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?"

"Don't pretend this is the first time."

"No, you're right, it isn't, but you're on a whole other level right now. I ignore a lot from you, against my better judgment, because you are a damn good fireman, but it's starting to affect the crew, and attract attention from headquarters."

This wasn't the time to get into a pissing match with his senior officer, but between the leftover alcohol coursing through his veins and his attack on Yael, Haustin was on fire. He stepped closer, inching up to the thin ledge he teetered on.

"I make more saves than anyone in this house," he half-shouted. "That's why you put up with me."

The captain was a smart man, one Haustin respected, and he chose not to meet Haustin's challenge. "Go home and sleep it off. I expect you here tomorrow, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for your punishment."

He strode away, leaving Haustin standing alone, blood pounding in his head. His fists clenched and unclenched, hungry for a target.

"What the hell?" Abel demanded, stalking out of the kitchen. Haustin squinted. Were there two of him? He leaned against a pillar in the vehicle bay and realized his buddy was still talking. "You gotta lot of nerve walking off like that. Why?"

"None of your business," he growled.

"We all felt it, Haus. That kid, it was bad."

"You don't know what you're talking out."

"Sure I don't." Abel ventured close enough to get a whiff and his dark eyes narrowed. "Jesus, Haus. You go swimming in a distillery? And did you drink before or after you went to see Yael?" Pausing, he waited for an answer. "You forget I know you pretty damn well and when you're like this, you go after the good things."

"Leave it alone." Haustin's body vibrated with tension, threatening to overflow.

"Before or after?"

"Before," he yelled. "What does it matter, anyway? I went, and the result is the same. I screwed it up. What I do best."

Abel didn't look all that surprised. Like he said, he knows me, Haustin thought.

"Just when I think I've seen you at your lowest," he muttered. "You're a piece of work, you know that? The last thing Yael needs is you showing up high as a kite, making an ass of yourself. Let me guess, you were your normal, charming self?" The answer became trapped on his tongue and Abel swore. "You're such an insensitive prick."

The pressure inside cracked, and he swung a fist at Abel. He enjoyed a moment of satisfaction when it connected with his cheekbone, but his success was short-lived. Abel came right back at him.

Perfect. Exactly what he wanted.

Haustin realized too late that he was supremely unsteady on his feet in his current state, probably not the best time for a tussle. Abel landed a right hook to his jaw and stars exploded in his vision. His already murky head swam, distracting him long enough for his friend to serve up the final blow, a powerful jab to the temple.

No longer in control of his body, Haustin dropped to the hard concrete floor and rolled onto his back, stunned. What the hell? Nausea welled, and he forced it down, refusing to get sick on top of being laid out like a pussy.

Abel bent and got in his face, nostrils flared in rage. "Next time you pick a fight, make sure you do it sober. Otherwise, it's sad and pathetic. You wanna feel sorry for yourself, do it on your own time. Stop trying to hurt those of us who care about you."

He kicked Haustin's foot, emphasizing his point, and left him in a puddle of shame. The only thing keeping Haustin from lying there all day was the possibility of the other guys coming in and seeing him in such an abysmal state. Dragging himself to his feet, he fled the firehouse and nearly tripped on the curb.

In the truck, he cranked the air conditioning in hopes the chill sobered him. Then he hung his head. Same as before, his eyes overflowed, only this time, a moan escaped. As hard as he tried, he could not hold his pain in anymore, it had gotten too big. Disappointing his kids, Lindsey, his brothers, and, oh God, Yael. It all escaped in gut-wrenching sobs.

A sharp memory of Yael mentioning her grandmother taking a turn for the worse cut through his haze, causing more agony. Perfect timing, jackass, he cursed silently.

Haustin wasn't sure how long he sat there, but by the time he put the truck in drive, he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve any of the decent things in his life. Pulling away from the curb, he doubted if rebuilding from the pile of ashes his life had become was worth it. He was better off alone. And broken.

Short chapter, I know. Sorry I suck at keeping a consistent schedule lately. Writers Block is a killer this year for me, and honestly.. I am bad at remembering what day it is.