Page 42 of Falling for the Playboy Pilot

JANNA

S moke swallowed everything. My lungs burned with every ragged breath. My eyes burned. Every muscle in my body was tight. I undid my safety belt but kept my helmet on. It wasn’t like it was going to save me from fire, but it felt like it offered some protection.

I stumbled out of Pickle’s chopper and limped to the other side where he was sitting. He sat motionless in his seat.

“Pickle!” I tried to shout but just ended up coughing.

I checked his pulse, which was steady. He was out cold but alive.

I didn’t know what happened but I assumed it was the sheer impact that knocked him out.

It had knocked the air from my lungs as well.

I undid his seatbelt and gently removed his helmet.

There was a small cut on his cheek and his nose was bleeding.

I didn’t know what he hit or how bad his internal injuries were.

I grabbed Pickle under his arms and pulled him. He was heavier than I expected, dead weight that made my back scream in protest. I summoned every ounce of strength I could muster and managed to get him out of his seat. His head lolled to one side.

“Come on, Pickle. Stay with me.” I started coughing again.

I hauled him out, feeling a little guilty for the drop to the pavement.

I couldn’t be gentle. I kept his head from hitting the hard surface at least. The rest of his body would be bruised but there was nothing to do about it.

The pavement was hot enough to burn through my flight suit at the knees.

My lungs felt like they were on fire, each breath a struggle against the thick, choking smoke that surrounded us.

I couldn’t carry him. Not far enough. Not fast enough. I tried the radio but it was dead.

The emergency kit. Every rescue helicopter carried one. I stumbled back to the chopper, feeling my way through the smoke-filled cabin until my hands found the canvas bag. Inside was a rescue harness and a small backpack with basic supplies.

My fingers shook as I strapped the harness around Pickle’s chest and under his arms. My hands felt clumsy, but I managed to secure the clips. I shrugged into the backpack and attached the other end of the harness to my belt.

“This is going to suck for both of us,” I muttered, testing the connection. “So you better goddamn live.”

His flight suit would protect him from the road rash. I crossed his arms across his chest.

The sky above us was an angry orange, like the inside of a furnace. Ash fell like snow, coating everything in a fine gray powder. The smoke was so thick I could barely see ten feet in any direction. I had to pick a direction and hope it was right.

I started walking, or rather stumbling, toward what I hoped was away from the fire. Pickle’s body dragged behind me, the harness cutting into my shoulders and back with each step. My legs felt like jelly, and spots danced in front of my eyes. The lack of oxygen was making me dizzy.

If I passed out, we were both dead.

It was dangerous to breathe all the crap in. I knew that but I didn’t have an option. I couldn’t just not breathe. Even though we were in the death zone.

My knees almost buckled at the thought. I’d watched the training videos.

We didn’t even have a fire shelter to protect us.

No one was coming. No one could see us through this smoke.

The radio in the helicopter was either broken or the signal couldn’t penetrate the interference from the fire. We were on our own.

I kept moving, one foot in front of the other. The smoke seemed to be getting thicker, if that was even possible. My vision blurred, whether from tears or smoke inhalation, I couldn’t tell. Every breath was a battle.

It would be so easy to just lie down and close my eyes. It felt like I had taken a sleeping pill.

“Stay awake, Janna,” I whispered to myself. “Just stay awake.”

The weight of Pickle’s body felt like it was pulling me backward into the flames. My shoulders burned and my back ached. My legs were starting to give out. But I kept going because the alternative was unthinkable.

Through the haze, I thought I saw something. A break in the smoke, maybe. A direction where the air looked marginally clearer. It might have been wishful thinking, but it was all I could do to keep moving.

That’s when I saw it. Martha’s Diner.

It was crazy how hot it was. The wind was picking up and blowing the heat directly at us. A car alarm shattered the air. And then it stopped. The fire had claimed it. I knew it and it only made me push harder.

I kept moving the best I could, pulling Pickle along behind me as I coughed and spat. I could see clearer sky where the smoke thinned. That was my destination. It felt like it kept getting pulled back. And then I was there.

I collapsed on the front steps of the diner.

The door was unlocked. Martha had probably rushed out without worrying about locking it.

Locked doors wouldn’t keep out the fire.

And I knew it wasn’t exactly a safe place.

Nothing was immune from fire, but we had walls between us and ash wouldn’t be raining on our heads.

I dragged Pickle inside, choking on each breath. The dining area was smoky, but not as bad as it was outside.

