Hung

One kiss. How can it hurt? I can go back to hiding in plain sight afterward.

“I’m in.”

Rosalie tosses me a pot of cherry lip gloss. “Lube it up, honey. Give him something to remember.”

Chapter Two

Pick

It’s amazing how much suckage can be packed into twenty-four hours and mine have been a fucking overachiever starting with the crap roads. Part fire access, part logging route, the pavement ran out after twenty yards, forcing me to bump northwest for hours. The ruts were deep enough that I fucking feared for my balls each time my truck bottomed out. Then, the pumper truck had hit mud left over from last week’s storm and bogged down. The boys and I had thrown a cable around a handy tree and winched like hell trying to pull the truck out. Eventually, I’d had to dump almost two hundred gallons of water to lighten the load.

Which totally worked.

Until the next colossal mud puddle did the truck in again. It was like being stuck in the Groundhog Day movie, re-living the same crappy moments over and over. God was probably laughing his ass off at the outtakes too. Me and him need to sit down and discuss all the ways he’s decided to keep my ego in check, preferably over a cold beer. I think we could come to some kind of amicable arrangement.

The fire hadn’t cooperated, either. Eventually, after an all-night battle with the wind picking up and fanning the flames for a steep upslope run, we’d been forced to admit that fire was now burning out of control and hand tools wouldn’t get the job done. We’d called for a tanker drop, packed up our shit, and started the long drive back to camp. Lining up for pancakes and coffee seems like a waste of time when there’s still fire to fight, but fresh guys are manning the line now and the higher-ups have decided that the Rogues need the rest. The sooner we start on the downtime, the sooner we can head back out there. Plus, God owes me that beer and I intend to collect.

I park my truck on auto-pilot, replaying the last hours in the field in my head. Some guys like their sports highlights or porn stars, but usually it’s just me and fire in my head. Take that line ten feet farther south and call in the tanker twenty minutes sooner . . . That right there was where the day had gone FUBAR. That’s fucked up beyond all recognition for you sensitive flowers who never have to put a quarter in the swear jar. A hand slaps me on the back, jolting me out of the full-color replay in my head.

The hand belongs to Hunter Black and is quickly retracted. He doesn’t look much happier to be on recall, either, but at least he’s got a girl. Maybe. Possibly. He’s been doing a kind of complicated dating/mating dance with one Lola Miller. They’re not officially a couple, but they’re definitely friends with benefits, as her rampaging on Piñata Night seems to imply. She’s hot as fuck, more colorful than a rainbow, and an aspiring actress who somehow manages to turn every encounter into a dramatic scene. Hunter is usually our resident Oscar the Grouch, but ever since he and Lola started shaking the sheets or hanging together, he’s practically been Suzy Fucking Sunshine. Right now, however, the look on his face is less than pleasant, so I’m betting he’s thinking about our fire instead of his maybe girl.

Hunter doesn’t bother with pleasantries as he falls into step beside me. There’s no need to say hi and bye given the quality time we spend together. “Not ready to pack it in?”

I snort and move forward with a groan as every muscle in my body protests. Too bad the fire camp hasn’t invested in masseuses. Or masseuse-strippers. Who serve filet fucking mignon and ice cold beers. I take a moment to appreciate that little fantasy. Ever since I got a little banged up and singed earlier this summer, I’ve been noticing the aches and pains more often. It’s like my body’s been put on high alert and wants to make sure I don’t inflict any more grievous bodily harm on my various limbs. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Not likely. You?”

“Nope,” Hunter replies. He’s a man of few words. There’s a reason why he’s been compared to Oscar the Grouch—and why Oscar has always come out ahead in any contest of manners. “And yet here we are. Back in base camp.”