Teaser Close to the Edge
The coach drops us all off on the outskirts of town, and I shoulder my pack before starting the long, slow trudge through Starlight Ridge. It’s a hot, hazy evening, the sky pink and the birds loud, and I’m already sweating from the stuffy coach ride.
It’s a good thing Rowan’s seen me covered in dirt, sweat and blood more times than I can count, because I’m a mess right now. Tired, rumpled, and in sore need of a shower.
The streets are busy in this small town, bustling with tourists and locals alike. I keep having to turn my shoulders sideways to squeeze past groups of people who’ve stopped to chat, and it’s nice seeing folks enjoy themselves on a rosy Friday night, don’t get me wrong, but crowds also set my teeth on edge these days.
I’ve been here once before, back when Rowan and I just finished our basic training, but it feels like millennia ago. Like I was a whole different man back then.
The shops and cafes and painted buildings that I recognize, like the butcher and the florist—it doesn’t feel like I saw them once before. More like I watched them in a movie or something. There’s a line drawn across my life, one that divides the years into Before Active Service and After Active Service, and all the Before stuff feels kinda surreal.
Anyways.
“‘Scuse me. Pardon me. Just squeezing past.”
My words fall on deaf ears, but people can’t ignore me too long. Not when I stand head and shoulders above most everyone else, and I’m trudging my way up the main street at a slow but unstoppable pace, like a ferry churning through the ocean. These chit-chatters blocking the sidewalk can either dodge out of the way or get all jumbled up in my slipstream, because my throat’s dry and my skin’s hot and there’s a cold shower and colder beer waiting for me at Rowan’s cabin.
Can’t believe he’s resurfaced after all this time. My best buddy; the man I trusted with my life and who trusted me with his. Losing Rowan to the demons in his head was one of the worst things that ever happened to me, and that’s including all the flashbacks with blood and guts. Is that selfish?
“Mom, can we—woah.” A boy stops tugging on his mom’s sleeve to gape up at me as I pass, his eyes going wide. The back of my neck prickles uncomfortably, the same as it always does when folks stare, but I pretend I haven’t seen.
I’m big. I get it. Big enough that I order my clothes from specialist stores; big enough that I always have to book two coach seats side by side, because there’s no way on god’s green earth that I can fold my whole frame into just one.
Back in the military, my size was an asset. It made me strong, sturdy, and let’s face it: a human shield. Got the scars to prove it too. But out here in the real world, it makes me a freak show.
The little boy keeps staring, but I duck my head and walk on. No need to make a scene.
My strides carry me past a coffee shop, still open with packed tables set out in the sunshine; a rickety old hotel called the Eagle’s Nest with a No Vacancies sign in the window; a bike shop, bakery and thrift store. The sidewalk is dusty beneath my boots, like it hasn’t rained here in weeks, and whenever the chaos of town gets to be too much for me, my eyes drift up to the mountains above and linger there for a while.
It looks calm up there. All bluish bare rock and evergreen forest. Rugged but peaceful.
So I guess I get it, even if I don’t want to. Guess I understand why Rowan fled up there all those years ago.
We all have our demons, after all. Even folks who haven’t served have plenty of battle scars.
On the north side of town, there’s some kind of rock bar with bench tables crowded in the yard. Music thrums through the air, while parked motorbikes gleam in a line, and as I walk past, my steps slow and then stop.
The customers laugh and chat and knock back their drinks, a few of them looking over at me, but most of them are wrapped up in their own worlds. At the nearest table, a mutt lifts its head from its paws and blinks at me.
And I should get going, but something… something inside me throbs. For some weird reason, I’m drawn to this bar—Flint’s, says the sign—like a fish caught on a line. What on earth?
As I stand there—a big, baffled statue with a backpack slung over one shoulder—a young woman ducks out of the bar’s back door, carrying a tray of drinks and a basket of fries. She weaves between tables, poking her tongue out at a giggling young kid, then sets her tray down among a small crowd of hikers. The collar of her black polo shirt has rucked up at the back, and her long, dark ponytail has gone frizzy from the heat. She’s tall and athletic, and her tan skin is flushed in the sunshine.
Fuck me.
Forget marching up to Rowan’s cabin for that promised shower and beer. Forget my aching muscles and dry throat and the headache pulsing in my temples. Forget the stares from this crowd, too—even the little kid pointing and asking his dad about real life giants.
There’s nothing and no one in this world worth thinking about except this server. Holy shit. Who knew angels came dressed in baggy polo shirts and denim shorts?
Not sure how long I stand and stare. Could be minutes; could be a geological age. All I know is I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t swallow, can’t do anything except keep my eyes glued to the server with a heat-frizzed ponytail. My boots are rooted to the ground, and my heavy backpack is long forgotten on my shoulder.
Who is she?
There’s a whole stretch of yard between us, and when she speaks to a customer, she’s too far away for me to hear. But lord, what I’d give to hear her voice—preferably husky and begging in my ear.
Bet Rowan knows who she is, because in a small town like this, everyone knows everyone. Bet he could tell me if she’s single, too.
God damn.
My palms are damp as I scrub them against my t-shirt, and my heart slams against my rib cage as I watch the server duck back inside the bar. With her gone, the sunshine dims. The light is less golden, the breeze cools, and the pounding rock music grates against my ear drums again.
Still can’t move. Need to see her again, even if it means standing here for hours.
Then—she’s back, carrying another tray of drinks through the doorway, and suddenly everything’s bright and warm again. The music sounds good, fading unobtrusively into the background, and this is the most beautiful day. Strings of outdoor lights flicker to life around the yard, swagged above the bench tables, and the scent of pine carries on the breeze.
When she walks past a dog, it perks up and wags its tail hopefully. Most relatable thing I’ve ever seen. And after the server drops off the drinks to the bikers, when she comes back to the dog on her way inside, crouching down to scratch behind its furry ears…
Well. I ain’t never been jealous of a mutt before, but there’s a first time for everything.
As she stands back up, the server catches me staring. Of course she does. I’m a lumbering beast of a man, frozen in place and staring right at her, and it’s a wonder it’s taken her this long to spot me over the crowd.
Still, as her eyes round in alarm, the back of my neck prickles. A bug whines near my ear, and I swat at it, my throat dry.
She’s scared of me. Of course she is.
Because I’m acting like a creep.
Shit.
The woman’s lips part like she’s gonna say something to me, even though we’re way too far apart to hear each other speak. And I guess I could try to lip read, but let’s face it: there’s nothing good coming my way right now. Not when she’s lookin’ all electrified with shock at the sight of me.
For the millionth time in my life, I wish I was different. Normal. An average sized guy with average looks—wouldn’t need to be anything special. Just normal, so I could fit in and maybe even have a shot with this girl.
Someone says something to her. The server jolts, and looks down at a middle aged woman on the nearest bench.
The second she looks away, I force my legs back into action and flee.
* * *
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