by Emilia Finn
“Great! Consider me a part of the family. I’ll be here tomorrow at, what, nine? Does that work for you?”
“Nine?”
“What time does your work day begin?”
“Er… whenever I want it to. I don’t—”
“Okay…” she tries again, “what time does your work day tomorrow begin?”
“I’m interviewing someone at nine-thirty.”
“Perfect. I’ll be here at nine, as I said. I’ll stay with Max, you can work, and when you’re not working, I can make myself scarce until you’re done hanging with him.”
“Until I… what?”
“You need a nanny, Idalia.” She speaks slowly, as though I’m hard of hearing. Or low on intellect. “You can’t do all this on your own, so I’m offering my time. I won’t ask for much in way of salary, since it’s a sure bet I’ll eat everything in your kitchen, and when Max is chilling, watching TV or whatever, I’ll do some of my own stuff. Really, it’s the best of both worlds. I’m really excited to start.” She grins, flashes a peace sign with her fingers, then turns on her feet and leaves.
“But, I… She…” Mystified, and, I think, a little in shock, I look to Abby. “Huh?”
“That’s basically how Nadia got her job at my shop,” she snickers. “Don’t fight it. These women know how to work hard, but they make it look easy. Goodnight, Idalia.” She steps in and drops a kiss on my cheek, then turning away, she makes her way to the top of the stairs and meets her husband as he slides out of the shadows.
He’s so large, you’d think it was impossible for him to hide anywhere, but that’s what he does. Blends in, works in secret, watches his wife’s back, then he emerges at her beck and call, and escorts her down a staircase in a suit that makes him look like a James Bond god.
“Um… night,” I mumble to no one.
I remain in place for several minutes, the hem of my gown pooling on the floor since my shoes are now gone. But when a little hand wraps around mine, I look down to find Max staring up at me.
I draw a deep breath, and nod. “Alright. I guess that just happened.”
Once again, at the speed of light—and against my wishes—our lives pivot and change.
Max and I are barely in control of our own world. Rather, we’re passengers on a rollercoaster, with no way off, and no way to slow it down.
Shrugging, I let my son lead me back inside. I lock the doors—first, the set that lead into the hall, then the set that close off the foyer—then coming past my couch, I toss the cushions back on as we pass.
“I’m so beat, baby. Are you?” I look down for his answer, his nod. Then detour us past the kitchen counter so I can snag my glass of wine.
I’m taking my son to his bedroom and tucking him in for the night. Then I’m running a bath and melting into the heat until I either drown, or turn pink like a lobster. Whichever comes first.
“Andiamo, Maximo. We have a big day tomorrow.”
Nixon
Hotshots are cool AF
I drive my departmentally supplied Ford pickup along bumpy dirt roads, pothole-ridden lanes, and dusty crevices between trees and rocks. My passengers—Cootes riding shotgun, Axe and Rizz in the back—bump along with me, and in another truck behind us, the rest of my crew hang together and follow me toward any firefighter’s wet dream.
“The hotshots are already out here,” Cootes says once she hangs up with the captain. “He said they drove in about an hour ago. They’re waiting for us.”
“And you’re all gonna be cool, right? Don’t embarrass me out here.”
“The only embarrassment is you, Lew.” Axe sniggers in the back and smacks my shoulder as I steer us around a too-deep pothole. “You approach them with a hard-on, they’re gonna toss your body into the lake.”
“Shut up.” I press my thumb to the speaker controls on my steering wheel and turn my music a little higher. I don’t want it. In fact, I’d prefer silence while I maneuver this bitch-ass road, but not hearing my team rag on me for being a little excited to meet my childhood heroes is the more preferable option. “If you make this into a big deal, I’m gonna start allocating house duties for the next month. I’m starting with toilets and working my way out. Who wants first shot?”
“I’m not saying shit.” Cootes snags a baseball cap from my glove compartment and drops it over her ponytail. Beneath the brim, she hides a taunting smirk.
