Blake barely seems to feel it, turning to lead us through the rickety wooden gate closing off the field.
It’s comfortable walking with him.
Not really needing to talk, though now and then he explains what he’s doing as we follow the perimeter of the carnival grounds, then start moving between different installations.
He’s mostly checking for fire hazards.
Too many extension cords plugged into an outlet, for example, or hot-burning lights too close to a cloth awning. Open fire next to dry, brittle grass becomes perfect tinder with winter leaving it crackling and dead.
I’d never really thought about the infinite ways a fire can start. But Blake seems to see it all with this weird sixth sense.
He’s mostly interested in the stage, which they’ve assembled inside a massive tent—I guess to keep everyone warm. Though if you ask me, I’d love to see it open-air, naked under the stars.
That’s one thing that’s always helped me decide to stay, whenever I pick a place to hunker down for the winter.
Just how well I can see the stars stretched over the yawning heavens at night.
Some places, larger cities like Portland and Chicago, I can’t even see a single star. It’s just smog or blaring lights reflected back, the sky always a strange shade of peach-purple. You can’t even see the moon sometimes save for a faint glow peeking past the light pollution.
I never stay in places like that long.
I go where I can see the same stars I saw at home in Oahu, and counted sometimes with my father to make wishes again and again, always hoping they’d come true.
I look up at the glittering expanse of the Milky Way, lingering before I follow Blake into the tent and climb up on stage with him.
There’s a heaping mess of plugs and cables belonging to hot spotlights.
I can already tell this is going to be bad, holding my breath.
“Shit,” he mutters, crouching low to examine a few tangled wires.
“You’re going to shut this whole thing down, aren’t you?” I ask, staring at the bunched nest of cables sprouting from a multi-outlet splitter that looks like it’s had about thirty others plugged into it. “Because this is a Carrie reenactment waiting to happen.”
“You’re damn right,” he says grimly. “Shitfire. I taught these people better than this.”
I grin. “Did you actually teach them, or just lead by example?”
“Hey, now. I lead a good fire safety seminar.” He grimaces. “But it’s been a few years. Seems like folks need a refresher course, and this time they need to jot crap down.” Blake frowns, stroking his beard, thick workman’s gloves rasping against the bristly hairs. “Come to think of it…that might be a good gig for Justin. Maybe lead a carnival event on fire safety.”
“Justin?” I tilt my head, watching the faraway, thoughtful look in Blake’s eyes. “The younger fire dude, right?”
His gaze darts to me, narrowing like I’ve said something wrong. “He’s not that young. Closer to your age, matter of fact.”
Weird.
Closer to your age than me, he’s not saying, and I arch a brow.
“He’s not my type,” I say, and Blake’s brows rise in answer to mine, almost teasing.
“Nah? You seem to like wounded animals, and he’s definitely the broken puppy type.”
I laugh. “I’m not attracted to boys still trying to get their crap together. I have a very specific type, hardly a puppy dog.”
More like a coyote, a panther, a bear.
Something rangy, put together, and wild, with teeth sharp enough to bite.
“I’m not gonna set myself up by asking what that type is,” he says dryly, leaving me sputtering—ugh, does he know how infatuated I am?—while he looks away, scanning over the nest of cables again. “Teasing aside, Justin might benefit from a visit with you. Just for stress relief, relaxation. He’s carrying a lot of pain around all the time, and I feel like I’ve been neglecting him.”
I step closer, looking up at the solemn lines of his brow. “Neglecting him? How?”
“He’s part of my crew.” He shakes his head, turning his head, looking down at me with those dark, thoughtful eyes. “It’s my responsibility to take care of them. But Justin…well, he’s all smiles on the surface. Easy to forget he’s in pain. And he isolates himself, y’know? He’ll only let you see him when he’s smiling. But I know why he’s hurting, and I haven’t done right. Haven’t done enough to make him part of things so he doesn’t feel like he has to be alone.”
“What happened to him?”
“His ma died,” Blake answers, and there’s a hint of something dark, something hurting, that says he’s feeling this on a deeper level. “Happened way back. He was just a kid, but there was this huge fire out at the Paradise Hotel in the valley. Same ruins you saw when your van caught fire. We didn’t get it put out in time. There was a lot of freaky quasi-military shit up there, stuff they were keeping hidden we only found out about years later, but that ain’t the point. His ma, Constance, she got a lot of folks to safety, but she died a month later from smoke inhalation. He’s real serious about firefighting, ’cause of her. Even if what happened still leaves him messed up.”