13

SARAH JO

Pick claims he’s not much of a dancer, but he led me out for that one turn at the beginning of the night, and then he did it a second time, after all the drama with Lola and Hunter went down. Pick’s strong hands guided me down the line, and then he watched with a smile on his face as the other men twirled me enthusiastically. Honestly? None of them can dance for shit. It’s more like happy stomping, but I guess I shouldn’t have expected Fred Astaire to be putting out forest fires.

The fresh air that hits me when we finally leave the bar sometime well after midnight is a welcome wake-up call. It’s been a weird night, but a good one (at least for everyone but Lola). The gravel parking lot is still plenty full of cars and beat-up trucks that reflect the vivid colors of the neon beer signs in the bar’s window. I’m tipsy. Again, something I don’t do. Drunk girls aren’t in control girls. I suck in cool air, putting a hand on Pick’s arm to steady myself. Heels are also a mistake tonight.

“You okay?” His amused laughter floats over my head. “I got you.”

Does he? I guess he does.

“I’m worried about Lola,” I announce to the rows of cars. It’s true. She’s not answering her phone, and Olivia says she’s not at the cabins. I think she needs us, or needs some moral support and someone to tell her just how much of an asshole Hunter is. For a moment, though, I concentrate on just breathing, in and then out. I’m not, I tell myself, enjoying the feel of Pick’s rock-hard muscles beneath my hand. I’m not copping a bonus feel of what I saw naked the other night. Nope. That’s not why I’m standing here in the parking lot at all. I’m just getting my head on straight, clearing my mind before I do something insanely, publicly stupid like Lola.

Nothing more.

Unfortunately, no amount of fresh air or breathing time seems to undo the effect my hotshot has on me. His concern is seductive. And although I’ve stood on my own two feet for years, I know that in no way is he suggesting that I’m not capable. He’s simply offering to help. Letting me know that he has my back, no strings attached.

The 64-thousand-dollar question is why.

It’s not that I’m not feeling it. Him. Us. Sure, we had an amazing hook up, but we’ve managed to share air space at camp this week without ripping each other’s clothes off. There have been looks, and I’ve been tempted. It turns out that Pick is a dirty texter. He’s full of “thoughtful” suggestions for ways he can make me feel better. He convinced me to FaceTime the other night and let’s just say the man talked me through an amazing orgasm. And yet I have a feeling that he’s not just interested in having more in-person sex with me. It’s ridiculous, right? He may have had his face buried in my hoohah—twice—but he barely knows me. I, on the other hand, have had enough relationships in my twenty-five years to know that the secrets I’m keeping are deal breakers. I screwed up badly, while Pick is a man who does everything the right way. He’s a bona fide hero who goes out to battle wildland fires every day of the summer.

He wouldn’t really want a woman like me.

Not if he knew.

We reach his bike before I can figure out if I really want to tell him and spoil this. Whatever this is. Staying silent isn’t a great idea, but neither is confession. I’m not sure what to do, but then my past picks this moment to step out from between two parked trucks.

Thad Hill looks every bit as determined and confident as I remember him being. He also looks extremely pissed as he moves forward and blocks our path. No end run around him, even if I had somewhere to run. I’ve all but gone to the ends of the earth, and he can’t let me go?

“Thad.” My lips are dry and stick to my teeth, but I get his name out.

“Sarah Jo.” His hands shift to his hips and the black utility belt there. For a heart-stopping moment, his fingers brush over the gun in its holster before he reaches for the cuffs. Would he actually kill me? I’ve never worried about that before—there are so many other ways to be at his mercy. The soft clink as he pulls the cuffs free almost gets lost in the sounds of doors slamming and men calling good-byes. “You’re under arrest.”

Thad takes another step forward, but then Pick’s somehow between us. He moves quickly for a big man, fast and silent. As the two men lock eyes in a silent stare-down, I become aware of the other men in the parking lot closing in.

I’ve dreaded this moment for so long that it’s almost anticlimactic. Thad wins. I lose. There’s nowhere left to run unless I can somehow board a plane to Bora Bora and throw myself on the mercy of the Tahitians. It’s almost a relief to know that the worst has happened. He’ll put me in the back of his car, and, if I’m lucky, he’ll settle for simply running me in to the station. The station that’s at least a six-hour drive from here. I’m not thinking about the worst-case scenario—the one that involves me, the cuffs, and the backseat of Thad’s car. He’s hinted more than once that I have some making up to do, and that I’d be starting on my knees.

“You got a warrant for that arrest?” Pick growls.

