Burn Zone, page 2
part #1 of Hotshots Series
“Hey now.” Linc might be something of a loner, but he had friends. Might all be local or seasonal acquaintances elsewhere, but he wasn’t the cranky hermit Jacob was trying to make him out to be.
“I’m just saying, you don’t even make it up to Portland much.”
“No need. Anyway, these...friends of yours, they pressured you into coming out?”
“No one pressured me.” Jacob sounded outraged that Linc would even think he could be swayed like that. And there was the backbone Linc admired so much—strength, not just in his slim, fighting-honed body, but in his character. “It was in the back of my head though, all day. And then at dinner, Wyatt started in again on why I left Vegas, saying I couldn’t hack it in MMA, even as Tyler’s sidekick. And I’d just had enough. Enough of the pretending. Enough of the lies and not a damn person around here knowing the truth. I was just so fucking tired of his bullshit.”
“I hear you.” And Linc did, heard his pain and loneliness loud and clear. He knew something of that isolation, and while maybe he wouldn’t choose Jacob’s way out, he got the desperation that had driven his outburst. “And that was a brave thing you did, standing up to him. Telling everyone.”
“I’m not looking for a head pat here.”
“And I’m not handing them out.” Linc could meet his irritation head-on.
“Wouldn’t turn down a beer though. Fuck. That was intense.”
“Another year and a half, I’ll buy you one.”
Nineteen, he reminded himself. He’s nine-fucking-teen. Even if Wyatt hadn’t warned him off, he needed to remember that the kid couldn’t even buy a drink yet. And thank the fuck that Linc had thrown out every last drop of alcohol in this place, first week back.
“Like you and Wyatt weren’t drinking every chance you got, even in high school.”
“Wyatt maybe,” he allowed, stretching, trying to do something with the tension that kept gathering in his lower back, just from being here.
“Oh, right. I forgot. You’re...like his guardian angel or something. Don’t you ever get tired, being his designated driver? Cleaning up his messes?”
“Nope,” he lied, far too easily. “He’s my best friend. It’s what friends do, take care of each other.”
“I don’t see him exactly returning the favor.” Jacob flicked some stray leaf off the railing, narrowly missing Linc.
“You wouldn’t know,” he said testily, reminding both of them that he and Wyatt had a long history that Jacob had nothing to do with. “That man’s done more for me than I can ever repay.”
Jacob made a scoffing noise. “Maybe so, but you wouldn’t know it from how he treats you sometimes. So, what’s the deal? Can’t believe Wyatt even told you about last night. He tell you to try to talk sense into me?”
“Fuck no.”
“Oh?” Jacob’s tone softened and he scooted closer.
Danger. Danger. All Linc’s proximity sensors pinged, brain squawking like a comm set when a fire wall shifted, coming straight at him. “I brought it up to make sure you were okay. That’s all. Thought maybe you’d need to hear that your folks will come around. Give them time.”
“Yeah.” Jacob’s sigh held a certain amount of wistfulness to it, which did something to Linc’s insides, made him want to be stupid and take his hand or something else ridiculous.
“And for the record, I’m sorry about that Tyler kid. He’s a fucking idiot, but you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Leaning forward, he rested a hand on Linc’s shoulder. “Totally and completely fine.”
“Good.” He didn’t make a move to stand, couldn’t, not with Jacob’s warm hand pressing him down, dangerous sparks shooting all down his torso.
“But maybe I should make myself scarce for a few days, let everyone calm the fuck down. You wouldn’t happen to know of somewhere with a spare bed now, would you?” His tone was light, but there was no mistaking his meaning.
“You’re not staying here.” Even if Wyatt wouldn’t flay him alive, that idea was all kinds of trouble.
“No beer. No place to crash. You’re no fun.”
“Nope.”
“I could be, though. Fun. The sort of fun you need. And you know it.” Jacob’s voice had all the brashness of nineteen to it, reckless confidence. “Don’t tell me you haven’t felt it, ever since I started helping you here. I’ve seen you looking at me.”
