No Damaged Goods

by Snow, Nicole

  Gives me a moment to compose myself with his warmth here to keep me company. I wait until I can breathe without feeling like my throat is caught in an ever-closing noose.

  “Anyway,” I say, trying to smile. “I’ve been around colder places than Montana. I once spent a summer gutting fish in Alaska and stayed a few months longer.”

  “Fuck.” His startled laughter rolls over me. “Why?”

  “I wanted to know what it was like,” I answer. “That’s why I do a lot of things. I’ve tried organic farming, micro-brewing, hand-carving beads in communes. If it seems fun, I try it. And I’m usually right.”

  “Gutting fish was fun? You serious, lady?”

  “It actually was. Just really smelly. I learned a lot of awful sailor jokes, though.”

  Blake snorts. “So why’d you quit, then?”

  He relaxes as he leans against the steering wheel, his powerful body slouched in a lazy sprawl of taut musculature.

  “I didn’t want to mess up my hands.” I hold up my purple-gloved hands and spread my fingers. “While I wander around, I can at least make a living with massage. But gutting fish gives you carpal tunnel, and that’s if you don’t have an accident with a knife sooner or later.”

  With an amused sound, he gives me the side-eye. “Can’t have that. There’s magic in those fingers.”

  There’s something almost suggestive in the way he says it, in the way his gaze lingers on my outstretched fingers, very unsexy in their purple yarn sheaths.

  Then he clears his throat and looks away, pushing his door open.

  “C’mon,” he says. “If you really want the grand tour, let’s go.”

  I pull my coat tighter, drag my cap down over my ears, and slip out after him—and nearly yelp as the biting air hits me right in the face.

  Yep. It’s that time of year. The average temperature can drop drastically in the space of an hour as the winds pick up after dark in mountain towns like this. I’m shivering like a wet puppy as I turn my collar up to better cover my neck and jaw.

  Blake barely seems to feel it, turning to lead us through the rickety wooden gate closing off the field.

  It’s comfortable walking with him.

  Not really needing to talk, though now and then he explains what he’s doing as we follow the perimeter of the carnival grounds, then start moving between different installations.

  He’s mostly checking for fire hazards.

  Too many extension cords plugged into an outlet, for example, or hot-burning lights too close to a cloth awning. Open fire next to dry, brittle grass becomes perfect tinder with winter leaving it crackling and dead.

  I’d never really thought about the infinite ways a fire can start. But Blake seems to see it all with this weird sixth sense.

  He’s mostly interested in the stage, which they’ve assembled inside a massive tent—I guess to keep everyone warm. Though if you ask me, I’d love to see it open-air, naked under the stars.

  That’s one thing that’s always helped me decide to stay, whenever I pick a place to hunker down for the winter.

  Just how well I can see the stars stretched over the yawning heavens at night.

  Some places, larger cities like Portland and Chicago, I can’t even see a single star. It’s just smog or blaring lights reflected back, the sky always a strange shade of peach-purple. You can’t even see the moon sometimes save for a faint glow peeking past the light pollution.

  I never stay in places like that long.

  I go where I can see the same stars I saw at home in Oahu, and counted sometimes with my father to make wishes again and again, always hoping they’d come true.

  I look up at the glittering expanse of the Milky Way, lingering before I follow Blake into the tent and climb up on stage with him.

  There’s a heaping mess of plugs and cables belonging to hot spotlights.

  I can already tell this is going to be bad, holding my breath.

  “Shit,” he mutters, crouching low to examine a few tangled wires.

  “You’re going to shut this whole thing down, aren’t you?” I ask, staring at the bunched nest of cables sprouting from a multi-outlet splitter that looks like it’s had about thirty others plugged into it. “Because this is a Carrie reenactment waiting to happen.”

  “You’re damn right,” he says grimly. “Shitfire. I taught these people better than this.”

  I grin. “Did you actually teach them, or just lead by example?”

