From Nowhere (Wildfire #2)

Chapter One Ozzy

Chapter One

Ozzy

“If you want to have sex again before you die, I’m okay with it.”

I nearly fall off my bike.

Lola is ten going on twenty. Sex shouldn’t be in my daughter’s vocabulary.

She stands so her skinny legs can pump the pedals to get in front of me, curly blond hair flowing in the breeze over her worn coral-and-blue Patagonia backpack. It belonged to her mom, just like everything else about our daughter. She’s Brynn’s mini-me: expressive blue eyes, ornery dimpled cheeks, beaming smile, and infectious laugh that I feel in my chest.

“What do you know about sex? Never mind. Let me rephrase that. What made you say that to me? Did Nana or Pa mention something?” I ride alongside her when the cracked sidewalk widens as we bike through an affluent neighborhood. We might hit record-high temperatures again today, with no breeze and a cloudless sky. Spring in Missoula feels like summer this year, and we need rain.

“Yum. Smell that?” Lola inhales. “Doughnuts. Can we stop?” She’s changing the subject, but I’m okay with not talking about my sex life.

“No. You had breakfast. You’ll be late to school, and I’ll be late to work.”

“I’ll eat it on the way.”

“You can’t eat while riding your bike.”

Lola stretches her arms out like an eagle, riding with no hands.

Show-off.

Then she takes a right into the parking lot as if it’s a foregone conclusion that I will say yes. Dang it! I smell it, too: sweet cinnamon-apple fritters. She’s right; we’re buying doughnuts.

“I’m getting glazed chocolate.” She hangs her neon-pink helmet from the handlebar and skips into the shop.

I’m in over my head with this girl. By the time I grumble my grievances over losing control of my child, she’s at the counter ordering for us.

The wiry-haired brunette shoots me a half grin while smacking her gum. “That’ll be seven dollars.”

I dig out my wallet and deposit a ten on the counter beside some crumbs.

“Are you married?” Lola asks the lady.

“No. Why?” She hands Lola the change, and my generous daughter stuffs all three bills into the tip jar.

“You should go on a date with my dad.”

This isn’t happening. Very few things embarrass me, but this sends flames to my cheeks.

“Sorry. My daughter hit her head yesterday.” I yank Lola by her backpack away from the counter while offering a stiff smile to the employee bagging our doughnuts. Given the permanent scars on Lola’s forehead and right cheek, I’m sure this lady doesn’t get my head-injury humor. Still, after a beat, she blushes as well.

Does Lola know this is the last time we will visit her favorite doughnut joint? Because it is.

Lola wriggles out of my hold and turns toward me with a crinkled nose, which makes the horizontal scar below her eye disappear. “I didn’t hit my head,” she says.

“Oh dear. You don’t even remember,” I say. “I think we’ll have to get it checked out. I hope your memory loss isn’t permanent.” I nab the white paper bag from the counter and give the much-younger woman a final glance.

She bites her lower lip and bats her creepy tarantula eyelashes. We are for sure never coming back here.

The second we step outside, I retrieve my apple fritter and shove part of it into my mouth, holding it with my teeth before tossing the bag into the garbage.

“Dad, my doughnut was in there!”

I fasten my helmet and take the fritter from my mouth. “This afternoon, when you get home from school, and I ask you what you learned today, I expect you to say: ‘If I embarrass my dad in public, I will not get a doughnut.’”

Her jaw drops. “You are the worst father in the world.”

“I love you too. Let’s get to school so you won’t be late and hankering for a doughnut.”

I inhale all but one bite of my fritter, and just as we begin to ride out of the parking lot, I offer her the last morsel.

She frowns despite steering her bike closer to take my peace offering.

“Lola, I don’t need your help finding a date.”

“Dakota said his sister said their mom said she’s surprised you haven’t started dating.”

When we stop at the light, holding our breaths from the bus exhaust, I replay her statement for comprehension—Dakota, his sister, and their mom.

Dakota’s mom is on her third husband. I can see why she’d be surprised.

It’s hard to date when I can’t drive a car. And it’s hard to explain this to Lola when Victoria, her therapist, said I should never say anything that might make my daughter feel bad about “the situation.”

“Have you discussed this with Victoria?” I ask. Thankfully, the bus turns right, and we can breathe again.

“No. Why?”

“I think you should,” I say, just as we pass the congested line of cars along the street in front of the school.

“Fine. I will next week.”

“Great,” I say.

“Dad, that’s far enough.” Lola glances over her shoulder, eyeing me before I roll past an invisible line.

I stop at the crosswalk. Heaven forbid Lola’s friends see her dad escorting her to school.

