I don’t stop until the fire is under control and I’m in the market for a new blanket. I’ve practically got a fire station in the bed of my truck anyhow—a mountain of safety gear, gloves, packs, and tools. The green army issue isn’t looking too good. It smells like hell too because burnt wool is the worst. Not sure I smell much better, to be honest, because I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours in the field fighting a four-hundred-acre wildfire.
I won, too.
Mother Nature can suck on that.
I exhale roughly and step back. Inhale because I need the fresh air and right now all I’m breathing in is smoke and that damned burnt wool scent. Northern California usually smells way better, especially up here in the mountains. We’re barely past dawn when most folks would still be hitting the snooze button on their alarm clocks, as the orange-red of the sky where the sun works its way up over the horizon can attest. I have today and tomorrow off, which gives me just enough time to recharge before I head back into the field.
I’m the newest member of the Big Bear Rogues hotshot team. Nineteen guys, one woman, and a shit ton of firefighting gear. We’re the Special Forces of the firefighting world, the team that brings the fight to the fire when no one else can drive in, rappel in, or jump in. We run faster, dig harder, and carry more than your average packhorse. During peak wildfire season, we’re also on call twenty-four/seven. Sometimes the commute’s short because the fire’s in our backyard. Other times, we drive hundreds of miles to get close enough to fight. We go where we’re needed. It’s that simple. So far, this summer’s been busy and that’s exactly the way I like it.
A gust of ash and smoke from the fire hits me, the flames dying down. Mission. Accomplished. My Greek chorus whispers something virulent. I’m going to have to deal with them sooner rather than later.
“Ladies.” I’d tip my hat to them but I left my helmet on the front seat of the truck.
More loud whispering. “What’s with all the yellow? Is he an escaped prisoner?”
I look down in the direction of my steel-toed work boots. At some point between leaving the fire site and getting here, I’d pushed my bright yellow jumpsuit down to my waist. This leaves my olive green T-shirt on full display, along with an extensive collection of soot and burn marks from getting up close and personal with today’s fire.
The brunette bounds up to me and smacks me in the chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Right this very second I’m fighting a completely unexpected and entirely unwelcome sexual attraction to a short, curvy woman spitting fire at me. Her tits bounce, happily bra-free, as she digs her pretty fingers into my chest again. This would be way more fun if she pulled me closer instead of pushing me away.
“Extinguishing a fire,” I grit out.
“That’s my fire.”
“Your fire, ma’am, was illegal and out of control.”
“It wasn’t out of control,” she snaps. “I was standing right here watching it the whole time.”
I do a quick assessment. Crazy has two female companions hovering in the shadows. Everyone is wearing…pajamas? This early, the sleepwear makes sense but it’s still plenty cool and not too many people I know would choose to run around half-dressed. Crazy, however, is the least dressed of the trio. Her red-and-white striped pajamas are more underwear than not, the kind of sleepwear designed to torture dumbass men like me because they’re a picture frame for her gorgeous curves. The fuzzy slippers are slightly more practical, although likely a fire hazard. The thin little top has only the flimsiest straps that I could nudge down her arms with my thumbs, right before I got up close and personal with her magnificent tits. The icing on this stupendous cake is the pair of shorts that stop just north of her ass. I swear I only notice because she whirls to face her girls, raising her arms in a wide, graceful arc.
“Ladies? Were we doing anything wrong here?”
It’s not nice to interrupt her monologue but I do it anyway. “Do you have a permit to burn trash?”
She sucks in an indignant breath and throws her arms out even wider. She may be gunning for my nose—I’m not sure. “This is not trash.”