Hot Mess (9 page)

JT was a bear of a man, taller even than Sam, and bigger around, though not as muscular as Sam. The man was strong as a bull, though, and testy as one, if he didn't get a cup of coffee before the first call-out.

Mike was a young guy, early twenties, maybe. His blonde hair was cut in a crew cut, and his eager blue eyes belied an innocence that Sam knew would be gone soon, if he stayed with the career he seemed so proud of.

Juan was a short, stout Hispanic man with a goatee. He was a lifter, too, and he and Sam had become work-out partners, pushing each other to lift more, become stronger.

Dave was quiet, and when he wasn't working out solo, he was reading or playing solitaire. He was quiet and intense, but Sam figured out really quick that he could be counted on to perform under pressure, as could the rest of the crew.

Justin was loud and obnoxious, but a good firefighter and worked well with the team on calls. Morris, the oldest, had been with the department forever, it seemed, and he liked to kick people off their cooking detail, if he didn't like the food. Sam felt confident that he would be kicked off soon, unless Morris was in love with breakfast.

Derrick was taciturn most of the time, and seemed to be a hot head, both in and out of the field. He had lightened up a little, but Sam still hadn't gotten the scoop on him and Brenda, and any history they may have had.

All in all, he was satisfied with the bunch, and felt a sense of pride at having a group of capable men he trusted to work with.

It was two thirty in the afternoon, and he knew that Rachel would be waiting in line to pick up Sophia. His gut burned when he thought about her and not in a bad way. Apparently, his thoughts were a little transparent, because Juan pulled up a chair next to him, sitting in it backwards.

"Who is she, bro?"

Startled, Sam looked up at his new friend. "What?"

"You sound like a little girl over here, sighing and shifting. You thinking about a woman, I'm thinking. Who is she?"

"My neighbor. I was thinking about texting her."

"Ooohh. How romantic." Juan's eyes lit up, and he pulled an imaginary pencil from behind his ear. "I'm going to take notes, you got skills."

"Whatever, man."

"You wanna lift some?" Juan prodded.

"Sure, give me a minute." Sam pulled out his cell phone and sent Rachel a text.
What's for dinner, hot stuff?

He waited for a reply and didn't have long to wait. His phone dinged a minute later.

R U fishing for an invite?

Do I need to?

What do you like to eat?

Anything but chili. I'm sick of chili.

LOL. How about pasta primavera?

Sounds almost as delicious as you.
He could see her blush in his mind, and it made the anticipation of seeing her tonight even greater.

What time?

I get off at six and will pick up Amanda on the way. Is that okay?

Of course! See u then.

Can't wait.

He put his phone away, but before he and Juan could get started on their work out, a call came in for an address that was already familiar to Sam. Being a firefighter meant that there were a certain number of "regulars" on the job. Sam had already met a few, Mrs. Brigsby being one. Another regular was Mr. Norton, who had emphysema and COPD, coupled with panic attacks. Like Mrs. Brigsby, he donated regularly to the fire department's fund, and thought that that meant he'd "bought" their services. So he had them on speed dial.

Apparently, Mr. Norton thought too much, and while thinking, he would get himself worked up into a panic attack, and lose his breath. Then he'd think he was having a heart attack or something and call the fire department. About once a week, Sam and Juan, along with Derrick and Cade suited up and drove to his house to attend to his panic attacks. All they had to do was administer some oxygen to the man, who swore that his personal oxygen bottles were diluted somehow because he couldn't catch his breath with them.

After calming Mr. Norton down, the men returned to the station in time for shift change, and Sam rushed out the door to go to his date at Rachel's house for dinner.

Brenda met him at the door to his house, as if she'd been waiting for him. He mentally slapped himself. He'd forgotten to text her to let her know not to make dinner. Not that it was in her job description, but she'd been cooking for him when he came home from his shift so that she could save him and Amanda from frozen pizzas and ramen noodles.

"Geez, Brenda. I forgot to tell you, I've got dinner plans tonight." He felt bad when her face fell. "You know, you don't have to cook for us. That's not part of your job. I just need your supervisory skills. Pick Amanda up, drop her off, make sure she doesn't bleed out while I'm at work. Cooking for me isn't necessary." He tried to be gentle, but he didn't want her to get the wrong idea, either.

"That's okay. I know. I'll just put it all in the fridge for tomorrow. You can heat it up." She turned, without meeting his eyes. "It's nothing that won't microwave." He noticed she was wearing extremely short shorts and a tank top that revealed more than it hid, but she seemed so disappointed about dinner, that he didn't have the heart to tell her what he thought about her clothing choices.

"I'm glad. Thank you. I'm sure it's delicious." He walked down the hallway to Amanda's room and knocked. "Punkin? We're eating with Sophie tonight."

A squeal greeted him, before the door flew open and his daughter darted past him and down the hall to the front door.

"Wait for me!" He hollered, turning to find Brenda. "Lock up when you leave, 'kay?" Brenda nodded, keeping her back towards him, and Sam wondered how bad she had it. Shaking his head, he turned and went to go cross the street to Rachel's house.

Sophia opened the door before they had a chance to knock, and Sam wondered how much oxygen these girls wasted with their shrieking squeals, as they ran back to Sophie's room to do whatever they did back there.

He found Rachel in the kitchen cutting up vegetables, wearing an apron. The domesticity vibe she was giving off was making him want to sit her up on the countertop and have his way with her, but the shrieking that was still emanating from the princess room curtailed his thoughts.

"I don't know anybody who wears an apron anymore, with the possible exception of my grandma." He walked up behind her and put his arms around her waist, smelling her neck before planting a chaste kiss on her collar bone. He was immensely proud of his restraint.