Someone else—Colt—steps up next to Pick. Now I’ve got a hotshot wall between me and Thad. When we danced earlier, Colt was a shameless flirt. Now he looks lethally mean. The two men make an impressive wall of shoulders, four hundred pounds of pure muscle and all on my side.

“What are the charges?” Colt adds his own question, the note of skepticism in his voice overt.

“Arson. And theft.” Thad tries to advance. Maybe he expects Pick and Colt to back down or pull a Red Sea and open up a passage straight to me. They don’t. I blink. Hard. I’m supposed to be handling this. Instead, they’re handling Thad for me. He isn’t their problem, though. I can do whatever I have to do.

“Pick . . .” That’s my hand on his back. I don’t remember putting it there. Even through the cotton T-shirt, I can feel the heat of him and the way the muscles in his back flex as he crosses his arms, sending Thad one of those silent male messages. Probably telegraphing mine. There’s silence for a minute as Thad digests their opposition to his plans for me.

“You want to go with him?” Pick asks the question without turning his head.

“Not particularly,” I admit, “but—”

“You got a warrant?” He addresses Thad again.

Thad blusters a bit and then starts spouting excuses. “On me? No. But Sarah Jo’s got some answering to do. I’m running her in.”

He sounds like a cross between a pissed-off parent and… I don’t know what. But he’s in his uniform, a small arsenal hanging off his belt. He’s bigger than me, stronger, and he has a serious issue with my attempting to blow the whistle on what went down with Mrs. Joan. I know this is supposed to be the moment when I turn into some kind of caped crusader, eager to see justice done and scream my story to the world, but I’m a realist. Thad is a deputy sheriff, and I’m not. He has a sterling reputation, and I’m a little tarnished. There’s zero reason for anyone to believe him over me, and I’d rather not pick a fight I can’t win. Arguing with him isn’t a great idea.

Apparently, I’m the only one who thinks this, however.

“No.” Pick didn’t waste words.

Pick, of course, loves confrontation. I’m sure it has something to do with the whole hotshot thing. If he were the kind of guy who preferred to hang back and watch shit happen, he’d make a terrible firefighter. I’ve seen enough of what they do to know that not only do the hotshots happily launch themselves into the middle of do-or-die situations, but they come out on top. They don’t hesitate, and they win. There’s probably a lesson in that for me, but I can’t help but notice that most of them end up singed a little at one point or another.

“You stopping me?” This time, Thad’s hand goes straight to his gun. He keeps the piece holstered, but the threat is unmistakable. He’d actually shoot Pick for standing in the way, and that is why I’ve spent so much time running instead of standing my ground.

My body and my head are in full agreement, too. The world goes icy cold, my vision narrowing to a cold, dark tunnel that drills in on the source of my current unhappiness. Thad. I’m not supposed to let him scare me like this, but he’s unmistakably in charge. He has a gun, for God’s sake. What else am I supposed to do?

Pick knows, of course. In fact, he’s already talking.

“You produce a warrant, you can take Sarah Jo with you. Until then, I figure she decides when she goes and when she stays.”

Around me, the other hotshots and jumpers nod, all on the same page as Pick. Thad curses (which is entirely unprofessional and deeply satisfying), clearly weighing the odds of shooting Pick and getting away with it. I think this may be the first time in a long time that he hasn’t been able to bully his way to what he wants. Fortunately, he’s also a coward, which is something I should have realized earlier. His hand slides away from the gun.

“I’ll get the warrant,” he threatens, fingers tapping his belt. “I’ll be back. Don’t run, Sarah Jo. Don’t make me chase you again.”

Have I mentioned that when I’m nervous, I tend to indulge in inappropriate humor? I’m the girl who giggles when she’s sad or scared, too, so what happens next really shouldn’t come as a surprise. Despite my panty-pissing terror, I flip Thad a jaunty, two-fingered salute because that’s the perfect cover up for my insides, which are doing an excellent imitation of Jello. Someone laughs and Thad gets back into his car, closing the door far harder than is strictly necessary. I guess he feels he has a point to make. Seconds later, the car peels out of the parking lot, spitting gravel.

Mission accomplished, the other men slowly drift away, truck doors slamming.

“You ready to head on back to camp?” Pick keeps his gaze steady on mine. He doesn’t look pissed, or disappointed, or even curious. He just looks like he did yesterday. He looks like Pick.

I suck in one breath. Two. “You’re taking my word over his?”

“Of course.” He straddles his bike and offers me a helmet. Here we go. Once he has me on board, he’ll start with the questions. Still, I take the helmet and jam it on. It’s not like I want to spend the night in the parking lot (right now I feel the need for four walls and a door with a lock—and a fortress and a few cannons wouldn’t come amiss either). Ubers are also in remarkably short supply in Big Bear too, so since I came with Pick, leaving with him just makes sense.

