“Will I be able to fuck my husband?” she’d fretted, and there was no way I could answer that. So I’d let one of her bridesmaids in and beaten a hasty retreat with the nude Steve, who led me into a living room gone positively Roman as his partner sat lounging on the sectional with two bridesmaids sucking his dick.
“So,” he’d begun, leaning on the kitchen counter, “that was really something.”
“I feel bad,” I’d admitted. “That was not quite what I’d call ethical.”
“Yeah?” He’d shrugged. “How ethical would it be if I asked for your number?”
“More than if I gave it,” I’d laughed, and we’d left it at that. Mikey and I returned to the firehouse in silence, with me thinking it would probably be wise if I left out certain details of my encounter with Steve and Ava when I filed my run report. The key would be keeping the report plausible, and when I got summoned to my lieutenant’s office a couple days later, I figured I’d failed.
Lt Brickley was a good boss by my standards, meaning he cared a lot more about the hook-and-ladder side of the fire department than the ambulance-and-stretcher side. So he left us alone. But I had to figure my hazy report about a mostly-undisclosed treatment for penis captivus would lead to a few questions.
I was mistaken.
“Hey, Sloman.” He nodded toward one of the chairs he kept out front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
I decided I should try to go on offense. “Look, LT, if this is about that run the other night? Briggs Road? With the stripper and the penis? I put it all in the report.”
He blinked at me through some bifocals, tipping his head up and down as though he couldn’t quite decide which lenses to use with me. I wondered whether I should scoot the chair forward. “Yes, it’s about that run, and no, I don’t have a problem with the report.” He leaned over to his inbox and rummaged around among the papers there, selecting a phone contact form from Dispatch. “Someone dropped this off for you, then followed up with an email.”
“Yeah?” I cocked my head, a trail of dark hair escaping my ponytail and drifting across my view. “Good email, or bad email?”
“Good email.” He peered at his computer. “Says here I’m supposed to thank you for your kindness and professionalism in dealing with that call.”
“No shit?” I blurted. “Who sent the email?”
“Some chick named Ava Bernardi?” He glanced over at me. “You must have really made an impression. I never get emails from community members like this. Most of them are all about how pissed they are at me.”
“Relatable,” I sighed. “They usually yell at us, too.”
“Which is why I’m surprised by this one.” He read the email again, then shrugged. “So. Great work, Sloman.” He fingered the contact form unearthed from his inbox, scanning it. “This Bernardi patient, she also wanted to leave a message for you directly.” He slid it across the desk toward me. “I said I’d pass it along.”
I leaned forward and glanced suspiciously at the phone message, in the shaky handwriting of Kenny From Dispatch. It was a note… wondering, amazingly, whether I’d be able to drop by Ava’s wedding reception next weekend. For cocktails, it stressed, not for food. I raised my eyebrows. “Fuck. At the South Shore Yacht Club?”
“Money,” Brickley muttered, nodding knowingly. “How was the house? Does she look loaded?”
I stifled a laugh. “She was definitely loaded, all right. Overloaded even.” I’d never even thought about going to an event at South Shore; the place had an awe-inspiring reputation for its service. “This says she wants me to be the guest of honor,” I snickered.
He stared at me impassively. “Based on your run report,” he said slowly, “the fucking wedding wouldn’t be happening at all if you hadn’t figured out how to get them, uh…”
“…disentangled?”
“Yeah.” We both chuckled. He’d been amused when I’d given him a summary of the run, too. “Anyway. Attagirl, Sloman.”
“Thanks, LT.” I was already thinking about what dress I might be able to fit into: a reception at South Shore might just demand something more impressive than I owned. I wondered whether I could maybe borrow something from Izzy or Ronnie… “That it?”
“That’s it.” He waved me off. “Keep up the good work, yada yada.”
* * *
I showed up for the reception in one of Izzy Speier’s most expensive silver-sequined dresses, with a hemline well north of my knees and a neckline that framed my boobs quite nicely, if I did say so myself. “Fuck, you look like a celebrity!” she’d gushed as I tried it on at her place, and for once? I thought she was right.
But I’m a bit bigger than her in the derriere department, so I felt the hem clinging to my thighs as I tottered across the parking lot on my unfamiliar heels. I tugged the hemline down uncertainly: the tightness across my butt obviously made it impossible for me to wear anything but a thong, so I was grateful for whatever coverage I could get.
There were actual footmen at the door, Downton Abbey-style, and I did my best to channel my inner aristocrat in hopes they hadn’t seen the plain ol’ Honda I’d driven into the lot. “Ma’am,” one of them said to me. He was well-trained: he wasn’t ogling my cleavage, which was considerable in that dress.
“The Bernardi reception,” I informed him airily, like I was a countess. “I’m attending for cocktails.”
“Of course.” He swung the door noiselessly open for me. “Enjoy the party, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” I had to bite my tongue before I called him sir, my usual first-responder go-to when talking to people whose names I did not know. I passed at once into a world of clean opulence, full of easy laughter and the luscious voices of wealthy people. Hell, even the clatter of the trays sounded dignified. I stood just inside the door, blinking at the largest chandelier I’d ever seen, nearly jumping as a waiter materialized from nothingness beside me.
“Welcome to the Club, ma’am. Would you prefer a piña colada, a grasshopper, or a Malibu sunset?” He glanced meaningfully at a large silver tray resting on his arm, and my eyes widened at all the little glasses there sparkling like jewelry scattered across a mirror.
“Ooh.” I felt my grin spread quickly, a delighted flush tickling my cheeks. “Piña colada, please,” I said, since I’d never heard of the other two. Thank god for that Rupert Holmes song, I reflected as I took a little stemmed glass brimming with milky yellowish goodness. I was surprised at how cold it was: I’m a beer girl at heart. I was still deciding whether I was supposed to tip the kid when, with a warm smile, he vanished to find a new target.
I sidled toward the bar. I knew absolutely nobody here, but that was perfectly fine: I’m a simple woman. I was here to linger on a deck over the sea with a drink, pretending I was one of the rich people around me for a few hours. No longer, I told myself. I had the early shift tomorrow, and it wouldn’t do to get plastered.
Three drinks, I told myself. I could handle this one and two beers, easily.
The place filled up quickly and I made my way to the bar, a heavy mahogany monstrosity against the far wall: like everything else I could see it was tastefully nautical. I arrived just as I swept the last of the cocktail into my mouth. “Hi!” I said to one of the bartenders, who looked young and cute. “Can I have something that’s not an IPA?”