Page 2 of Grouch-ish

“What retreat?” The bite in my tone is as strong as my bark. I’m not going on a fucking retreat, holding hands and singing cum-bye-eye or whatever type of song with a bunch of dudes.

“Mine.”

“Aw, Cap.” He has got to be kidding me. I’ve heard about his retreats. Taking guys into the woods near a place he owns in Michigan. What happens on those retreats stays at those retreats but most men (and women) who Cap takes on them come back changed.

I don’t want to change. I’m happy being my grouchy, grumpy, forty-five-year-old self.

Brock Madison Scroggs does not need reformation.

I’m perfectly fine as I am.

“Two weeks of nothing but fresh air and quiet woods. You need time to reflect. Re-evaluate. Re-group. And change your fucking attitude.” Cap points in my direction with a thick finger suggesting he isn’t taking any more arguments from me.

The physical altercation is my second strike on a record that’s had some shaky moments over the years.

I’m loud, opinionated, and sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain. On this particular occasion, my hand reacted first.

“Cap.”

“You report December twenty-sixth, nine a.m. sharp. Account for the time zone difference.”

“Cap.”

Frank sighs heavily, leaning forward in his chair. “Brock. I like you. You know I like you.”

“Cap.” I’m already shaking my head. He’s a touchy-feely kind of guy and I hate that about him.

Okay, I don’t hate it, but strongly dislike it. Feelings make me itchy. Melissa used to say I didn’t have any emotions. Yes, I did. I’d loved her and she’d cheated on me. Now, I hate her. Simple.

“I don’t want to lose you, Brock.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Swallowing hard, my voice softens as much as the rugged tenor allows. I’m sitting right here, taking this crap, because I don’t want to leave the department. It’s all I have.

“You are if you can’t get your hotheadedness under control.”

“I’m not hotheaded.” The rise in my voice followed by the tip of his eyebrow confirms his point.

Okay, maybe I’m a little hot.

Warm.

Just mediocre temperature.

I’d say room temp but sometimes I have trouble reading a room. Like the fact Dane was joking and I’d had too much to drink the other night. The annual Snowball’s Chance fundraiser was held, as it is every year, at O’Malley’s and those of us without wives and girlfriends lingered late.

Pfft. Half these guys weren’t heroes. Didn’t know what it meant to be heroic. To race into a blazing inferno desperate to find your buddy and then watching him fall through a hidden air shaft, breaking him in half and incinerating him.

The vision comes fast and furious, and out of nowhere like it always does. The department shrink said I had PTSD. I didn’t have anything that could be reduced to four letters. I wasn’t sick. Another four letters. And I wasn’t a fucking hero. Four more letters.

Shaking my head, rattling my brains, the memory cools like embers in a strong wind.

“It’s Christmas, Cap.” He doesn’t need the reminder. We’ve had a few calls lately for live trees catching on fire, candles tipped over by cats resulting in blazing curtains, and a couple cookie-baking mishaps. Most are contained situations, but they trigger smoke detectors and set off alarms that result in us rushing to the scene.

“And it’s the perfect time to evaluate your life.” Cap reaches for a pencil and writes on a small pad of paper on his desk. He’s old school and I could tease him about not using his phone to send me a message, but for once I keep my mouth shut.

“Here.” He rips the paper from the pad and holds it out to me between his index and middle finger. “That’s the address. December twenty-six at six a.m. Not a minute later.”

Fa-la-la-la-fuck my life.