“You still don’t want to know?” I concentrate on getting myself onto Pick’s bike without landing on my butt. What is it with guys and difficult-to-board rides? Is it dick advertising? The bigger the wheels and the greater the distance from the ground to the seat, the bigger the penis?

Pick scrubs a hand over his head. Okay. He’s not quite the Zen-like pool of tranquility he seems. “Not a question of my not wanting to know. When you’re ready to tell, you’ll share. If not, then no worries. I know how to wait. He’s a nasty son-of-a-bitch, though. I’d feel better if I knew whatever you could tell me.”

Such a pretty speech. I successfully lever my way onto the seat behind Pick. Wait for it… he reaches between us and pulls my arms round his waist. Then he turns his head and gives me another look. He seems to have an endless supply—and he’s definitely waiting for an answer.

“He is. Nasty.” I fight the urge to rub my arms. When I’m around Thad now, I feel like the gross slick just flies off him and sticks to me. In comparison, Pick’s warm, solid, and safe.

Sometimes safe.

Right now, heat and danger practically radiate off the man.

“Figured.” Pick does a quick visual check to make sure I’m secure, then backs us out of the parking spot. He drives with the same easy confidence he does everything, and if I want to plant myself in his lap and pretend we’re riding off into the sunset on happy, happy horseback, that’s either temporary weakness on my part or the fact that riding a motorcycle feels like I’ve just shoved the world’s best vibrating dildo between my legs.

“We dated,” I blurt out.

“Doesn’t look like you got a happily-ever-after out of that,” he observes. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but I get the sense that he’s entirely focused on me. And somehow, he hears me just fine despite the roar of the bike’s pipes.

“Yeah. You could say that.” Do NOT climb into his lap. I try not to sound pathetic, but I’m unexpectedly hosting a pity party back here, and I think he knows it. He exhales roughly, which seems to be the manly version of the sad panda sigh, and his hands tighten on the handle bars. Hopefully, he’s imagining throttling Thad and not me. Not that I actually think Pick would ever hurt me, but he’s only human despite all those super hero qualities he possesses. And apparently my inner Damsel in Distress thinks we should lean against him, despite the awkward seat set up, and hold on real tight. No, I tell her. This needs to be his call. Odds are good he loses patience with me, because nothing about this relationship will be easy.

And since when do we have a relationship anyhow?

Since you paid him a little midnight visit, the Damsel points out, sounding quite pleased with herself.

And sure he’s rescued me from celibacy and given me my first hands-free orgasm in what feels like forever, but that’s not really a relationship. Like one that involves talking. And feelings.

You’re talking now, Damsel points out.

And you’re feeling shit.

Damn her for being right.

Pick apparently gets tired of waiting for me to finish my internal monologue because he busts in. “There more to it than that?”

“Probably.” Absolutely. I can practically feel Damsel gloating. She thinks this night is going to go her way.

“He going to be trouble?”

“He’ll be back.”

“I like trouble just fine.” The helmet can’t hide the slow grin tugging at the corner of Pick’s mouth. When he looks like that, my panties are in serious jeopardy. Damsel and my inner hussy both urge us to reach on over and reward the man for his help tonight. In fact, I should totally reciprocate, right? Give him a helping hand wherever he’d like it? A roadside blow job?

“No worries there, honey,” he continues. His dark eyes never leave the road, but I know he’s aware of me, of how my fingers pick nervously at his T-shirt because Damsel really is winning and how I can’t stop the betraying gesture. “Now would be a good time to tell me what happened.”

Of course he’s right, but that doesn’t make the confession any easier. Who really likes to air all their sins?

“Let’s just say that Thad and I have a past,” I suggest. Maybe we can go for the simple, not-as-embarrassing executive summary and skimp on the details.

Pick’s not on board with that. “I’m going to need details. This isn’t a game of connect-the-dots where you throw out a few hints and I fill in the lines. Tell me what kind of trouble you’re in.”

“You can’t help.”

Truth, right? I mean, unless I need someone to beat the shit out of Thad and possibly help me hide the body. I let myself enjoy that fantasy for a moment. I know violence doesn’t really solve anything, and I actually don’t condone murder under any circumstances, but it’s been a long night and I’m feeling weak.

“Try me.” Mr. Safety First actually takes his eyes off the road to look back at me. It’s a short glance, but he packs a lot into it. “Give me a chance, Sarah Jo.”

