Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) (10 page)

When all the parts of the table are out, I get a kick out of how meticulous his approach is. While I dive in and start screwing in the legs, he carefully reads the instructions first and follows it to the letter. I’ve finished three legs by the time he gets one attached.

I step back with my hands on my hips. “Look at that, we made a table!” I tease as we stand it upright and move it to the dining room.

“Looking good, and in record time,” he remarks.

I want to point out that if the assembly had been a race, I would’ve beat him by a mile, but decide I’m better keeping my mouth shut. Instead I show my appreciation.

“I’m going to have to make you dinner now,” I say.

“Do you cook?” he asks with a hopeful look.

“Sort of. If you have low expectations, then my cooking should be tolerable.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re one-a-kind, Trisha.”

“Hopefully in a good way.”

“Definitely.”

When we’ve finished screwing the squatty legs into the couch base and putting it into position, I turn to him. “Wanna take a break? How about a beer?”

He nods.

When I come back from the kitchen, he’s sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out wide and his head leaning against the sofa’s back. I have an image of myself straddling him, and I run my cold beer bottle along my lust-fevered forehead as I hand him his.

“Did I wear you out?” he asks with a grin.

“Hardly,” I huff. “All that work and this damn room still looks empty.”

“Maybe that’s good. Frank Lloyd Wright said that ‘space is the breath of art.’”

“That’s the architect, right?”

“Yes. He was amazing. You know I wanted my rig to be in his organic architectural style, but we didn’t quite achieve that. There really wasn’t a practical way to achieve his low-pitched roof and casement windows.”

“So I take it you read his biography, too?” I’m impressed to be learning all these things about Joe.

“I did. Did you know that two of his major homes were destroyed by fire and he rebuilt them both?”

“Wow.”

“I had a dream once that somehow I got my rig perched over a stream. It was like the poor man’s Fallingwater.”

“I’ve seen pictures of that house. Actually, that would be cool.”

He nods with a smile.

As we sit and drink our beer, I like that we’ve found a comfortable silence with each other. I notice him looking over at me.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“I was thinking about how when I ask you that very question you always say ‘nothing,’ and now I see that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t comment.

“Thanks for helping me with this. I imagine those boxes would’ve remained unopened for who knows how long.”

He nods. “No problem.”

“When you and your ex broke up, what did you do with your part of the furniture and stuff? Obviously it’s not in your rig.”

He turns the bottle in his hand a few times and I can see the tension in his jaw. I regret asking but I can’t take it back. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about—”

“I packed a bag, walked out of that house, and never looked back.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. And I haven’t spoken to her since. The lawyers can fight over shit. None of it matters to me anymore.”

“Is she still in your house?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

My breath hitches. I didn’t think the gentle giant had it in him to be so frigid. It makes me feel cold inside. Something really bad must have happened. My curiosity overtakes me.

“What happened?”

There’s a long pause that’s only broken by him finishing off his beer and setting it on the coffee table we just put together. Dragging his fingers through his hair, he clears his throat.

“My younger brother Jason and I were always close. So when his construction company started to do big projects in L.A., he was always welcome to stay with us. He was fun to have around, and Sharon liked having him at the house when I was at the station.”

My stomach is churning as I begin to see where this is going. “Oh no,” I whisper.

He nods. “I stopped at the house in the middle of one of my shifts to grab something, and they were fucking in our bed. Apparently it had been going on for a while. I swear, if he wasn’t my brother I probably would’ve strangled him.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t anyway,” I growl, not hiding the fury in my voice.

“I couldn’t have done that to my mother. Her kids are her everything.”

I can’t help myself—I reach over, grab his hand and squeeze it, then lace my fingers through his. He doesn’t pull back but instead his grip tightens over mine.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “And your family?”

“I’m sure my parents are completely ashamed of him, but we don’t talk about it, and I don’t go home anymore.”

It all hits me hard. “You lost so much more than just a wife.” I scoot closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder. I don’t know if my comfort is helping him or making him uncomfortable, but I can’t not offer it. I’m so heartbroken for him.

I get my answer when he tips his head so it’s leaning on mine. He lets out a deep breath and it’s ragged.

“The only person I’ve told is Chief. Not even the guys at the station know the whole story.”

“I won’t tell a soul, I promise.”

He squeezes my hand. “I know you won’t. You’re a good woman, Trisha.”

I blink back tears and try to keep my voice steady. “And you’re a good man.”

After sharing more of our stories, and drinking a second beer, we finally accept that we have no motivation to continue with Ikea parts. How can I care about a bedside table when we’ve laid out the broken pieces of our hearts? No hex wrench is going to put those parts back together. Things feel heavy and dark but at least we can share the pain.

When he gets up to leave, we give each other a long hug, me on my tiptoes, him leaning down into me. I wonder when he was last hugged like this. I’m a good hugger and I can tell he needs it.

His fingers brush my cheek when we part. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“I’m here whenever you need a shoulder or a hug,” I reply. I inwardly cringe at saying something so corny, but judging from his warm gaze, it was okay with him.

When I close the door and walk through the house turning off the lights and double-checking the locks, I feel my pulse flutter.

What’s happening to me? Is this feeling the desperate need to connect with someone who’s merely willing to listen, or is it the beginning of something more? The only thing I know for sure is that when I get into bed, I’ll be thinking about Joe and there’ll be a lot more than hugging going on in my head.

