ball game to be ambushed by his girlfriend. I’m back at the fire house before I can calm myself down. Chief Delgado is at the desk with his brows drawn together and his eyes downcast.
“Let me give you some unsolicited advice, Kincaid,” he says and lifts my phone in the air so I can see the screen. Texts are pouring in from Jameson, one after the other. Some edging the line of flirty and inappropriate for friends—CHIEF ISN’T AS CUTE AS YOU AT THE DESK—and others panicky—WHERE DID YOU GO?
“It’s not worth it. Whatever it is, it’s not worth it,” he says and sets my phone back down on the desk before he stands, hops down the stairs, and heads down the hall. I pull myself up to my desk and eye the texts that have been coming in since I left.
OUT FOR WALK. BACK NOW, I text back and then put my phone on silent and shove it in my purse. Lydia ambushing me sucked, but the fact that she felt the need to do it sucks even more. Chief Delgado’s words ring in my ears.
It’s not worth it .
Only, I think he might be.
Christmas
Chapter 10
Jameson
One Week until Christmas
“If one more person tries roasting chestnuts over an open fire this season, I’m gonna start roasting their nuts,” Hennessey gripes from beside me.
We’ve just gotten back to the house from a call where a couple of teenagers tried to roast chestnuts . . . in their fireplace. It didn’t end well. There were no injuries, but there’s substantial damage to their fireplace, surrounding walls, and what is, apparently, their parents’ antique spoon collection.
This last call was just the icing on the cake of this crappy day. Yesterday we responded to a hot dog cart fire, which pissed us all off. It was our favorite hot dog vendor, who suffered minor burns, but his cart had been lobbed with a gas-drenched rag that had been lit on fire. I don’t know who the fuck would want to do that to Carlos, but it’s fucked.
And the worst part is Carlos was freaking out and making it hard for us to help him—he was on fire, ya know—and I couldn’t help but think how Mel is going to miss his Italian sausages if he goes out of business. Then I started thinking about how fucking stupid it is that she won’t return my calls. And that led to a bad mood where I ended up snapping at some old man for complaining about where I parked the truck. I was putting out a man on fire, so excuse the fuck out of me. So I sent Mel a text to let her know about Carlos—because she’s crazy and wants to know stuff like this. She’s probably been down to the hospital to visit him already. For a woman who professes to have few friends, she makes them everywhere she goes. She’s just nice to almost everyone. Except for me because, again, she’s not returning my fucking calls. Or texts. I tried email, and that was a no-go.
I know she flew in for the holidays two days ago. I saw it on Facebook. And I know the last time we spoke she asked for space, but that was before Thanksgiving, so she’s had space. And my mood isn’t helped by the fact that she and Royal had dinner together last night, and not only did neither of them invite me, but neither even told me about it.
Not that they can’t have dinner without me, but you would think my own sister wouldn’t shut me out when it comes to Lulu.
Only, she doesn’t really know what Lulu means to me.
Not yet, anyway.
Soon enough, everyone is going to know what she means to me. The lease on my apartment is up in March, so after the holidays I’m going to sit Lydia down and let her know this isn’t working. She already knows we’re headed here—I can feel it—but neither of us has had the guts to say it yet. Right before Thanksgiving, I almost did it, but we had this big family dinner planned, and it was too late for her to book a ticket to spend the holiday with her folks in Maine. I almost did it before Halloween. She wanted to go to a costume party, I didn’t, and she went anyway—wearing a tiny
“Let me give you some unsolicited advice, Kincaid,” he says and lifts my phone in the air so I can see the screen. Texts are pouring in from Jameson, one after the other. Some edging the line of flirty and inappropriate for friends—CHIEF ISN’T AS CUTE AS YOU AT THE DESK—and others panicky—WHERE DID YOU GO?
“It’s not worth it. Whatever it is, it’s not worth it,” he says and sets my phone back down on the desk before he stands, hops down the stairs, and heads down the hall. I pull myself up to my desk and eye the texts that have been coming in since I left.
OUT FOR WALK. BACK NOW, I text back and then put my phone on silent and shove it in my purse. Lydia ambushing me sucked, but the fact that she felt the need to do it sucks even more. Chief Delgado’s words ring in my ears.
It’s not worth it .
Only, I think he might be.
Christmas
Chapter 10
Jameson
One Week until Christmas
“If one more person tries roasting chestnuts over an open fire this season, I’m gonna start roasting their nuts,” Hennessey gripes from beside me.
We’ve just gotten back to the house from a call where a couple of teenagers tried to roast chestnuts . . . in their fireplace. It didn’t end well. There were no injuries, but there’s substantial damage to their fireplace, surrounding walls, and what is, apparently, their parents’ antique spoon collection.
This last call was just the icing on the cake of this crappy day. Yesterday we responded to a hot dog cart fire, which pissed us all off. It was our favorite hot dog vendor, who suffered minor burns, but his cart had been lobbed with a gas-drenched rag that had been lit on fire. I don’t know who the fuck would want to do that to Carlos, but it’s fucked.
And the worst part is Carlos was freaking out and making it hard for us to help him—he was on fire, ya know—and I couldn’t help but think how Mel is going to miss his Italian sausages if he goes out of business. Then I started thinking about how fucking stupid it is that she won’t return my calls. And that led to a bad mood where I ended up snapping at some old man for complaining about where I parked the truck. I was putting out a man on fire, so excuse the fuck out of me. So I sent Mel a text to let her know about Carlos—because she’s crazy and wants to know stuff like this. She’s probably been down to the hospital to visit him already. For a woman who professes to have few friends, she makes them everywhere she goes. She’s just nice to almost everyone. Except for me because, again, she’s not returning my fucking calls. Or texts. I tried email, and that was a no-go.
I know she flew in for the holidays two days ago. I saw it on Facebook. And I know the last time we spoke she asked for space, but that was before Thanksgiving, so she’s had space. And my mood isn’t helped by the fact that she and Royal had dinner together last night, and not only did neither of them invite me, but neither even told me about it.
Not that they can’t have dinner without me, but you would think my own sister wouldn’t shut me out when it comes to Lulu.
Only, she doesn’t really know what Lulu means to me.
Not yet, anyway.
Soon enough, everyone is going to know what she means to me. The lease on my apartment is up in March, so after the holidays I’m going to sit Lydia down and let her know this isn’t working. She already knows we’re headed here—I can feel it—but neither of us has had the guts to say it yet. Right before Thanksgiving, I almost did it, but we had this big family dinner planned, and it was too late for her to book a ticket to spend the holiday with her folks in Maine. I almost did it before Halloween. She wanted to go to a costume party, I didn’t, and she went anyway—wearing a tiny
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