8

PICK

The fire camp at Big Bear Lake isn’t precisely easy to find, and the two-lane highway that dumps visitors out at the ranger station near the park’s entrance is a poor excuse for a road. Most folks end up cranky as fuck, and from the dust coating the sheriff’s cruiser that pulls into the parking lot the day after I make Sarah Jo see stars in the storage shed, this newest of visitors hit every pothole and then some. Hope the taxpayers sprang for high-end suspension on that car because otherwise its driver has to be both shaken and stirred. You need a truck out here, one with four-wheel drive. We’re not Kia country, and our rides have one job: to get us from camp to the fire and then to haul our asses out double-time when it’s either quitting time at the zoo or the fire overruns us.

Not sure what’s up with the cruiser, though. I spot a full rack of shotguns as if the good officer had prepared for bear or Armageddon. There’s no snap-crackle-buzz of the radio, either. I’m betting this guy’s running dark, which may have something to do with the name painted on the side of the car. He’s across his county line, and he doesn’t have jurisdiction this far southwest. I’m betting, however, that he’s got something to do with Sarah Jo being jumpy as fuck yesterday—jumpy enough that she’d dragged me into the storage cache and had her wicked way with me. I probably shouldn’t have done that, that whole letting her seduce me and ride my face thing. But it’s hard to regret when I imagine I can still taste her every time I lick my lips.

So I watch as the officer finally opens the door and stands up, adjusting his uniform. Despite however long he’s been sitting around with his thumb up his ass, his pants still hold a perfect crease and his utility belt is a thing of beauty. In addition to his semiautomatic, he sports what looks like a department-issue baton, a pair of cuffs, and a Taser. He still looks like a douche, though. Like he thinks he’s in charge of All The Shit and he’s just looking for an excuse to haul your ass down to the station in the back of his car.

I know what he sees when he looks around. The Bears’ Lair, aka fire camp, is a sleepy dot in the middle of nowhere. This is our downtime space, the spot where nothing happens, and we fucking love it that way because out in the field hell is either breaking loose or you’re mopping up after the last break out. Camp is a handful of weathered wooden buildings and a patch of gravel mostly filled with beat-up trucks and a few Japanese imports. A dented POS peels out of our impromptu lot, a foreign car from overseas with good mileage and a decent resale value. There’s a little fuck you spit of gravel as the driver leaves the parking lot too fast.

I’m betting that’s Sarah Jo leaving. I could will her to stay all I wanted, but she’d been scared yesterday and itching to go.

The Douche pauses next to his car like he’s expecting a marching band welcome or celestial trumpets announcing his arrival. He’s gonna be waiting a long time. I count it off, one one thousand, two one thousand… Get to fucking thirty before he gives up on anyone pulling a meet-and-greet and scans the buildings. He hasn’t spotted me yet. Instead, the cabin door next to the cafeteria seems to catch his eye. Someone has added a neat sign saying main office. Honestly, that someone is messing with The Douche because none of us are office types, and that office is empty. Everyone’s either eating or out in the field.

I saunter over to intercept the man before he can spoil anyone’s lunch. I’m such a saint—my boys can thank me later for taking one for the team. The good deputy spots me when I start moving, and promptly comes to a halt, waiting. He clearly thinks he’s pulling a genius power play by making me approach him, and I’m itching to disabuse him of that idea. Preferably with my fists, although my feet wouldn’t mind getting in on the action and kicking the shit out of him, either.

He looks complacent as fuck. He’s tall, but not as tall as me. Bet he hates having to tilt his head back to make eye contact with me, so I get right up in his space. He’s the kind of pretty boy that looks like he belongs on a billboard advertising cologne or tighty-whities. His dark hair is slicked back from his face, and he’s got a real nice pair of cheekbones and a perfect nose. You know Humperdink in The Princess Bride? This guy could be his doppelganger, except without the velvet and lace.

“What’s up?” I come to a stop when moving another inch would put my steel-toes on top of his shiny, hi-gloss loafers. Leaving my footprint there would practically be charitable of me because then his ass will have a nice keepsake of his time with us.

“Deputy Thad Hill,” the Douche announces in self-satisfied tones. This is apparently my cue to fall down and worship, or at least show him the kind of respect I’d give my president or commanding officer. He must have the world’s smallest dick, given the amount of compensating he’s doing. I, on the other hand, know I’m hung. God’s been over-generous in the dick department, and so I don’t need to get into a pissing contest here.

