Authors: Missy Fleming
“I’m always down for a good snuggle.” He tucked her under his arm and led her into the building. “And if you tell anyone that, I’ll deny it until I die.”
“What if I have photographic evidence?”
“Photoshop, obviously.”
In the apartment, she changed into comfortable sweat pants and a tank top, then drew the blackout shades across the windows in the living room. The plan was to enjoy Duncan and have a normal, drama-free night. She fixed them iced tea and brought it to the couch as he ordered Chinese food. Once she sat, he studied her.
“I’m fine.”
“Damn right you are. I’m proud of you. I don’t know the specifics of what happened, but it sounds like you stood up for yourself, which is never a bad thing.”
“I’m glad I did it.” Olivia couldn’t stop her fingers from tracing her tattoo. “I’m worried about the consequences, though. We don’t need any more bad publicity right now and I came at the lady pretty aggressively.”
“See,” he drew her close, “you did need me down there busting heads.”
“The woman’s face was so full of botox I doubt you’d have made a dent.”
“That’s my girl.” He kissed her temple.
As they ate their dinner and watched old movies, Olivia relaxed. She propped her feet in Duncan’s lap and her mind wandered—to Simon. He cared for her. Like,
cared
for her. He brought so much light to her life and that simple acknowledgement bothered her, not necessarily in a bad way. Logic told her she needed to bury whatever was blooming between them, but she didn’t want to, and that could cause all kinds of problems. Especially since she was starting to care a little too much herself.
“Olivia?”
She blinked guiltily, realizing Duncan had been talking. “Sorry, thinking about today. What were you saying?”
A flash of annoyance skittered across his face, but he relaxed it and grinned. “I was saying I had a work thing next Friday and wanted you to be my date.”
Olivia opened her mouth to answer then remembered—next Friday night was the gala she and Simon had promised to attend. She hadn’t mentioned it to Duncan yet, there’d been too much on her mind between him and Catherine and work. Announcing she was attending a social event with another man could set things back, especially since she was kind of looking forward to it.
“What kind of work thing?” she asked, delaying her answer. “Everyone hanging out at the bar?”
“No. That’s just a normal Friday night. Well, not for me anymore.” He reached for his glass. “This is a party for a guy I’ve known sixteen years. He’s being forced into retirement because he’s sick.”
“Can they do that?” She sat up. “What kind of sick?”
“Doctors say he has lung cancer from the dust and toxins we breathed at Ground Zero during the recovery. Department gave him two choices—retire or a desk job. Bill’s a lot like me, so he told them where they could stick their desk job.”
“How horrible.” She leaned her head on his shoulder, chilled. “Have there been many cancers linked to Ground Zero? I admit I used to block all news of 9/11.”
“There’s been a few, but more are popping up. A lot of guys have respiratory problems, lung cancer when they’ve never smoked, like Bill. The variety of cancers is strange, too—young guys are being diagnosed with types normally found in men twice their age.” He frowned. “I know one retired firefighter who takes twenty-four different medications twice a day.”
“Wow. Why has it taken so long to figure out what caused it?”
“Doctors didn’t know what the hell they were seeing at first, but now they’re linking it to the pile of shit we dug through for days and the chemicals that burned in the air. I remember my skin itching like crazy, coughing a lot.”
“And the fire department’s solution is to force these men into retirement?”
“Not force. I mean, as they get sicker, they can’t work, obviously.”
“And the FDNY wants to deny a lawsuit.”
“Probably. For a while the department shied away from admitting any connection, along with the city. Hell, the EPA went on television and told the entire world the air was fine, that we weren’t in any danger. But now, in light of so many new cases and deaths, it has to be recognized. Bill volunteered to be part of a study to help doctors can learn more. Scares me to death. They say we have a nineteen percent higher probability of getting cancer compared to those who weren’t there. Every time I get short of breath, I freak.”
“I’d be terrified, too. I’m sure they’ll be finding new things another nine years from now. It didn’t end when the last piece of debris was hauled off.”
“It didn’t.” Duncan stroked her hair. “They’re still sifting through remains. I know widows who continue to get calls as another piece of their husband is identified.”
“How is that possible?” Olivia stiffened. She’d been wondering the same thing about her parents.
“You were there, Liv. How do you identify a pulverized bone fragment?”
Shuddering at the image, she choked on an unexpected lump of emotion in her throat. “Where are they doing the identification of the remains? I wonder if my grandmother got any of those phone calls, I’ve avoided that particular conversation.” If it were true, she realized her parents deserved closure, as did she. No matter how uncomfortable it made either of them, Olivia vowed to ask Catherine.
“I think it’s being done at a special building,” he was saying. “You should call the medical examiner’s office and ask. It’ll help with your closure.”
Olivia clung to him, receptive to the idea of asking the hard questions. Certainly her and Catherine’s relationship was strong enough for it. With his chest muffling her voice, she asked, “Where will your closure come from?”
“No idea. Visiting the memorial the other day was a big part of it. I carried around a lot of weight and since then, I’ve felt lighter, which sounds weird.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“The memorial or Ground Zero?”
