by Erin Noelle
Spark
A Fire on the Mountain Novel
Erin Noelle © Copyright 2015
All rights reserved.
Cover Photography by Toski Covey
Cover Design by Hang Le
Editing by Kayla Robichaux
Formatting by Midnight Engel Press, LLC
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, copied in any form or by any means. Electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author/ publisher, except by a reviewer that may quote brief passages for review purposes only. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each participant.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, is entirely coincidental.
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
Contents
Prologue
Part 1 – Spark
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
Part 2 - Burn
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
Part III - Rekindle
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
Epilogue
Note From The Author
About The Author
Acknowledgements
Excerpt from Wet by Stacy Kestwick
“Have you changed your mind about Tucker’s party tonight?” Lila whines as she tugs on the back of my shirt, reminding me of a little kid begging for someone’s attention. “Everybody who’s anybody is gonna be there.”
Exhaling an audible sigh of frustration, I slam my locker shut for the final time—thus ending my four-year career at Madison High—before turning toward the petite brunette standing to my right. She gives me her best puppy-dog eyes, somehow even glassing them over with fake tears, while her full, lipstick-stained bottom lip is already starting to jut out in a pout.
Momentarily distracted as I recall how good those juicy lips felt wrapped snugly around my dick yesterday afternoon, I shake my head, forcing my attention back to her latest complaint before I end up dragging her into the closest empty classroom and making that day-old memory become a current reality.
“I guess I’ll just have to be a nobody then, ‘cause like I told you this morning, I’m hanging out with my brother tonight. My mom’s working late so she can take off for graduation on Saturday.” I swing my backpack over my shoulder and take off down the hall to where I’m supposed to meet Caleb.
“Bring him with you.”
“Ain’t happening. Not after last time when he got drunk.”
She scuttles behind me, struggling to keep up with my long, purposeful paces in the red stilettos she’s wearing—at least, that’s what she called them this morning, not that I would have any idea. I’m still not sure why Lila and all her minions dressed up like they were interviewing for a sexy secretary position today, but when she tried to explain it earlier, something about them looking the part for their transition into adulthood, I tuned her out pretty fast. I don’t give two shits about what she wears, though I’m a little disappointed I won’t get to bend her over, hike up that pleated black mini-skirt, and bury my cock inside her while she’s wearing those fuck-me heels tonight. ‘Cause I gotta admit, they’re pretty fucking hot.
“But, Crew, we have to go,” she drones on from behind me. “We’re the most popular couple at Madison. What kind of graduation party would it be without the homecoming king and queen? We have an obligation to our classmates…a reputation to uphold.”
“I’m not asking you not to go, and I think you can stop referring to us as that. Homecoming was in October; it’s now June. And as of about fifteen minutes ago, when that final bell rang, I turned in my crown,” I retort, twisting my neck around to flash her my cockiest smirk.
Casting back her bitchiest glare, she stops walking and throws her hands on her hips with an immature hrmph. “Can’t you act like a carefree teenager for once? Just forget about your family responsibilities and have fun for one fucking night? Is that too much—?”
Before she can even finish the thought, I hear commotion coming from the hall perpendicular to the one we’re in—the one I’m headed to—and intuitively, without a shadow of a doubt, I know it’s him.
Taking off like an Olympic sprinter, I fly around the corner, abandoning Queen Lila and her royal bitching once and for all, and immediately spot a flustered crowd of both students and teachers clustered around a body.
A rigid body that is violently convulsing on the floor.
Caleb’s body.
Some of them are crouching next to him, uncertain of what to do, while others are calling out for help to anyone who will listen. In a matter of seconds, I’m tearing through the onlookers and dropping to my knees in the middle of them.
“Back up! Everybody, back up! He needs space and I need a towel. Now!” I bark out orders furiously without bothering to look up at any of them or add a please. My only concern right now is the fair-headed kid jerking and trembling uncontrollably in front of me.
A mixture of blood and saliva streams from his mouth, adding to the already good-sized puddle his face is smearing across the speckled tile. The wet area soaking the front of his pants explains the whiff of ammonia invading my nose, and I can only hope it’s just his bladder he’s lost control of. When his eyes roll back in his head, I hastily turn him on his side to prevent him from gagging or choking, and then scoot back a couple of inches while I wait for the seizure to end.
Helplessly, I watch along with the others, and after what seems like an eternity, the shaking begins to slowly subside. Snatching the towel someone tossed in front of me some minutes ago, I scoop his thin frame into my arms and begin to gently clean off his face as I soothingly rock him against my chest back to awareness.
Most of the crowd has disbursed by the time he pries open his hazy green eyes, and a big smile of relief spreads across my face once I see he’s okay, although the fear-fueled adrenaline still courses heavily through my veins.