Fuck. All those danger warnings shrieked again as the car carrying his sanity went over the cliff. He worked with any number of good-looking guys, had played four years of high school sports, had been around locker rooms almost two decades at this point, and it was going to be Jacob who called him on sneaking looks? And the worst, the absolute worst, was that he wasn’t wrong. Linc had looked. And that Jacob noticed said he was either getting sloppy now that he’d hit thirty or that there was something about Jacob...
And fuck it all, there could not be something about Jacob. No way, no how.
“No idea what you’re talking about.” For the second time that day, he played dumb, knowing full well Jacob wasn’t going to buy it any more than his brother had.
“I get it. You’re not out yet. But I’ve heard enough of Wyatt’s stupid jokes when he thinks you guys are alone to know you probably swing my way, at least sometimes. And like I said, I’m not blind.”
The words to deny Jacob’s assumption rose in his throat, but wouldn’t leave his lips. Something about Jacob indeed. Linc could lie about this by omission or necessity to just about anyone else. But not Jacob. From the start of helping Linc, he’d earned Linc’s trust. And maybe his truthfulness too, because he simply couldn’t make the lie come.
“You’re not blind. It’s no one’s business but mine though.”
“Good.” Jacob drew the word out, sinful and seductive and more dangerous than fraying webbing on a jump rig. “I can keep a secret.”
If only. But no. His bones still remembered with breathtaking accuracy how it had felt, dangling above the earth that morning, little pieces of rope and webbing all that separated him and a broken neck. The view might have been nice, but the fall would have been deadly, save Wyatt’s intervention. Not unlike this moment here.
I’ve got you, buddy.
Stay away from my little brother.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not letting you stay here.”
“Why? You think I’m on the rebound from Tyler? Or you think I’ll out you? Or...” His voice hardened and his hand tightened on Linc’s shoulder. “It’s Wyatt, isn’t it? Did he threaten you?”
“No.” This time the lie came easy, both because he had to and because he didn’t like Jacob’s tone, like he was ready to go to war with Wyatt on his behalf. That sort of concern, an almost protectiveness, made him shift against the plastic bucket. He didn’t need anyone playing champion for him.
Jacob’s grip softened, massaging Linc’s neck with a touch that had him stifling a groan. His hands were strong, calloused from hard work and years in the gym and felt better than a hot shower after a long day in the field.
“He wouldn’t have to know. It could be just an itch we scratch this one time.”
“Ha.” Oh, to be nineteen and so damn sure of himself. And that right there was the other reason why Linc had to turn him down. There wouldn’t be any one time only for him, not the way Jacob pulled him in even when he knew full well he had to resist. Jacob, who apparently saw what hundreds of guys he’d worked with hadn’t. Jacob, who made him laugh even while hauling mountains of moldy magazines, a feat not many could manage.
But Jacob had all but said it himself—he was nursing a broken heart from Tyler, and Linc had no desire to chance everything just to be the rebound fuck the kid forgot in a month.
“Not happening.”
“Not tonight, maybe, but—”
“Not now, not ever. There’s plenty of fish your own age to fry. Go find one.” He forced himself to pull away from that delicious torment, to stand up because his body was that damn weak that another few minutes and he’d be making all sorts of stupid choices. Better to be firm now.
“Your loss.” The hurt in Jacob’s voice as he scampered off the railing pierced Linc like a dart, a sharp, swift pain he’d do anything to take away. Anything, that was, except the one thing Jacob seemed to want.
“I’m sure it is.” He wasn’t trying to be flip. He absolutely was sincere—both sure that he’d regret turning him down and sure that he was doing the right thing. Jacob was simply a risk he wasn’t ever going to be able to afford.
