Consumed
Page 14Like 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.
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.
No more common bunk room or communal shower. Which was good news.
With the divorce, this wasn’t his second home; it was his only one.
Heading around back, he eased the muni SUV in between Chuckie P’s Jeep and Vic Rizzo’s blacked-out F-150. Behind the shallow parking area, there was a lawn with a volleyball net as well as some picnic tables and a grill. The big fat-topped trees that had been spared during construction were brilliant red and gold, and the grass was still green—although none of that would last. The grays of November and blue-whites of December and January were coming fast.
Just before he got out, he reached across and snagged his cell phone. The screen was cracked because he threw it a lot, and going by its current state of degeneration, he was guessing he had another month of functionality left, tops.
He hadn’t expected to be so angry as an adult.
And as he thought about his sister, and how she wouldn’t have answered if he’d called her, he decided he hadn’t expected a lot about life.
He left his vehicle unlocked and went to the back door—
What . . . the fuck?
A shadow thrown on the lawn from the far side of the building suggested some douchebag was taking a piss on the stationhouse.
The bastard was literally planted there with his hand on his hose, a fine stream of urine arcing from the tip of his dick.
Tom marched over without screaming so he could catch the SOB and rub his nose in the mess like a fucking dog—
As he came around the corner, he stopped and became even more furious. The guy was wearing a New Brunswick FD navy blue T-shirt, navy blue work pants, and work boots. Everything was so new, there were no scuffs on those Carhartts, and both the shirt and pants still had creases from when they’d been folded at the factory.
“Goddamn it!”
The new recruit spun around, and his cock came with him, a golden stream fanning out so that Tom had to jump back.
You want to talk about pale? The f-nug, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, twenty-two, turned white as a Band-Aid pad. Then again, Tom’s mug had been in the paper a lot, and there were few in town who wouldn’t have recognized his salt-and-pepper hair.
“OhmyGod.”
“He pulled the lemonade trick, didn’t he,” Tom muttered.
“The bathrooms are out of commission! Chief, I swear, I—”
“Zip your dick up and get back inside—but first hose off my fucking house.”
Tom left the recruit and nearly tore the door off its hinges as he went inside. Sure enough, front and center on the mess hall’s table was a big fat jug of lemonade—that was three-quarters of the way empty. As well as a glass.
“Damnit!” he yelled. “You get your ass to my office right fucking now!”
Same shit, different day.
* * *
Across town, at Metro Emergency Veterinary Clinic, Anne stood up as the vet came in. She’d been waiting in this exam room for the last hour and she wiped her sweaty hands on the seat of her slacks.
“How’re we doing?” she asked.
Dr. Delgado was a fifty-year-old woman with thick dark hair, no makeup, and the kind of face that made your heart rate ease up.
“Well,” she said, “we’re malnourished. We have worms. Fleas. Ticks. An infection in the ear flap and in the shoulder. A paw with a laceration in between the pads. There’s a tooth cracked in the back our mouth that will have to be removed. Do you want to come see him?”