2. Logan
Chapter two
Logan
The smell of smoke clings to everything.
Doesn’t matter where it came from or how much you wash your gear.
Doesn’t matter how long you spend in the shower, scrubbing at your skin until it’s red and raw.
Once it’s in, it’s in. Like a nightmare, it sinks its teeth in and never lets go.
After a while, the scent becomes a comfort—a sense of peace.
Lately, the lingering traces of smoke only leave me aching for more.
More of what, I don’t know.
“Bet you never got fires like that in the city, huh, Bennett?” Cain asks, giving me shit just to get a rise out of me.
The guys have been on my ass since I transferred in, insisting I have to prove myself like I’m some probie.
I moved to Hartridge, a small town nestled at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the Upcountry of South Carolina, a few months ago in hopes of figuring out what was missing from my life.
After spending the first part of my career battling fires in a major city, I realized how lonely life can be without a support system.
Granted, the men and women at the station become a second family, but when the long shifts end and it’s time to go home, the feeling of isolation can hit pretty hard.
Moving here wasn’t an easy decision, but it was a necessary one if I was going to maintain my sanity and continue on the path I’d ventured down.
My younger brother, Luke, has lived in Hartridge for a little while now.
He has always struggled with being around people, and watching him battle anxiety, even as a kid, made me feel helpless.
I wanted nothing more than to help him navigate the world, but he insisted that he didn’t need my help.
It wasn’t surprising in the least when he decided to move to a quiet, picturesque mountain town.
Even with the occasional tourists that wander through, the fresh air and rolling treescape is unlike anything I ever saw living in the city.
And fighting fires in a small town is nothing like fighting them in the city.
The station’s large bay doors are rolled up, letting in a gentle breeze and warm rays of morning light. After spending the last few hours in the dark surrounded by smoke, being able to inhale fresh air feels like a luxury.
“Can't say I have. Shit like that doesn't tend to start a fire when everything is made of steel and concrete.” I’ve seen plenty of structure fires, but fighting a brush fire was a new sort of beast.
“Most folks don’t think anything of throwing a cigarette out the window or on the ground,” Gray, one of the other firefighters, chimes in. “I’d be willing to bet some bored teenagers were standing around, complaining about their dull fucking lives.”
I nod and, with a heavy sigh, stand from the engine’s front bumper. “Being bored shouldn’t give them a free pass to cause the damage they did.”
I doubt they meant to start a fire that would burn through several acres of land out on the edge of town, but maybe they did.
Maybe they thought starting a fire would bring them some excitement.
Never mind who or what got hurt in the process.
The problem is, we don’t have a way to identify those responsible.
They won’t face any consequences for the damage they have caused.
“Y’all showed up and busted your asses to get that shit handled.” Cain’s voice fills the bay as he praises the crew. “Now, let’s get this place cleaned up so we can get out of here. Next shift is coming in soon.”
Getting everything in order for the next shift doesn’t take long with everyone helping, but the rush of adrenaline has started to wear off.
My feet and legs feel like they’re weighed down, exhaustion clinging to every inch of my body.
Thankfully, no other calls come in while we are cleaning.
I’ve worked longer shifts in the city, relying on nothing but the exhilarating rush and an unhealthy amount of caffeine to survive, but my body has quickly adjusted to the slower lifestyle of this town.
While this place is lucky enough to have Police and Fire, both have smaller stations.
At the Hartridge Fire Department, most of our crew is made up of volunteer firefighters.
Only a few of us are in it full-time. A lot of the calls we get are geared toward medical assistance or for our Behavioral Health Crisis Team.
When the occasional fire call does come in, it’s always accompanied by a rush of adrenaline and an underlying sense of dread.
We were lucky last night. Despite the damage done to the land, nobody was hurt, and our entire crew made it back to the station safely.
By the time I’m ready to head home for the next few days, the excitement of the night has worn off.
My body feels riddled with irritation and a bone-deep exhaustion that only a solid night of sleep will cure.
I can’t wait to make it home and get some sleep in my own bed.
We have bedrooms here at the firehouse, but any sleep we manage is rarely restful.
