by K. Bromberg
“Christ,” she says, and the single word has my heart jumping into my throat. “There’s a crew up on the ridge they’ve lost communication with. The wind switched and cut off their access route. The last they heard, they were climbing down the backside from where they had been, but they haven’t heard from them nor have they seen them from the chopper.”
“Oh God.” My hand is on my mouth as I sink to the couch.
“That isn’t to say it’s Grady’s team,” she hurries to say. “Grant says crews lose communications all the time in rough terrain, lack of service. Hell, lack of being able to charge anything since there’s nothing to plug into.”
But I know.
Somewhere deep down, I know.
I told Grady a white lie to give him the courage to face his fear. In turn, regardless of how irrational it may sound, did my encouragement push him when he wasn’t ready?
And if he’s hurt . . . oh, God, if he’s hurt . . .
“Sure. I’m sure he’s fine.” My voice is hollow.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I know more.”
“I feel like I need to be there.” Mentally, I’ve already packed and am in the car driving to Sunnyville.
He’s going to be fine.
“I know you do . . . but if you drive here, you’re going to be passing where he is. He’s somewhere between Sunnyville and Los Angeles.” And yet, I walk into my bedroom and open my closet door to look at my suitcase. “You’re welcome to come here and sit and wait with us, but by the time you get here, we’re going to get the news that he’s fine.”
He has to be fine.
“Who’s taking care of Petunia?”
“Brody and Shelby.”
God, please let him be fine.
“Oh.” I try to think of another excuse for me to be there but can’t find one other than I didn’t tell him I loved him.
Because I do.
Five minutes.
This blanket will only protect me for that long.
Drew’s screams echo in my ears. The fear. The pain. The desperation.
It’s not real, Grady.
The fire snaps around us. I concentrate on its crackle. On the sound of it marching through the grove surrounding us. I use its roar as my anchor to reality. To remind me that this isn’t the warehouse. This isn’t a repeat of before.
Three hundred seconds.
The heat.
It’s so fucking intense.
PASS alarms go off. One after another. They sound off around me. Sirens of immobility. I squeeze my eyes shut as I battle the memories. As I will the nightmare away.
It’s not real, Grady.
But it is. This is real. Seven of us are trapped in the fire’s vortex. Taking cover in this clearing as the world around us burns.
But it’s not just Drew this time.
It’s all of us.
Two hundred forty seconds. That’s all the time we have left.
It’s like the inside of hell, like the nightmare has been brought back into reality.
All the air I’ll have.
“Grady?” It’s Bowie’s muffled voice. I can barely hear him above the roar of the fucking fire. Not Drew screaming for help. Just Bowie asking me to check in. To let him know I’m hanging in there.
“Good,” I shout when in reality I feel as if I’m suffocating.
“Dixon?”
“Good,” he sounds off.
“Veego?”
“Ten-four.” I can barely hear him.
And he continues on through the crew. One by one.
I wait for one of them not to answer. I wait to hear silence.
But there isn’t any.
One hundred eighty seconds and counting until the blanket will give way to the extreme heat.
My back feels like it’s on fire again, itchy and slick with sweat that burns in rivulets as it slides over my skin. A branch cracks somewhere overhead and I wait for it to fall on me. I brace for the impact.
For the weight of the beam as it pins me down.
You’re not there, Grady.
I strain to hear Drew’s screams. I brace for the words he’s going to say next.
But there’s nothing. Just the whoops of the guys around me as anxious adrenaline takes hold. Just the roar of the fire as it eats the vegetation and sucks the oxygen.
One hundred twenty seconds left.
I’m not going to die.
Drew, I’m not going to die.
I tense when the explosion hits. The water truck’s gas tank just went. And then I scramble through the shock to hold the fire blanket around me. Pin it to the ground with me between it and the ground that’s heating underneath me.
The wind howls. It’s the eeriest sound I’ve ever heard.
My fingers burn in my gloves as I pin the blanket down.
Eighty seconds left. I’m not going to die.
Someone shouts out a curse to combat the feeling of suffocation.
But it has nothing on my pulse pounding in my ears.
My adrenaline coursing through my blood.
My breath labored and desperate.
Forty seconds. I’m not going to die.
Dylan.
I repeat her name over and over and over. I use it like a second hand on a clock as I wait out the terror. As I pray for the fire to blow through. As I put my faith in these blankets protecting us. As I tell myself, that when I see her again, I’m going to put it all on the line.
I’m not going to die.
There’s a whoop of excitement. Someone yells, “Fuck you, bitch,” to the fire. Another shouts, “Go back to hell, you cunt!”
I laugh. We’re sick fucks.
And then the words, “All clear.”
Motherfucking music to my ears.
I shove the blanket off me and gulp in air. It’s hot and thick, because everything on the edges of the clearing is still on fire. Bright oranges and deep yellows and hues of blue on the burning metal of our vehicle . . . but I’m alive.
I’m alive.
So is the rest of my crew.
We did it, Drew.
