Raging Inferno Read online

  The first stop was the mall and let me just say, there should be a law against fathers having to shop with their teenage daughters. It’s one thing to sit in a chair while she tries on twelve pairs of boots, it’s a horse of a different color to have to stand outside Victoria’s Secret as she shops for underwear.

  Next on the list was Target—another torturous place for all of mankind. There we got all her toiletries, a computer, and some new bedding. By the time she felt at home two days passed and I had to go back to work, making it my turn to feel misplaced. It was the first time since I got on the job where I had to worry about what my daughter was doing or if she needed something. I didn’t know what her routine was or if she could be trusted alone. I wanted to believe she wouldn’t take advantage of the situation. That she would go to bed at a decent time and not try to sneak out or smuggle anyone in for that matter. I wanted Gabby the little girl, the one who hung on my every word and thought I was her hero. The little girl who was content sitting on the floor playing with Barbie dolls.

  As the hours ticked by and I stared at the clock in the firehouse, I realized how much time had passed and how many precious moments I missed. My daughters were growing into young women and the memories I often replayed in my head were just a piece of their past. You don’t realize it at first or at least I didn’t. I was too busy living day to day, trying to be in two places at once to realize a phone call every night and dinner twice a week with my kids wasn’t enough.

  Vowing to change that, I decided after my shift I would go home, make her favorite—chicken marsala and then, we’d get back to basics. Back to the days when Gabby didn’t have to wonder if I had her back when she knew for certain her dad would move heaven and earth for her. Then and only then would we get to the root of why she was drinking and cutting out of school.

  My plan was solid until I went home, opened the fridge and spotted a loaf of bread and a half a gallon of milk. Now, here we are at Jose Tejas—her favorite restaurant, sharing a bowl of chips trying to decide between enchiladas and burritos. One thing about my daughter that I’m certain of is that she is as indecisive as her mother.

  The waitress finally takes our order and the silence stretching between us is painfully uncomfortable. Avoiding me, I watch as she chews on her straw and glances around the crowded Mexican restaurant. Part of me wonders if she chose this place so she wouldn’t have to talk to me much.

  “I spoke to your sister today,” I start, waiting for her to turn her attention back to me. “Told her you’re staying with me.”

  No response.

  “I’ll hit the supermarket after we leave here,” I say, changing the subject. “If there is anything specific you want let me know or we can go together…”

  She slurps the rest of her drink through the straw instead of replying. Frustrated, I rake a hand down my face and scratch the scruff lining my jaw.

  “Has your mother called you?” I question.

  That seems to strike a nerve with her and she finally meets my gaze.

  “She called this morning,” she replies with a shrug. “I didn’t answer.”

  “How come?”

  “What’s the point?” she says. “She’ll either yell at me and tell me how much I disappointed her, or she’ll blame you for everything like you poured the vodka in the bottle for me.”

  As true as that might be, I don’t agree with her. I think part of the reason she is acting out is that Lisa and I have been doing a shit job of co-parenting. It’s easier to point fingers at one another than to come together despite our differences. The blow is softer to the pride we’re both struggling to hang onto.

  “You know she blames you for everything right?” she adds. “Every time me or Gianna get into trouble it’s your fault. She uses the excuse you weren’t around enough when we were growing up. Sometimes, when she’s really pissed, she raises her head to the sky and asks God why we had to take after you and not her.”

  Pausing, she diverts her eyes away from me.

  “When the grades are good, we’re her daughters but, when we fuck up we’re Jimmy’s girls,” she whispers.

  She’s not lying.

  I’ve witnessed Lisa’s theatrics firsthand and while it burns my ass, she pulls this shit in front of our kids, I bite my cheek, forcing myself to remain focused. As much as I want to tell Gabby her mother is an asshole that’s not what she needs to hear. It won’t fix shit.