The Douche then proceeds to trot out a badge case, just in case I have any doubts that my presence has been blessed with greatness. He flips it open smoothly, flashing a square of laminated, official looking plastic at me. His creds certainly look genuine, although there’s always the possibility that Deputy Douche (to give him his official job title) is a fake with the real article. Deputy Douche flicks the case shut and slides it into his back pocket.

We look at each other for a moment. Eh. Fuck it. I’d like to eat lunch, and I’d also like to go after Sarah Jo. Sleep, a shower, and a cold beer are high up on my to do list as well, so Deputy Douche needs to get on with it.

“You got business here?” Looming over him is ridiculously easy. Bet Deputy Douche is wishing he’d met a smaller hotshot or put lifts in those fancy shoes of his. Deputy Douche isn’t a small man, either, but I have the advantage, the biggest one being that I don’t have to pretend to be nice. Or professional. Even if Hunter Black is off-site at the moment and that makes me the man in charge. Which is very convenient when Deputy Douche shoves a picture in my face.

“No autographs,” I tell him, enjoying the way he chokes on his righteous indignation. I’m not sure why I’m baiting him. Normally, I have nothing but respect for law enforcement—they do an important job, and like my hotshot team, their number one goal is keeping people safe. I admire that. This guy, however, rubs me the wrong way.

The photo is also a problem. I snatch it out of his hand and head into the office just in case that wasn’t Sarah Jo getting the hell out of Dodge a few minutes ago. I also think I’m not going to want an audience for this conversation because that’s definitely Sarah Jo in the picture. Her hair’s a little less colorful, but she’s beaming at the camera with her trademark smile, flashing her fingers in a vee for victory gesture. She looks happy and way the fuck less haunted.

Her expression’s almost as good as the one she sported yesterday after my tongue and I got done expressing our heart-felt appreciation for her pussy. Fuck, but she tasted good. Probably a good thing we didn’t get around to actual penetration because she’s obviously in an emotionally vulnerable place. You can’t believe I just said that? That makes two of us. But banging the hell out of her on a desk when she was scared shitless about something didn’t sit right then, and it doesn’t feel any more right today. Sure, I’ve got regrets. My dick’s been sending urgent messages to my brain since we parted and my balls are permanently Smurf-colored.

But even if scared and sexy can co-exist, I feel like I should take care of the scared thing first for her. Must be because I’ve still got a gentlemanly side and if she’s not worried, she’ll be able to focus all her considerable attention on the amazing orgasms I’m giving her. Who wouldn’t want his best work appreciated? Just thinking about her spread out on the desk gets me hard all over again. Hope Deputy Douche doesn’t think the hard-on’s for him and end up with his precious feelings crushed.

“I’m investigating an arson.” Deputy Douche obviously expects his pronouncement to be greeted with a chorus of Hallelujahs because my continued silence makes the other man blink. Which is why I continue keeping my mouth shut and wait. Sooner or later, Hill will tell me what I need to know. Then I can assess my options, fix whatever shit Sarah Jo’s landed in, and go after her for round two in O-ville.

Hill fidgets. Gotcha. “You run into much arson up here?”

He’s standing in the middle of a fire camp—we’re a goddamned fire buffet up here. There are plenty of ways a wildland fire gets started, and arson ranks right up there at the top of the list. Idiots with matches, campers who think a no-burn rule doesn’t apply to them, lost hikers who decide building a big-ass signal fire will get them out of the woods faster, firefighters who want the overtime or the experience… it’s a crowded list.

“We’ve got plenty of fire up here,” I allow.

Hill shakes his head. “Not a Big Bear kind of blaze. My fire is three hundred miles northeast of here.”

The downright possessive tone in Hill’s voice sets off all kinds of alarms. An officer of the law shouldn’t be nosing around here without some kind of professional reason, but this doesn’t sound like a routine investigation at all.

“Have you seen this woman?” Hill trots the line out like he’s starring front and center in a bad television show. Just in case I’m terminally stupid, he taps the photo I’ve set down on top of the desk.

I’d sort of guessed based on her reaction to the sheriff’s car yesterday that she was on the run. Turns out I’d also harbored a stupid hope that she’d let me in on the reasons why before law enforcement showed up for her. It’s easier to hide the bodies before they’re on public display, you feel me?