We needed fresh air. I could feel my lungs burning.

I took a few seconds to draw in a few breaths before I started dragging him again.

I made my way into the kitchen and spotted what I was looking for.

The walk-in cooler. I pulled open the door and was hit by a blast of blessedly cold air.

The power was out but I remembered working at McDonald’s in my youth.

The cooler would stay cool for a while and there would be little smoke penetration.

It was temporary and wouldn’t stop us from burning, but it was all I could think of. I needed oxygen.

I pulled Pickle through and closed the door. He lay quietly on the floor. I dropped next to him and checked his pulse. It was steady. No obvious wounds. Just a swollen bump above his left eye.

I pressed my palm on his forehead. His skin was flushed and damp. I unsealed my radio case and peered inside. The crash had smashed the wires loose. I lifted the lid and reattached everything. My fingers trembled, but I pushed through. When I pressed the PTT button, there was nothing.

“Oh, please,” I murmured. “Don’t do this.”

If I couldn’t tell them we were alive, we weren’t going to be rescued. Not that anyone would be dumb enough to come into the inferno. A tear slid down my cheek. Despair threatened to pull me under. I took off my helmet and dropped it on the floor.

I pulled Pickle’s head into my lap. My hand ran through his hair in an attempt to comfort him. I stretched my legs out and leaned back. I was a little jealous. He got to sleep through the terror.

I sat in that cold, dark space and thought about my mom.

She’d be getting ready for work right now, probably making her second cup of coffee and checking her phone for messages from me.

I usually sent her a good morning text every day, just a quick “love you” or a funny meme.

Today there would be nothing. Tomorrow there would be nothing.

She’d probably assume I was busy with work at first, but then the news would reach her.

Her daughter, dead in a helicopter crash while fighting fires in Colorado.

My dad would blame himself. He’d always worried about me taking risks, following my dreams instead of settling down somewhere safe.

When I told him about the firefighting gig he wasn’t exactly happy.

He knew he couldn’t stop me because of what he and my brothers did.

Now he’d spend the rest of his life thinking he should have tried harder to talk me out of it.

The worst part was that they’d never know how much I loved them. Never know that in these final moments, they were the first thing I thought about. I’d taken for granted that there would always be tomorrow to call, to visit, to say all the things I kept meaning to say.

And Dalton. God, Dalton.

My chest tightened with a different kind of pain. What I’d said to him before we left. It was cruel. Vicious. I aimed for his deepest wound and twisted the knife because I was hurt and angry and wanted him to feel as awful as I did.

I wasn’t that person. He made me crazy. I had all these feelings for him and I knew I shouldn’t, but I did.

This would destroy him. He’d already lost one person he cared about.

He’d spent years torturing himself over not being able to save his friend, and now he was going to lose Pickle too.

Sweet, funny Pickle who looked up to him like a big brother.

Maybe I wasn’t anything special to him, maybe I was just another complication he wished he’d never let into his life, but I had to believe there was something.

The way he’d looked at me sometimes, the way he’d held me that night, the desperation in his voice when he’d tried to talk to me before we left.

He’d blame himself for this. Dalton had a bit of a hero complex.

He was going to tell himself he could have prevented this from happening.

If he somehow stopped me from going up, if he’d been a better pilot or a better leader or a better man, he could have prevented it.

He’d carry this guilt for the rest of his life, and it would eat him alive.

I pressed my face into my hands and let the tears come. I’d been so stupid, so fucking stubborn. All that time I’d spent being angry at him for pushing me away, and now I understood why.

This job was no joke.

I felt Pickle move. His hand raised. I reached out and took his hand in mine, the dim glow from the safety light wasn’t much, but just enough.

“You’re okay,” I said.

“What happened?”

“We went down hard. We’re at the diner. Just waiting on rescue.”

No response.

“Pickle, it’s me, Janna. Our helicopter crashed landed. You hit your head. You’re going to be okay. We’re waiting on rescue.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. “What time is it?”

“I’m not sure. Probably nine or ten. We’re in the walk-in cooler at Martha’s Diner. That’s why it’s dark.”

“Are you okay?”

I smiled in the darkness. “I’m good.”

I felt his arm going slack.

“Pickle?”

Nothing.

I gently lowered his arm back to his chest. My hand slid to his wrist and checked his pulse. Still beating.

“Sleep, Pickle. You sleep. I’ll figure this out.”