The Problem with Fire - M.E. Clayton Page 0,10
think I was still hung up on him. Worse? It never occurred to me that Leta might think that, too. “Is that what you think? Do you think I’m still hung up on your father?”
She scoffed, and I laughed. “Puhlease,” she drawled out. “He’s not that hard to get over.”
“Leta!” I choked out a mortified laugh. “Do not talk about your father like that.”
“Why not? It’s true,” she argued. “He’s awful, Mom.”
I let out a deep, deep breath. “Leta, he’s your father,” I reminded her. “And he’s always been a good one.”
She cocked her head at me. “See, that’s debatable,” she replied. “A good father doesn’t tear apart his child’s family. He doesn’t destroy his child’s home because he’s having a goddamn mid-life crisis, Mom.”
“Leta, we don’t know if that’s-”
“Oh, come on, Mom,” she interrupted. “Of course, that’s what it was. He made no attempt at counseling or any spiritual guidance or just basic damn communication. He made no efforts to save his marriage or to see if he was just being an asshole.”
“Leta, that’s enough of calling your father names,” I insisted. I was willing to let her vent her tangled teenage emotions, but I drew the line at cruelty or disrespecting her father just to be mean.
She knew I was serious, so she simmered down. “I just didn’t like meeting his latest sc-female friend the way I did. And I didn’t appreciate the comments he made about you. That’s all,” she mumbled.
“Leta, honey,” I said, softening my tone, “sooner or later, you’re going to have to let go of all this anger. He’s your father, and that grudge you’re holding isn’t going to change that. If you want to be angry at him because he broke up our family, okay. That’s valid. But don’t be angry at him for everything else under the sun.”
She looked like she wanted to say something, but this was an old debate. Leta was angry, and she was holding onto her grudge with a vengeance. “Can we talk about this later?” she asked. “I just want to shower and relax before dinner.” I decided to give her a reprieve. I nodded, and then she grabbed her stuff and headed to her room.
Goddamn Thomas.
Before I could cuss him out more in my mind, my phone rang. I pulled it out and saw that it was my co-worker, Sarah. “Hey, Sarah.”
“Hey, Monroe,” she greeted back. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” I replied. “Are you about ready for your vacation?”
“Ugh,” she sighed dramatically. “That’s why I was calling.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“I’m super swamped, and I was hoping you and Kevin could help me out this week before I take off,” she grimaced, but here’s the thing about Sarah; Sarah was a helper. She was the co-worker who brought cookies, remembered birthdays, sent soup to your sick mother, helped with school fundraisers, etc. To say no to Sarah would be like securing your seat in the Seventh Circle of Hell.
No, thank you, Satan.
“Whatever you need, Sarah,” I said, and I meant it. She was truly a phenomenal human being.
“Oh, thank God,” she rushed out. “So, Kevin was kind enough to take on three of my assignments, so that leaves the Public Works substation and Firehouse Station No.17.”
“Firehouse Station No. 17?” I squeaked out.
“Yeah, it’s one of the county firehouses,” she replied. “It’s their surprise annual.”
I searched my brain for some of that random information I knew, and there was a one in six chance that Sayer worked for Firehouse Station No. 17. Not bad odds, right?
Chapter 6
Sayer~
Talk about crap they didn’t teach you in school to prepare for.
It was Thursday afternoon, and even though we’d been prepared for our annual county building inspection for weeks, I hadn’t been prepared when Monroe Stewart walked out of the administration office with Daria.
Her dark brown hair was piled on top of her head in one of those buns that looked messy, but you actually had to work to make it look like that. Her face was fresh with just a hint of makeup that ensured that you’d wake up to the same face you fell asleep to if you were lucky enough to get her in your bed. She had simply button-up white blouse paired with a grey pencil skirt and heels that clicked-clacked on the concrete floor. And I wanted to fuck her on one of the firetruck ladders until she screamed my name, and we started our own stage-five fire.
I was so not equipped to deal with this kind