“That’s my insurance, right there,” Thad continues, towing me along faster. Behind us, shouts and curses ring out as the hotshots spring into action, everyone running toward the flames and away from Thad and me.
I definitely need help. I’m not getting out of this on my own. Just to prove the point, the parking lot looms up before us and I spot Thad’s patrol car. Once he gets me in that backseat, it’s game over. He’ll drive; I’ll lose. I’ll be nothing more than a footnote in the morning paper.
Scream for help.
Thoughts flash through my head, lightning-bug fast, but none of them prevent the patrol car from getting closer. I don’t want to do it. I don’t like doing it. Asking for help—and trusting someone else to provide it—isn’t how I live. Of course, changing up how I do things—since right now all that’s managed to do is to get me dragged forcibly across a fire camp—is just smart. I realize Pick did a whole lot of offering, while I did my best to push him away except when we were having sex. Then I stuck close, but I’m not sure that counts. He could have given up on me, but he hasn’t. He stuck up for me when Thad made his previous appearances. So it shouldn’t be so hard to ask for his help now, to be smart about this.
I hate doing the smart thing.
The good thing, though, is that Thad Hill clearly thinks he has me all figured out—and that I’ll go quietly into that good night (or really freaking awful nightmare—you guess which one it’s going to be). Dragging my heels, maybe, but he doesn’t expect me to want to draw attention to myself or to pull in anyone else. Not really. If he had, he’d have knocked me unconscious or figured out a different exit strategy.
Pick’s been on me to change, so here goes nothing. I open my mouth and bellow.
“Pick Revere, get your ass over here now.”
Simple. Clear. Always in control. That’s me.
Okay, so I’m not totally in control of this Thad thing (at all), but I’m bringing Pick in on my terms.
“Fu—” Thad slams a hand over my mouth and picks up the pace… and cue step two in my impromptu break-free-and-live-happily-ever-after plan. I dig my heels into the gravel, go limp as a pissed-off toddler—and bite his hand. Hard.
He tastes every bit as bad as I feared.
Pick
Sarah Jo hollers my name like a drill sergeant barking orders. I’ve learned a few critical lessons during our fuckfests. First, while naked is fun with Sarah Jo and I love making her come, our time spent out of bed is pretty amazing, too. She’s slowly letting me in, and I’ve been careful not to spook her. She’ll let me finger her clit, shove my face into her pussy and eat her until she screams, but opening up her head or letting me in on what she’s thinking doesn’t happen as fast. So I’ve made getting to know her my new mission.
One of the things I’ve learned? Sarah Jo doesn’t like asking for—or accepting—help. She’s a DIY queen when it comes to her life, so her urgent summons is out of character. She’s working tonight and it’s the right time for her to be on her break, but the girls’ impromptu breakroom is empty and dark, the lights out of order. I’m still recovering from my mad sprint over there when a summer’s worth of fusees explode and suddenly we’ve got fire in our own backyard.
Exploding fusees.
Unexpected patrol car.
You see where I’m headed with this?
Why I need to see for myself that she’s safe?
After I hold and squeeze her and probably say plenty of stupid shit, she can retreat back to Emotionarctica and I’ll try to respect those boundaries. So I reverse my mad dash and head toward her voice. It’s never a good sign when Sarah Jo asks for help. I think. Because it’s never fucking happened before, and I don’t want to think it’s in any way connected to the sheriff’s cruiser and the explosion.
I tear toward the parking lot, fielding strange looks and what-the-fucks from the guys on my team. Who are all running the other way, toward the fire that needs putting out ASAP. Something smaller goes up, lending another snap, crackle, and boom to the night and drowning out Sarah Jo’s follow-up demand.