“Both. I could go to where my parents’ graves are, at the cemetery, but they aren’t buried there, especially if there aren’t any bodies.”
They were quiet for a while, trapped in the past once more. It’d be with them forever and Olivia was thankful she had met someone who understood, who shared the darkness, but would it always be like this? If every conversation between them circled around to that day, how could either of them truly find peace? Olivia didn’t want that.
“How are the cravings?” she asked, changing the subject.
“They suck.” She felt the rumble in his chest as he laughed. “Today I found myself reaching for my pocket, or into my glove box, more than once. It takes a while, but I’m able to talk myself out of the craving. My mouth gets dry, hands shake. Couple times my stomach cramped, but you don’t need to hear the result of that particular symptom. There are a lot of deep breaths and swearing involved.”
“Whatever works,” she teased.
“Can I do this on my own? Without checking into rehab?”
The doubt in his question made her sit up. “It’s up to you. Your strength comes from the people around you. As much as rehab worked for me, it’s not for everyone. Try it your way. There’s always the option to find an out-patient facility if it becomes too much. Do you want to hit a meeting?”
“Tonight?” Olivia nodded. “I would. I think I’m ready to take that step .” His hands slipped to her hips. “So, you gonna be my date next Friday?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip and dove in. “Catherine asked me and Simon to attend this ballet gala thing. She wants us to show a united front considering everything that is going on. And after what I did today, it’s probably a good idea.”
He stilled and she held her breath. “You can’t bring a friend?”
“I could bring a friend, but think about it first.” Against Catherine’s suggestion, she gave him a chance to consider it. “Imagine. The whole glitzy, claustrophobic New York society experience? I’d rather introduce you slowly. This is like the frying pan and the fire.”
“You have a point. Were you going to invite me?”
“No. I figured I was saving you the headache. I don’t even want to go, but I have to.” She nibbled her lip, surprised at how much she wanted a night alone with Simon. “Are you mad?”
“Not mad, maybe a little disappointed. I do hate ballet.” He frowned. “And this Simon guy? He’s just a colleague? Your friend? You mention him quite a bit.”
“Yes. Simon’s a great help and support to me,” she recited her stock answer.
“Reassuring,” Duncan mumbled darkly.
“You don’t need to worry about him. I like my guys complicated and surly,” she joked, hoping he believed her.
It worked, Duncan’s eyes crinkled around the edges. “You really are one of a kind aren’t you?”
They kissed and she poured herself into it in an effort to sweep Simon from of her head. If only he would stay out.
T
he fire truck lurched to a stop in the vehicle bay, jostling Duncan’s sore body and he groaned, biting his tongue to keep from lashing out at Carl’s heavy brake foot. Not the guy’s fault his back felt like it’d been tap-danced on. Four hours of nonstop calls, one right after the other; two gas leaks, a water main break, a nasty car crash, and a big fire, one where they got stuck with cleaning up, hauling damn furniture to the curb and gutting the ceilings and walls to make sure no trace of fire lingered. Duncan slid from of the rig, stretching the kinks from his muscles. Each step felt as though he was sloughing through knee deep mud and his joints cracked in protest. Twenty-plus years on the job were catching up to him and it sent him flirting with an epic bad mood. Getting old sucked, not being able to do the job he loved sucked worse.
After hanging his bunker jacket on its peg, he stepped outside to call Leslie. They hadn’t spoken since he dropped his emotional bomb in her kitchen and he wanted to check in. She’d been a constant presence in his mind, her voice in his ear, her touch on his skin when she’d soothed his injuries. It was driving him mad considering he should be more attentive to his current relationship. All last night he’d had to work to put himself in the moment with Olivia, not let his conscious wander to his marriage.
“Duncan?” she greeted.
“Hi. I, uh, how are you?”
“Good, you?”
“Bone tired. Busy shift.” He searched for something to add but came up with nothing. Thankfully, Leslie broke the uncomfortable silence before it suffocated him.
“Are you okay?”
“Jittery.” Duncan sighed. “Not sure if it’s the exhaustion, lingering hangover, or the fact I haven’t had a pill in twenty-four hours. Whatever it is, it’s kicking my ass.”
“Well, if it’s the latter, I’m proud of you. As long as you don’t forget it’ll only get harder.”
“That’s what I keep hearing,” he muttered. “So, about the other night—”
“Let me stop you there. I know you’re beating yourself up about it, doing your guilt thing, but it was good, Duncan. I’m glad you finally opened up to me.”
“Better late than never?”
“I know you’re being sarcastic, but yes, exactly. At least I know what it was that took you from me.”
From the day they were married, she’d possessed the wifely trait of knowing right where to hit him and he found himself asking, “Would it have been easier if it was a woman instead?”
“Yes.”
He blinked in surprise. “Why?”
“If it was someone else, I would have known how to fight. A person is easier to compete with than something I can’t see, or punch.”
Duncan chuckled, despite the image of Leslie and Olivia engaging in a mud fight. Then, he sobered. “Wonder where we’d be now if I’d just opened up to you?”
“I don’t know.” He heard her breath hitch and it triggered another wave of nausea. “We’d be talking about what to have for dinner tonight instead of deeper stuff.”