“There they are, Lew,” Rizz sits forward so his face and chest come between the seats in the front, and points toward a gap in the trees, to a glaring yellow uniform that was made to stand out in any terrain. “Aw shit, Nix. Now you’ve got me all nervous.”
“Rein it in,” I growl and bring the truck around the next bend. “We can’t have them walking away this afternoon thinking we’re a bunch of weirdos.”
“Probably shoulda sent a different crew,” Cootes mumbles.
“Toilets.”
“I mean,” she hurriedly defends, “they may be the elite in the skies, but we’ve got our shit on lock when we’re pushing through a door. We have absolutely no reason to feel intimidated or starstruck. And oh, Lew.” She stretches forward and rests her forearms on my dash. “That one in the front. With the chiseled jaw, big shoulders, and shaggy hair—”
“No!” Axe cries out in the back. “This can’t be happening to us! Where is our professionalism?”
“His helmet is so cool,” I mumble. My crew member and I are looking at the same dude… but for wildly different reasons. “I wish we had helmets like that.”
“Those helmets are for not smashing their heads open against a tree, Lew!” Axe slaps my shoulder. “What the fuck is going on in this truck?”
“Toilets.”
I pull up in a small clearing about thirty feet from where a crew of ten wait and watch, and on my tail, our second truck does the same. I cut the ignition, snag a hat and sunglasses from my glove compartment, then I turn and look at my crew.
“Get it together. We are professionals. We are badass. We save lives.”
“We also think Ruiz has a sweet ass,” Cootes murmurs.
“What?” I explode. “Who the fuck is Ruiz?”
Cootes nods toward the crew, to one in particular with his back toward us, and sewn onto his turnout gear is RUIZ. “Dibs.”
“You can have them all,” Rizz cackles. “You’re literally the only one here who’s into dudes.”
“I can’t deal with this right now.” I slide my sunglasses into place and pocket my keys, then I push out of my truck and drop a baseball cap onto my head.
I’m already wearing my turnout gear, all but the coat: boots, pants, and shirt. My coat and helmet wait for me in the bed of my pickup, along with everyone else’s, since we tossed them in before leaving the station this morning.
The crew waiting for us—the mothereffing hotshots—mill around and chatter amongst themselves, but when my boots hit the ground and twigs crackle beneath my feet, they stop what they’re saying, and turn to us instead.
My heart gallops from nerves.
“Lieutenant Rosa?” The one at the front steps forward and meets me about ten feet from the rest.
“That’s me.” Be cool. Sound cool. Don’t fuck this up. “You’re Lieutenant Ruiz?”
“Yep.” He takes my hand and pumps once, twice, three times before releasing me. “You found us easily?”
“Yeah.” Don’t wipe your hand on your thigh. Do not. Wipe your hand. On your thigh! “Most of us were born and raised here, so we ran these forests as kids. Finding you was easy enough.”
“Two trucks?” He looks over my shoulder and lifts a brow when my team comes to stand at my back. He might be looking at us as a whole and deciding we’re badass. Or he might be looking at Cootes just as she looks at him.
“Eight team members,” I answer. “We’re ready for a day of action and education, Lieutenant.”
“Works for me.” He breaks away from our small huddle and manages to dissolve the formality of this meet. Instea
d, he flashes a wicked grin and looks to his own team. “We have a whole day of hanging out, and by the end of it, we’ll be jumping out of a plane together. You people better get comfortable.”
“Jumping out of a plane?” I take a step forward and tilt my head to hear better. “Come again?”
Ruiz turns back and tries to swallow his smug grin. “Problem?”
“Er… no. Just, uh…” I reach up and reseat my hat. “Making sure I heard you right.”
“You heard me. You signed on for the full experience, right?” He looks to his people and asks, “What does a hotshot do, men?”
“We fly, sir!”
Ruiz’s eyes meet mine. “We jump out of a fully functional plane, Rosa. Then we dive toward the fire and hope to tame the devil. You chicken?”
“Chicken? Uh…”
Cootes makes a soft clucking sound at my back, and sniggers when my shoulders stiffen.
“Rosa?”