Often, when I start to think it’s going to be a peaceful night, the alarm sounds, and we are pulled away to handle whatever emergency demands our attention.
The extensive hours are brutal, but knowing they will be followed by forty-eight hours off helps you push through.
“Y’all hear about what’s goin’ down over at The Stampede tonight?” Cain asks, the question directed at our crew and me as we walk out of the station.
It takes all of the remaining strength in my body to fight back a groan. “We’ve barely made it six feet outside, and you’re already making plans for tonight?”
“Ah c’mon, Bennett,” Gray says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Live a little.” The look on his face is more than enough for me to know I won’t be getting out of whatever it is they’re planning.
I shake my head at his antics. I would love nothing more than to go home, take a hot shower, and crash for a solid eight hours, but I also know they’re right.
I do need to live a little. I moved to Hartridge because of how isolating it felt to be in a big city, yet all I have done since moving here is isolate myself.
Old habits die hard and all that.
The Stampede is already packed by the time I walk through the doors.
Loud, upbeat country music fills the space, reverberating off the walls and mixing with the cacophony of voices.
The venue is bigger than you would expect judging from the outside.
Dark wood tables, chairs, and exposed beams lining the ceiling add warmth to the space despite it being somewhat divided into sections.
The bar is built into the middle, separating the dance floor from the main area where people can order from a limited menu of burgers, various sandwiches, and appetizers.
It doesn’t take me long to find the guys standing huddled around a tall table with beers in hand. Gray looks my way as I approach them.
“Well, how about that. Look who decided to show up.” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice as he raises his beer and takes a long pull from the bottle. His dark hair is hidden beneath a baseball hat, same as mine.
“Figured if I showed up this time, Cain might get off my ass for a bit,” I quip.
“Not a fuckin’ chance, Bennett. But you’re in luck.
You made it just in time.” Cain’s hand slaps my shoulder, directing my attention toward the dance floor.
The area is sectioned off with a metal railing around the perimeter, ensuring nobody will accidentally stumble into the space when it's full of swaying bodies.
Ropes of lights hang along the exposed wooden beams above the dance floor, dimmed to set a more intimate mood.
The meaning behind his words sinks in when I notice the crowd of women organizing themselves into rows, all facing the dance instructor who stands turned toward them at the front.
“Alright, ladies. Let’s show these people what they’re missing and see if we can get them out here.
” Her voice flows over the crowd just as a new song starts up, and she begins calling out the steps, leading the dance.
I can two-step with the best of ‘em, but I have never seen line dancing quite like this before.
The moves are far more complex than a simple box step.
Laughter breaks out, and my attention is pulled to the light, bubbly sound.
My gaze scans the crowd before landing on a woman with dark brown hair that falls in loose waves over her shoulders.
She’s wearing a light purple skirt that hugs the luscious curve of her hips and hits her mid-thighs, flowing with every step she makes, a white T-shirt with a dipped neckline that hints at her ample breasts, and a pair of brown cowgirl boots.
A radiant smile is painted across her face, and the bright sound of her laughter pulls my attention to her like a moth to a flame.
Her steps are uncoordinated, and she stumbles into the woman beside her as the music picks up and the chorus hits. She’s not deterred by her two left feet. Instead, she seems like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
Cain tracks where my focus has wandered to. “You should go out there and make a move.” He nudges me with his elbow.
I release a noncommittal hum in response, intent on letting the conversation end there despite wondering what it would be like to spend the night with her.
I haven’t been with anyone since moving here.
Granted, it’s only been a few months, but that’s still enough time for me to grow sick of my own damn hand.
I wouldn’t turn down the chance to spend the night with the curvy brunette on the dance floor, but I’ve always been the relationship type.
Most women I meet like the idea of being with a firefighter, but the reality of it is often too much to handle.
The insane schedule, the exhaustion that follows each shift, and the danger that comes with the job aren’t for the faint of heart.
“You’re in a rut, man. I wanted your ass out here tonight because you need it.” Cain’s voice is rough and demanding as he points his beer bottle in the general direction of the captivating brunette.