Chapter 20
CHAPTER
TWENTY
EMMETT
Rage and self-loathing accompany me all the way back to the loft. Halfway up the drive, the front door swings open before I even hit the porch.
A woman I recognize as one of Aspen’s friends is on the porch, a watering can at her feet as she turns the keys in the front door, looking entirely too at home going into a house that isn’t hers.
The redhead, Briar, I think, freezes when she spots me. Her mouth forms a little “O.” “You’re not Aspen.”
“And this isn’t your house.”
Her grin widens. “Oh.” She points to me with the key. “He’s spicy.”
I fold my arms over my sweat-damp T-shirt.
Yeah. I fucking am.
And with good reason.
She rolls her eyes at me like I’m being dramatic.
Cause she’s got room to judge.
“Relax, sunshine. Our girl is overworked . . .” She takes a sweeping look at me. “And underfucked, but I can’t help with that.”
I choke on the air I’m still sucking down from the walk. “What the hell is wrong with people in this town?”
She barks out a laugh, completely unbothered. “We’re a benevolent community.”
“Clearly. I’m still not sure what you’re doing here, though.”
“I water her plants,” she says slowly. “What do you do for her?”
Nothing. Nothing at all.
The answer lands harder than it should.
Briar clearly doesn’t come with an off switch, and somehow, she remains completely unfazed by my shit.
She hooks a thumb toward the house.
“Girl can keep a human alive on fumes . . .” Her grin fades just enough to tell me she’s serious now. “But she takes care of herself about as well as she takes care of her plants.”
I glance at the watering can.
Then back at her.
“So . . . not at all.”
Her mouth quirks. “Now you’re catching on.”
And just like that, I’m standing in Aspen’s driveway, getting life advice from a marginally unhinged florist with zero respect for personal boundaries.
Ten minutes later, Briar’s somehow got me sitting on Aspen’s porch with a bottle of water in my hand while she grills me like I’m up for parole.
By the time she’s run out of steam, or interest, she’s asked me enough invasive questions to write a biography, invited me to horseshoes with the guys, and informed me—not asked—that she’ll be getting my number from Aspen so Denver can add me to the group chat.
Apparently, in Timberline Peak, you don’t get to pick your friends, they are assigned.
I watch Briar head next door with her watering can swinging at her side, then let myself into Aspen’s house.
The silence is unbearable.
For a guy who built his life around solitude, it’s unsettling how fast I’ve gotten used to her being in it.
And that can’t happen.
Because I know better.
I’ve hurt too many people already.
And the only way to keep women like Aspen safe is not to get involved.
I’m nobody. Nobody to Aspen. Nobody to anyone.
By design.
I lower myself onto the couch with a grunt, dried sweat pulling tight across my skin as I drain the last of my water.
“Time to get this over with.”
I pull up Carl’s contact and stare at it for a beat.
I’ve kept my superintendent updated on my injuries over text, but I’ve been avoiding this call.
And judging by the knot in my gut . . .
I’m about to find out exactly how much that’s going to cost me.
Heat prickles the back of my neck, and I press the call button. My heel beats an antsy rhythm into the carpet.
“Slate.”
His greeting is as no-nonsense as he is. No hello. No how’re you holding up? Just my last name—same as it’s been since I was eighteen and dumb enough to think I had something to prove.
If you want sunshine and rainbows, Carl’s not your guy.
“Hey, boss.” I temper my expectations and my bullshit because he’ll sniff that shit out like a cadaver dog.
“This guy. Hey, boss. You don’t call; you barely text.”
“You know me. Not big on feelings and talking.”
“Well get big on it. You almost died and you can’t pick up the phone to call one of the few people who tolerate your salty ass?”
“I’m calling now, aren’t I?”
“And why’s that?”
The question is rhetorical, and when I pause a beat too long, he pounces.
“There’s only one reason you’re picking up the phone, and we both know it. So quit wasting my time and tell me what you want.”
I can practically see him shaking his head on the other end.
“You’re a body short and the season’s not over.” I stare at the wall as I say it. “I want what we both want—me back on the fire line.”
A derisive snort crackles through the speaker.
“A body short. And that right there is your problem, Emmett.”
The sting of my government name has my fingers tightening around the phone. Carl only pulls Emmett out when Slate isn’t cutting it. And judging by the pressure building behind my sternum, he’s probably not wrong.
“You think that anyone on my crew is just a body—that you’re just a body to me?” Carl lets out a disgusted grunt. “For fuck’s sake, I’ve known you since you were a lanky eighteen-year-old without a damn clue.”
