Burn (L.A. Untamed #2) (27 page)

Ma brushes her hair off her forehead with a huff. Her face is still flushed from standing over a hot stove, but the spread tonight looks extra good. She’s even used her favorite tablecloth on our old oak table that has been the stage for the drama of our family dinners over all these years. It makes me wonder if we’re celebrating something?

Dad, on the other hand, seems grumpy as all hell. “What’s the matter, Pa?” I ask. “You look like you’ve got your knickers in a twist.”

“Meat pie, dear?” Ma asks him with a wide smile that looks overdone.

Why is she trying to butter him up?

He taps his fork on the table next to his plate and then sets it down. “I’m not going to stay quiet, Millie. It’s just not right.”

Her shoulders sag in defeat and Dad turns toward me. “Patricia, as your father I have to step in. I will not let you take that cheating scoundrel back.”

Ma lets out a long sigh, and I hear Paul mutter under his breath, “Here we go.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you serious with this?”

“Yeah, when does she ever do what you want her to?” Patrick asks, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“He’s got a point,” adds Paul.

Meanwhile, Elle looks like she’s fighting back a smile.

Skye pushes her long, wild clumps of hair off her shoulders.
Does she even own a brush?
It looks like small animals could be living in that mess and she wouldn’t know it. She lets out a long sigh. “I think Trish taking her husband back is beautiful . . . so loving and beautiful.”

Patrick looks down at his plate and pushes the carrots around.

It feels like the dining room walls, with their faded floral wallpaper, are closing in on us. I roll my eyes upward and notice that the frosted globes on the brass light fixture could use some dusting.

“What do you mean, beautiful?” Dad says, his face getting red. “It’s desperate and pathetic maybe, but there’s nothing beautiful about it.”

Now my face is heating up too. “Gee, thanks a lot, Dad. Really, that’s an awesome thing to say about your only daughter.”

“Patricia . . .” Mom says in her warning voice. She knows how explosive my temper can get.

I fold my arms over my chest. “As long as we’re throwing around insults, let me ask you, what in the world gave you the stupid idea that I’m taking him back?”

“Did you just call your father stupid?” Ma asks with a scowl. For sure that’s a hard-limit for my parents.

I shrug. “Let’s not get caught up in semantics. I’m not taking him back, Dad. I let him stay for a week or so because if I didn’t he would’ve been taken to the psych ward.”

“Where he should be! Lock him up and throw away the damn key! What kind of man marries a good woman, and then runs around having sex with other men? A man who’s out of his gourd.”

“I’m not sure what a gourd is, but I do know one thing. From what I’ve heard about Mikey, his soul was bruised, and Trish is helping heal him,” Skye says pressing her hands together. “She’s giving him the most soulful gift.”

I look at her with wide eyes wondering what planet she came from. I glance over at Dad and sure enough, his face is now more of a scarlet hue.

“There’s going to more than just his soul bruised by the time I’m done with him,” Dad grumbles, and cracks his knuckles like a cartoon villain.

Paul nods over to Dad and winks at Elle. “Two peas in a pod. Now you know where Trish gets her badass edge from.”

“Daddy’s girl,” Ma says, shaking her head, as if she’s teasing us for being so much alike.

“Well, since my personal life is now fodder for tonight’s family theater, I’m happy to share that right now Mikey is meeting with Stanley to talk about their relationship.”

Ma’s mouth falls open and she presses her hand over her heart. “I don’t understand any of this,” she says.

“Stanley, is that who you referred to as Sasquatch?” Patrick asks.

“The one and only.”

“Wow. How modern of you, Trish,” Elle says with a sympathetic gaze. “It sounds like you’ve come full circle to some kind of acceptance about the situation.”

“I can’t deny that his suicide attempt forced me to see everything differently. There’s so much I loved about my life with Mikey, but now knowing his truth, I realize that I want more than he’d ever be able to give me.”

“And has Joe played a part in figuring that out?” Elle asks.

My heart swells at the mention of Joe’s name. “He has.”

“Joe’s a real man,” Ma says with a sigh.

I nod. “But Mikey’s a real man too . . . he’s just a real man that’s more into men, than women.”

“We love who we love,” Skye remarks. She reaches over and takes Paddie’s hand.