  “Hey, now. I lead a good fire safety seminar.” He grimaces. “But it’s been a few years. Seems like folks need a refresher course, and this time they need to jot crap down.” Blake frowns, stroking his beard, thick workman’s gloves rasping against the bristly hairs. “Come to think of it...that might be a good gig for Justin. Maybe lead a carnival event on fire safety.”

  “Justin?” I tilt my head, watching the faraway, thoughtful look in Blake’s eyes. “The younger fire dude, right?”

  His gaze darts to me, narrowing like I’ve said something wrong. “He’s not that young. Closer to your age, matter of fact.”

  Weird.

  Closer to your age than me, he’s not saying, and I arch a brow.

  “He’s not my type,” I say, and Blake’s brows rise in answer to mine, almost teasing.

  “Nah? You seem to like wounded animals, and he’s definitely the broken puppy type.”

  I laugh. “I’m not attracted to boys still trying to get their crap together. I have a very specific type, hardly a puppy dog.”

  More like a coyote, a panther, a bear.

  Something rangy, put together, and wild, with teeth sharp enough to bite.

  “I’m not gonna set myself up by asking what that type is,” he says dryly, leaving me sputtering—ugh, does he know how infatuated I am?—while he looks away, scanning over the nest of cables again. “Teasing aside, Justin might benefit from a visit with you. Just for stress relief, relaxation. He’s carrying a lot of pain around all the time, and I feel like I’ve been neglecting him.”

  I step closer, looking up at the solemn lines of his brow. “Neglecting him? How?”

  “He’s part of my crew.” He shakes his head, turning his head, looking down at me with those dark, thoughtful eyes. “It’s my responsibility to take care of them. But Justin...well, he’s all smiles on the surface. Easy to forget he’s in pain. And he isolates himself, y’know? He’ll only let you see him when he’s smiling. But I know why he’s hurting, and I haven’t done right. Haven’t done enough to make him part of things so he doesn’t feel like he has to be alone.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “His ma died,” Blake answers, and there’s a hint of something dark, something hurting, that says he’s feeling this on a deeper level. “Happened way back. He was just a kid, but there was this huge fire out at the Paradise Hotel in the valley. Same ruins you saw when your van caught fire. We didn’t get it put out in time. There was a lot of freaky quasi-military shit up there, stuff they were keeping hidden we only found out about years later, but that ain’t the point. His ma, Constance, she got a lot of folks to safety, but she died a month later from smoke inhalation. He’s real serious about firefighting, ’cause of her. Even if what happened still leaves him messed up.”

  My heart stops.

  I want so much to reach for him right now.

  To just wrap Blake up and hold him.

  Right now, he’s talking to me the way he does when he’s on the radio, instead of shutting down and going defensive when he has to deal with me in person.

  The man who’s talking to me now feels so much empathy. He owns their pain, hoping to ease it if he can’t take it away.

  Well, crap.

  So infatuation might not be the worst of it.

  I think I might be a little bit in love with that kind, stubborn, strange heart of his.

  For just a moment, I can’t help but step closer, reaching up to rest my hand on his arm. Even through his thick coat, his arm is solid muscle, and
it tenses under my palm.

  “You can’t make Justin let go of his pain, Blake,” I tell him softly. “But it’s good that you want to make him feel like he’s part of something. Maybe giving him control over a fire safety event would help him feel closer to the town, take his mind off what happened.”

  The way Blake looks at me makes me wonder if I said something wrong.

  His jaw sets tight, his eyes creased at the corners, and my heart plummets.

  Before he can pull away from me, I draw my own hand back. But he only makes this rough, bearish sound under his breath.

  “Hope you’re right, darlin’,” he mutters, before he turns away, tilting his head back to look up at the lights suspended in the rigging. “Somebody’s gonna die in here.”

  I don’t know why I feel a chill when he says that.

  Almost like a creepy premonition.

  Hugging my arms around myself, I push down the feeling of disappointment in my chest.

  “I don’t know anything about fire safety, but this looks kind of dangerous even to me,” I whisper.

