10. Smoke
10
SMOKE
T he ride back to the clubhouse is quiet, apart from the odd mutter and curse from Catfish about the state of his truck.
For some reason, his radio no longer works.
And it’s a wild feeling, air rushing in through the nonexistent front windscreen and out through his much-reduced rear window.
Sheriff Radcliffe is parked up on the side of the road at a well-known speeding spot, talking to the officer holding the speed gun.
He shakes his head in disgust as we go by in what is clearly a not-fit-for-purpose vehicle.
But he knows better than to pull us over for something that trivial.
The guy’s a fucking coward of the first order.
Catfish childishly flips him the bird as we drive by.
But even that doesn’t loosen the tightness in my gut.
In all that gunfire, I lost a piece of myself.
It took the first twenty minutes of the ride to settle my heart rate.
But I think my palms are still sweating.
And it wasn’t fear of the situation we were in, because firing at Zakharov didn’t bother me at all.
It was some kind of muscle memory connecting the sounds around me with the fire.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether I was in a back alley in Denver or on a mountainside in Idaho in the middle of a fire.
Even now, I feel the lingering pull.
I’ve had to focus hard out the window, counting the branches on trees, trying to guess the distance in meters between us and the truck in front, just to keep my mind off the faces of dead friends.
It’s like a magnet, tugging me back, even though I don’t want to.
I can’t resist the pull.
When the clubhouse comes into sight, relief washes over me.
Familiarity eases through my bones.
And a feeling of…safety.
Atom is on his horse, doing some kind of fence inspection, stopping to make notes on his phone.
I’ve often wondered, if you made the guy choose between horses and motorcycles, which he would pick.
I stick my arm out the window to wave to him as we go by, and he gestures at the state of the truck in confusion.
He digs his boots into the flanks of his horse and gallops up the path to meet us at the clubhouse.
Taco, one of the newer brothers, is on the gate.
The guy was a prospect for a while, a good one.
Things are always changing.
And then, we reach the clubhouse that Atom’s family helped build, a proper log cabin structure made with wood cut from their land.
It’s a thing of beauty.
Too wholesome to house all of us.
“We should go talk to Butcher,” I say.
“Yeah,” Catfish agrees wearily.
“Are you gonna tell him or am I that the club owes me a new truck?”
Taco must have called ahead up to the clubhouse, because Butcher walks out to meet us.
“Can we not have a day without fucking trouble? What happened?” he asks when we get out of the truck.
“A trap,” Catfish said.
“Been doing that run the same time all summer. Handed off the product to Big Daddy, but then they came for us.”
“Six of them,” I say.
“We followed the truck they were in back to that warehouse where they hid our weed that time. The one we blew up. Guess they got a new building there. Managed to get a few rounds off at Lev Zakharov.”
Butcher’s mood changes.
“You get him?”
“Seemed like he was hit, given how he fell to the floor. We didn’t stick around to see if he was dead. He wasn’t alone. Had several men on him.”
“Good work. That’ll teach the fucker.”
Catfish looks at his truck and lovingly pats the gunshot-riddled hood.
“Gotta get rid of this. Just FYI, the club’s gonna buy me a replacement.”
Butcher rolls his eyes.
“Fuck me. Fine.”
Atom ties up his horse to the fence, then jumps over it to get to us.
“What the fuck went down on the drop?”
Butcher looks to Catfish.
“Can you update Wraith, Atom, and Grudge?”
Catfish nods.
“Will do, Prez.”
“Come have a whiskey with me,” Butcher says to me when Catfish and Atom head into the clubhouse.
“Perfect idea.” Because I’m still a little lost. Can’t decide what I want or should do next.
My mom was prone to depression.
Prolonged periods where she couldn’t find the will to do even the most basic functions.
The worst times were when she’d take to bed and not get out for three weeks.
Then, she’d reappear, a smile on her face, and complain about the mess I’d left in the kitchen.
She’d batch-cook soups and buy me little treats from the bakery.
I promised myself I’d never fall into that, but this period of confusion is starting to feel a whole lot like it.
Sure, I’m not bed-ridden, but I’m stuck.