Dad drops his head into his hands and rubs his face briskly.

Picking up the open bottle of wine to my right, I pass it to Paul. “Pour Dad another glass, will you? Looks like he could use it.”

Patrick points to my phone. “Hey, Trish, your phone is flashing.”

I look down and sure enough the red light on the back of the phone winks up at me. I normally keep the phone out and close to me in case there’s a call from the station.

When I flip the phone over, the screen reveals that it’s not the station, but Mikey calling me. I push my chair back and step away from the table toward the living room. There must be a good reason he’s calling me now, and at this point I don’t want to discuss anything in front of my parents.

“What’s up?” I ask after I swipe the screen.

“Trish!” he howls. “Oh my God, what do I do? It’s on fire!”

“What? What’s on fire?” I yell.

“A candle fell over in the backyard and the grass caught fire. The grass is almost dead and dry as timber. Why hasn’t it been watered?”

He has some fucking nerve to be asking me this.

“Have you heard about the drought? What the fuck do you mean the grass is on fire? And what the hell was a burning candle doing out there?”

“Stanley’s out back with a hose but it’s getting worse!”

“Have you called 911?” I can feel the rage surging through me.

“No, I called you first.”

“Damn! I’ll call,” I snap.

I hang up on him, and dial 911 dispatch with a tight grip on my phone to steady my hands from shaking.

When the operator answers I cut her off. “Reporting an out of control fire in the backyard at 2710 Addison, Valley Village between Laurel Canyon and Ben. This is Patricia O’Neill, firefighter from the Van Nuys station, thirty-nine and it’s my house. Please dispatch the crew from there. My husband is on site and I’m headed there now.”

I grit my teeth and pace the living room as she repeats the information to me one damn detail at a time. I know they have to do this, but it’s making me want to hurl my phone against the wall. As soon as I hang up, I storm into the dining room.

“Paul, I need your help. There’s a fire at my place and I need you to drive me. Now!”

Ma gasps. “Oh no!”

Paul leaps up, pushing his chair back so forcefully that it almost topples over. He turns to Patrick. “Take Elle home after dinner.”

Elle leaps up. “No! I’m coming with you.”

Patrick jumps up. “Me too!”

Skye seems to think that she’s automatically included. I want to snap at her to back off so that her spiritual observations are not included in this frantic chase to my burning house, but there’s no time to argue.

Thank God Dad and Ma stay seated with concerned expressions on their face, but no proclamations about joining us.

“Paul, call us!” Dad calls out as we grab our stuff.

I’m first out of the dining room.

“Get a move on, guys! This is a race for time, not a traveling circus,” I curse as we rush to the front door.

We pile into the car with Elle and Patrick in the backseat, and Skye squeezed between them. It’s a somber clown car, with everyone giving each other worried looks as I rant under my breath about idiots and their candles.

Paul floors the gas pedal before we’ve even put our seatbelts on. I’ve never appreciated his inclination to speed more. As soon as I buckle up I start to call Joe, but then realize that I need to update Mikey on what’s going to happen next, so I dial him first.

“Trish, what are we supposed to do? The hose is barely doing anything!” His voice is high-pitched and tight with panic.

I gasp and swallow my wrath. “The trucks are on their way. Are the side gates open? Go stand out front,” I bark at him.

I look up just as Paul guns through a light that’s past yellow, and turning red. Elle let’s out a squeak.

“I think I hear the sirens,” Mikey says in between pants.

I press my phone tighter to my ear and I can hear the faint wail in the background.

“Lead them to the backyard. How the hell did this fire start anyway? What were you doing with a fucking candle in the backyard?”

“We were sitting on the back patio talking and the mosquitoes started up, and Stanley is allergic to mosquito bites. So I lit a couple of those citronella candle torches and one must have fallen over when we went inside after it got cold.”

I wonder how a big, hairy Sasquatch can be appealing to mosquitoes but there’s no damn point in wasting my time on him.

“And you didn’t blow out the fucking candles?”

“Obviously I forgot, Trish. It wasn’t until I went to the kitchen to get some water that I saw the fire.”

“Is the house on fire too?” I question calmly like I’m asking if he picked up the dry cleaning, but in reality I’m gritting my teeth like a wildcat.