“Have a great day,” I say.

“How am I supposed to do that when I’m starving?” Without another glance at me, she walks her bike through the intersection with the crossing guard.

The gray-haired lady holding up the stop sign in the middle of the street eyes me with disapproval.

“She had a breakfast burrito.”

While I finish my coffee, Taylor, the maintenance manager at Cielo Aviation, gives me the rundown on the plane engine I need to rebuild. And before donning my coveralls, I use the men’s room. After I flush the urinal, someone in the stall clears their throat.

“Excuse me,” she says.

I quickly zip my pants as if I’m in the wrong restroom. “Yeah?” I say slowly.

“Could you find me a roll of toilet paper?”

There’s only one stall, so I glance around the floor-to-ceiling tiled room for toilet paper while washing my hands.

Nothing.

“Uh, give me a minute,” I say.

“I’ll be here,” she singsongs, followed by a tiny laugh as I leave the men’s room.

Near the door to the hangar, Taylor stares at his phone’s screen.

“Where’s the toilet paper?” I ask.

He glances up at me, removes his hat, and scratches his head of sparse gray-and-brown hair. “Why?”

“Because there’s someone in the stall who needs toilet paper.”

He grunts. “Is it Miles? Let him figure it out.”

“No. It’s ...” I clear my throat. “A woman.”

Taylor squints. “In the men’s room?” He peers over my shoulder and frowns at the Out of Order sign on the women’s restroom door. Then he grumbles and leads me toward the main office. On the opposite side of the corridor, he unlocks a supply closet. “Don’t be weird about it. I don’t want any sexual harassment allegations,” he says, handing me a roll of cheap one-ply bathroom tissue wrapped in white paper.

“How would I be weird about it?”

“Don’t linger. Don’t ask questions. Deliver the roll and get out of there.”

“So I’m not allowed to wipe her ass for her?”

“Christ, Ozzy. That’s what I’m talking about.”

I laugh while returning to the men’s room.

“Here you go.” I set it on the floor and slide it under the stall with the toe of my black boot.

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

I open my mouth to respond, but that might count as lingering, so I turn.

“One more favor?”

“Uh ...” I stop, turning toward the sound of something scraping along the floor. It’s a quarter.

“The women’s restroom is closed because of plumbing issues,” she says. “But the tampon dispenser should work. Are you man enough to help a gal out?”

I focus on the quarter. It’s heads up. Is it someone’s lucky day? I don’t think so. I step on George Washington’s head and slide it several feet away from the stall before picking it up. Man enough? What’s that supposed to mean?

“Thanks. You’re the best,” she chirps.

“Sure,” I murmur in a manly tone.

After glancing in both directions, I hustle across the hall to the women’s restroom, insert the quarter, and turn the knob.

Nothing.

I shake it, bang on it, and dig change out of my pocket to try it again. Either it’s empty or broken. “Shit,” I mumble. Again, I head into the hallway, making a beeline for the front office and crossing my fingers that Hillary is at her desk.

“Good morning, Ozzy.” She bats her brown hair away from her green-framed glasses and sips her coffee.

“Hey! I need a tampon.” I spew the words like the building is on fire.

Her nose crinkles as she returns her “cat lady” coffee mug to the desk. “Excuse me?”

“The women’s room is empty, and someone in the men’s room needs one.”

She gawks at me, lips parted.

I sigh. “It’s a woman.”

Hillary nods slowly. “Oh. Well, let me see.” She retrieves her red leather purse from under the desk. “I have a pad. Will that work?”

“I’m going to say yes. But I have no clue.” I dig into my pocket and pull out a quarter.

“Are you serious?” She laughs when I set it on her desk in exchange for the pad.

“Is it not enough?”

“Ozzy, take your money. Don’t make this awkward.” Hillary tosses her purse beneath her desk.

Too late. Everything about this is awkward.

“Thanks.” I shut the door and jog to the men’s room. “Sorry, the machine is broken or empty. I found a pad.” I tear off a paper towel, set the pad on it, and slide it under the stall with my boot.

“Does everyone in the building know I was unprepared to start my period?” she asks.

“No.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Thanks.”

“Sure,” I reply, already halfway out the door before bolting to the hangar, donning my coveralls, and praying the woman on her period is not a Cielo Aviation employee.

Just as I get into a groove, Taylor says my name. “Have you met Ozzy?”

I fumble my wrench and smack my head on the hunk of metal above me.

“Yo, Ozzy?” Taylor calls.

I rub my head and step around the engine. “Yeah?”

“This is Maren Bernabe. She’s been flying with us for seven fire seasons. A real talent. Montana’s lucky to have her.”

