Page 37

SMOKE

T he fall is simple.

Signal.

Jump.

Open parachute.

Land.

It’s the ground that’s hostile.

I see the fire burning in the distance.

It should be a breeze to bring it under control. We’ve got time to fell trees, dig trenches, and clear debris and dried-out foliage that light faster than candles at a baby’s first birthday party.

My fellow smoke jumpers litter the sky. It’s crucial we don’t allow our parachutes to cross. But we’ve done this a million times before, carefully navigating our trajectory as close to the fire line as is safe but allowing tolerances so we don’t end up off course or trapped.

For me, the jump has always been one of my favorite things. I’ve grappled my whole life with low dopamine, searching everywhere for something to create an adrenaline rush or prompt some kind of serotonin response. While others hoot and scream like it’s the wildest rush, it brings me to an even keel.

When the season’s over and I return home to the club, I’ll look for it in reckless sexual behavior and poor choices. I’ll find it in killing for the club.

In another life, I’d probably be a vigilante.

But I settle for this, spending much of the summer jumping from planes, trying to get ahead of forest fires.

Like any other day, I tug on my chute steering toggles as I land and let my heels dig in to the dirt. My whole body vibrates and strains with the effort. And without instruction, we all detach our chutes, deal with the canopies, and prepare for work.

We’re a well-oiled machine, fearless as the heat is picked up by the wind and blown in our direction. But as I look at the sky, I see the clouds shifting, their pace increasing.

We’re too close to the flames without enough time to back up.

Johnny and Hassan are cornered.

We can’t make a trench fast enough.

Water supplies can’t reach. We need an air drop of water to our position.

But the radio isn’t working.

I hear my friends scream and?—

“We will shortly be landing at Denver International Airport. At this time, we would like to invite you to…”

I suck in air as I tune out the landing announcement. Sleep has become my nemesis. Subconsciously, I stroke the dressing on my arm. It seems almost cowardly that this is my only injury when four of my team died.

In the ten days I was in the hospital, the fires were brought under control and extinguished. We had help from a couple of aerial teams in Canada. And an inquiry began into what happened.

No one has blamed me directly, but the fact I’ve been sent home instead of being allowed back on duty for the remaining two weeks of the season says all I need to know.

They think I mishandled it.

Now, I do too.

Which means the four men’s deaths, the men I’ve worked with every year for the past five years, were my fault too.

I’ve been responsible for many deaths, but these don’t sit well on an already-suffocating conscience.

When I exit the baggage claim, Atom is waiting for me. I wish we could ride our bikes, but I know he’ll have brought his truck, given the bags I have to carry and the burn up my arm.

“Brother,” he says, tugging me to him. “Good to have you back.”

I don’t want to think about the wave of emotion I feel standing here. There were times on that mountainside when I wondered if I was going to make it out of there alive.

“So, now that we’re face-to-face, you want to tell me what the fuck you were thinking, hooking up with Butcher’s daughter?”

I mean it light-heartedly. Ember’s an attractive girl. Would be lying if I said I’d never considered what hooking up with her would feel like. But then, I also thought the same about the blonde who checked me in at the airport, and the flight attendant with the bubble butt on the plane who paid me extra attention.

Atom yanks my two heavy backpacks out of my hands. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know over our first beer. But first, tell me how you’re doing.”

We walk out of the airport towards the truck. “I’m fine.”

“Shit fucking answer.”

I shrug. “Best one I’ve got.”

Atom looks at me carefully. We’ve known each other a really long time. He knows my answer is bullshit, and so do I.

“Look, don’t want to talk about it. Let me get home. Get adjusted. See how we go from there.”

“You got two days,” Atom says. “Bottling shit is no way to live.”

“I’m not bottling shit. Tell me what’s happening with the club.”

Atom sighs, accepting, if not agreeing, with the choice I’m making. On the ride home, he fills me in on what I missed. We’d speak periodically while I was away, but club business isn’t something you discuss on public-access Wi-Fi or a phone line that can be traced.

When I get home, there’s a car in the driveway that I don’t recognize.

“Who’s that?” I ask.

“I’ll bring the bags in while you figure it out.”

For a moment, I consider arguing, but I know looking out for people is Atom’s love language. I push the front door open and realize my home smells like lemons. Not just a little bit like lemons, but a lot like lemons. There’s not a speck of dust.

Then, I remember, just as she appears around the corner.

“Quinn.”

She’s gotten prettier as she’s gotten older. I remember when I dated her sister, before she went missing, and the town all turned and looked at me because I was a prospect with a motorcycle club.

I wasn’t allowed to grieve the fledgling relationship we had because I was thrust straight into the role of villain.

Quinn saw me in the street about a month later and literally ran up to me, screaming, asking where Melody was. I let her pound her tiny fists into my chest until her father came and pulled her away.

When she got caught up in that whole Bratva thing and asked if she could stay at my house, I did the right thing and said yes…even though every part of my body said no.

Which leaves me confused as to why every part of my body is now saying yes.