Beautiful Burn (The Maddox Brothers #4) (12 page)

José chuckled. “Neither. The girl with blue hair.”

“
Paige?
”

He nodded.

“How long has she been there?”

“Almost an hour. She brought cookies. They’re good.”

“You ate my cookies?”

“No, Miss Ellie. She brought four dozen.”

“She must know Sally is trying to starve me to death.”

José slowed at the gate, and then passed through, driving leisurely down the drive and stopping in front of the house next to an eighties model Hyundai hatchback. The blue paint was chipped, and a long scrape and dent spanned from front fender to back seat. The car was cute but beat up—no more perfect car for Paige.

She greeted me in the foyer, throwing her arms around me. She was wrapped in a blanket that smelled like Finley, nothing but her head, hands, and tattered red Converse visible.

“I hope it’s okay that I’m here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

She pulled me into the kitchen. “I brought cookies,” she said, pulling off the lid of a plastic tin that looked older than she was.

She held out a round sugar cookie, the white frosting in the shape of a snowflake.

I took a bite. “Wow,” I said, still chewing. The cookie melted in my mouth, and the frosting was decadent. “You really made these?”

She nodded. “My grandma’s recipe.”

Maricela opened the fridge and pointed to a covered plate before zipping up her coat and gathering her things to leave for the night. José’s taillights glowed through the frosted glass, too, making Paige’s unannounced visit an even bigger relief.

“How’s it going? You’ve sort of disappeared,” Paige said, choosing another cookie.

“It’s been a rough month.”

“Tyler said your parents cut you off. Is that true?”

“Tyler Maddox? You’ve seen him?” A strange pang of jealousy burned in my stomach.

She shrugged. “At Turk’s. He said you gave him the shaft.”

“I didn’t give him the shaft. He had to have been hanging on to get turned loose.”

Paige giggled, her childlike smile prompting me to reach for her hand. She intertwined her long fingers with mine. “I’ve missed seeing you around.”

“I’m still around.”

“Is it true? About your parents? Is that why you’re so different?”

“Good different, I hope,” I said, corralling the crumbs from our cookies into a pile. Paige didn’t answer. “Yes, it’s true.”

“Well, I’ve come to save you.” She bent down, and when she stood up, she pulled a bottle out of a brown paper sack. She rummaged through the cabinets until she found two tumblers, and sat them on the counter. My mouth began to water at the sound of the cap twisting off, and the initial splash of the amber liquid against the bottom of the glass. Paige filled both tumblers to the top.

“Whoa,” I said. “I haven’t drank a drop in over a month.”

She handed me a glass and held hers halfway between us. “To being sober.”

“I…” My throat burned, aching for the contents in the glass. It was right there. Just one drink. I’d just have one.

CHAPTER NINE

“You look like hell,” Tyler said, holding out my chair.

I sat down, leaving on my sunglasses. “Thanks.”

“Late night? I thought you weren’t drinking anymore.”

“I wasn’t,” I said, recoiling at the sound of his voice, the sunlight pouring in through the windows, and the squeaking little shit pre-K’er bouncing in the corner like he was on crack.

“What happened?” Tyler asked.

“A friend showed up last night with a bottle of Crown.”

He scowled at me. “After what? Five weeks on the wagon? Doesn’t sound like a very good friend.”

“I’m not riding a wagon. Those are for alcoholics.”

Tyler flagged down Chelsea, pointing his finger in the air. “Hi. Can we get some waters, please?” She nodded, and he returned his attention to me. “Can you eat?”

“Maybe.”

He shook his head. “Did you at least have good time?”

“Yeah. We talked until around midnight and crashed. She made cookies, and we talked about my parents, and Finley, and…” I trailed off, remembering the tears and blubbering about Sterling before passing out. I’d told Paige. She knew what Sterling and I had done. I covered my eyes with my hands. “Oh, no. Oh, God.
Fuck
.”

“So … not a good time?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Oatmeal. No fruit. Cinnamon.” I was determined to eat, not knowing when I would have a non-instant-noodle meal next. “Please.”

“You got it,” Tyler said, ordering for me when Chelsea returned with our waters. He didn’t talk much, and I didn’t complain. There was already too much movement and light and sound and breathing going on. Clanking of dishes, talking, some damn kids laughing, car doors slamming shut—everyone needed to die.