“Hey, bro,” I say quietly, pushing back the wet strands of hair that are plastered to his forehead. “Good to have you back.”
He attempts to answer, grunting and gurgling until he hacks up some bloody mucus that had lodged in his throat.
“No need to talk, dude. I’ve got you now. You’re gonna be okay.”
Wiping the mess off of his mouth and chin, I shake my head and force a tight-lipped grin to swallow back the string of curse words I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs. The doctors are wrong. My little brother—my only brother—isn’t getting any better; in fact, he’s getting worse.
Way worse.
The episodes are growing more and more frequent, and their severity is only intensifying. We’ve tried damn near every drug on the market, even the ones not covered by insurance, and nothi
ng is working. I know there has to be something out there that can help him.
Something.
Somewhere.
And I’m going to do whatever is necessary to find it.
Sunday family dinners are my absolute favorite. No matter if it’s a warm, breezy summer day, or if we’re smack-dab in the middle of a no-holds-barred winter blizzard, ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always looked forward to them. It’s like Christmas morning, but every week.
Throughout the week, I count the days until we’re all settled around the massive, hand-carved oak tables nestled in the equally vast dining room that is the heart of our lodge, Fire on the Mountain, enjoying a never-ending feast of mouth-watering foods, homemade by my mom and my grandmother.
And by all of us, I mean all of us.
My sickeningly-in-love parents, Melissa and Doug, who are often asked if they’re the famous duo that makes kids’ toys, but they’re not. They just make kids…lots of them. Juno, Denali (Nali), Dakota (Kota), Cheyenne, and Brighton—my sisters, who also happen to be my five closest friends. My incredibly adorable, yet often annoying little brother, Denver. And Grams, the coolest grandmother on the face of the earth.
Then there are all of the guests staying at our family-owned-and-operated mountainside resort, and basically, anyone else who wants to join us. Our door is always open to any smiling face.
The most we’ve ever had at one of our Sunday shindigs was this past Fourth of July, when seventy-eight bodies filled the warm, inviting space. It was a cozy fit to say the least, and though I’m pretty sure we were breaking some kind of fire code, no one said anything, considering the mayor of Breckenridge himself sat at the head of one of the tables, with his entire family spread amongst the rest of us.
After our bellies were stuffed, everyone emptied out of the main house onto the sprawling acreage my parents purchased nearly a decade ago, and we all watched the spectacular firework display illuminating the clear Rocky Mountain night sky. While the kids were distracted by the shimmery snap, crackle, and pop overhead, the adults—sans the mayor and his family—sparked up their own form of recently-legalized fun. Not that my parents ever cared about whether or not it was legal.
But, I digress as I often do. Back to the topic of our Sunday dinners.
Today, instead of my usual enthusiasm for our weekly celebration, I’m dreading it like never before. If I knew how to fake an illness and make it believable, I would totally do that, but unfortunately, seeing how this entire situation is of my own doing, it’s not an option.
So as I stand in the bathroom I share with my two younger sisters, wrapped only in a fluffy white terrycloth towel, I clear a circle in the steam-fogged mirror with the heel of my hand, revealing my squeaky-clean reflection, and stare at my expressionless face. God, why did I agree to this?
“You can do this, Hudson.” I begin my private pep-talk with a deep breath. “Just act normal and pretend it’s like any other Sunday. It’s only your first date ever. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Well, Grams could show him her dentures, Denver could challenge him to a farting contest, Kota could flirt shamelessly with him, Mel could break out the naked baby pictures, and Doug could sing karaoke,” Brighton—who recently turned thirteen and now knows everything—proclaims as she abruptly appears in the doorway and saunters up to the sink next to me, grinning the mischievous grin that almost never leaves her face. “Or you could throw up on him if tries to kiss you. Yeah,” she finger-taps her chin before snagging her toothbrush from the ceramic holder, “that would probably be the worst thing.”
Curling my nose up with disgust at her last suggestion, I release a girlie ‘Ewwww,’ but I can’t help but chuckle at the other possibilities she’s laid out, mostly because all of them have happened at one point or another when one of our sisters brought a guy home for dinner. Well, all of them but the vomiting thing…at least, not that I know of.
You’d think by daughter number four, my parents and the rest of the family would be used to this sort of thing, especially since I waited much longer than the others before me to enter the dating world. But based on the teasing all week from everyone, as well as the box of condoms my parents left on my bed with a note that read, ‘We’re so proud of you for blossoming into a beautiful young woman. Love, Doug and Mel,’ apparently not.
“I’m not sure who I’m more nervous for…me or Beckham. The poor guy really has no idea what he’s about to face.” I sigh, stepping into a pair of lavender bikini panties then hooking the clasps of the matching bra in the front before twisting it around the right way.
