The bride
by the side of the Vegas highway stuck her thumb out when she spotted his
truck. Hitching for a ride, he thought, when she should have been riding high
in a limo. A bright red roller bag decorated with polka-dot duct tape peeked
out from behind the enormous white mountain of her wedding dress. She shifted
as he drew closer, waving her thumb frantically, and he caught a glimpse of
pink Converse sneakers. It wasn’t a sight a man saw every day—and that
was saying something, since Adrian Henry had spent the last two years working a
Vegas firehouse. He’d seen plenty of things, some of which he would have given
his right nut to unsee.
From the
looks of the bride, she’d had a similar day. Her mascara had run, giving her a
raccoon-like look (as the baby brother to three older sisters, he’d been the
unwilling subject of far too many make-overs and had learned the difference
between waterproof and wash-off when he’d had to go to first grade sporting
mascaraed lashes). She wasn’t crying now, however. In fact, she looked angry.
Maybe she sensed he had no intention of stopping. He probably wasn’t the first
to pass her by, even if the highway was empty now. The dress billowed around
her, one of those big puffballs of white and gauzy stuff. Her veil
fluttered from the outer pocket of the roller bag.
The only
thing missing was the groom.
When he
blew on past her, going fifty because he couldn’t put Vegas behind him too
fast, she blew him a quick kiss and flashed him the bird. Oh, she was trouble.
He respected her fuck you attitude, however. Whatever had happened to
her, she’d done her crying and now she was getting on with living. Like him.
His foot
hesitated, shifting from the gas pedal to the brake, like it had a mind of its
own. Don’t rush in. Not this time. He’d been first into that burning
apartment building last month—and the final firefighter out. No more
rescues. No more knee-jerk reactions. That was his new mantra.
Lord
knew, he shouldn’t stop. But he was a Louisiana boy and his mother would kill
him if he didn’t. His sisters would also bend his ear if they ever found out
and they’d displayed an uncanny ability to ferret out his misdeeds over the
years. He didn’t have time to rescue damsels in distress. He had to be in
Strong, California in forty-eight hours to start his new job as a smoke jumper
with Donovan Brothers and he needed this new job. His last fire call had
been bad. When he joined the jump team, he wouldn’t have to remember finding
three small bodies inside that last bedroom. No more structural fires for him,
no more riding the ladder, sirens screaming. Sure, he still got that adrenaline
rush when the tones went off and every man in the station house ran for the
engine, but now he knew there was every chance he didn’t get there in time.
And,
sometimes, no chance at all.
Smoke
jumping would let him fight fire, but out in the open, him against Mother
Nature, jumping right into the heart of the big one from a plane. He liked the
idea of that, so much so that when his cousin, Cole Henry, had texted him about
the opening with the Donovan Brothers jump team, he hadn’t thought twice. He’d
quit his job, loaded his shit into his truck, and headed out of town.
As of
this morning, he was starting over, on the road and headed somewhere better. He
got the feeling the little gal parked by the side of the road might understand
those sentiments. When he looked in his rearview mirror, however, she had her
back to him and was staring determinedly down the Nevada highway, back toward
Vegas. She’d have a long, hot wait. He hadn’t passed anyone for miles and it
was already hotter than Hades. The weather was perfect fire weather, everything
tinder dry and ready to spark.
Damn it.
He hit
the brakes and stopped the truck. She immediately walked up the side of the
road to him, tossed her bag in the back next to his gear, and yanked open the
passenger side door. All before he
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