“You look like you hate everything,” Tyler said.

“Pretty much.” I pulled my hoodie over my head, supporting my face with my hands.

“Is this one of those things we’ll laugh about later?”

I sunk down in my seat. The sunglasses weren’t helping. It felt like the sun was piercing my brain. “Probably not. I’m so sorry.”

Chelsea slid my bowl of oatmeal in front of me, the cinnamon wafting to my nose. It actually smelled appetizing until Tyler’s stack of pancakes with blueberries, chocolate, whipped cream, and maple syrup hit my nose.

“Christ,” I said, recoiling. “Has anyone ever told you that you eat like a toddler?”

“Many, many times,” he said, digging at the stack with his fork and shoveling in a bite.

“How do you look like that,” I said, pointing at him, “if you eat like that?” I pointed to his plate.

“We have a lot of downtime at the station, as opposed to the dormitory during fire season. I don’t like sitting still, so I work out a lot.”

He had to. He was a mammoth.

I picked up a spoon and dug into the bowl, scooping up a small bite first, just to test the waters. So far, so good. Plain toast, cinnamon, bland oatmeal. I could still party like a rock star but apparently couldn’t recover like one.

I finished off my water with the pair of ibuprofen I’d brought from home, and then looked at my watch.

“In a hurry?” Tyler asked.

“I just want to make sure that I get to the office on time if your superintendent doesn’t let you talk him into this absurd plan.”

Tyler had already nearly put away half of the pancakes. I wasn’t sure when. “Photographers follow us out all the time. Not sure how you’re going to keep up in your condition, if we get called out, though. The hikes are pretty brutal.”

“Shut up.”

“Uphill.”

“Why are you torturing me?”

“…in the snow.”

“You worry about your job, I’ll worry about mine.”

Tyler laughed once. “How did a billionaire’s daughter wind up taking action shots for a magazine? That’s kind of random, isn’t it?”

“I’ve told you about my parents, and I know you remember. You told Paige over drinks or whatever.”

“Does that bother you?” Tyler asked, amused.

“That you’re talking about my business? Or that you were with Paige?”

“Either.”

“That was personal. That’s not exactly bar talk.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I just figured she was your friend … and I was a little worried about you. I figured she’d know more than I did.”

“Paige is a sweet girl. She’s not my friend.”

“Friends with benefits?”

I glared at him, and he held up his hands, chuckling.

“Are you finished stuffing your face? It’s making me nauseous,” I said.

He stood, put a few bills on the table, and helped me up. He held me to his side, supporting my weight with ease and looking fairly sympathetic. “You okay?”

I blew an errant long bang from my face, even more pissed at myself than I already was, and if I was honest, pissed at Paige. She didn’t know how hard I’d been working, though. She wasn’t responsible for my new path; that was all me.

Tyler guided me to his truck and helped me inside. I tried to face forward and keep my eyes on the road, because riding in the back of the Audi on the way to Winona’s an hour before was rather brutal.

Less than fifteen minutes later, we turned onto Mills Drive. His truck bounced over the uneven asphalt and ice as he parked in a lot south of the station.

“Sorry,” he said. “We’ve got a short walk.”

A vent was bleeding white mist out of the side of the brown building, and I stepped down and looked across the street, squinting my eyes to try to see if the lights were on yet at the
MountainEar
.

“If you need to throw up, now is the time,” Tyler said, walking around the front to stand next to me. His thick arm hooked around my shoulders, but I shrugged away.

“I’m fine. Don’t baby me. I did this to myself.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” Tyler stepped through the blanket of snow covering the broad gap between his truck and the station. We reached the back door, and with a quick twist of the knob, it was open. Tyler swept his arm toward the hallway ahead. “After you.”

I crossed my arms to ward off the cold as I walked inside. It was much harder to keep warm when I was hungover for some reason—another thing to be pissed about.

Tyler stomped his boots on a large industrial mat, and I did the same. He gestured for me to follow him down a hallway lined with cheap frames holding pictures of former superintendents and a few fallen fire fighters. The last picture was from the late nineties, and the guy couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. I paused, staring at his freckles and sweet smile.