“Don,” Butcher says to the prospect behind the bar.
“Two glasses and the bottle of the single malt.”
Don does as Butcher says with minimal fuss and the tip of his chin.
Butcher pours us both a large measure.
“Good initiative taking your shot on Zakharov when you had the chance.”
We knock glasses together before taking a sip.
It burns my throat. Never used to, but I’m guessing all that smoke inhalation did a little more damage than I thought.
Either that, or it stripped the heat-resistant coating I’d built up over the years.
Perhaps I should drink a lot more to speed it along.
I bite back the wince.
“Thanks,” I say. “Saw an opportunity. Took it.”
“You want to talk with me about how you’re doing?”
There are a million different answers I could give to this question.
They all make sense.
And yet, I can’t settle on one of them.
Instead, I sip some more of the whiskey.
The burn actually…helps.
Centers me.
“You know,” Butcher continues, “the death we see as a club is deserved. You want to play in this life outside the lines, you have to be willing to pay the ultimate price for it. We know that no one is going to save us. Law enforcement won’t intervene. We live by our own rules. But it’s another thing to see death where it doesn’t belong. You’d be well within your rights to need some time and space.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, and maybe it’s the mood I’m in, but it all feels a little bit too vulnerable.
A little bit too raw.
“I’m fine, Butcher.”
He shakes his head.
“I know you want to be. I know you will be. I know you’re faking it right now so you can keep ahold of some sense of normalcy. But everyone around here knows you aren’t.”
Maybe that should have been my answer to his question.
Yes, Butcher. I’m a fucking mess, but trying to pretend I’m fine is helping.
But is it?
I’m not one hundred percent sure.
“I’m handling it, Prez.”
Because admitting I’m not isn’t going to help the spiral I’m in.
Butcher takes a slow and measured sip of his whiskey.
“You’re handling it the best you can. We’re all really fucking proud of you, Smoke. But the club wants you to know that we’re here for you. No judgment about whether you can handle this alone or not. No judgment if you decide you can’t. But we can’t help if you don’t tell us what you need.”
The precipice I’m standing on is steep.
I can’t see the bottom of the jump.
Feels like clouds are blocking my vision, and I’ve got no idea if it’s safe to jump or not.
Butcher is telling me it’s safe to admit I’m not feeling whole right now.
But what if I do?
Does he temporarily take my road captain patch?
What if I lose that bit of my identity too?
I’m already quitting being a firefighter, a smoke jumper.
And yet, the idea of closing my eyes and allowing myself to free fall, to see what’s on the other side of those clouds…
It’s tempting.
Even the thought that it could be death doesn’t scare me.
In fact, right now, that sounds really fucking peaceful.
An end to the guilt and shame and dreams.
I choose hanging out on the ledge and throw back the rest of my whiskey.
“Understood, Butcher.”
Uncertain of where to go next, I head to my bedroom here at the club.
When I unlock the door, it’s as tidy and orderly as I left it.
Sure, the surfaces are a little dusty, and I should get around to cleaning that.
But lying down onto the clean bedding I had Karlie put on for me, even as I wince when I lower myself down, is a blessing.
On the wall at the foot of my bed are four framed photographs.
My folks, who live in Florida now and who I rarely see.
My brothers at a cookout.
Me on my bike in a cool photo Atom took at Sturgis five years ago.
And me and my team at the end of our last fire last season.
And I’m tempted to deal with the pain across my ribs, just to get up so I can smash them all.
I reach for the bottle of Jack I keep on the nightstand and take a swig.
And another swig.
And another swig.
And another swig.
And I keep drinking until the world starts to spin.
Until I fall asleep.
“Smoke.” I hear Atom’s voice in the distance.
I begrudgingly attempt to open one eye.
It’s impossible.
My head lolls to one side as I try to move.
Every part of me feels numb.
“Brother, wake up.”
He shakes me, his hand on my arm.
Gripping me.
I bat him away, determined to fall back into the deep sleep I was enveloped in.
“Nope. No, you don’t. Make a move.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble.
“I’m sleeping.”