She stiffened in his arms and didn't turn.

Not having a clue what she was thinking, he went on, "But you wear it well, I must say. It accentuates the curve of your hips." His hands moved to her hips, as if to illustrate, his fingers almost spanning her slim waist, turning her body around to face him.

"Sam…" There was a warning in her voice.

He tipped her chin up with a finger, so he could look at her eyes. They looked weary and wary. As much as he wanted to, and he thought she did, too, he didn't kiss her. Instead, he whispered against her lips, "I missed you this week." Her eyes flickered as their breath mingled, and he was pretty sure that she reciprocated the feeling, but until she said something, he would abide by her wishes.

For now.

He fished around a drawer next to her and found a knife to help her cut the broccoli.

"I'll help you, kay?"

"Sure. Cut them small, I'm just blanching them, before I put them in the sauce. Don't want soggy veggies."

"Okay. I don't know what blanch means, but I can cut small."

"You don't cook much, do you?" She asked with a small laugh.

"I cook breakfast." His eyes shifted sideways and caught her blushing. "I didn't mean that like you're thinking. Get your mind out of the gutter. Sheesh." He was teasing her, and he loved the look of shock on her face, when she realized how transparent her thoughts were. He nudged her with his shoulder, and she gave up and laughed. Tossing her head back, he was overwhelmed by the memory of the dance-off last Saturday. Again. It lit a fire in his stomach, and he vowed to do whatever he could to make her do it more.

"You don't do that much, do you?"

She turned to look at him. "Do what?"

"Laugh like that."

She looked thoughtful. "No, I guess I don't. I tend to take things pretty seriously, I guess." She went back to chopping carrots.

"It's too short to take too seriously. You have to find the humor, or it'll get to you." He was thinking of Marisol, and his job.

"What's too short?"

"Life, of course. Life's too short."

She stopped chopping and turned to look at him. Her little bow mouth opened to say something, but she stopped herself again. He reached out to touch her mouth, willing it to talk, to tell him what she wanted to say. But she clamped it shut.

He decided to take the initiative. Maybe if he opened up, she would.

"I divorced Amanda's mom two years ago. She was into pills really bad. Marisol had been in a car accident, that's how we met, actually. And the doctor prescribed her pain pills for a neck injury. She got addicted and couldn't get off them. The next thing I knew, she was taking fifty to sixty hydrocodones or vicadin, or xanax, or whatever, a day. I left her, and tried to get custody of Amanda, but she moved in with her parents and got to keep her."

"You didn't call CPS? Surely with drug use in the mother, they would have let you have her then?"

This was harder than he'd thought it would be. He took a deep breath, thinking that if he told her about his demons, maybe she would tell him about hers. Then they could get on with this relationship.

"No. Foolishly, I thought that living with her parents would straighten Marisol out. And I didn't want 'Manda subjected to interviews and questions and the whole 'he said, she said bullshit that CPS likes to engage in. I didn't know what kinds of lies Marisol would tell about me, and there's always the chance that 'Manda would have ended up with foster parents…"

He ran a hand through his hair, surely making it stand straight up. "Anyways, it took a long time for 'Manda to get over the divorce and get used to visitations around my shifts at the firehouse in Jacksonville. Marisol couldn't keep up with her habit and got into a lot of financial trouble. She couldn't find a way out of it, and she killed herself."

Rachel was staring at him, tiny little mouth wide open in that precious little "o" that Sam had wanted to see, though not under these circumstances.

"Why would she kill herself over money?"

"Who really knows? The pills did something to her brain, made her feel completely hopeless about her life. She couldn't see a way out of her situation. She was a completely different woman from the one I had married. I didn't recognize her anymore. She seemed to be functioning, holding a job, but it wasn't a well-paying job, and she couldn't keep up with her bills and her addiction at the same time."

He got quiet, deep in his own thoughts of Marisol. He had married a vibrant, care-free woman, and divorced an addict who had drained his bank account for pills. By the time she killed herself, she had cleaned out her parents' savings, and then re-financed their house, and spent all of the money on pills, leaving them in a pit of debt that they blamed on him for not being able to help their daughter any more than they could.

"I'm sorry, Sam. How awful for you and Amanda. I knew her mother had died, but I had no idea." She set the knife down and hugged him. He let her, smelling the top of her head, inhaling the sweetness of her. He enjoyed the comfort she gave him. He hadn't known comfort like it since his mother had died.

"I showed you my demons. You show me yours." He said it suggestively, trying to make light of the situation, as if he hadn't just told her that his first wife had killed herself because life had been too overwhelming, and he hadn't been able to stop her.

She stiffened in his arms, and he regretted it immediately. She looked into his eyes, and looked for a minute like she would tell him. But then her eyes shut down again, and she mumbled, "I'm sorry, Sam." She looked down at her feet.

He backed off, sniffing. "Okay." Trying to cover the awkwardness, he grabbed his knife again and began chopping furiously. "No big deal. Tell me when you're ready." It hurt that she didn't feel like she could confide in him, and he wondered what it was that would build walls like the ones she had erected around herself.

She touched his forearm, sending a warm tingle up his arm that he tried to ignore. "Sam."

"No. It's okay. I get it. You need more time. I won't pressure you…" He looked at her, trying to convey his meaning through his eyes. "Yet."

She dropped her head, to continue chopping. Sam saw her face had paled considerably, and she was upset. He couldn't tell if she was upset about what he had just told her, or whatever it was she wasn't telling him. He wondered what could be so bad, that Rachel felt like she couldn't tell him, especially after what he'd just said to her.

"Damn." He looked over and saw that Rachel had cut her finger, and it was gushing blood. Immediately, his instincts took over, and he reached for her, but she shrunk from him.