Consumed (Firefighters #1)(20)

Yup, he was dating a bottle of ibuprofen.

Popping the lid off, he thought once again that this was, in fact, the healthiest relationship he had ever been in. Betty never let him down, was always available, and improved his life immeasurably. Still, he was jealous over her, and unwilling to share her with anybody—not that she ever complained that he was a smothering sonofabitch.

Shaking out six capsules, he took them on a oner, washing them down with some still-hot Dunkin’.

Looking at the back door to the stationhouse again, he breathed in. Someone was cooking bacon and eggs. He hoped it wasn’t Duff. The bastard always under-did the former and hard-tack’d the latter—and for a guy who liked super-crispy and sunny-side up that was more tragedy than Danny could handle on a Monday morning.

To kill some time, he took out his Marlboros and lit one. Soon as he’d gotten out of rehab last spring, he’d taken the habit up again with a vengeance—but yet again, Betty didn’t mind the secondhand smoke, and now that he essentially had no roommates, there was nobody around to complain about the ashtrays.

Perfect.

Sitting back, he closed his eyes. Firefighters in New Brunswick worked an unpredictable schedule, which was always tighter than the national standard of two days on, three days R&R—but with the city in a bad way financially, they had to cover the shifts. At least they were finally getting some newbs, although they were all going to the 617.

Chief Ashburn, who was now pulling double time as an IC due to budget cuts, always worked it so that he got the best of everything: the new stationhouse, the new apparatus, the extra help.

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.”