  “Heh. Maybe you need Justin’s course, too.” He glances at me, his eyes softening. “Hey. You serious about wanting to sing for the radio show or what?”

  The sudden switch leaves me reeling, spinning, and I blink at him.

  “Sing? Oh. Sure thing!” My eyes narrow. “So how long did it take for you to know it was me when I called?”

  Blake smiles his wry, easygoing grin. “Thought so right away. Nobody’s got a voice like yours. Or a name like Broccoli.”

  Shooting him a dirty look, I rub my hand against my too-warm neck.

  Hey, if anything, Blake’s going to keep me from freezing to death out here by blushing. “I’d really like to try, if you think it’s all right. Maybe come up with a little custom jingle for you or something.”

  “We can try. Don’t really have pro level recording equipment or a sound booth here, but we can probably rig something up at the station, if you want to come down this weekend.”

  “Really?” My breaths suck in quickly, and my sinking heart rockets back up. “Thank you!”

  Sometimes I hate how impulsive I am.

  Without even thinking, I throw myself at him, pressing against his back and wrapping my arms around him from behind.

  I’m just elated. Buzzing and fizzing and whirling like sparklers.

  I’m also instantly embarrassed. He goes stiff as a board against me.

  Heck, I feel like I’m undoing all my own handiwork, though it’s been nice to see him not limping today.

  But I’m selfish.

  I cling for a moment longer and breathe him in.

  He smells like a Blake.

  Fresh snow and woodsmoke and soft citrusy cologne. I take that scent in deep so I can remember it as long as I need to.

  Then my sanity catches up.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, peeling away.

  He doesn’t acknowledge my apology. He doesn’t even move.

  Blake just tosses his head, moving toward the edge of the stage. “C’mon. Let’s finish up here and pry Andrea away from whatever she’s doing.”

  Biting my lip, I watch him vault down from the edge of the stage, then follow, climbing down more gingerly. For a moment, the heel of my foot slips as I drop down, and he starts forward, hands reaching for me—but I catch myself just in time.

  He pulls back with another of those gruff, almost embarrassed sounds, looking away as I land in the chilly grass and dust myself off.

  I’m going to smile, I tell myself.

  I’m going to smile no matter what.

  It’s not my fault he’s so guarded. So wounded. So Blake.

  Papa bear’s got himself a cub to protect, all on his own, I get it.

  There’s no use in taking his icy-hot reactions too personally.

  So I just beam up at him, straightening my coat. “Lead the way, Chief.”

  That earns me an utterly filthy look. “Don’t you start calling me that, too.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” I retort with a salute, and he rolls his eyes.

  “Am I a captain now? C’mon, Sailor Broccoli.” Turning away, he strides across the grass. “Try to keep up.”

  “Hey!” I have to scramble to catch up with those long legs of his and even longer strides. “Stop calling me Broccoli! And stop being so flipping tall!”

  Blake says nothing.

  He just grins.

  But he shortens his steps, letting me fall into rhythm with him as we move across the field, some of the tension dissipating.

  It’s quiet as he focuses on work. I try not to be too obvious watching him.

  He’s so intense it practically breathes electricity in the air. Completely absorbed in checking every minuscule detail—whether he’s making sure the outlets are grounded or...

  Okay. Confession.

  Half the time I don’t even know what fire chief stuff he’s doing.

  I don’t care.

  I just like watching the way his lips part on plumes of breathy frost-smoke, breathing through his mouth to warm the frigid air.

  As we make our way to the edge of the field on the far side from the parking area, though, I get a wicked idea. I can’t unsee it once it hits me in the face.

  There’s a slope leading down toward the valley, totally covered in snow.

  And someone’s left several sleds lined up in lanes, with flags at the bottom of the hill.

  They must be planning sled races.

  Grinning from ear to ear, Blake’s eyes meet mine and do a double take.

  “What’s up?”

  “Fun,” I say, turning to walk backward in front of him. “Race you to the bottom of the hill.”

  His eyes follow to the sleds I’m pointing at.

