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I have no freaking idea what to think.
“Whatever you say, honey.”
Chapter Eight
Pick
The fire camp at Big Bear Lake isn’t precisely easy to find, and the two-lane highway that dumps visitors out at the ranger station near the park’s entrance is a poor excuse for a road. Most folks end up cranky as fuck, and from the dust coating the sheriff’s cruiser that pulls into the parking lot the day after I make Sarah Jo see stars in the storage shed, this newest of visitors hit every pothole and then some. Hope the taxpayers sprang for high-end suspension on that car because otherwise its driver has to be both shaken and stirred. You need a truck out here, one with four-wheel drive. We’re not Kia country, and our rides have one job: to get us from camp to the fire and then to haul our asses out double-time when it’s either quitting time at the zoo or the fire overruns us.
Not sure what’s up with the cruiser, though. I spot a full rack of shotguns as if the good officer had prepared for bear or Armageddon. There’s no snap-crackle-buzz of the radio, either. I’m betting this guy’s running dark, which may have something to do with the name painted on the side of the car. He’s across his county line, and he doesn’t have jurisdiction this far southwest. I’m betting, however, that he’s got something to do with Sarah Jo being jumpy as fuck yesterday—jumpy enough that she’d dragged me into the storage cache and had her wicked way with me. I probably shouldn’t have done that, that whole letting her seduce me and ride my face thing. But it’s hard to regret when I imagine I can still taste her every time I lick my lips.
So I watch as the officer finally opens the door and stands up, adjusting his uniform. Despite however long he’s been sitting around with his thumb up his ass, his pants still hold a perfect crease and his utility belt is a thing of beauty. In addition to his semiautomatic, he sports what looks like a department-issue baton, a pair of cuffs, and a Taser. He still looks like a douche, though. Like he thinks he’s in charge of All The Shit and he’s just looking for an excuse to haul your ass down to the station in the back of his car.
I know what he sees when he looks around. The Bears’ Lair, aka fire camp, is a sleepy dot in the middle of nowhere. This is our downtime space, the spot where nothing happens, and we fucking love it that way because out in the field hell is either breaking loose or you’re mopping up after the last break out. Camp is a handful of weathered wooden buildings and a patch of gravel mostly filled with beat-up trucks and a few Japanese imports. A dented POS peels out of our impromptu lot, a foreign car from overseas with good mileage and a decent resale value. There’s a little fuck you spit of gravel as the driver leaves the parking lot too fast.
I’m betting that’s Sarah Jo leaving. I could will her to stay all I wanted, but she’d been scared yesterday and itching to go.
The Douche pauses next to his car like he’s expecting a marching band welcome or celestial trumpets announcing his arrival. He’s gonna be waiting a long time. I count it off, one one thousand, two one thousand… Get to fucking thirty before he gives up on anyone pulling a meet-and-greet and scans the buildings. He hasn’t spotted me yet. Instead, the cabin door next to the cafeteria seems to catch his eye. Someone has added a neat sign saying MAIN OFFICE. Honestly, that someone is messing with The Douche because none of us are office types, and that office is empty. Everyone’s either eating or out in the field.
I saunter over to intercept the man before he can spoil anyone’s lunch. I’m such a saint—my boys can thank me later for taking one for the team. The good deputy spots me when I start moving, and promptly comes to a halt, waiting. He clearly thinks he’s pulling a genius power play by making me approach him, and I’m itching to disabuse him of that idea. Preferably with my fists, although my feet wouldn’t mind getting in on the action and kicking the shit out of him, either.
He looks complacent as fuck. He’s tall, but not as tall as me. Bet he hates having to tilt his head back to make eye contact with me, so I get right up in his space. He’s the kind of pretty boy that looks like he belongs on a billboard advertising cologne or tighty-whities. His dark hair is slicked back from his face, and he’s got a real nice pair of cheekbones and a perfect nose. You know Humperdink in The Princess Bride? This guy could be his doppelganger, except without the velvet and lace.