“Not chicken,” I tell the lieutenant. “We’re, uh… gonna jump out of a fuckin’ plane.”
“Yes, we are.” Entertained by my words, Ruiz only turns to his crew. “Let’s start with the ground and pound.” He nods to one. “Tripp, tell our guests what we do and how we do it.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Not five minutes after arriving on scene, I sit on a felled log beside my crew while some dude named Tripp gives us a crash course on what the hell they do for a living.
“As smokejumpers, we’re basically the Bear Grylls of fires.” He pauses, then adds, “But way cooler. When the horns sound, we have less than five minutes to kit up and get on board. Full turnout, enough food, water, and supplies to last us forty-eight hours isolated in the trees. Jumpers have to be in peak physical condition. We’re stronger than the town-dwellers, fitter, faster.” He looks to Cootes and flashes a smug grin. “We’re elite, evolutionarily speaking.”
Cootes, not caring to be subtle, sits back and fans her face.
“Not only are we strong, but we also have to pass some pretty serious psychological tests to be accepted on the team. Why do you think that is?”
Tripp points when Axe raises his hand. “Yeah?”
“You don’t want a jumper losing his shit mid-dive?”
“We absolutely do not want that,” Tripp agrees with a playful grin. “Every flight we take, we have a spotter on board. Who can tell me a spotter’s job?”
I raise my hand, since I guess, today, I’m a nerdy seven-year-old begging for the gold star at the end of class. “A spotter’s job is to relay information on wind speed and direction. Plus the terrain you’re jumping.”
“Yep. But the spotter is also in charge of telling us how our fire is behaving. We call it the dragon for a reason, Rosa. Gotta tame that bitch, or we chop her head off.”
Cootes purrs in the back of her throat. “A firm hand. I like that.”
“Oh my god,” Axe exclaims. “Shut the fuck up with that shit.”
“Our gear is a little more complex than yours,” Tripp looks down at his, and in doing so, hides his grin. “We’re jumping from way up there,” he points to the sky. “And if we hit something on the way down, it’s gonna hurt. That means our gear is more padded than yours. I can tell you firsthand,” he looks straight into Cootes’ eyes. “Those switches on our ass and legs sting. Gotta make sure you can take the heat.”
“I think I just got pregnant.” My most normal, levelheaded, responsible crewmember turns to me with pink cheeks. “Lew.”
“Do we need to end this shit and go home?” I look to the rest of my crew. “I’m about to belt you all with a tree.”
“Once we’ve jumped and landed safely,” Ruiz pushes forward to take over from his hotdogging crewmember, “we’re using heavy duty tools… chainsaws, crosscut saws, and whatever hand tools we have with us. The point is to create a line and stop the spread of fire. We need to take away her fuel, so if that means chopping down a bunch of trees to save thousands more, then that’s what we’re doing. Can anyone tell me how smokejumping first came to be?”
I raise my hand again. “In 1937, a forest fire burned for two days before being discovered. By then, it had grown exponentially, and eventually turned into a firestorm. There was no way to drive crews in, and walking would take too long.”
“Yes.” Ruiz nods his approval. Now give me my gold fuckin’ star. “They couldn’t drive in, they couldn’t walk in, so they flew some folks in and dropped them down to do their best. That’s how we began. Those guys saved forest and lives, they proved their value, and after that, they expanded the program into what it is today. Can anyone tell me what you do if you find yourself caught in the fire and can’t get out?”
Sloane lifts his hand. “You book it out, Lieutenant. Really fuckin’ fast.”
“Running away…” Ruiz nods, slowly, thoughtfully. “Not quite what I was going for. If you’re in the middle of the blaze, the she-devil is coming right for you, her mouth is open and she’s about to swallow you up, what do you do?”
“No way out?” I lift my hand. “You’re saying there’s nowhere to go?”
He nods. “Nowhere. You’re stuck. What do you do?”
“Shake ‘n’ bake,” I answer quietly. “You burrito yourself, burrow down, and you stay put till it passes over.”
“Exactly.”