Maren casually slides her long, wavy blond ponytail through one hand while sipping her mug of coffee with the other. A blush fills her cheeks as she rolls her blue eyes at how Taylor’s gushing about her.

“Maren, this is Ozzy. He’s been here four, five months?”

“Almost five,” I say, wiping my hands on a rag.

Her eyes widen, lips pressed together until they start to turn white.

“Maren, this guy is saving the earth. He rides his bicycle to work, even in the snow. And—” Taylor glances at his phone. “Oh, excuse me for a second. I have to answer this.” He takes a few steps away from us, holding his phone to his ear.

She’s an impressive tanker pilot, and I ride a bicycle. I feel two feet tall as I inhale to pull back my shoulders and fake more confidence than Taylor has bestowed upon me this morning.

Too late.

Maren smells like flowers while I emit the appealing scents of kerosene, oil, and solvents—just a few of the daily odors that permeate my clothes and skin.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

She cringes while whispering “You’re the guy who got me toilet paper and a pad.”

I try not to smile, but only half-succeed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Maren’s smile is confident, with just the right amount of vulnerability, like she knows how to laugh at herself. “You do. But thank you for playing it so cool. My day’s not off to a great start. I just stopped by to update some paperwork before my first shift next week, and it’s gone downhill from there.”

A few seconds later, I lift my gaze to hers, realizing she hasn’t missed me eyeing her long legs in tight jeans or that coffee stain by her boob. I swear I was only looking at the stain.

Her eyes narrow a fraction. Yeah, she thinks I’m a perv. Now I have to shit on her day to save myself.

“Maybe you should head home, get in bed, and climb out on the opposite side.” I nod to her shirt.

Glancing down, she runs her hand over the stain and mumbles, “Are you kidding me? God, I make the worst first impressions.”

“You’re a beautiful mess.”

What. The. Hell?

Why did I say that? It just came out of nowhere.

Maren lifts her head. “Thank you, but you’re too kind.”

Kind? Perhaps.

An idiot? Definitely.

“So, bicycling in the snow?” Maren furrows her brow.

“It’s a fat-tire bike. And honestly, when we had that heavy snow in January, I walked.”

“Wow. You must live close.”

“Four miles.” Six from Lola’s school.

Her head draws back. “You walked four miles to work? In the snow?”

“Guilty.” I lift a shoulder.

“That’s . . .”

“Manly. And complicated.” I playfully puff out my chest.

With a slow nod, she echoes, “Complicated, indeed.” Then she smirks when my manly reference registers. “I was stressed out. I get snarky when I’m stressed. Sorry.”

I brush it off with a tiny headshake.

“Are you new to Missoula?” she asks.

“No.” I leave it short and sweet while tucking the rag into the pocket of my coveralls.

“Oh? Where were you previously employed?”

Behind me, Miles turns on the angle grinder, making it hard to hear, so I smile until he’s done. “It’s a long story. I’ve been at home caring for my daughter. Her mom died in a car accident two years ago, right after I was offered a position here,” I say. “And luckily, another position became available when I was ready to work again.”

Maren frowns. “I’m so sorry.”

Her mom. I called my wife “her mom,” and I did it because I’m attracted to this woman. And it’s the first time the thought of another woman has crossed my mind in two years. I don’t know if I should celebrate this moment or berate myself for needing to avoid the word wife . My thoughts are far from idle. They dig up that seemingly innocent statement from Lola this morning.

If you want to have sex again before you die, I’m okay with it.

“Thank you,” I say, rubbing my neck. “It’s been a rough road, but it’s good to be working again. Normalcy is refreshing.” I don’t know if Maren buys it. But I keep telling myself this while riding my bike to work, the grocery store, the bank—everywhere. That’s not normal.

“My brother, Brandon, died three years ago,” she says with an empathetic smile. “So I feel you.”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry,” I say.

Maren nods several times. “Thanks. I’ll, uh”—she jerks her chin toward the engine—“let you get back to work. Again, thanks for your help earlier. If the stars align and we never see each other again, my pride will have a chance to recover.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Your idea of the stars aligning is a lot different than mine.” I can’t look at her. She’ll see right through my stupid schoolboy crush. So I think of Lola and the car I no longer drive or the date I will never ask Maren to go on with me. And with that sobering reminder, I lift my gaze from the floor to her one last time and offer a platonic, non-schoolboy-crush smile. “See ya around.”

Maren smiles until tiny crinkles form at the corners of her blue eyes. “Maybe.”

She’s flirting with me or busting my balls; either one is fine with me.