“I do miss your meatballs.”
“They’re Adam’s favorite, too.” Leslie paused. “I should let you go. I’ll talk to you later.”
Duncan stared at the phone after the call ended. Later. How about that? He was looking forward to it. Tucking his cell in the pocket of his pants, he headed to the kitchen with a bounce in his step, intending to make a very large sandwich, or two, to refuel. Hopefully, there’d be time to finish eating before the next alarm. Of course, his jittery hands probably had more to do with the withdrawal than actual hunger. The previous night he’d spent an hour on his hands and knees in front of the toilet, praying to the porcelain gods and trying not to wake Olivia. This whole pill-free thing was kicking his ass, but his determination was stronger, more so now since it seemed he and Leslie had found the beginnings of peace and forgiveness.
On autopilot, he reached into the fridge for ham, pastrami, deli mustard, lettuce and tomato, vaguely acknowledging the other guys at the table. He glared at Frank and Alex, face deep into steaming mugs of coffee. He cheated once already this morning, when he first got in, but he vowed to make a bigger effort to get healthy. Then he frowned at the four slices of bread lined up for his lunch. Well, at least a sandwich was sort of nutritional. He’d done too much damage to his body the past decade, time to ensure he lived a little longer than the average guy.
“Gonna make me one too, cupcake?” Frank asked after Duncan put the ingredients away and took a seat at the table. He slumped in his chair, doing his best to remain upright while he ate.
“Make your own,” he answered around a mouthful.
“Shit,” Alex muttered under his breath beside him.
Duncan swiveled his head, the action taking monumental effort, and noticed Alex was reading today’s newspaper. His meal soured in his stomach. Damn, he forgot to check them this morning before their first call.
“Give it.”
He wiped his hands and reached, but Alex held the paper away from him. “Wait a minute. Do you want the good or the bad first?”
“There’s both?” He furrowed his brows in confusion. “Liv was sure it’d all be bad.”
“The one I read wasn’t negative,” Frank supplied.
“Bad,” he decided.
Alex handed him the
Post
and Duncan groaned. The reporter she had told off was from the
Post
. Obviously Olivia’s speech, which she repeated to him word for word last night, hadn’t made much of an impact. He skimmed the article, clutching the thin material tighter and tighter with each paragraph. It portrayed her to be nothing more than a spoiled party girl, who ‘blames her shortcomings and inability to say no on the biggest tragedy to ever hit this wonderful city’. The reporter called it a cop out. His hands shook and he slammed the offensive trash down.
“What a load of bullshit,” he complained.
Clay, one of the other crew members, reached for the newspaper. “Those were my thoughts when I read it, and I don’t even know her.”
“See,” Alex added. “I’m sure most readers will recognize it for what it is—a piece of over-sensationalized garbage. Here, try this one.”
The next article came from the
Times
and painted her in a much better light, praising her recovery and describing the woman she was now. Slowly, the tension coiled throughout his body lessened its grip and he was able to take a deep breath. He was glad he’d saved the positive one for last. Otherwise, he could have spiraled into another bender. Hell, he saw it all perfectly—losing control, drinking, marching into her work and trying to offer his abrasive advice to screw them all, or worse, storming into the newspaper and making a scene. The urge tugged at him, old Duncan perching on his shoulder and telling him not to be a pussy. The desire was so strong it nearly brought him to his feet, but an involuntary shudder hit him. No, he’d never embarrass her that badly. He only wanted to protect her and offer what comfort he could.
He felt Frank’s gaze on him and lifted his eyes to meet it. “What?”
“Waiting for the fireworks.”
A short chuckle escaped. “I was sitting here thinking the same thing. Without the pills, I can actually process this. The temptation is still there to blow the entire situation out of proportion, but I know the damage it would do. Ain’t worth it.”
“Wow.”
“Proud of you,” Alex said as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Whatever happed the other night must have been good for you.”
“He’s right. You’re different.” Frank studied him as if he were a science project or something.
Duncan squirmed, picking up his forgotten sandwich and returning to the task of refueling. The silence around him grew and he mentally smacked himself in the head. Soon, they were going to start thinking of him as a softie. He’d have to ensure that didn’t happen.
“Few months ago you’d be on your way to the
Post
’s headquarters with a full head of steam and murder in your eye,” Frank joked.
“Maybe a crowbar in hand,” Clay added with a grin.
Duncan fought the urge to glare at them. Alex snickered, having an obvious problem containing his amusement.
“Ya’ll are a bunch of girls.” He stood and took his empty plate to the sink and grinned. The picture they painted of him hauling ass to the newspaper was pretty dead on. Today, he was sober enough to realize how stupid it would be. The only thing his interference would do was make things worse for Olivia. No, he’d behave himself. Of course, it didn’t stop him from worrying about how she was taking the negative press.
A headache flared. They were almost constant since tossing his pills and he reached for the station’s jumbo-sized bottle of ibuprofen. Withdrawals were a bitch. The sharp blast of the alarm snapped him into action and the routine he knew by heart. Stepping into his boots, Duncan wished for the next few hours to pass quickly so he could leave and check in on Olivia.