  He stares at me, blinking. “What? Shit, you can’t be—”

  “C’mon.” I toss my head toward the sleds again. “Scared of taking a tumble?”

  Another blink.

  Then a wide, disbelieving, almost boy-like grin spreads across his face.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, Peace. What are we, twelve? I’m supposed to be Mr. Authority here.”

  “Maybe,” I tease. “Listen, I’m not good at ignoring my impulses. So, I’m gonna sled down this hill. You can come with, you can watch, or you can keep being a boring adult, but I’m going to have some fun.”

  Something in Blake’s eyes snaps, soft blue turning fiery, his grin sharpening. “You think I’m boring?”

  “I dunno.” I shrug flippantly with an innocent little whistle. “It’s all safety this, safety that, barking orders...”

  “With good reason.” He snorts. “And speaking of safety, we could break our damn necks on those things plowing into a tree.”

  “All the more reason to try it out! So you can check for safety before the carnival races.” Spreading my hands, I take a few steps back, then turn and dart for one of the sleds. “See you at the bottom, slowpoke.”

  “Hey!” he hollers after me, but I’m already running, flinging myself facedown on one of the wooden sleds in a totally graceless belly flop and shoving off with my feet.

  Laughing uncontrollably.

  Snow sprays my face in a dusty white plume as I go rocketing forward, surging over the peak of the hill and down way faster than I expected.

  I let out a breathless sound that’s half scream, half laugh, clutching tight to the edges of the sled.

  “Goddammit, Peace!” Blake snarls after me, but he’s laughing, and his voice sounds way closer than it should.

  No, I don’t want to crash. There’s no real danger of trees, thankfully. They’ve already got this little plastic fencing set up to stop serious crashes.

  I can’t resist looking back over my shoulder as the bottom of the hill comes hurtling toward me.

  Oh, God.

  Oh my God.

  Blake’s barreling down after me, but he’s sitting upright on his sled.

  Only, it’s too small for him.

&nb
sp; His long, muscular legs jut out in the air, and his hands clutch at the front of the sled between his thighs, his entire body leaning back like he’s trying to slow the thing down, bucking its nose in the air from his weight.

  Yes, he’s hollering fit to kill.

  But he’s laughing, too, breathless and startled and a little bit panicked.

  He’s also careening straight toward me. Uh-oh.

  Gravity isn’t my friend today.

  Blake weighs a lot more than I do, and he’s hurtling toward me at breakneck speed, moving twice as fast and bearing down.

  Our eyes lock for half a second. He comes screaming in, trailing white plumes in his wake.

  Then the nose of his sled plows the side of mine, and we both go airborne in a tangled mess.

  I let out an undignified screech, laughing helplessly as I grab at him.

  We don’t fly far.

  We’re almost to the bottom of the hill anyway, and Blake’s heavy, weighing us both down.

  But my stomach still nearly drops out and buries itself in the frozen snow clinging to me as we tumble and roll and tangle together.

  Finally, we hit the bottom, smashing into a snow drift with a dramatic whump!

  At least we’re not moving anymore, right?

  I don’t think I could if I wanted to, anyway.

  And right now, I don’t want to go anywhere.

  Not when Blake’s weight presses down, all heat and hardened man. The snow feels frigid against my back. It’s already starting to soak my jacket and freeze my skin, but Blake is a couple hundred pounds of masculine fire caged in human skin.

  Right. On. Top. Of. Me.

  We’re both breathing hard, panting, and he’s collapsed with his head buried against my shoulder and neck, his arms braced to either side, keeping me pinned down.

  Good.

  So deliriously good, that thick, weighty, granite-hard frame of his molded to mine, heating me up until I can’t even feel the winter night.

  It’s just Blake’s rasping, heavy breaths, hot against my throat, suggestive and loud, and the sight of the stars dancing overhead. I stare up past the thick bulk of his shoulder.

  I didn’t mean to grab him the way I did, my fingers curled against his biceps.

  But now that he’s there, I don’t want to let him go.

  My face hurts from grinning, but I’m not smiling now.