When the Smoke Clears (Interracial Firefighter Romance) (9 page)

“What are you talking about, Merck?” I held my hands out. “This was a good shift.”

“A woman almost died over that idiot bartender’s mistake,” he said.

Not jumping into our conversation, Rockstar remained nosy, set his guitar case on the ground, and glanced at me.

I shook my head. “She could’ve died, but she didn’t. So, that’s what we focus on.”

“There you go with that positive manifestation bullshit.” Merck put his hand in front of him and mimicked masturbation. “I swear; I think you’re smoking weed on your off days.”

“No, but I am meditating. It keeps me from drinking.”

Rockstar and Merck laughed, doubling over and clapping their hands.

“That’s right. Laugh at my healing process,” I said.

Merck waved me away. “All I need is a warm woman and a large bottle of Dowzan rum.”

I raised my hands in mock defeat. “Hey, if that’s what you need to deal, then go for it. Just don’t sit around focusing on the negativity.”

“Look.” Merck dug his hands in his pockets. “Tourist season is starting. I can feel the stupidity rising in the air. They’ll be some dumb asses starting a fire on the beach or getting into a drunken accident and killing everyone.”

Rockstar interrupted. “Got to be more positive, man.”

Merck gestured at him. “Not you, too?”

Rockstar slung his bag on his other shoulder and picked up his case. “I’m dating this chick that’s into yoga. She’s the happiest girl that I’ve met. And let me tell you, happy sex is fucking fantastic. I’m probably going to check out some of those books Lou be reading.”

Merck didn’t appear convinced. “Forget that positive manifestation bullshit.”

I stopped Merck before he could say more. “Listen. I’ve been at this for ten years. I started at twenty-five. You have some years to go. Get your head right, now, before things get really hot.”

“Yeah. I’ll probably get some sleep first.” Merck rubbed his face and smiled. “And then, I’ll get some head later.”

“Head from a yoga chick is also amazing,” Rockstar added.

“Well, I’m done with chicks,” Merck admitted.

“Done?” I widened my eyes. “You’re into men now, Merck?”

“Sure, Lou. The day I get into guys, I’ll be sure to run your way, you big hunk of love.” Merck attempted to hug me.

I blocked him, before he could come closer. “What’s up with you and women?”

“They’re giving me problems. All of them.”

“That’s your problem right there.” I laughed. “You’ve got more than one. Never have more than one woman. You see why I have no hair anymore. I learned that lesson the hard way. One woman at a time, my friend. One at a time.”

“But how could I
not
date more than one?” Merck opened his jacket and displayed his slim body. “Look at me.”

I almost punched him in his gut. “You young cats with your baby dicks ready to stick them in anything that wears heels.”

“You weren’t like that at my age?” Merck asked.

“Shiiit,” Rockstar jumped in. “Lou was worse. Still is at times. Years ago, he had a thing for twins and I swear he banged every set of identical sisters on the west side of Florida. Then, the next year, he spent the whole twelve months dating women in pairs. Two women. On one date. I loved watching the fights. Oh, man. Double dating was fun with him. That’s why God gave Lou twin daughters. All that bad karma from back in the day.”

I shrugged. “I’ve learned a lot. Any time you invite more than one chick to the party, you’re going to have a wild night with the police involved. And that’s not a metaphor.”

“Metaphor?” Merck snorted. “You and your big words.”

“I need big words to go with my big cock.” I winked at him and walked off to my car. “Remember, young ones. Stay positive. Read books. And never talk to more than one woman at a time. That’s how you survive your twenties.”

“Hold up.” Rockstar lifted one hand. “How many women you messing with right now, Merck?”

The crazy man replied, “Seven women.”

I twisted my face in shock and glanced over my shoulder. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“No,” Merck laughed. “More like, three Keishas, a Felicia, Cynthia, Vivian, and Brandy.”

Rockstar dropped his bag. Worry creased the edges of his eyes. “First of all, what are you doing with three Keishas?”

“What?” Merck held his hands out to his sides. “I love my sisters. Black women are beautiful.”

“No,” Rockstar wagged his finger. “They’re
my
sisters, not yours. I’m black. You’re the very opposite of black in every way.”

“They’re my sisters too,” Merck argued.

“Eh whatever, man.” Rockstar picked up his bag. “All I know is one thing. Stop dating Keishas. They’re crazy. I’ve never met a sane Keisha in my life. Good in bed, but they will make you lose your mind.”

“It’s too late. I’m already in love with the coco.”

Rockstar and I exchanged glances.

Merck shrugged. “What? I listen to rap too.”

Chuckling, I opened my door and hopped in. “Goodnight, guys.”

These were the great moments of my job. I’d had rough times in the past. It made me cherish the good days even more.

All my life, I worked hard. I got my EMT certification early. I’d planned to ride ambulances for the rest of my life, but it didn’t stick. So, I looked at other careers where I could serve the public.

My mom worked as a social counselor. She preached about the importance of helping others, and I hoped to dedicate my life to that philosophy.

But, the police force didn’t excite me. Growing up as a mixed boy in a poor black neighborhood, I learned to fear the cops at an early age. By seven, I knew that if I spotted one, I should turn in the other direction, keep my hands out to the side, and my head straight like I was going somewhere. In my twenties, I was stopped all of the time, if I drove around in a rich neighborhood.

I knew men on the force. I understood their hardships and how in some of the blocks that they worked in, many of the residents saw them as an enemy. But, I could never put on the uniform. Never speak the oath. It didn’t sit right with the problems I still had with some of their procedures.

When I turned twenty-one, I volunteered with the American Red Cross and met fire service professionals. We partied after hours and I discovered that a real brotherhood existed among them.

