“Am not.”
That’s a lie.
“Oh, you definitely are. You’re even more surly than normal. That screams blockage, if you know what I mean.”
I snort. “Everyone this side of the Mississippi knows what you mean.”
Ignoring my comment, he continues, “All I’m saying is, either give her a chance and see what kind of changes she makes or quit.”
“That’s not at all what you said.”
“Sure it is. If you stay and like working with her, maybe she’ll play with your dick. If you quit, you’re just a patron who wants angry sex, and she’ll play with your dick. It’s a win-win.”
I shake my head. “I don’t even know why we’re friends.”
“Because I give solid advice,” he states, kicking his feet back onto the coffee table.
“That’s the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever heard,” I reply with a chuckle, feeling surprisingly lighter after talking to him.
He’s not completely right, obviously. There will be no dick-play, despite how quickly my cock stood up and paid attention to her when she was at the bar. But he is right on the rest of it. I can either give her a chance and see what kind of changes she makes, or I can quit. Hell, I can quit even after she makes her changes. I’m not married to the place, that’s for sure. I just enjoy it.
Perhaps she won’t even be involved in the bar much. She could hire someone—Guy, for example—to run the day-to-day for the place. She’ll make random appearances to collect her money and then be on her way.
I could get on board with that.
A smile spreads across my lips. I bet Lizzie won’t even be at the bar when I’m around, and that’d be fine by me.
That thought is silenced by the wailing of the alarm. Instantly, Gio and I both jump up and run toward the apparatus bay. Any thoughts of Lizzie and the bar are pushed out of my head. Right now, I have a job to do, and all my focus turns to my training. I’m geared up quickly and heading for the awaiting truck.
It’s time to roll.
“Hello.” I say, answering my phone when I spot the name on the screen.
“Good morning,” Mom greets, her chirpy, happy voice filtering through the speakers in my truck. “On your way home?”
“I am,” I reply, trying not to yawn. The fire we battled last night took several hours to get under control, and fortunately, we kept it from spreading to a neighboring building. By the time shift change happened this morning, our heads had barely hit the pillow. The next shift will most likely deal with a few hot spots today, but at least the building isn’t still burning.
“I just wanted to call and remind you we’re having Charlotte’s birthday dinner tonight at six.”
I want to groan, but I hold it back. The last thing I want is for Mom to think I don’t want to attend my sister’s birthday celebration. I was just hoping, the moment I get home, I could sleep for about twenty-four hours straight. Looks like that won’t be happening, but I can still grab about seven hours before I need to get up and go to my parents’ house.
“Your brothers are coming, and I’m sure that means Quinn will be there too.”
I’m sure she’s right. Quinn has practically lived at their house since the first time he was invited over for dinner and realized my mom could cook about anything. Even as a kindergartener, Q ate about anything and everything, never wanting to be at his own place. I’m sure that had something to do with his parents and the fact his house was slightly dysfunctional. At our home, he found stability, warm food, and love.
He's been part of the family ever since.
“Do you want me to bring anything?” I ask, unable to control my yawn this time.
“No,” she replies with a chuckle. “Just yourself. Dad’s got some ribs on the smoker. I’ll make baked beans and mac and cheese, and your sister requested red velvet cake.”
My stomach growls, reminding me we didn’t get dinner last night because of the fire. “Sounds good. I’m starving.”
“Well, you might find some biscuits and gravy in your refrigerator, waiting.”
My mom is the fucking best. Even now, at the age of thirty-two, she’s still taking care of me, and I’m not just talking about the food that randomly appears in my fridge after a long, forty-eight-hour shift. I know that’s why she called me on my ride home when she could have easily texted to remind me of the gathering. She calls to keep me company while I drive so I don’t fall asleep.
“Damn, Mom. If I get a ticket for speeding, it’s your fault.”