“You looking for her?” I counter, already running options in my head. Outing Sarah Jo to this man isn’t happening. There’s something off here, and I learned years ago to listen to that little voice in my head. My subconscious processes way before the facts reach the rest of my head—there’s probably a big, fancy study backing me up, but this is experience talking, too. So, if my gut insists there’s something wrong, my head’s gonna listen.

“Sure am.” Hill’s thumb strokes over the glossy and I get the bad feeling that he’s imagining that he’s touching my girl. “Sarah Jo here is wanted for arson. She burned down the house of a little old lady she took care of.”

“The lady get hurt?” Christ, I hope not. Whatever happened, Sarah Jo doesn’t need to carry that burden, too.

Hill shakes his head. “Just a whole lot of property damage. You know where Sarah Jo is?”

“Can’t help,” I say blandly. More like, won’t, but no point in tipping my hand to Hill just yet.

“No?” Hill sounds skeptical. Guess he’s not as stupid as he sounds. “Because I’m fairly certain she’s up here.”

“Let’s call in the boys, then,” I suggest. “See if they’ve got anything to say.”

Deputy Douche thinks this is a fantastic idea, even if I did come up with it myself, so that’s what we do.

The reaction of the other hotshots when they pile into the cabin says plenty, too. My boys don’t like the newcomer. Thad Hill is a slick, friendly guy, but he’s also a little too friendly. One by one, each hotshot admires Sarah Jo’s picture, a few of them a little too much (Colt actually asks for her number as if Deputy Douche is running a dating service), but all of them insist that they’ve never, ever seen her. They fucking lie like champs and I love them. Deputy Douche gets visibly frustrated as he gets one no after another, which is entertaining for the first ten minutes but ten gets old. Twenty Questions is so not my favorite game—that would be Truth or Dare, dirty style. Muttering a quick excuse, I leave Hill to wrap up his interrogation and head out for the cooks.

The good thing about those gals is that they’re easy to find. Unlike my team, which can be almost anywhere along a fifty-mile fireline, cooks tend to be found near stoves, sinks, and large collections of knife blades. Blowing through the door of the cafeteria, I step into the path of the first cook I spot. She wisely comes to a halt rather than slamming into me because I seriously outweigh her.

I’ve got just one question. “What does Sarah Jo drive?”

The cook eyes me suspiciously for a long moment. Yeah. She’s aware of Deputy Douche’s surprise visit, and now she’s calculating whose side I’m on. This isn’t a playground, and we aren’t playing boys against girls. I give her a nice, sexy, calm smile. A smile that promises we both want what’s best for Sarah Jo. Safe and happy, right? And if I plan to ensure happiness with my mouth, fingers, and dick, that’s nobody’s business but mine and Sarah Jo’s. Before any orgasms can happen, however, I have to catch up with her first.

“Honda Civic,” she says finally, when I sling an arm around her shoulder and wink at her, tacitly promising that Deputy Douche isn’t getting within a hundred yards of our girl.

My cook prefers words to coded gestures, however, because she proceeds to spell our agreement out. “You going after her—or selling her out to that man over there?”

She nods toward the office where Deputy Douche is exiting. He looks distinctly unhappy. Colt marches along on one side of him, and Kade brings up the right. Kade’s the new boy on the team, and he was something hush-hush in the US military before he joined us, so he must know at least a dozen ways to kill a man and that’s fine with me. Leave nothing to chance. They’ll see him off and make sure he leaves. Also, FYI? Thad Hill had better not accept any offer of coffee these ladies make him, because the cook leaning into my side is definitely out for blood. She’s a fucking amazing woman.

As is the one I’ve temporarily misplaced. As soon as I catch up with her, I plan to point out that I’ve got her back, even if she’s not ready to open up anything more than her legs. So sue me. I’m not a poet. Hallmark wouldn’t hire me if I were the last person left on Earth (although I guess they wouldn’t need greeting cards then, would they?). What I’m trying to say is that I’ll take sex for now, but I’d like to get inside her head and maybe her heart. Just a little and whenever she’s ready. I’m a patient man and I know how to wait.

I let the cook go, dropping a kiss on her cheek. These ladies rock. 

“I’ll always go after her.”