I hear the sirens much louder now in the background.

“No, but I’ve gotta warn you, Trisha. That trailer thing of Joe’s . . .”

My stomach lurches. “What? What Mike?”

“The trucks are pulling up. I’ve gotta go.”

The line goes dead.

“I’m going to kill him!” I yell out, and Paul’s grip tightens on the steering wheel.

I look out the window and realize we’re being slowed down by heavy traffic on the 101 passing Universal City. The colorful lights of City Walk and Universal Studios with all the knuckleheads going there to party are annoying the hell out of me, with the hard reality of what I’m trying to rush home for.

“What, Trish?” Paul asks.

“Mike says Joe’s rig may be on fire.” I shake my head and slap my free hand on the dashboard.

“Damn,” Paul says, and I sense murmurings in the backseat that I’m better off not hearing.

I pick up my phone again but this time I dial the station, knowing that if Joe is on the truck heading to my house, he won’t be answering this call.

Scott picks up. “Van Nuys Fire, Station Thirty-Nine.”

“Scott, it’s McNeill. Is Joe out on the call in Valley Village?”

“No, he’s here. You want to talk to him?”

“Yes, thanks.”

He puts me on hold and I try to swallow back my dread about telling Joe what’s going on.

“Everything all right, Trisha?” he asks, knowing I wouldn’t call him at the station without a good reason.

“No, and Jesus, Joe, I don’t know how to tell you this but I got a call that there’s a fire at my house and Betty may be involved.”

“What the hell? Where are you now?”

“I’m on my way home. I got the call while at my parents. We’re close to the 101 at Laurel Canyon and I’ll be at the house within ten minutes if this traffic doesn’t get worse. Can you meet us over there? Mike said the trucks just arrived.”

“Wait . . . does this mean your
husband
is at the house without you there?”

Husband?
I’m sure he’s thinking the worst—how can he not? “Yes,” I murmur.

“I’m on my way, and you better warn him that I’m coming,” he snaps and then hangs up.

I’m not sure what I expected, but the cold, steely tone in his voice is a hit in the gut.

Chapter 21:
The Three-Ring Circus

He who believes is strong; he who doubts is weak. Strong convictions precede great actions. ~ Louisa May Alcott

When Paul turns onto Addison, it’s a relief to see several rigs up ahead, their flashing lights reflecting off the shiny red metal of the trucks. It’s hard for me to process that they’re at my house . . .
my house
for God’s sake. Paul has barely parked when I fling my car door open and jump out. I see Joe’s motorcycle just beyond the second truck. I also see the blur of random groups of neighbors gathered to watch the drama unfold.

Something seems off as several of our guys scramble around the trucks. My adrenalin is pumping so hard that I can barely see straight, so instead of stopping for an update I run down the driveway. I need to see for myself exactly what’s happening.

I’m halfway down the drive when I realize I’m heading into a fire zone and I’m not in my gear. The realization only heightens my rage, but I don’t give a damn about my personal safety. There’s so much at stake.

As I charge into the backyard my gaze darts across the chaos. The yard around the backend of Joe’s rig is burning, as are patches across the yard. I’m distracted for a moment when I notice that Betty’s front door is flung open, but then I focus back and realize that Scott is the only one working a hose and it’s half-assed. Meanwhile sparks shooting high threaten the parched surrounding shrubs.

What the fuck is going on?

Despite the crackle and roar I hear the static filled radio callouts and turn to see Jim responding to the transmitter in his hand. I rush over to him waving my arm toward Betty. The crews have to have been on the scene at least fifteen minutes before our arrival, why the fuck is this fire still so hot?

“What the hell—” I yell but before I can finish Jim holds up his hand. His brows are knitted together and his scowl doesn’t help calm my panic.

“Hydrant fail, McNeill. We’ve already emptied the tanks on the trucks. But that was Charlie on the radio. The closest tap was the street behind, and he said they’ve just busted through your neighbor’s side gate to pull the line through.”

I hear the sound of wood splitting and through the smoke I can see one of the guys taking an ax to our wood fence. My brain starts computing.

“Goddamn hydrant fail? This area was checked less than six months ago.” I picture the hydrant and I feel my blood pressure soar. “It’s in front of the construction site,” I say, and Jim nods.