Chapter Two
Present, April
The Painter’s Ridge Air Base parking lot was full, exactly how Jacob had expected it to be on this early morning. He’d anticipated the nervous flutters in his stomach as well, had skipped both coffee and cereal, too hyped to get here where all the smoke jumpers were reporting for orientation for the coming season. At least, it was easiest to tell himself it was hype, not try to name all the other things bumping around in his empty gut. And he’d also predicted the angry voice that greeted him moments after he entered the training facility.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Linc looked like he’d spent the winter doing nothing except pumping iron, even more ripped and fierce looking than usual. And hot as fuck, because some things never changed. Short, dark buzz cut, similarly dark, trimmed facial scruff, forearm tats poking out of the rolled back sleeves of his flannel shirt. Menacing glare that would make weaker men than Jacob quake in their boots, but only earned a shrug from him.
“Reporting for training.” He’d spent weeks now playing this moment over in his head, rehearsing both how cool and calm he’d be and how pissed Linc would be. Stepping to the sidewall, he freed the entryway for others. Linc followed, glower still fully in place.
“The fuck you are.” If Linc was surprised, he had only himself to blame. He’d been scarce all damn winter, only surfacing in late January when May had Willow. The awkwardness at the hospital had hardly been the moment to tell him that he’d finally received the call to report to spring training here instead of with the hotshot hand crew he’d spent the past few seasons with, doing his time, waiting for this day. “When I saw your name on the roster this morning, I about choked on my coffee. And that was before the text from your mom.”
“Sounds like a problem.” Jacob continued to regard him coolly even as other people filtered in around them—fit men and women who would make up this season’s elite forest fire fighting team. He was damn proud to be among them, and Linc was not going to ruin this for him.
“It is. Listen, there’s a list of alternates a mile long.”
“I know. I’ve waited five damn years for my shot. You’re not talking me out of this.”
But Linc continued, thoroughly undaunted. “This early in the season, you drop out, it’s no big deal for them to bring in a replacement. Don’t do this to your mom, kid.”
“Not. A. Kid.”
“You are when you act like one. This isn’t a game or some extreme sport. You can get your adrenaline rush in other ways that won’t break your mom’s heart.”
“She’ll deal.” Jacob refused to soften his stance, even though he did hate how hard she was taking this. Not that he’d expected a parade, but not having a single person happy for him or even a little proud was damn depressing. “And this isn’t some lark. I’ve paid my dues, done my time with engine and hotshot crews, got my certifications, worked my way up, same as you and Wyatt did.”
“Wyatt would hate this.” Linc stared him down, eyes daring him to say different.
“Well, seeing as how he’s not here—”
“Can everyone find a seat? Go ahead and bring your coffee over, and we’re going to get started.” A grizzled older gentleman spoke over the din of the room. Witherspoon Alder, the base manager, was someone Jacob recognized both from the funeral and from his panel interview.
“We’re not done.” Giving him an ominous look, Linc stalked away, claiming one of the folding chairs in the back of the room.
Even without the warning, Jacob didn’t doubt for a second that Linc had more to say. And maybe if he wasn’t always such a hard-ass about it, Jacob might actually listen. But, no, Linc had always, always taken his marching orders from Wyatt. It was almost nine months since the fire that had claimed Wyatt’s life, and Linc was still fighting Wyatt’s battles for him.
“The next five weeks won’t be the most arduous of your life. That’s coming later this summer, the real deal.” Alder addressed the room as Jacob took an empty chair on the opposite side of the room from Linc. “This is life-and-death serious business, and we lost three of our best last year. Make no mistake in what you’ve signed up for—we take pride in what we do, but we never lose sight of the dangers either. Look around you. These are the teammates who will keep you safe, and trusting them is as big a part of our training as anything else.”
Jacob dutifully glanced around the room, noting the varied ages of the participants—returning men and women in their thirties and forties who’d stopped by the house with condolences and casseroles alongside newer trainees like himself. He knew a few of the other newbies from various hotshot and engine crews. Despite Linc’s attitude, no one here was a kid—it took several years of experience fighting on the front lines to even get a shot at a smoke jumper slot.