Chances are risky business. I knew riding with Pick was a bad idea. I hate the fear I feel about what Thad might do to me, but that feeling isn’t anywhere near as bad as the uncertainty. Thad Hill has decided to make my life his own personal playground, popping in and out with devastating effect. He won’t just leave me alone. Somehow, I have to defuse the threat he poses, but I’m fresh out of genius plans. I tried going to the authorities and that was an epic disaster. Running was my Hail Mary pass and it failed, and I don’t have much experience with standing my ground.

Pick, on the other hand, knows everything about holding his line. He’s an expert on digging and refusing to be pushed back. One inch at a time, he takes back whatever ground fire has claimed, day in and day out, summer after summer.

“Four months ago.” Start at the beginning, right? “I was living in Auburn, working as an in-home caregiver. There was a fire in my client’s home.”

Thank God, Mrs. Joan hadn’t been home. No, she’d gone off on the bus to Bunco night like she always did on Thursday evenings. At least Thad had waited until the elderly woman was clear. I wasn’t supposed to be there, either, but I’d forgotten my favorite sweater and swung back to get it just in time to catch the rat-thieving bastard pulling away from the curb. In hindsight, I realized that he’d popped the batteries in the smoke detectors during that visit, cracked a gas main, and set the microwave to go off. I’d got in, got out, too excited about my evening to notice the whiff of gas.

Stupid.

The timer went ding and Mrs. Joan’s home blew up, taking most of her possessions with it. All fingers, of course, had pointed my way from the get-go. I was the last one in the house, and no one listened when I insisted that Thad’s car had pulled away as I arrived. He was a deputy sheriff, just out and about doing his job. I got painted as the disgruntled girlfriend, because he immediately claimed we’d been having relationship problems, saying I’d wanted a ring and commitment, but he’d been unsure.

“The fire was suspicious?” Pick asks, proving he can connect the dots just fine without my help.

“I worked there, as a caregiver, and I was the last person in the house before the fire started.”

“Was the owner okay?”

“Yeah. She’d gone to play Bunco over at the senior center. She always did, like clockwork, every Thursday evening.”

“Fires happen. What made this one your problem?”

This would be so much better if he didn’t insist on details. Talking is highly overrated. “Because some diamond jewelry was missing, and the police report suggested someone had turned on the gas and then used the microwave to blow the place sky high.”

I’m just grateful that the house was somewhat isolated from its neighbors. In a more crowded subdivision, there could have been collateral damage.

“I told the police about how I saw Thad that night,” I admit “I ran back for a sweater I’d forgotten, and I saw him pulling away from the curb.”

Pick doesn’t interrupt me. And he’s really listening, I realize. He hasn’t dismissed my explanation. Yet. That focus is damned sexy, too. He’s not handsome in a polished GQ kind of way. Instead, he’s all rough, hard angles, from the strong line of his jaw to the small scars and burn marks scattered over his forearms and throat. He’s not afraid to put his body on the line and that’s better than a suit and a billion dollars any day. He doesn’t even need a cape to be a hero, although my inner hussy promptly suggests that we should buy him one. He could wear it naked. I promise fun things would ensue. Personally, I think my inner hussy just doesn’t want to finish this conversation.

“Coincidences happen,” he suggests, sounding reluctant. That’s Pick, though. He’s fair and balanced. “Hell, I don’t like the man, Sarah Jo. He’s a bully and he’s clearly jonesing for some revenge, but that doesn’t make him an arsonist. You got some proof that we can use?”

“It doesn’t. I confronted him.”

Pick swears.

“And he threatened me,” I continue. “No matter what I thought I knew, he said, no one would believe me. After all, he’s the local deputy and I’m a recent arrival. One year doesn’t count for much when most everyone has known Thad since he was a baby. I’m just the newbie on the block, fresh from San Francisco with my degree in hand and willing to do anything to earn a living because I have bills to pay and college wasn’t cheap.”

“When he comes back,” Pick says, and I can’t help but note his use of when, “that will make holding him off harder, if it’s his word against yours. Have you considered lawyering up?”

“That takes money.” Pick opens his mouth and wisely closes it when I shake my head. I’m so not taking his money. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

He snorts. “Honey, you’re already standing midstream. A bridge might be a blessing.”

“I’ll handle this.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“You know that if you need help, all you got to do is ask.”

“Thanks,” I say way too awkwardly. This is my business, not his, but this are-we-in-a-relationship thing (yes Damsel in Distress and Inner Hussy scream in tandem) complicates everything.

“Uh-huh.” He shakes his head, and the bike begins the familiar ascent to Baby Bear Lodge. “Well, you change your mind, you know where to find me, okay? There’s no expiration date on that offer.”