Slow Burn, Chapter 13/21

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

For the umpteenth time today, Captain Lorelei Hawkins hoped that her crew-women were having a better day than she was.

It was a Murphy’s Law kind of day: everything that could go wrong, had.  First the catalytic converter on her Chevy had blown, only ten minutes into her usual trek on the I-405.  It was only then that she’d noticed her cell phone was still at home, faithfully plugged into the charger.  The laborious hike from the freeway to the nearest gas station had taken ages, and after she returned to her car it had taken the tow truck ages more to fight its way through traffic.

Now – finally – she was behind the wheel of a rental car, only to be mired in the bailout traffic the mess on 405 had created.  Every secondary route she knew was the same.  This wasn’t the first time she had wished ruefully for her own private helicopter.

For awhile Lorelei had occupied herself practicing her speech for the press conference.  It contained lots of bold language on the long history of female firefighting and women in the LAFD, her hopes for a more progressive future in the city, etc.  At this rate she hoped she’d be on time to even give the speech, let alone have time for the poor Channel 7 reporter with whom she’d been playing schedule tag for the last two weeks.

But her mind kept drifting back to a nagging worry.  Why didn’t anybody answer when I called Paradiso from the gas station?  Or from the rental car place, for that matter?  Not that it was too hard to justify – the station wasn’t fully operational yet, and everyone who was on site was scurrying about doing various tasks.

But Lorelei had left instructions that the phones be monitored closely today, so anyone calling about the press conference could get their questions answered.  The double lack of response wasn’t impossible to understand, yet it left the captain unaccountably uneasy.  I’m probably just nervous about the press conference.  Heck, you think I’d be used to cameras by now.  She fingered the small gold cross around her neck, and sent up a quick prayer that today would go well.

Besides, nothing to do about it till I get there.  So what else do I do to pass the time in gridlock?  She’d been feeling a little disheveled after the morning’s travails, so she decided to kill some time checking her appearance and primping as best she could.  Lorelei stared back at her own dark chocolate eyes in the rearview mirror – she’d actually applied mascara for once this morning, and luckily it seemed to be holding.  Her long caramel-colored hair was looking unkempt – probably from walking along the windblown freeway – so she gave it some perfunctory brushing with her free hand.

Then the captain looked down at her attire.  It had felt strange today to pull out the uniform skirt that actually showed some leg, the blouse with an actual neckline, the jacket with some actual shape.  There was quite a bit of leeway in what LAFD regulations allowed for female uniforms.  But Lorelei hadn’t worn these particular pieces since the early days after her transfer to HQ, when she’d discovered the wandering hands of John Grady.

It had started subtly, as such things usually do – an “accidental” bump here, an errant pat there.  But the touching – and the talk – had metastasized from there.  She’d started wearing the dowdiest uniform pieces she could find, just to discourage unwanted attention.  But it was too far gone by that point.  Things had come to a head the night she’d worked late on the fire engine fleet maintenance contract proposal.  That night she’d had to fight her way out of Chief Grady’s office.

She’d taken a week of leave after that, trying to decide what to do.  Squeal?  Chief Grady was a beloved civic fixture.  Thoughts of being branded as a traitor to the department, or as a weak woman unable to hold her own, had plagued her for days.  Some of those days, she’d spent far more time drinking than she should have.

But that had been the same week that Daphne Stavros, a young trainee at the Academy, had committed suicide.  It caused a small uproar in the local news.  Endemic harassment was cited as a suspected, though unproven, factor.

The moment Lorelei had heard that, the decision had been made for her.  The resolve she’d found that day had sustained her through all the very real backlash and tumult which ensued.

Now, just over a year later, here she was back in an honest-to-God feminine-looking uniform.  There was some artifice in that – looking good for the cameras was best for publicity.  But it was also a personal milestone – a sign of finally starting to feel comfortable and safe again.  That had been a significant theme in her proposal for the Paradiso Street experiment – that it could be a place for firewomen to feel safe while they did their jobs.

God willing, I’ll make it such a place.


* * *


Marigold cleared her throat and tried to sound nonchalant.  “Excuse me…boys?  I’ll need to be taking a restroom break next.”  Both men turned to look at her, though neither moved initially.  Pullman was off to one side of the room, but Ybarra in particular was seated right by the door – he could easily see Becky from his vantage point.

Pullman smirked and seemed about to cross the room, but Mare tried to dissuade him.  “Why don’t you take a rest, Mr. Pullman?” she said sweetly.  “After all, you’re injured.”  She nodded to his finger.  “Give this other gentleman a chance.”

Ybarra grinned lasciviously and rose from his seat.  Good.  She felt his cruel hands exploring her freely as he undid the ropes, and she swallowed hard.  “So, up till now you’ve kept us in the dark.  What brings all of you to Paradiso Street Station?”  Get to it, ladies.

“What makes you think we want to get chatty, chica?”  Ybarra roughly pulled her out of the chair.  Mare had been sitting for so long that her legs weren’t ready for it, and she sagged against her captor.  She hated the evident pleasure he got from having her body pressed against his own, and pulled herself upright as soon as she could.

Ybarra chortled.  “Tell you what,” he said.  “Show us the goods, and maybe we’ll talk un poco.”  Pullman heartily concurred.

Mare had been expecting this – in fact, she’d been counting on it.  But that didn’t make the prospect any less odious new that it was upon her.  She took a deep breath.  Make it slow.  Make it count.

Her fingers closed around the first button.