Page 9 of Playing With Fire

Chapter Two

Ricky tucked his crisply ironed shirt into his jeans. Damp hair trickled down his neck into his collar. He wondered if his mom would mind if he mentioned that linen was supposed to look crumpled, and that no one pressed creases in jeans anymore, unless it was in a retro sitcom.

He’d been back home only a few weeks and it still felt odd having his laundry done, though he wasn’t complaining, not really.

Lots of stuff in his life had gone awry since the day he had walked out of the Hammel Buildings, body and brain on autopilot. Normal household chores, once a pleasant distraction from his full-octane job, had become wearisome. Hanging out with the crew after work, debriefing the day, felt like wading through molasses. Even a stiff workout couldn’t budge his restlessness.

His brain felt like a malfunctioning traffic light.

Fine. Not fine. Coping. Not coping.

The shrinks had seen right through him, of course, as soon as they found out that the body in the apartment was more than another tragic discovery. More than a box to be ticked in his report, setting off a cascade of official actions and notifications about some stranger.

Ricky tweaked down the stiff collar of his shirt. It bounced back.

God, had his mom used starch?

He closed his eyes, opened them. Breathed deeply.

Starch was not a crime against fashion. Not in Temple Mountain. And he really ought to be doing his own laundry. His mom was busy enough.

But today had started well, Ricky reminded himself briskly. The therapist paid for by his city employers would be happy. He had resisted the temptation to roll back under the warm covers instead of taking a bracing Sunday dawn run.

Not so great that he had felt like a blown horse after only a couple of miles, but hey, a man had to start somewhere.

His stomach rumbled gently as the aroma of toast and coffee trickled down the hallway. That would make the therapist happy too. Exercise regime back on track, renewed appetite.

Ricky headed for the kitchen with a spring in his step. Even the small seventies-style kitchen, which still looked much the same as he remembered from his childhood, failed to dull his optimism. The cupboards were painted a disturbingly flesh-colored shade called blush, and the laminate bench was a mottled and slightly darker version of the same color. The chocolate cork floor was streaked and scuffed with wear.

He pulled up. His mom was wearing her church dress, a deep maroon brightened by the simple garnet brooch Ricky had bought her with his first real paycheck, and black heels which had to be hurting.

She smiled at him.

“Just once, sweetie. One time and I’ll never ask again.”

Lottie Sharp was only shoulder height to her tall son, but like most moms in Ricky’s experience she was both literally and figuratively a woman of substance. Her eyes flashed steel behind the lenses of her drugstore spectacles.

Ricky resisted the temptation to pat the curly salt and pepper head.

He could just imagine the comments at church.

There’s Ricky Sharp, come home with his tail between his legs. Bout time, with his dad so poorly. He was pretty quick to shake the dust off his boots and leave town with that girl, and my, wasn’t she a piece of work? Always thought he wouldn’t make it in New York...

He tuned into his mother’s voice.

“The new pastors are just the nicest couple. A husband and wife team, imagine that!” Lottie polished the silver cutlery vigorously, as though amazed at the generosity of the Almighty in providing such largesse. She carefully laid out the place settings, and Ricky bit back a sigh when he saw that there were extra places set for lunch.

He poured coffee into his favorite Star Wars mug, noting that Darth Vader was looking a little faded, and scraped pallid margarine guaranteed to lower cholesterol and taste like nothing onto the toasted supermarket enriched white bread.

This, Ricky reminded himself, was why he had wanted to find his own place when he had made the move back to Temple Mountain. To get just a lick of privacy. Maybe pick up some sourdough and real butter.

He had of course been overruled by a higher power—in this case, his mother.

“Those are the folks coming to lunch? The new pastors?”

His mother laughed, just as his father made his way cautiously into the kitchen, wheezing a little in the cool morning air. Lottie reached out a steadying hand.

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