And so I lie on my back in the middle of the High Sierras and try to stop my body from trembling. The ground beneath me is hot and the ashes suffocate what’s left of the vegetation, but I don’t move. The adrenaline takes over, owning every part of me as I stare at the small glimpses of stars in the night sky above trying to break through the smoke. As the eerie orange glow lights up everything around us.
I know I need to get up. I understand the fire is still raging around us and we have a job to do. I realize that our tanker—our only transportation—is now gone, and so we have a shit-ton of work and trekking to do before we’re in the clear.
But I don’t move.
I can’t.
A fucking tear I fight back finally escapes. Too much emotion. Too much everything.
I close my eyes to process it. To accept it.
Just one more minute.
I’m alive.
“You good, man?” I open my eyes to see Bowie. He’s standing over me, looking down, hand extended to help me stand.
Our eyes meet and he nods ever so slightly to let me know he knows the hell that just went on in my head. And that he’s proud of me for holding on.
I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod in return and let him help pull me up.
“Seven-in. Seven-out,” he says as he lifts his chin over his shoulder to where the guys are gathering the supplies we have left that the fire didn’t incinerate so we can work our way out of this gorge.
And we do. We work hour after hour. Our bones hurt and muscles ache and chests burn, but we do what we love. We cut prevention lines should the wind switch and bring the fire back this way.
No matter how hard we work, hot spots flare around us.
“Keep that line,” I shout to Veego and his crew as I turn to look over my shoulder.
We’re in the depths of hell. At least that’s what it looks like all around us. The smoke is
so thick that the ash falls like a downpour. The orange flames lick the perimeter around us. With our tanker, food, and communication devices taken by the fire, it’s up to us to get the fuck out of here.
Out of habit, I look at my cell again, knowing there is no battery left but hoping anyway.
“Where are the goddamn Hotshots?” Dixon asks, referring to the elite team of wild-land firefighters as he stops and takes a conservative sip from what little is left in his canteen.
“My bet is they’re on the eastern ridge. That’s where they’re needed the most,” I say as I look over to him. My face probably looks like his, black with soot but streaked from sweat, eyes red and exhausted.
“It looks like our sorry asses could use them right now,” he says with a delirious laugh as he holds his arms out and does a mini-spin.
“You pussying out on us, old man?” I ask with a matching laugh. “I’m the only one who’s allowed to do that.”
It’s my pseudo-apology. In the middle of a firestorm. It’s my way to let them know I know I’ve let them down. That I’m not going to let them down this time.
No matter the cost.
Dix walks over to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. “You kicked ass, Grady. We never doubted you, but hell if it doesn’t feel good to have you back.” He squeezes and then lets go, nods, and goes back to holding the line.
“How much farther do we have?” Mack asks.
“Ten miles. Fifteen. Just depends if we get out of this gorge on our own or if they find us first,” I guess to the groan of the guys. They’re exhausted, starving, and want to be anywhere that isn’t covered in rocks to fall asleep, even if it’s just for thirty minutes.
“My stomach’s growling, boys. Quit the yacking and finish cutting this line so we can head out,” Johnson says. “Food’s calling my name and a hot shower is the only other thing I want.”
“Me too,” I murmur. And Dylan. The only other thing I want is her.
“Balls to the wall, boys,” Bowie says and all six of us repeat it back to him.
“Let’s do it.”
“Dylan?”
“Grayson? What is it?”
“He’s out. They made it out.” Grayson’s voice is gruff, swimming with emotion.
I try to bite back my cry of relief, but it’s useless. It’s out, and with it comes the tears of joy. “He’s okay?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yes. He’s at base camp. His cell is toast, but he asked me to call you and tell you he made it out. He said to tell you, two-in. Two-out.”
I smile through the tears and nod like he can see me. “Thank you.” My words are barely audible.
“He’s going to be there for a while until the blaze is contained. If he can’t get through to you, we’ll let you know when his crew is on their way home.”
“Okay.” For the first time, the silence that fills the line is a positive thing as we both breathe easier.
And when we hang up moments later, I slide down the wall and cry with the phone clutched in my hand and Grady’s stamp on every part of my heart.
I scrub my hand over my face and exhale a frustrated breath.
My guitar’s in my lap, my three notebooks are on the table in front of me, and the clock is telling me I’ve been at this way too long.
But I can’t sleep. It seems like sleep is few and far between these days.
And so I work.
It’s all I can do to keep my mind busy and my stress to a minimum.
And I wait. To hear from Grady. To hear the story that his brothers told me—how fire overwhelmed his crew and they had to take cover and then hike their way out. To know he’s home safe. To have that talk he promised we’d have.
It’s been ten days. Ten long ones.
They’ve been packed with new experiences. Me, behind the mic to record for the first time. Me, giving creative input to my own songs. Me, taking a step into facing my fears and realizing that singing my own song in a studio isn’t terribly different from when I’m directing Jett on how to sing a new one.
I pull my guitar onto my lap, tuck my pencil behind my ear, and begin again.