  “Watch ya mouth,” I mutter. Sighing, I lean forward and touch a finger to her chin. She turns her gaze back to me and I offer her a wink. “Your mother loves you, Gab. We both do,” I assure her. “The both of us made mistakes when it came to each other and unfortunately when it came to you and your sister too. There are some wrongs in life we can’t make right no matter how much we want to. All we can do is make a conscious effort to be better going forward but you gotta do your part too,” I say, pausing to grab her hand. Startled, confusion masks her pretty face as she stares at our joined hands.

  “You gotta talk to me,” I say, forcing her eyes back to me. “You need to tell me what’s bothering you.”

  “Who said anything is bothering me?”

  “You did. Maybe not with words but with your actions. Come on, Gab. You know not to drink and you sure as shit know not to get sloshed at school.”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” she defends quietly.

  “Don’t make it right,” I argue, watching as she bites her lower lip in deep thought. “And while we’re at it, we might as well discuss your grades and why they’re slipping. Your guidance counselor said you haven’t been showing up to your classes.”

  “There is no point,” she mutters. “I’m not going to graduate with my friends. I’m too far behind.”

  “She doesn’t seem to think so,” I counter, cocking my head to the side as I draw in a deep breath. “According to her, if you work your ass off from now until June you have a shot at that diploma. Then next year you can start a community college, build your grades up and transfer to whatever school you want.”

  “Why do I have to go to college?”

  “You don’t have to do anything. You can flunk school and deliver pizza if that’s what you want but, I know you Gab. I know you want better for yourself. You used to want to be a kindergarten teacher, what happened?”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “You remember that?”

  “Baby girl, I remember everything,” I tell her. “Including all the times you would run to me whenever there was something bothering you. You weren’t just your daddy’s little girl, you were my best pal.”

  “And then you left,” she whispers, eyes full of unshed tears.

  “I didn’t leave you, Gab,” I say, taking her hands. “Never you. You and your sister are everything to me.”

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Anything,” I reply hoarsely. Watching her wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands, makes my heart feel like it’s in a vice. As painful as this conversation is, it’s long overdue. All these years, I’ve been coasting through, fighting fires and making ends meet believing I was doing the right thing as a father and a man. I knew the divorce didn’t only hit me but my girls too and yet, I never took the time to discuss it with them. I never asked them if they were okay. I went about life just like I did when I was with their mother, always waiting for the alarm to ring.

  “I thought having a fireman for a dad was the greatest thing ever. I mean there aren’t too many girls who get to brag their dad is a real-life superhero. Then you and mommy started fighting all the time and I would hear her say you loved the job more than her, more than us. Of course, I didn’t believe her. I’d hear her say those words and immediately I would think about all the times you came home from work and walked straight into our room. It didn’t matter if we were sleeping or just waking up, you would come in, tell us you loved us and hug us tight. I knew you loved me.”

  “I do love you,” I interject. “Then, now and forever.”

 
“I know but when you moved out, we started seeing you less and less. I hated it and I began to wonder if you were something else if you weren’t a firefighter, would you and mom still be together? I started wishing you would quit or even get fired because I thought mom would take you back. I wanted my dad back and I couldn’t understand why you would run into a burning building for someone you never met but wouldn’t come back for me. I know it’s crazy and I know you love me.”

  “So much,” I rasp.

  “I stopped going to school because I thought if I pissed mommy off enough then maybe she’d kick me out like she kicked you out. Same thing with the drinking. She couldn’t tolerate a working man, surely she wouldn’t accept a drunk as a daughter.”

  “Gab, if you wanted to live with me why didn’t you ever ask?”

  “Mommy would never let me live with you unless it was her idea.”

  “That’s not true,” I argue. “Your mother wants what is best for you.”

  “She wants what is convenient,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “What looks good on paper. Come on, Dad. You know as well as I do, mommy would’ve never let me live with you. The only reason she’s agreed now is because I was suspended, and she’s had enough of my shit. If I was perfect like Gianna, she would be thrashing all over the place.”

