Page 3 of Burn

You can’t keep your private life private when you spend twenty-four hours on duty with the same group of guys. There’s downtime, and when there’s downtime, they have an unprecedented way of getting information out of anyone.

Here’s some advice for you. Take it or leave it. Really doesn’t fucking matter to me, but don’t say I didn’t warn you on this one. If you’re dating a girl and she tells you she works nights at a job you can never stop by and visit her at, chances are she’s doing something you’re not going to agree with.

In my case, she told me she was a bartender for a private catering company.

Read between the lines. She’s a fucking stripper.

How’d I find out?

So I’m at a bachelor party for one of the guys at the station, and you can imagine my surprise when said girlfriend is hired to give the groom a lap dance.

I can list off all kinds of reasonswhyI had a huge problem with this, most of them having to do with finding out she’s given lap dances to just about every one of the guys at the station and fucked a few of them too.

In my defense, her story was believable, but when I think about it now, I suppose I should have known by her name. Gemma Rae.

Tucking my phone in my pocket, I stare off into the rising sun over the city as I say, “She calls constantly spouting off shit about how sorry she is and wants me back.”

Owen chuckles, replacing the SCBA tanks on the truck and then closing the storage compartment door. “It’s been like three months. Maybe you should call her for a booty call at least.”

Again with the knowing too much information about me. Owen, mostly because he lives with me too, knows I haven’t been laid since Gemma and I broke up. And believe me, I’ve thought of calling her just for sex, but Gemma’s not the type. She’s clingy, which is entertaining considering what she does for a living. You wouldn’t think she’d want to be attached to anyone. She claims she’s different when she’s at the club. She’s just doing a job. Bullshit. All of it.

As we’re climbing back on the truck, Owen notices Finn, the probie, staring at his phone again. “Dude, what’s with you and your phone lately?”

Jay’s the next to get on the truck and plops next to Finn. “He’s stalking this chick he met the other night.” And then he gives a nod to the phone. “I’m telling ya, kid. She’s a fuckin’ stripper.”

And then suddenly all eyes are on me. Like I’m the know it all when it comes to strippers. Fuckers.

I take the phone from Finn’s hand and examine a few photos.

Chick’s hot, I’ll give him that much, but when I see her legs wrapped around a pole on just about every picture, it’s a sign. A giant, neon blinking sign. If Gemma had Instagram when we were together, which I’m sure she does—I never bothered to look—it probably looked like this chick’s.

Lesson learned here? Stalk your hookups on social media. Especially Instagram.

Finn’s onto something here, but I have to deliver the bad news. “Yup. Stripper.” I hand the phone back to him.

Finn looks dejected, his smile fading. “Fuck, that sucks.” And then he stares at me for a moment before asking, “Why are all the hot one’s strippers?”

I shrug and stare at the city passing us by. “Fuck if I know.”

Once we’re back at the station, my ex, the stripper, calls again. I’m not sure why, but I answer it this time.

“What do you want?”

“You,” she purrs, yes, fucking purrs. She always does shit like this. “But I’ll settle on just meeting for dinner tonight.”

I laugh and lean into the side of the truck. Owen and Jay are watching me, smiling. I roll my eyes, shaking my head. “I’m not having dinner with you. I can’t even stand to be in the same room with you.”

“Caleb,” she sighs, mostly because she’s heard this before. I’m a big grudge holder. Lie to me and I’ll never forget it. Break my heart and I’ll destroy yours. It’s just how I am. “I’m trying to be nice here and I miss you.”

“You miss my dick, honey, not me. And you ain’t gettin’ it either tonight or any other night for that matter.” And then I hang up because I’m a jerk and fucking feel like hanging up on her.

I dated Gemma for a fucking year. Or I should say Ifuckedher for a year. I think I took her on like two dates in that time frame. You’d think somewhere along that year of “fucking” I would have figured it out since I’m a fairly intuitive kind of guy, but apparently not. My bad.

So now I’m living a new philosophy. Don’t ever believe anything women tell you. At least that’s my general assessment of women. It’s been three months since we broke up and you know, my thoughts still haven’t changed. Doubt they ever will again. They say once you’ve been burned, you’ll always remember that sting. It’s true. I should know. I have the scars to prove it.

We’d no sooner got back to the station, topped off the tanker, refueled the trucks, charged batteries for the radio and another call came in.

Looks like the last couple of hours on shift are going to be busy ones.

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