The knock startles me, and my first thought is that Jett’s drunk and coming over as he’s done in the past. But when I look through the peephole, I can’t get the door open fast enough.
Because it’s Grady standing on my doorstep.
It’s Grady looking completely exhausted and more handsome than any man I’ve ever set eyes on. He has an unshaven scruff. His hair is longer than normal, curling over his ears, and his clothes look like he’s been outside camping for days on end without washing them. But he is the best sight I’ve ever seen.
It’s Grady representing every single damn thing I want, and I can’t wait to tell him I intend to have it. Because this time I am going to fight. This time I’m not going to let him walk away without knowing how I feel about him.
But that can wait because within a heartbeat, I am in his arms. Legs wrapped around his waist. Lips against his. Hands running over his back and cheeks and face. Laughter sounding off in the space against us.
“You’re here,” I murmur against his lips.
“I’m here,” he repeats back to me.
“How are you here?” I laugh wondering how he knows my address.
“Your brother gave me your address.”
Simple enough and too much explanation that doesn’t matter right now.
“God, I missed you.”
Our tongues meet, and our bodies press against each other’s as we physically reconnect. He walks us into the house, and I stay attached to him like a spider monkey because there is no way I’m letting him go yet.
Not when he stumbles backward. Not when he sits on the couch. Not when he breaks his lips from mine, hands framing my face, and his lips saying, “Let me look at you, Dylan.”
My heart melts. There is so much swimming in his eyes. So many unspoken words. So many unnamed emotions.
He leans forward, kisses me, and then rests his forehead against mine as his thumbs brush over my cheeks.
“What are you doing here?” I laugh and whisper and press another kiss to his lips.
“I told you when I was done with the fire we needed to have a talk.”
“A talk? Is that what we’re going to do? Talk?”
His dick is hard and tempting where it presses between my thighs, and every part of my body aches for it as much as every part of my heart needs to hear what he has to say.
“Yes.” His voice is strained, and he kisses me again so that when our lips part he has to hold my head in place to prevent me from taking more. “We need to talk. We’ve gone on too long without talking.” Another brusque kiss. “And then we’ll communicate in other ways.” I can feel his mouth spread into a smile against mine.
“Are you okay, Grady?” I’m not sure why I ask the question in this moment, but it feels so very important that it just comes out. I lean back from where I sit astride his hips and study him, needing to see his eyes when he answers.
“I am now.” It’s a struggle to fight the tears that threaten because those three words are almost as meaningful to me as another set of three. It means he finds solace in me. Comfort.
“Good. I’m glad.”
“I was finally able to listen to the song you sent me in my voicemail. It was incredible, Dylan. You are incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
“It’s because of you I could do it.”
“No. It’s because of you.”
“I—”
“You’re going to be a star.” His smile is shy and warms every part of me. “And I’m going to tell you ‘I told you so’ every single day.”
“Every single day?”
“I have a few things I need to say—”
“Grady—”
“My turn, Dylan.” He presses a lingering kiss on my lips. “There were some things I should have said before. A lot of things. And I need to say them now.”
“It doesn’t m
atter what you say, it only matters that you’re here.”
“It does matter. Words always matter.” He shakes his head and looks down for a minute before meeting my eyes again. “Just because I let you go doesn’t mean I wanted to. In fact it was quite the opposite . . . but how could I ask you to stay and put you through this life I live when you have your own?”
“Isn’t that my choice to decide?”
“The protector in me was trying to prevent you from being hurt.”
“The protector in you is appreciated, but I can make my own decisions, which is why you’re not fully to blame. I have a voice, and I chose not to use it. I figured you were so set in your opinions that nothing was going to change them, so why try?”
“Sometimes it takes something—or someone—to make you see the error of your ways. A man can only call himself a man when he’s willing to admit he was wrong.” Grady angles his head and stares at me. “I was wrong, Dylan.”
“I was wrong too.”
He laces his fingers with mine, offers me a shy smile, and then explains everything about what happened to him and his crew from the wind shift to the firestorm they had to endure under their space blankets to their long, arduous hike out.
“You see, when I was under that fire blanket, all I could think about was you. How I wanted to come home to you. How I want you waiting for me, missing me. I know that’s selfish, but what is all this for if there isn’t someone willing to take the risk with me? What does all of this mean if I can’t go home and share the ups and downs and sideways days with someone?”
My pulse races, and every part of my body surges with an immeasurable pride in him. “I don’t know what you want out of life, Dylan. We never talked about shit like that. Kids? Dogs? More pigs? I don’t have a clue. But I’d love to. I want to know what you want, what you need, what you dream of. And I’d love to be the one to help you get it.”
“Grady.” I can’t speak over the emotion clogging up my thoughts. “I—”
“I’m not asking to be your whole world, Dylan, I just want to be a part of it. I want to be the part that revolves around you. I want to be the one who grounds you so we’re forced to come home to each other, even when we’re mad. I want to provide the arms that hug you and the hands that hold yours through whatever adventure awaits us. I want you and whatever the two of us decide we want for our future.”