  The waitress appears with our food, saving me the agony of agreeing with my daughter. Sad as it is, Lisa wouldn’t have taken it lightly if Gabby had confided any of this to her.

  The truth cuts.

  Hell, it scars.

  Pushing my plate away, I reach for Gabby’s wrist as she lifts her fork.

  “Look at me,” I demand softly. “No one is perfect, not you, not me, not your mother and certainly not your sister. Does that make us bad people? No, it makes us human. I’ll talk to your mother. From now on, you’ll stay with me. They’ll be rules. This bullshit with you cutting school and getting drunk ends. When Monday rolls around be ready to do whatever it takes to graduate with your class and come June, I’ll be the proud dad cheering in the stands because you’re going to get that diploma.”

  Hiding her smile, she bites the inside of her cheek.

  “Am I still grounded?”

  “Yes,” I say, releasing her wrist. Not that I’ve really enforced any kind of punishment. “Now eat your dinner,” I add, glancing down at the enchiladas in front of me. I should’ve gone with the fucking burrito. I also should’ve ordered a shot of tequila.

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, grabbing my fork.

  “I’m going to need my own bathroom and the Wi-Fi in your house sucks. You should switch to Verizon.”

  Make that two shots of tequila and a Dos Equis. Turning my head, I scan the busy restaurant in search of our waitress, but my eyes catch a familiar face instead. Sitting across the room with another woman is Gabby’s guidance counselor. The forlorn expression she was wearing at the meeting is gone and as her eyes find mine shock wears on her pretty features.

  Features, such as those dark brown almond shaped eyes of hers. They’re mysterious and once they latch onto yours, you forget to blink. You forget to breathe. Then there are her lips. So full and inviting—they make your imagination wander to places you have no business visiting.

  She’s got a face you don’t forget.

  A face like hers sticks with you.

  “Earth to Dad,” Gabby calls, forcing me to blink. Diverting my eyes back to my daughter, I watch as she glances over her shoulder.

  “Eat your food before it gets cold,” I mutter, willing myself not to look back at Ms. Moscato. I’m about to lift my fork when Gabby waves across the room.

  “That’s my guidance counselor,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I reply shoving a forkful of refried beans into my mouth.

  “She’s not as mean as she looks and suffers from a severe case of RBF.”

  “RBF?” I question, raking my brain for the disease.

  “Resting bitch face,” she reveals pointedly. Turning back around, she loads her fork and takes another bite. “It’s not her fault,” she adds with her mouthful. “I hear she’s had it rough.” Before I have the chance to ask how she knows anything about her guidance counselor, she begins to spill all her secrets, reminding me my youngest girl is the one with the big mouth and loose lips.

  “My best friend, Sienna lives next door to Ms. Moscato. You remember Sienna, don’t you?”

  As she rambles on, I steal another glance at Ms. Moscato and to my surprise, she’s staring back.

  “Oh my God!”

  “What?” I ask, slicing my eyes back to Gabby.

  “You’re staring.”

  “I am not.”

  “You totally are.”

  “Gabby.”

  “She’s not married.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “She doesn’t even have a boyfriend.”

  Jesus fuck.

  “Gabby—”

  “She’s got a kid though.”

  “Again, how do you know all of this?”

  Rolling her eyes, she releases an exasperated breath.

  “I told you! Sienna lives next door to Melissa.”

  “Melissa? Who is Melissa?”

  “Come on, Dad. Keep up! Melissa is her first name.”

  Melissa Moscato.

  A pretty name to match a pretty face.

  A face I can’t keep my eyes off.

  Chapter Four

  Getting Back on The Horse

  I love my sister. Really, I do—just not right now. I should be in bed, curled under the new quilt I won from this ridiculously talented woman named Diane. However, instead of a quiet night binging on Netflix and Halo Top ice cream, I’m sitting in Jose Tejas, eating my weight in guacamole. It should be noted that I don’t even like avocados.