Atom sits next to me on the bed, which is weird.
“You were dreaming. Having a nightmare, really.”
He’s wearing unbuttoned jeans.
No shirt or shoes. It’s then that I notice Butcher is standing by the door dressed in a pair of boxer briefs.
I don’t even remember the dream.
But I was obviously making enough noise that it woke Atom and Butcher.
“Fuck,” I mutter, sitting up to rub my face.
Shame is nefarious. It fills corners that are hard to reach, harder to clean out.
It infiltrates every available space until you’re so consumed by it, you suffocate.
I shove Atom hard, but it’s the kind of hard that happens when you’ve drunk too much and been weakened by sleep.
It has little to no effect.
But understanding the gesture, he moves anyway.
I flip my legs to the edge of the bed, then put my feet on the floor.
I’m still fully dressed; even my boots are on my feet.
“You wanna talk about it?” Atom asks.
I shake my head. “Can’t even fucking remember it. Too much Jack. What time is it?”
“Two in the morning,” Butcher says.
“You slept all fucking day.”
“Let me get a shirt, and we’ll go heat up some of that pizza. Watch a movie or some shit.”
“Where’s Ember?”
“Asleep next door.”
I shake my head as I walk toward the door.
“I’m going home.”
“We need to get some food in you,” Butcher says.
I accidentally shoulder check him as I unsteadily walk by.
All I can think about is Quinn’s toast. “I’ll get some at home.”
“You came here in Catfish’s truck. How do you think you’re getting home?” Butcher asks.
“I’ll fucking walk if I have to.”
As I head down the corridor, I hear Butcher say, “Get one of the prospects to drive him home, Atom.”
Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.
But I keep heading in the direction I need to go.
One foot in front of the other.
I’m almost to the security gate before a prospect I don’t know pulls up in a car next to me.
“Atom told me to give you a ride home, Smoke.”
Kid looks about twelve.
“You old enough to have a license?”
“Everyone calls me Babyface. I’ll put money on it becoming my road name. But I’m twenty-two and been driving my dad’s tractor since I was seven.”
“Fucking Babyface,” I mutter, but I get in the car anyway.
He drives to the gate, which has been opened for us.
“I’d prefer it if you puked out the window, Smoke.”
I glance over at him.
“You’re a fucking prospect. If I want to puke all over you and your car, I will, and you’ll say thank you, Mr. Smoke.”
The kid has the audacity to grin.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Smoke.”
I’m still drunk when I let myself into my house fifteen minutes later.
Still weaving on my feet.
But in the kitchen, I find some of Quinn’s sourdough loaf, and I butcher cutting some, so it looks more like a wedge than a slice.
Can’t be bothered to toast it, and yet it still tastes just as good as I remember.
Once I’ve devoured it, I start taking my clothes off.
I kick the boots off where I stand.
I drop other things as I walk towards my room.
My cut gets tossed over a dining room chair.
My shirt is in the entrance hall.
I shuck my jeans and socks outside the bathroom.
But just as I go to walk past Quinn’s room, I see her door is open.
She’s lying in navy bedding wearing a boxy pajama shirt with short sleeves and a prim collar.
I don’t know what my life holds.
Can barely think straight for all the Jack sloshing around in my system.
But one thing I know for sure?
I want to sleep like she’s sleeping.
I want the peace that comes from feeling safe.
Everything about me is rattled, but around her, it feels calm.
I nudge the door even further open.
Should probably wake her and ask before I lift the covers and climb in bed behind her, so I don’t terrify her.
But I don’t.
My cock’s covered in my boxer briefs, likely limp as fuck because whiskey dick is real.
I slide my hand beneath her, and instead of turning around to slap my face, she turns and curls up against me.
Her breath comes in small puffs against my pec.
And the warmth of her trickles through me, replacing some of the shame.
Shame that I can’t handle this.
Shame that my brothers heard my dreaming.
Shame that I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring because I feel like every day gets a little worse.
When I close my eyes, instead of scenes of despair, I dream about Quinn and me.
The life we can’t possibly have.
Because she doesn’t deserve someone this broken inside.