After Brighton finishes brushing her teeth, she strips out of her sweatpants and hoodie and walks into the frosted glass shower, nodding her agreement. “Beckham? That’s a cool name. Is he named after the hot soccer player dude?”
Though our family is far from being active nudists, we definitely aren’t shy around each other either. Growing up with a family the size of ours, especially when our houses before this one were much smaller in size, modesty was a luxury we simply weren’t afforded. Although, even if we had lived here at the lodge all of our lives, our parents would’ve always promoted and encouraged us to be confident in our skin, whether dressed or not.
“I don’t know. I try not to ask people where their names come from, because that usually leads to an hour-long discussion about our parents’ sex life, which is a visual I’m still not comfortable with. Thank you very much,” I retort. “Plus, weird names are cool now. Right?”
“It’s just sex, Hudson. A natural thing. Don’t be such a prude.” She peeks her head out of the stall and scowls at me. “That’s why everyone’s giving you a hard time anyway. You’re almost nineteen. When Mel and Doug were nineteen, they already had Juno and were expecting Nali.”
Unplugging the blow dryer from the wall, I realize I need to finish getting ready in my room, because the steam is beginning to build again and I don’t want to be a sweaty mess before I even get dressed. However, before I leave, I march over to where my little sister is still hanging out of the shower, dripping water all over the bathroom floor, and pierce her with my best authoritative stare.
“It’s not just sex, Brighton Moon Shavell, and I hope to God you’re not having it yet. You’re way too young to even begin to possess the maturity you need to be in a sexual relationship, nor do you need to end up pregnant or worse. Our parents are an anomaly; that’s not how things usually work out.”
She rolls her eyes, the same shade of blue all seven of us kids share with Doug, and dips her head back behind the frosted glass wall. “Thanks for the lecture, Mom.”
“Well, somebody’s gotta be one around here sometimes,” I mumble under my breath as I shut the door behind me.
An hour later, I’ve finally wrangled the nervous horses stampeding trails of unease through my stomach into a slow trot, and I make my way over from our separate family home to the main house at the lodge. I stick my head in the kitchen and holler out a quick hello to my mom and Grams before joining Cheyenne and Brighton in setting the tables.
They both look up at me and assess me from head to toe, and then share a knowing look, but neither of them says a word. However, when the rest of our sisters sashay their way into the dining room, having just arrived from the apartment they share in town together, they aren’t so subtle in their reaction to my out-of-the-ordinary appearance.
“Holy shit! Rapunzel has let her hair down, put makeup on, and she’s wearing a dress!” Dakota shrieks delightedly from across the room, her high-pitched voice bouncing off the wooden rafters in the high ceiling. “Flynn Rider must be coming after all!”
Juno and Denali each chime in with their two cents, one of them saying Hell must’ve frozen over, and the other claiming a miracle has occurred, and without bothering to look up from the silverware I’m arranging on fancy folded cloth napkins, I hurl a spoon in their direction. I make contact with one of them—I’d guess it’s Juno, the ex-softball player, based o
n the velocity the same utensil comes flying back at me, nearly missing my nose—but I keep to my task, refusing to let them rile the horses up again.
I’ll be the first to admit dresses aren’t usually my thing. Neither is fixing my rather-long blond hair or applying any makeup other than lip balm, seeing as how I spend most of my time outside of school working with my plants in the greenhouses. I’m usually crawling around, digging in the dirt, and experimenting with organic chemicals…all of which makes none of those things very practical.
In addition, I’m definitely the least frilly, lowest-maintenance of our entire sister clan. This isn’t to say I don’t appreciate fashion or dressing up for a special occasion, because as I stand here with my golden locks cascading silkily down my back and perfectly executed smoky eyes while rocking this side-ruched, black jersey knit dress, heart-and-skull printed tights, and Valentino Rockstud Motorcycle boots that I saved up for nearly six months to buy, it’s evident I do. Very much so.
But that’s just it. If I dressed this way every day, it would take the special out of the occasion, and lose some of its charm.
And my official first date should be both special and charming, despite the fact it’ll start out with us enjoying dinner alongside my entire family and the bunch of strangers staying at the lodge. I only hope they don’t scare him off, causing him to conjure up his own fake illness or another excuse to escape before we get to the actual date part of the evening.
A little before five o’clock, several of the adult guests begin to mosey over from the 4:20 happy hour Doug hosts each day in the welcome bar, each with a drink in hand and a lazy, THC-induced grin spread across their face. The majority of our lodgers during the spring and fall seasons are middle-aged or elderly couples enjoying a quiet getaway, taking advantage of the off-season room rates and the area’s peacefulness before it’s flooded with adventure-seeking tourists. And based on the people filtering into the dining room now, today seems to be no different.