  Dipping another chip into the creamy dip, I glare across the table at my sister, Amber. Not only did she drag me out of the house, but she also finagled my mother into babysitting my son for the weekend. I shouldn’t really make it sound like my mom needs to be swayed to watch Christopher. She offers all the time, I just never take her up on it. It’s part of being a single parent. One minute I’m bitching about not having time for myself and the next I’m crying because I feel guilty over not spending every waking second with my kid.

  I swear there are days when I give myself whiplash.

  “For the love of God would you please wipe that look from your face,” Amber groans, lifting her margarita to her lips. “And while you’re at it, stop looking at your phone or I swear I’ll take it from you.”

  Rolling my eyes, I curl my fingers into a fist and refrain from reaching for my phone. She’s right. Since we were seated fifteen minutes ago, I’ve checked my phone a half a dozen times expecting to see a text from my mother declaring a state of emergency. I reach for my glass and gulp the frozen raspberry margarita like its water.

  “Now, that’s what I’m talking about,” Amber boasts, pointing a finger as I down the rest of the slushy drink. “That’s my sister. I knew she was still in there somewhere.”

  Placing the empty glass back on the table, I grab a napkin and wipe my lips as I roll my eyes. She makes it like I used to be this crazy broad who hammered down drinks like it was her job when the truth is, I can barely hold my liquor. She forgets all the times we went out, and she had to hold my hair back as I threw up on the side of the road.

  “I’ll order us another round,” she offers, waving for the waiter.

  “I’m good.”

  “No, the night is young and we’re just getting started,” she argues. The waiter notices Ambers flailing arm and she orders us another round.

  “I agreed to dinner, and that’s it,” I remind her. “I’ve got a lot of things to do and I might as well take advantage of Christopher being with mom.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” she says sarcastically. “Let me ask you when was the last time you said fuck it, I’m doing me.”

  “When you’re a mother, you d
on’t get to say that.”

  “You’re a mom, Melissa a fantastic one to boot but, you’re not fucking dead.”

  Here we go.

  I guess I should’ve prepared myself for the usual tongue lashing my sister delivers every time we’re together. I don’t know why I foolishly thought I’d be off the hook. She’s made it her mission in life to torment me.

  Okay, so maybe that’s a bit harsh.

  Amber doesn’t mean to torture me. She’s trying to get me laid is all. I suppose her heart is in the right place but mine is still stuck in a church, waiting to marry a man who has been gone for nearly five years. Part of me wants to lie to her and tell her I’ve already moved on, that I found some poor unsuspecting stranger to scratch the itch. Maybe then she’ll stop hounding me.

  “Chris would want you to be happy, Melissa,” she says. At the mention of his name, I’m jolted away from my thoughts.

  “Who says I’m not happy?”

  “He wouldn’t want you to just exist,” she continues, ignoring my response. “It’s been five years.”

  “Four years and ten months,” I correct, drawing out a breath.

  Attempting to avoid her sympathetic stare, I glance around the restaurant. I know she means well and I’m sure if the roles were reversed I would be encouraging her to move on with her life too. But, the truth is I am terrified. When you planned on loving one man for all your days, it’s hard to fathom letting another take his place. It’s finally admitting all those dreams we shared, the life we were building—it all died with Chris. It’s learning to let go of what was and finding the courage to seek what will be. It’s accepting that every ending is another beginning and as terrifying as that may be, my sister is right.

  Chris would want me to live.

  He’d want me to find love again.

  He’d want our son to have a man in his life he could look up to, someone to teach him all the things he never will.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn my head once more and to my surprise, I find Jimmy Casale’s soulful brown eyes staring back at me. He doesn’t make an attempt to break eye contact and I take him in from across the room, watching as he rakes a hand over his salt and pepper hair. A smile flickers across his lips and something deep inside me churns.