Must be nice.
Danny’s lids cracked of their own volition, and his eyes shifted to his hands. There were blisters all over the insides of both, the result of him having worked with a chain saw for five hours on Saturday and seven yesterday. He must have been crazy to buy that old farm. The uninhabited house was crowded by trees and overgrowth, and the various outbuildings on the fifty acres were likewise choked with vines thick as tree trunks. Shit might have gone easier if he’d used an axe, but he didn’t pick them up anymore. Swing them. Cut things with them.
Anyway, at least the farm gave him something to focus on. If he didn’t have that shitty property to go to between shifts, he would be clinically insane.
And hey, at least it kept him from dialing Anne Ashburn’s number again. Jesus, he shuddered every time he thought about that drunken voicemail he’d left her.
From the moment he’d gotten out of rehab, he’d worked on reasons to call her, go over to her house, email her. You know, reasonable justifications that didn’t involve him breaking down and getting all emotional over how he’d failed her in that fire.
The words hadn’t come, even as the yearning had gotten stronger. So add too many beers and the fact that he’d memorized her number from the instant she’d given it to him three or four years ago—and you had a drunk dial that should never have happened.
She hadn’t called him back. Why would she? And now hitting her up felt impossible.
Curling his left hand into a fist, he felt the worn spots burn and the heavy calluses protest at the contraction. Across the knuckles, there were countless cuts from the thorns on those bushes he’d ripped out, and then there was a bruise on the back of the wrist from when he’d clonked it on something.
He hated his left hand now—
“You comin’ in for breakfast or just gonna hang out here and give yourself cancer?”
Danny glanced over at a screaming-yellow Dodge Charger that had black rims, blacked-out windows, and a red stripe down the side. Moose was leaning against the quarter panel, arms crossed, mirrored sunglasses making him look like a bearded eighties action figure.
“I’ll take the cancer if Duff’s at the stove.”
Moose frowned. “You shouldn’t say shit like that.”
“It’s the truth.” He deliberately took an inhale. “People need to stop being so politically correct.”
“Got nothing to do with politics. It’s bad luck.”
Danny laughed with an edge. “Oh, I’ve already had my share of that. I won the shit out of that lottery, thank you very much.”
As Moose just stared at him, Danny shook his head. “You got something to say to me?”
Although come on, it wasn’t like he couldn’t guess.
“Duff told me he took you home Saturday night.”
“Jealous? Don’t worry, we stopped at third base. And besides, you have your beautiful new wife to keep you warm at night.”
“Still bitter about that, huh.”
Danny opened his mouth, but he stepped off that ledge. His dislike of the human race had only intensified since last November. There were some things, however, that went too far even for him, and Deandra, Moose’s new old lady, was one of them.
But he wasn’t jealous of the marriage. Hell, if he were, all he had to do was snap his fingers and that gold digger would be on her back in his messy bed in a heartbeat. And Moose knew this. Which was why he’d insisted on putting a ring on it.
Like that meant she wouldn’t leave him.
“Whatever,” Danny muttered as he exhaled.
Moose looked away. Looked back. “You got a lot of people worried about you.”
“That’s on them.” He examined the lit tip of his cigarette. “Have I been late for work, even once?” When there was no response, he glanced at his former roommate and cupped his ear. “Did I hear you say no? I think I did. And have I slacked on scene? Wait . . . is that another no? Why I believe it is.”
“Your drinking is—”
“And here’s a last one. Have I asked you, or anybody else, to comment on my fucking life?” He grabbed his duffel bag and got out. “We both know the answer to that one.”
Taking a last drag, he blew the smoke over his shoulder. “So how about all of you shut up and worry about your own goddamn situations. I know all too well exactly how not-perfect your marriage is, for example, but you don’t hear me going on about that, do you.”
Before shit got way to real, he started to march off.
“How about you say hi to Anne for me,” Moose bit out. “The next time you see her.”
Danny stopped dead. As his hand tightened on the straps of his duffel, he felt a rage that went so deep, he knew without a doubt that he could kill from it.
But what was behind the anger was even more toxic, a swill of pain and self-hatred that made all the crap he’d gone through about his brother’s death and then losing Sol seem like warm-up exercises for the real challenge.
On the surface of his life, he was going through the minutes and the hours of the present. His reality, though, was stuck in that collapsing stairwell with Anne . . . and what he’d done with that axe of his. It was Groundhog Day 24-7, and shit was wearing his ass out, but that was where some people ended up in life.
He did not need the reminder from his best friend, however. No bright lights needed in this darkness, considering they only showed the alligators chewing his ass.
“Fuck you, Miller,” he said as he started walking again.
chapter
10
New Brunswick Firehouse No. 617
McGinney Street and Third Avenue
Behind the wheel of a city-issued SUV, Tom shifted his cell phone to his other ear as he made the turn onto McGinney Street. “I don’t know whether the mayor’s serious or not . . . no, I don’t. Get over yourself, Brent. She’s a goddamn politician, and she’s just announced she’s running for a second term. She’ll tell us anything we want to hear just to get the union endorsement. So no, I don’t trust her.” He let the union president drone on a little, and then had to cut that shit off. “Listen to me, do not confuse this woman’s looks with virtue. She’s charming you up and I’ll be goddamned if I let us get pulled in a bad direction just because you like the smell of her perfume.”
As he cut the call and tossed his cell onto the empty bucket seat in his Explorer, he thought . . . hell yes, this was his car. Even though the vehicle was issued by the city and in his possession only because of his job as chief, it was his personal property, damn it.
Then again, he considered all of the stationhouses and each one of the engines, ladders, trucks, ambulances, and all the marked cars as his.
The people, too. Which was why he needed to get Brent Mathison out of that job at the firefighters’ union. The guy was too soft on that mayor and could not see the way she was manipulating him.
Stupid. But he didn’t dislike Brent or anything. How could he? All the men and women in the fire service were . . . well, not his children, no. He was not parent material. And they weren’t his family.
Hell, even his family wasn’t his family. Wife had hit the road. Anne was off the radar and out of the Christmas card photos. All he had left was his mother, and even with her, there was a lot of duty there—he was all she had.
Even though she really wanted her daughter involved in her life.
Thoughts of Anne put him in an even worse mood as he pulled onto the concrete pavers that went up to the four bays of the stationhouse. Everything was open, the sunshine glinting off the chrome and the glass and the red panels of the engines and the ladder trucks.
The 617 was the newest of the six houses in New Brunswick, functioning as the Fire Rescue Master Station. Built two years prior, the four-story brick building had state-of-the-art facilities, including an office for him with a conference area, a restaurant-quality kitchen, a mess hall and rec room, a weight room, and, on the third and top floors, private suites for the overnighters.