2011: It's been ten years since the sky literally came crashing down around Yael Malkah and upended her world. Now she's returned to New York to visit her ailing grandmother. With no other family, it's up to her to take care of the family business...
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Haustin sat in his truck outside the firehouse, heavy with failure and putting off the inevitable. He'd never walked off a shift before, as he had yesterday, and there was going to be hell to pay. In reality, he should call in sick. He was certainly in no shape to fight fires, not after his epic meltdown, which had continued long after leaving Yael's the previous night.
Above, the sky peeked through the buildings, a clear brilliant blue. The world beyond his window looked fresh, clean, and unattainable. All the smiling people on the sidewalk, basking in the afternoon sunshine, enjoying the longer days, served as a reminder of how utterly messed up he was.
As his buzz mellowed, the memory of what he'd done swept over him. His actions yesterday were uncalled for. He had no excuse for marching into Yael's apartment like a buffoon. Tunnel vision, worried about his own damn self, looking for a fight, God, he said so many unforgivable things.
Haustin ran a trembling hand through his hair.
Every single time he felt peace or started climbing from his hole, he screwed it up. Why? There had to be a fundamental malfunction inside him. He was incapable of letting anything good into his life. Had it always been there, even before? Who could he talk to about it? He needed to get help. No one would do it for him, but he stared at the shattered screen of his phone at a loss of who he could reach out to. Yael had been right. He did this all on his own. It was up to him to fix it.
Sweat dotted his forehead. Him. Fix it. What a joke.
The despair inside the truck weighed him down, made it impossible to move, to breathe. It suffocated him. His throat closed, and he gasped for air. Rubbing fists into his annoyingly wet eyes, Haustin glanced at the floor and the two empty bottles of whiskey there. Finally, unable to look at them any longer, he fumbled open the door, ignoring the possibility he might still be drunk. He crossed the street, his body stiff and sore from sleeping in the truck. Better to face the music. Not like the day could get any worse.
Slip in and keep a low profile, he cautioned himself. As he entered, the familiar scent of smoke and diesel fuel hit him, irritating his stomach, and to avoid seeing the pity in anyone's faces, he kept his gaze straight ahead as he headed for his locker. He felt the stare of Bruce at the dispatch desk, though, and did his best not to snarl.
"Macauley! Get your ass over here!" Captain Welch shouted.
"Shit," Haustin muttered as he changed direction. He just wanted a damn cup of coffee first, but he obeyed, stopping in front of the captain who had his hands on his hips and his bushy gray eyebrows knitted together.
"Where do you get off walking out in the middle of a shift?" he demanded. "It's been over twenty-four hours!"
"Had something to do." He swayed, and of course, the old man caught it.
"Are you drunk?"
"Ahhh, um." Haustin couldn't form two freaking words.
"You're a real piece of work, Macauley. You think you can waltz in here like you're king of the roost and the rules don't apply?"