I ached to be a part of that sort of gang. A band of brothers helping people and having a blast while doing it. The next year, I took fire technology classes at Manatee community college, banging several hot chicks at the time, and managed to make my mothers and sisters proud. Truthfully, Mom would’ve been happy if I was cooking fries in McDonalds. By then, most of the guys in my neighborhood had gone to jail or died. Barely fifty percent of my classmates made it to post-secondary colleges or joined the military. The rest withered away in the bricked community of poverty and depression.

I maintained a clean lifestyle as much as I could. Although, I had a bad temper and pounded several of my sister’s ex-boyfriends' faces into the ground, I never was arrested, not even a traffic ticket. I didn’t mess with drugs and kept three condoms in my pocket every day. My background investigation slid through with ease.

However, that was only the beginning. The hiring process almost shredded me—tests from a written examination to physical agility and even an oral interview. I failed one of the tests the first time, didn’t give up, and succeeded the second time.

I made it through. More problems came. It took me a long time to understand the technical parts of the job like equipment operation and building construction, but I did it. I’d worked hard and had it all—the house, healthy kids, and loving support of my family. I had it all.

I just didn’t have the lady.

In my twenties, I never thought like that. The only shit that ran through my mind was sports, breasts, and the funny things that happened whenever they did. Now the numbers started increasing for my age, and my family’s elders began to look much older than they should. They were getting scary old. . . like. . .I might have to move people into my house. . .old.

It made me nervous. Like the party wouldn’t last forever. Like there’d be a time when I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize my face under the wrinkles and gray eyes. I wasn’t afraid to die. I was, however, terrified to be old, alone, and full of regret.

I’d done it all—jumped out of air planes, dived in the deep sea, flew to other countries and slept with their sexiest natives.

But, what I’d never done was fall in love.

What am I going to do with you, Miss Kassie?

I took out the volunteer form and stared at it. I’d already memorized her address. A large part of me wanted to drive by her house.

This is getting weird.

I asked her for her number and she started talking about cutting my dick off. What would she do if I called her out of nowhere?

Kassie had problems. The scars of divorce were still fresh and raw.

I’d been through the ugliness of divorce, crying every night, fucking anything that breathed, and drinking more than I should. The loss of my marriage peeled away at my sanity. I had twin girls, just toddlers who never remembered the household where their mother and I had done our best to love them.

But, it would’ve been one thing, if my ex-wife, Cicely, had been a good mother or even a decent woman. But, she’d always had problems.

Back when we met, I’d believed I could save Cicely. We’d met at Peek-a-Boo strip club. She danced for me all night, while I got wasted. When the club closed, we stumbled toward a cab. I was too drunk to drive, and she was too wasted to care. To the cabbie’s surprise, she gave me a blowjob during the ride home. We barely knew each other’s name, but spent the rest of the weekend together, between hot sheets and mingled wet limbs.

I thought it was instant love, when it was only lust.

She had a fit body and cute personality; although I thought, she yelled at our servers too much and was a bit rude to strangers. I overlooked the signs for the swing of her hips and the sex in her smile.

By the fourth date, she was asking me for money. Something tingled at my gut, but I ignored the feeling and gave her the funds. On the fifth date, she moved into my place or really, she just spent the night one time and never left. She continued to dance, but I never saw any money. She never offered to pay a bill or even took the check for the many restaurants we frequented. Still, I didn’t mind.

There were things about her that reminded me of myself, and made me want to take care of her. Like me, nightmares had plagued her sleep. And on the nights, when I’d wake up screaming from a dream about burnt bodies piled around me, she’d hold me close to her and rock me back to sleep. And, for her, I did the same. I never knew what she screamed about, just that it hurt her enough that she’d have to borrow some money and leave for a few hours.

I wasn’t a fool. I knew she did drugs. But, I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t want to deal with the reality of my fun toy. I was a boy after all, and she had skills in bed. So, I pretended that she wasn’t an addict, and she pretended to love me.

Months later, Cicely told me she was pregnant. She failed as a mother, at times leaving our babies at home by themselves. Once my mother found her passed out in the middle of the kitchen, while both my twins, by then toddlers, sat in soiled diapers.

That was the last straw, I told her I was filing for a divorce and would be taking the kids.

The next morning, my ex disappeared with the girls. I exhausted money in a private investigator. After two years of not seeing my twins, I’d drowned in depression and had given up all hope. That was my rock bottom. I lived in fear for my girls and wallowed in the agony of it all.

Then one morning, my ex, Cicely showed up at my doorstep, depressed, and hooked on drugs. She used to have rich chocolate skin and thick curls that teased her shoulders. On that day, the lovely hue in her complexion was gone and her hair stood on her head in knotted clumps.

No, baby. What happened to you?

Cicely’s eyes were red where they should’ve been white. Snot dripped from her nostrils, as if she was a little kid who didn’t know any better. And there, the twins stood in front, only five. Hope and Faith. Their hair was all over the place. Their clothes looked wrinkled and unwashed. Dirt and stains decorated their tops. Ripped holes dotted their jeans and even their shoes had seen better days. Hope clutched her dolls as Faith stared up at me with fear in her eyes.

My mind went back to that horrid memory.

“Cicely?” I opened the door and didn’t yell at her. I just hugged my babies, wrapped my arms around them, and wouldn’t let go.

After those two silent years, all Cicely had to say to me was, “Lorenzo, just watch them for me real quick.”

“Watch them?” I had to force myself to stay calm in front of the twins. “Cicely, I’m not a babysitter. I’m their father. I want them for as long as I can have them.”

“Well,” she shrugged. “Here’s your time.”

“You kidnapped them.”

Like a dope fiend, she coughed several times into her hands and then cleared her throat. “How long do you want them?”