No Damaged Goods

“Thought so,” Rich says without even missing a beat. “Those blast patterns weren’t right at the shop. Nothing goes up like that and creates those kinds of scorch patterns without a rapid combusting accelerant.”

“Yep,” I say. “Maybe it was a one-time thing. Some random asshole with a grudge or something. Leo’s practically a national celebrity now. Maybe it makes some folks jealous. But let me know if you run across anything suspicious, yeah?”

“Will do, Chief.” Rich pauses, then asks, “You told Langley about your suspicions?”

“Not yet. I don’t want to get the sheriff worried and bumbling around if it’s nothing. I want to take another look at the scene first.”

If I’m honest, I don’t want to pull Langley into it at all.

This feels too personal.

The sheriff’s a good man. He’s just not cut out for the fuckery that’s been going down here lately. Every time I see the man, I swear his hair has gone greyer.

“Listen,” I add. “I gotta get back to work. But keep an eye out for me, would you?”

“Sure,” Rich says. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up. You want me to do a workup at the shop? Save you the trouble?”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“It’s what I’m here for. And besides, my three kids are less of a handful than your one. Get some sleep, Blake. You’ve been looking like hell lately.”

“Thanks. Later,” I mutter dryly, but I can’t help but laugh before I hang up.

He’s not wrong.

I’ve been feeling like hell, too.

Including my bum leg, ever since I chewed Broccoli’s head off over nothing.

Worst part is, I don’t even know where to start with apologizing.

Or if she’d even want to hear it.

* * *

By the time I get off work, I think I’d say anything to ease the agony ripping up my thigh.

It’s like I took a hot-welded strut of steel rebar, still glowing at the tip from the blowtorch, and jammed it right into my flesh.

I barely get into the house after driving home in jerky fits and starts before my leg gives out under me, pitching me onto the sofa.

Sonofa…

I don’t know how long I’m damn-near paralyzed there.

Just glad Andrea’s not home right now.

As much as I love and trust my daughter, even when she’s a handful, she doesn’t need to see her old man stumbling around like this.

In a haze, I just keep massaging at my thigh till the dull, horrible throb of fire starts to fade.

I need a beer, not Vicodin.

I hate the fucking painkillers, hate how they haze me up, hate the potential for getting hooked. I’m so dull when that medicine kicks in.

Sure, beer gets me fuzzy, but I’m clearer and know it’ll wear off in thirty minutes instead of six hours.

I can’t be out of commission for six hours.

Not when someone might call with an emergency, and I can’t let them down because I’m drugged out of my mind.

I roll over, thump myself off the couch, onto the floor, hitting my hands and knees before sheer pride shoves me to my feet.

Might feel like hell, but I ain’t fucking crawling to the kitchen.

Zombie lurching isn’t much better, but at least I’m standing on my two legs.

The first beer tastes like a sip of salvation. It goes down quick, cold pouring through me. The shock of drinking something that frigid so quickly actually distracts me from the anguish in my leg as chill spears shoot through my chest, leaving me gasping.

But it’s exactly the liquid looseness I want when the booze gets in my bloodstream and makes my body go lax.

I’ll sure as hell use that effect to my advantage till I can handle standing upright again.

Just long enough to get into a hot shower and let the heat do the work to get me loosened up enough to sleep.

Might even go down to the station tonight, I think, after I’ve had time to rest. I crack open a second beer, sip it more slowly, then prop my hip against the counter and pin most of my weight on my good leg.

Maybe some small part of me is hoping.

Hoping if I go in, if I put myself out there over the airwaves, Peace will call in tonight.

And maybe I can tell her over the radio what I can’t say to her face.

The first thing being I’m sorry.

The second being sorry as hell.

The third being don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me when you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.

All tidied up for FCC regulations, of course.

That last one, I’m stuck on now, trying to get this girl off my mind. I force myself through the fog of pain and beer and into the shower. Temperature turned to scalding hot. It’s awful for the first few minutes I step into the steaming, scouring spray.

After a while, though?

Pure bliss.