Late afternoon the next work day, Joe and I give each other knowing glances as the truck charges down Magnolia Boulevard, the wail of the alarm amping our adrenaline. Scott, sitting just to the left of Joe, seems particularly tense. This kind of call, a child found at the bottom of the pool, is particularly tough to control our emotions over. I grip my fingers along the edge of my seat.

This is my third child drowning call since I joined the force, and all three times I’ve felt sick inside because of the senselessness of it. Mother fucking swimming pools.

We’re the first to arrive, hauling up to a small ranch-style home where an old man is yelling and frantically waving his arms. Neighbors with frightened expressions are gathering on the lawn of the house next door.

Joe and I are first off the truck, running down the driveway toward the unmistakable sound of a mother screaming. My heart is thundering in my chest as my gaze scans the yard for our victim. Once I see her my brain computes: little girl, lifeless. There’s a panicked man attempting to give her CPR. We are twelve minutes from the call . . . it may be too late, or we may only have moments left to save her. Focus, shut down surge of emotion, focus,
damnit,
focus.

Sinking to my knees before the little girl, I scan her head to toe. She’s in a colorful swimsuit with a ruffle around her waist and appears to be about four or five, with soggy pigtails and blue lips. The man attending to her looks up at me frantically.

I wrap my hand around her wrist with one hand and press my fingertips against her neck with the other. I’m not sure if I’m actually feeling a faint pulse, or just want to so much that I imagine it, which makes my heart sinks.

I look up at Joe, who’s flagging Alberto to get details from the hysterical mother, he glances down and I shake my head with a quick jerk. His jaw sharpens as he pulls the man aside and sinks down across from me to confirm her vitals. Scott is unwinding the cords for the defibrillator as I clear her airways for mouth to mouth. Meanwhile Joe starts the cycle of compressions to her chest.

Alberto rushes toward us, and leans down next to Joe. “The EMT team is just pulling up now.” Everything is a mad blur around me and all I can see clearly is the little girl’s unresponsive face.

Joe nods as he continues his counts with a steely focus. Alberto takes over keeping the mother back, while explaining what’s happening. He has a gift for getting focus from the most hysterical victims and their families.

“Come on, come on,” I whisper before I push air into her small, cold lips.

The next round of compressions start. “One, two, three,” Joe chants as he firmly applies pressure to her chest. “Four, five, six.”

I hear more screaming and the sound of the gurney rattling toward us.

“Seven, eight, nine.”

I glance up at Joe and he seems determined, but I don’t see the confident look when we know progress is happening.

“Come on, baby girl. Come on!”

I hear a gurgle, and we both arc up and turn her on her side while water starts cascading out of her mouth.

Joe checks for pulse and gives me a quick nod.

We settle her back down and continue, with a renewed resolve that she has a chance to pull through. She’s still unconscious but there’s a pulse,
there’s a pulse.

I glance up and recognize there’s five of us around her now, working in a carefully crafted synchronicity.

The EMT, Brian, lowers his monitor. “Sherman Oaks, stat.”

The ground crew backs off while she’s lifted and secured on the gurney. As I watch them roll her down the driveway toward the ambulance with Joe by her side—continuing the compression—I feel the ache of knowing that we may not hear if she pulls through completely, or holds onto life in some compromised state.

Back in the truck, Scott and I are silent. It feels wrong not having Joe with us, but he’ll return to the station after the hospital staff takes over. I’m exhausted, more emotionally than physically, and it leaves me haggard and down.

“Think she’ll make it?” Scott asks.

“I hope so,” I answer.

He nods. “Poor kid.”

I kick my heel against the truck’s floor “Fucking swimming pools.”

Chief checks on us when we return, his expression somber as he hands Scott a blank form. “Henderson, this report is yours.”

Scott nods and takes the form.

“Joe is on his way back,” Chief says to me.

I nod. “Any word on the girl?”

He shakes his head. “Too soon to know. Why don’t you get some rest? It’s a full moon tonight, it’s going to be busy.”

“Okay, sir. I’ll go lie down.”

“Good.”

Twenty minutes later my door cracks open.

“Are you asleep?” Joe whispers.

“No, come on in.” I get off the bed just as Joe slips inside and closes the door.

I blink at him with wide eyes. Him being in my room is risky business but I can’t care about that when I want to know what happened.

“You okay?” I ask softly.

“Not really.”

“How is she?” I ask.

“Too soon to say.” He grimaces. “She’s so little, Trisha.”

He pulls me into his arms and holds me.

I press my face against his chest. “Chief says she has a fighting chance.”

“They’ll know after the tests and MRIs if her brain is damaged from the oxygen deprivation. I just always wish we’d hear afterwards if the people we’ve tried to rescue are okay.”

I let out a long sigh. “Me too, but maybe we’re better off not knowing.”

Chapter 9:
She’s a Man-eater

The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any. ~Alice Walker

A few days later Joe and I both step outside of our homes at the same time, with our bags slung over our shoulders, ready for our next two-day stint at the station. The sun hasn’t been up for long and everything still has a quiet blue cast leftover from the night. I give him a wave and he smiles as he climbs on his bike.

I follow him all the way to the station, appreciating the ease with which he handles his bike. I pull in the lot and park next to him. “You ready?”

“I’m always ready.” He grins.

“Is that so?” I laugh and shove him playfully to the side.

“So what am I supposed to be ready for?”

“Our sensitivity training today.” I roll my eyes. “Not like I’d ever need that. I’m just a big, mushy marshmallow on calls.”

“Sure you are. Is that why they call you T. Rex?”

“Hey, don’t
you
start!” I pout.