I didn’t
want
to kiss Briggs.

What I
wanted
was for my life to feel normal again. I
wanted
the pain to stop haunting me. I
wanted
to erase Alex Monroe from my life—forever.

Yet, oddly enough, I didn’t notice the pain
when I was with Briggs. He, himself,
was
a pain, but that was entirely different. I rolled my eyes as I thought again
about his
Jingle Bells
debut.

As I got dressed, I smelled a whiff of
something… scrumptious. My mouth watered instantly as my stomach growled in
anticipation. Was Briggs…
cooking
? I put
on some lip-gloss and zipped up my black boots over my leggings before heading
downstairs.

As I hit the last step, I saw the
source of that delightful aroma.

There, on the breakfast bar, were two plates.
Each held a steaming omelet—one had a
greek
yogurt sitting next to it.
 

He made
me breakfast?

His back was to me as he poured a glass
of orange juice. A buzz of anticipation filled my whole being—and it had
nothing to do with my growling, hungry stomach.

Briggs

I
felt
her.

I could feel her warmth in the room
before I even turned around, and as it turns out, it was a good thing I had
waited to face her. The orange juice in my hand would not have made it to the
counter if I had seen her a second earlier.

Oh, heck
no.

No. No.
No.

She can’t
be serious.

I took a deep breath. I knew if I commented
on her outfit
before
breakfast, these
omelets would have ended up cold and uneaten. That much I had learned about
Charlie. My normal aggressive approach to life didn’t work so well on her.

“Good morning, Shortcake.”

“Well, who
knew!
You’ve been holding out on me—a chef, huh?” she asked, tilting her head as she
smiled.

My stomach dropped. I looked away,
clearing my throat.

“Well, not exactly. I just do
breakfast.” I pulled out her chair, seeing the surprise in her eyes, as if the
gesture was foreign to her.

Geesh…who
was this punk she had dated?

No, I didn’t
want
to know the answer to that.

She thanked me quietly.

I watched her take the first bite. It
was a far cry from watching the guys
eat
my omelets,
that was for sure. Theirs were gone in roughly five large hand-to-mouth
motions, but that wasn’t the case with Charlie. She ate like the food had
feelings, like it was labeled
fragile
.

Something ached inside my chest as I
pulled my eyes away again, hoping to clear my head.

“So, got plans this weekend?” I asked
her, smiling.

She looked at me, “Is that a trick
question?”

I laughed—hard. She was figuring me out.

I looked at her then, calculating my
next words. I needed to address her attire. I had to. It was now or never, and
there was no way I was letting her go to a fire station full of men, dressed
like that. As she put her fork down, even though a good twenty percent of her
meal lay uneaten on her plate, I knew it was time.

“So, those are sure some nice boots ya
got there.”

She looked down. “Uh, thanks,” she
said, standing up to take our plates to the sink.

“Don’t you think though…that maybe they
would look better with pants?”

She spun around.

Here it
comes-

“What do you mean? These
are
pants,” she shot back, defensively.

“Okay…I suppose
your
definition of pants might be a tad different than mine,” I
held out my hands, as if taming a hungry lion, “Let me explain.
I
think pants should be thicker than a
tissue, they should also serve to protect the skin from the elements, as well
as from the eyes of peeping men,” I said.

Her mouth hung open.

I was right
to make her eat first.

“Oh, so what…you think I dress like a-”

“I’m not saying that Charlie, but I do
think there are plenty of…more appropriate outfits you could wear to a fire
station—other than a nylon.”

Okay…probably
could have left that last part out.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Sorry,
but I’m pretty sure your job description didn’t include wardrobe Nazi, Briggs.”

I swallowed hard.

She was right. I had no authority to tell
her to change, however, I knew the Chief would have been none-too-happy to see
his daughter parading through the station in a piece of black saran-wrap and hooker
boots. Okay—maybe it wasn’t quite that
bad, but still.

My mind raced ahead, searching for a
compromise. The one I landed on may have been a bit of stretch, but I knew she
would take the bait.

“I’ll tell you what, if you would be so
kind as to put on a pair of pants—
my
definition
of course, then I’ll take you to a party tomorrow evening,” I said carefully.

She eyed me suspiciously, placing a
hand on her hip.

“What kind of party?”

“It’s an annual celebration of sorts.
It’s a bit of a drive, but I’ve been going for years. You’ll have fun, I
promise. Plus, it will get you out of this house.” I raised my eyebrows at her,
waiting.

She was considering it—considering me.

“Will there be dancing at this
party
?”

Does the
hokey-pokey count?

Yeah, it
does.

“
Yep.” I nodded, “There will be dancing.”

“Fine, but don’t think this means you
have any control in what I wear in the future,” she said, stomping back up the
stairs.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Shortcake,” I laughed.
 

Or at
least, I would try not to.