We passed an open doorway that led to a brightly lit garage full of pumper trucks, engines, and equipment. Packs and helmets hung from hooks on the walls, and extra hoses were squared away on large shelves.

“I’ll let you get some shots in here after we get the okay from the superintendent,” Tyler said. “My squad boss said he’s in today, sorting through applications.”

After a few closed doors, we crossed the threshold of another doorway. Tyler pointed behind us. “That’s the squad boss’s office. The superintendent is in there now, cussing at the computer. His name is Chief.”

“Is he the chief or superintendent?”

“His name is Chief. His position is superintendent. He’s the one who has to clear you to stay at the dorms.”

“Gotcha. Wait. I’m staying at the dorms? Where are the dorms?”

“Farther into Rocky Mountain National Park. If you’re going to follow us around, we can’t come into town to get you every time we get a call.”

“Holy shit. So I’m going to have to, like … pack?”

“Yep. These,” he said, nodding forward, “are our quarters. TV room,” he said, pointing left. Two sofas and four recliners sat in front of a large television. It was a widescreen, but seemed to be its own unit, older than most of the guys watching it. Tyler waved, and they waved back, curious but not enough to move from their chairs. “Another office,” he said, pointing to a room farther down on the left. “We do our reports on that computer. And there,” he said, pointing right, “is the kitchen.”

I walked through the doorway, seeing a rectangular table that seated eight on one side, and a modest cooking area with cabinets on each side, a refrigerator, and a stove. Next to the sink sat a toaster and a microwave. They seemed to have everything they needed, although it was the size of a closet to serve eight or so men.

Tyler continued through a second doorway. “These are the sleeping quarters.”

“Seriously?” The room looked like an infirmary, with beds set almost side-by-side, separated only by individual, square, armoire-like pieces. “What are those?”

“They hold our personal belongings—extra clothes, coats, stuff like that. There are two on each side, sort of like lockers.”

“You sleep like this? In one big room with a bunch of guys?”

“Sometimes. Yes, some of them snore.”

I made a face, and Tyler laughed. “C’mon. Let’s go see the superintendent.”

We walked back through the kitchen, passing the guys in the TV room. They were just beginning to stir, standing up and stretching.

“Are they going somewhere?” I asked.

“They eat breakfast and watch the news. Then they go down and do chores unless we get a call. In off-season, we work a typical forty-hour week, five AM to four PM or four PM to ten PM.”

“No fires at night?”

“Yeah, for the full-time engine guys.”

“Chores?”

“Yep. Wash the vehicles, sweep and mop floors, dishes … whatever. We don’t have maids here.”

I snarled at him, knowing it was a dig at me.

“Downtime—if we get any—is a lot different at the hotshot duty station. We dig new trails and fix fence and signage, run drills…”

“So, not really downtime,” I said.

Tyler knocked on the door across from the quarters, and a deep voice growled from the other side.

“Come in, damn it!”

Tyler winked at me and opened the door. The superintendent sat behind his desk, partially hidden by several file folders and an ancient, boxy computer, looking frustrated.

“Hey, Chief. I have a journalist here who—”

“Do you know anything about Twitter?” Chief asked, his black eyes targeting me.

“Pardon?” I said.

“The Twitter. Do you know anything about it? Someone with a lot more time and who makes a lot more money than me decided we needed to have a Twitter account, and I haven’t the slightest fucking clue how to … what is it called?”

“Tweet,” Tyler said, trying not to laugh.

He pounded his fist on the desk. “Goddamn it! Tweet!”

“Yes. I could probably help,” I said, “but I’m here on an assignment, Mister…”

He looked at me only briefly before shaking his head and returning his attention to the computer. “It’s just Chief. What assignment?”

“I’m a … photographer for the
MountainEar
.” Even though it was the truth, I felt like I was lying. “I’ve been assigned to the Alpine Hotshots. Mr. Wick would like to share with the community what you guys do.”

“We tweet,” he grumbled.

Tyler breathed out a laugh. “Chief, c’mon. Miss Edson would like to—”

“Edson?” Chief said, finally deciding I was worth more of his consideration than Twitter.

Shit.

Chief narrowed his eyes at me. “As in Edson Tech?”