Ruiz turns to Tripp and catches a small package when it’s tossed. Tearing the packaging open, Ruiz whips the silver foil shelter wide and lets it sway in the gentle breeze. “It won’t last long, but this could save a person’s life. You hunker down, cover up, seal the bottom to keep your oxygen in, then you stay put till you can come out again.”
“And the chances of survival?” Finally serious, Cootes lifts a hand. “Sir?”
“Pretty low,” Tripp answers. “There’s more chance of not surviving. But by the time you’re considering a romp with the silver bag, you’ve run out of options. Not using it is guaranteed death. Using it is, like… ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-percent death.”
“But that tiny percentage?” Cootes asks.
“Might save your life.” Ruiz snags another pack from Tripp and tosses one to Cootes, then another to me.
I study the small parcel—it can’t be more than a few pounds heavy. Takes up less room than a subway sandwich—then I look up and swallow when Ruiz turns toward the forest.
“Let’s go. We have our ride a little ways away. It’s time to get airborne.”
Tripp steps to our small grouping and offers a hand to Cootes. “Wanna buddy with me?”
Idalia
An Interview to Remember
I think it’s possible I’ve become somewhat dependent on the things Abigail’s husband does for me—the security earpiece is exhibit number one. I wear the tiny, hardly noticeable piece in one ear, and while I walk laps of my hotel, I listen in as my baby and his new nanny play.
It was supposed to be a one-off, a quick solution to help soothe my needs, but it’s become a crutch I’m not willing to give up. And Arlo doesn’t seem to give a damn that I listen in on every single thing she does in her day. So I continue wearing it and earn lifted brows from the formidable Spencer Serrano when we cross paths.
I take a seat in my office now, the space shiny and new, my desk a crisp white, broken by the shades of green coming from the dozen or so plants that Abigail thought to add before her job was done.
At this point, I’m not sure she understands where her work starts and ends. She hangs here a lot, leaves flowers behind, scoops up others if they wilt, and at the end of the month, she’ll send me a grossly underpriced invoice.
It’s a system we both enjoy, and it comes with the added bonus of pastries being left behind for me to eat, and when we’re feeling extra needy, a pal for lunch… even if that lunch is spent with four grown women—me, Abby, Nadia, and Arlo—crammed into one tiny office while Max plays and spins in my chair, and the four of us speed-eat before getting back to work.
I had no clue moving here would lead m
e to a group of workaholics who all need that two minutes of socialization a day to remain sane. But it works. And right now, I sit at my chair while Arlo and Max hang out in our apartment.
I hear Arlo, her laughter, her silliness, even her trying to goad my son into speaking. She’s not forceful about it. But she tries, every now and then, she’ll allow him space to speak. And when he doesn’t, she carries on and keeps doing what she does.
“Ms. Mazzi?” I look up when my new temp receptionist, Sarah, pokes her head in the door. She’s still a high school student, but she has time off between classes, and when she found out the Oriane was looking to hire, she approached me and offered her time. “A Mr. Lockwood is here to see you.”
“Perfect, thank you. You can send him in.”
The second that Sarah backs out of the room, I push up to stand, fix my skirt, and paste on my best professional smile. Just a few seconds after that, a soft knock vibrates through my door, and after that, a smiling face, five o’clock shadow, sandy blond hair, and a thick waist.
Andy Lockwood is forty-seven years old, a former manager of a prestigious hotel in the city, who—according to his emails to me—is looking for an escape to some place quieter. He’s done with the rat race and looking to settle in somewhere he can spend his final ten or twenty years in the workforce.
“Mr. Lockwood. Come on in.” I come around my desk and offer a hand when the man steps in.
He’s shorter than me, and though I could blame that on my heels, I suspect I would still be taller even without those. He’s rounder, softer, and unimposing in his stance.
He’s… well… unremarkable and shyer than his emails made me think.
I take his hand when he doesn’t first think to take mine, and shaking it once, I release him and gesture toward the visitor chair. “Please, take a seat. Sit down and relax, then we can talk.”