“You called me Edward for an entire fire season.”
“At least it wasn’t dipshit. Seriously rethinking that now,” he mutters. “You really think I’d risk your safety and the safety of the rest of the crew because you’ve got ants in your pants?”
“I can handle it.”
“No, you can’t.” He clears his throat like he always does before he goes from boss to pseudo-father figure. “Your work-status paperwork hit my desk today. Minimum six weeks off the line. That means six weeks, and I’m not signing off on an early return . . . not even for you.”
I grind my molars.
“You haven’t even asked how I’m doing.”
Carl snorts. “Now you want to be coddled?”
“I need out.”
Without missing a beat, he says, “I’ll come get you. You can stay with Betty and me until your head’s on straight.”
Every muscle in my body locks. “No.”
Carl sighs. “Listen, Emmett . . .”
And just like that, my stomach drops.
“This isn’t just about your ribs. You got tunnel vision out there, and it’s been going on too damn long.”
His pause drags out for what feels like a lifetime.
“Until PT clears you, the doc signs off, and a therapist says your head’s where it needs to be, you’re not coming back on my line.”
“Boss—”
“That’s final.”
So I’m sidelined and completely fucked.
It feels like a knife between my shoulders and by a guy who’s always had my back.
Humiliation ripples over my skin even as I’m fully aware that reacting this way only proves his point. “Understood,” I grit through my clamped jaw.
“I’m going to text you the name of a therapist. He worked with some of the crew after the Caldera Fire,” he offers, quieter now, the edge gone, concern threading through his words.
“Either way, do the work on your body and your mind, Slate. The crew needs you to be healthy.” There’s a pause and I can sense he’s weighing his words.
“You deserve to be free of your demons.”
I swallow and force a response. “Will do.”
Then I hang up before I tell him he’s wrong—some things don’t heal and this job isn’t just what I do, it’s what keeps me from thinking too hard about who I am when nobody needs saving. He knows more about my past than most, maybe that’s why this feels like a betrayal.
“Fuck!”
I hurl my phone at the couch. It bounces off the cushions and clatters to the hardwood.
Heat crawls beneath my skin as I shove both hands through my hair and pace the length of the empty house, ribs pulling tighter with every turn.
First Aspen pushes me away. Now this.
My skin feels too damn tight. I need to burn this off before it eats me alive.
Normally, I’d run until my lungs gave out, split wood, check fences, or swim in the river. Anything to keep my body busy and my head quiet.
But my ribs are screaming, my shoulder’s on fire, and every breath still bites from the walk back from the hospital.
I’ve got nowhere to put this feeling, which leaves me one option.
Maybe I can wash it away.
I head for the bathroom on autopilot—too pissed off to think, too wound up to sit still.
And then I step into Aspen’s room.
Big fucking mistake.
Red lace catches my eye.
Missed in her efforts to make me feel welcome, one tiny thong rests shy of the hamper.
That little scrap of fabric unravels me so completely I know I’m wholly fucked.
The image it paints is vivid. It’s wrong to look—wrong to bend and pick it up—but I do it anyway, letting the material glide through my fingers. It’s too easy to picture Aspen sliding them off her hips in this very room.
My cock thickens in my pants, and I ball them up in my fist.
After everything else, I’m too fucking weak. If this is all I get of her I’m keeping it.
All this time, she’s been hiding something so feminine, so sexy, just out of sight, barely covered under those oversized shirts she loves so much. It’s the fatal blow.
I stuff the red lace into my pocket.
Then I drag my hands back over my face and through my hair, gripping the back of my neck.
My injuries didn’t kill me, but denying the way I want Aspen might.
I’m not a good enough guy to resist, and at this moment I’m too tired to fight.
What’s left of my resolve is in pieces, and I force myself toward the bathroom, hoping hot water will wash away everything I shouldn’t want.
Instead, the universe decides I haven’t suffered nearly enough because, front and center, a charging cord hangs from the wall. A small, magnetic, unmistakable one.
I close my eyes, and somehow, that’s worse.
Because my mind fills in the rest anyway.
The brush of the soft pick silicone against my hand, as real as the lace in my pocket.
I’m hard as a rock and faced with impossible temptation. Any hope of being noble has been blown to smithereens.
How long has it been? Weeks for sure. Maybe a month.
Fuck it. I’ve got nothing left to lose.
I remove the bandage from my shoulder, gritting my teeth through the pain. I don’t care that I’ll have to redo it. I don’t care about anything other than the need coursing through me.
I’m already going to hell; my fate has been sealed for years. If I’m going down, I’m going down in flames.