Alder continued his welcome speech, introducing the various senior personnel who would serve as trainers over the course of the five-week period and outlining the skills they’d be covering. It included far more than jumping out of planes and all that entailed, with exit and landing procedures and all the maneuvering in the air. They’d also cover parachute and equipment maintenance, cargo retrieval, timber management, and tree climbing as well as the work they’d be doing on natural resource projects when not called out to a fire.
“In addition to the physical fitness tests, there are also several pack-out tests to show your readiness to haul gear long distances.” A woman in her late forties with short hair and clipped speech addressed them after Alder was done. “We’re going to start today with a baseline fitness assessment—no one’s going home quite yet, but this will show any room for improvement. Failure to pass the fitness and pack tests at the end of training will, however, be grounds for reassignment.”
Ever since his MMA days, Jacob had kept himself in peak physical condition, both during the fire season and with his various off-season jobs, so he wasn’t too worried about passing the tests. He’d had the minimum requirements taped to his fridge all spring. The way more pressing concern was avoiding Linc so that he didn’t have to suffer another public argument in front of all his new teammates.
To that end, he hung back when they were dismissed to the locker room to change into workout gear, waiting to pick a locker far from Linc, but his plan backfired when the only options were the two on either side of Linc, everyone else apparently giving him a wide berth.
Linc didn’t waste any time before turning toward him, mid shirt change, scowl still in place. “Listen—”
“Save it. Not here.” Jacob kept his voice low. And his eyes away from Linc’s impressive chest, which he’d seen before, swimming and such, but still hadn’t developed an immunity to.
“If you can’t handle some criticism—”
“You really want to do this now? Thought you already had the hothead rep. It’d be a shame to make that worse.”
It was a low blow, reminding Linc that the rumor was that there had been serious talk about not bringing him back for the season. It was Wyatt, not Linc, who had usually been the loose cannon with his mouth and quick temper with his fists, but gossip about a supposed shouting match after Wyatt passed that had resulted in discipline had reached the other crews. And there had been more speculation that Linc was washed, that maybe he couldn’t hack it anymore, not without Wyatt and not after whatever had gone down out there that led to only one of them coming back. Which wasn’t his fault, and Jacob knew that, but Linc wore his guilt like a cape, twisting in the wind for all to see. Plenty of people had thought Linc would never let himself jump again, but here he was, reporting for duty.
“Fine. Later.” Linc finished dressing with anger rolling off him in toxic waves before heading out, leaving Jacob to do the same. But when he returned to the main room, Linc was deep in conversation with Alder and Sims, the woman in charge of the PT tests. Fuck. If he was advocating for Jacob’s removal, they were going to have a lot more than words later.
He warmed up with some basic stretches while waiting for his turn at the pull-up bar. The minimum was seven, and most of the line rattled theirs off without issue. The guy ahead of Jacob though, an older returning smoke jumper, struggled.
“Come on, Ray!”
“You’ve got this!”
“Work it!” Several others in the returning crowd started calling out encouragement, Linc included. Funny how he could go from riding Jacob’s ass to congenial teammate so quickly. After Ray finally got his chin over the bar for number seven, Linc was first to give him a high five.
Clipboard in hand, Sims summoned him forward. “Okay, Rookie. Let’s see what you’ve got. Don’t forget, there’s more to come, but I’m looking for a quality ten from our rookies. Show me you’ve been working.”
Ten with an audience was a little harder than the seven he’d been anticipating, especially knowing Linc wouldn’t be cheering him, but he got a good rhythm going and reached the target without issue. He stuck around to cheer on the female recruit behind him who whipped off ten like she was in superhero training.
“Nice work,” he said as she dropped down. “You were with the Winema hotshot team last season, right? Baker, is it?”
“Yup.” Baker was tall and ripped, and Jacob liked her already—he wasn’t expecting to make many friends with the old-timers like Linc’s crowd, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a few of his fellow recruits on his side as they went forward. “And you’re Hartman?”
