Chapter Three
AJ
There’s a rhythm, a sort of routine to taking off my gear and hanging it up, to washing up in the shower, to leaving the firehouse. Leaving home.
I know the firehouse isn’t actually home; home is the old farmhouse on the edge of town that has more land than I know what to do with.
When I bought the place years ago, I’d had every intention of fixing the place up; developing the land into something, I just never quite figured out what.
Then life got busy with the firehouse and my classes at Shadows claims I filed myself, the asshole had the audacity to report me for sexual harassment.
He claimed I coerced him into our entire relationship and threatened him if he said a word.
Of course, the guys knew it was bullshit, but the insurance company saw it less favorably.
They called it a scandal and called for me to resign.
Needless to say it was a fucking mess, and why I broke up with him in the first place and ripped up our contract.
I would have lost my job in this firehouse had it not been for JJ coming to bat for me and getting Cal reassigned to another district.
Which I am eternally grateful for, all things considered.
I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder as I head out of the showers, running into Duncan, Cal’s replacement.
Technically, we don’t have a lead claims agent anymore, but we see Duncan more than anyone else these days.
He’s kind of old-school, doesn’t like technology much, but at least he takes the job seriously. Plus he’s straight. Thank God.
“August…” He waves me down as I try to keep my head down and avoid him. I know what he wants, and it’s not that I don’t want to do my job, but I’m tired as fuck. Tonight was rough. I haven’t seen a fire that bad in years, and I can’t help but keep thinking about Nate Barrett.
The man I pulled from the fire tonight. We’d been lucky there was no one else in the house, and the fact I was able to get Mr. Bright Eyes out in one piece, unscathed?
That’s a damn miracle.
Either that or Lacey’s blowing smoke up my ass, but if there’s one thing I know about the chipper paramedic, it’s that she’s honest to a fault.
I tell her all the time she needs to be more careful—especially with the men she meets off the apps she uses.
And it’s also why I keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t trust the wrong person.
She’s a great paramedic and an absolute doll, but she sees the good in everyone and has the shittiest taste in men. Next to my mother, that is.
“Not now, Dunc,” I grumble as I move past him. Though he doesn’t take no for an answer. He never does. It’s annoying, even though I know it’s a good thing because it means he cares. Unlike Cal.
It’s late though, and usually most of the insurance guys wait until morning to bother us, and usually they don’t make on-call visits, so the fact he’s here this late can’t be good, and I don’t know how much more shit I can take today.
“It’ll just take a minute,” he says, following me. “ I just need to confirm some details about the Russ fire last week.”
I growl in disdain, but I know it’s better to just let him do what he needs to, especially if I want to get rid of him quickly.
“Fine. You’ve got until I get to the truck then I’m off the clock.”
Thankfully, Duncan knows me well, so he gets to the point; asks for my details, and I give them as quickly as I can.
When we reach my pickup, he barely gets his thank you out before I am inside, turning the ignition on.
He gets the hint and skitters away, and I sigh in relief, and maybe a little defeat, too.
I keep thinking about my dad and the anniversary of his death… and what could’ve been mine, around the corner. Twenty days. I swear it comes faster every year.
But I also can’t help but think about the fire earlier. About Nate Barrett, and how good it felt to sit beside someone; to touch them, really touch them.
It was just a momentary brush of proximity, not at all intimate or even friendly. Which makes me feel like a grade A creeper. Who gets all lovestruck over touching some stranger's shoulder? Fresh from a fucking fire, too.
I should not feel like this about anyone, especially a victim. It’s fucked up on so many levels. I know that. But I can’t help that I’m fucked up. I’ve been fucked up ever since my dad set the house on fire with me in it and nearly killed us both.
His buddies and the other firefighters of course said he didn’t know I was in the house.
That he was just drunk—which he was often—and not in his right mind.
They made excuses, just like my mother made excuses for his behavior when I was a child.
But I know the truth. Yes, he was drunk, but he knew I was in the house because we’d gotten into an argument.
About his drinking. About my being gay. Only my father preferred much more colorful language when referring to my “affliction” when my mother wasn’t around.
That’s why he set the fire. Because I angrily told him I’d rather die in a fucking fire than go to whatever fucked up camp he threatened to send my ass to to “straighten me out.”
But no one wants to hear that. It shatters their image of the hero he was for a lot of people.
But people forget he was my dad. He was my hero, too. Once. Before I made the mistake of telling him the truth and destroying our whole fucking family.
I grasp my steering wheel and let out a deep sigh, but I don’t turn the car on.
I note my hand is shaking. It always shakes when I think about him, when I think about how I tried to save him, even though he almost killed me. But I couldn’t.
He made sure of that.
Maybe I just need to take a trip to Shadows and Sin and right myself. Find a willing partner to play with for the night and make me forget about my fucked up past, and this fucked up day. It has been a long time since I’ve visited the place. Maybe I just need some therapy.
Yeah, sub therapy.
Or I could call JJ and see if he wants to get that beer…
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, debating what to do.
All I know is I can’t go home. Going home will be worse, I think.
The house is always too quiet, and the silence drives me fucking crazy.
Even blasting the stereo doesn’t help. It just makes the emptiness more noticeable.
Maybe I should sell the place, get a condo or something closer to the firehouse.
But the thought of giving up my property makes my heart sink every time, so I stay. For now, anyway.
I let out a deep breath and decide Shadows is probably the best option. At least if I head there, I can work out the tension until I’m tired enough to fall asleep. So I turn the car on and head straight towards the club, knowing my decision’s been made.
The entire way there, I debate calling JJ to tell him about what happened. A lot of folks think that the bad days are always days where we lose people, or that it’s the death and bad shit we see that become the demons that haunt us. And the demons that sometimes consume us.
But sometimes, it’s the survivors that hit us harder than the losses. Sometimes it’s the houses, or the fires themselves.
Sometimes it’s just us.
JJ gets that. He’s got issues, too, though his are of the marital kind, not the my-veteran-firefighter-father-tried-to-kill-me-in a-fire-because he-found-out-I-was-gay kind.
That’s a special issue I wouldn’t wish on my worst fucking enemy.
And don’t even get me started about my mother and her bullshit.
At least JJ is lucky enough to have siblings to share his trauma with.
I don’t. And since both my parents are dead, well…
that’s also why JJ happens to be the only person I can talk to about this part of my life.
I know his secrets and he knows mine. Ours is a mutual friendship built on shitty parents, fires, and pretending our problems don’t exist.
Until one of us needs to let the steam out once in a while to someone so we don’t explode.
His silver-spoon husband’s a fucking idiot, by the way, and he deserves so much better. But I guess I’m not one to talk, given my exes are also manipulative assholes, so I keep my mouth shut about that.
Most of the time.
I look at the clock. He’s probably sleeping right now since he works in the morning.
Calling him would probably wake his ass up, and he’ll be a total grump going in tomorrow, and it’ll be everyone else’s problem, so I decide not to call him.
He’s naturally grouchy on a good day, but when he’s tired?
Dude’s worse than those guys in the Snickers commercials crying for a candy bar.