Mom breaks down crying. My dad’s eyebrows press down—they always do when he’s thinking hard. He nods and then says slowly, “People talk. They can be ugly, and judgmental, and just plain hypocritical. Truth is we’ve all had our struggles, son. Them, me, your mom. And your struggles, for a young man of your age … not one of those people can talk because I’m sure none of them has dealt with what you’ve had to. If they’d shut their mouths and understand …” My dad puts his hand on the nape of my neck—it’s loving and affectionate. “I can understand a portion of your struggle, but I dealt with mine differently. Uncle Cade, on the other hand, dealt with it just like you are.”
I have to admit, my uncle is fucking awesome for a guy almost as old as my dad. He owns a mixed martial arts gym and training center in Minnesota—where he and my dad are from. His house is a place for fucked up kids to go, who, now like me, can’t get their shit together.
“What are you going to tell people when they ask where I am?” My tone tells them that I’ve surrendered as I stare down blankly at my black Chucks and Van Halen t-shirt.
“Boarding school in Vancouver that specializes in kids readying themselves for professional athletics.” My dad forces a grin. He thinks he’s crafty.
I’ll admit it. He is.
“I’m sorry for my foul language, Mom.”
“I understand, baby. I love you so much.” She suffocates me in her version of a goodbye hug.
I hug her back, then my dad walks me out to the driveway where my uncle Cade is waiting for me in his black, classic ’74 Camaro.
“I’m scared, Dad,” I confess before I get into that car to leave the only home I know. “What if I’m so lost, I can’t find myself ever again?”
He puts an arm around my shoulders and moves in close. “Don’t let the fear defeat you, Josh. We all fall apart, and we all lose ourselves in this life. You’ve got to dare to push through the fear. You’ve got to dare to find the broken pieces and put yourself back together. And when you can’t find all the pieces, you have to dare to be stronger, so new ones can grow in their place. That’s when you’ll find your true self and be whole again.”
*****
Josh
Present day
2014
I watch as the bright orange and yellow flames consume the house. It’s mesmerizing really, the way fire destroys. Each lick of flame devours whatever’s in its path. The guys and I are working to keep the fiery hell contained. The house is old and situated close to a tent camp, one of the temporary residences for the nine thousand oil rig workers here in Williston, North Dakota who are working to get a piece of the fortune that can be made from the oil boom. Don’t blame them really—Walmart’s starting salary’s at seventeen bucks an hour while rig workers are pocketing triple digits per hour—but they’re all packed in here like fucking sardines. If one of those makeshift huts catches, they’ll all catch, and wouldn’t you fucking know it, the wind is picking up.
The downstairs windows blow out, sending shards of glass onto the porch. Lace curtains flutter out of the sill, as they’re ravaged by the fire. The chief yells instructions to the men working the hoses, when something at the upstairs window catches my eye.
The guy who got out of the house right before we arrived is standing about twenty feet away from me, choking his ass off. He told us he’d been the only one inside.
“Are you sure no one else was in the house with you?” I shout over the chaos.
“No, man,” he coughs out, but he looks to the ground like he has something to hide.
And there it is again. A shadow of a small child passes by the window; there is no mistaking it.
“YOU LEFT A KID IN THERE?!” I yell at him.
Asshole buckles to the ground in a coughing fit with tears streaming from his eyes and nods.
I hate assholes!
I run full-out to the house, or what’s left of it, and take the porch steps two at a time.
“NORTH!” the chief yells.
“KID!” I shout as I point up to the window.
I kick open the door and push myself inside. To the right of me is what used to be the living room, sofa and coffee table now near unrecognizable. To my left are the stairs to the second floor, or what’s left of them.
Fuck me.
The staircase collapses under my weight when I’m about halfway up. As I feel it give way, I push off, reaching for the landing above me. My gloved hands catch, but don’t find enough purchase. The railing on the wall saves me from a nasty fall, and I pull myself up the rest of the way.
Finding young kids in fires sucks, and that shadow was small. Kids are usually so afraid, they hide. The air is almost gone in here, and I’m praying the kid is close to the floor. Usually they hide under a bed or in a closet.
I take a deep breath before I pull down my oxygen mask. “HEY, LITTLE BUDDY!” I shout out. “WHERE ARE YOU?”
No one responds. “I’M A FIREMAN. I’M HERE TO HELP YOU!”
A weak and faint, “Over here,” reaches my ears.
It’s coming from my right—down the hall. There are three rooms on that side. Time is of the essence if we’re both going to make it out of here alive. I’ve thrown my lot in with this kid—if he dies, I die, ’cause I’m not leaving without him.
“I KNOW YOU’RE SCARED, BUT I’M GOING TO GET YOU OUT OF HERE, OKAY?”
“Okay.”
I move toward the small voice. “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”
“Bailey.” He doesn’t sound much older than six or seven.
Now, I’m in his room. I can still see the blue of the wall paint behind the fire and a toy box with strewn toys in the corner, but I can’t see much else. The room is filling with smoke fast.
“I need to find you, Bailey,” I say urgently while trying to make my voice confident. But time is of the essence.
He doesn’t answer. I quickly check under the bed. Nope.
“I have a puppy outside—a black and white spotted Dalmatian, just like in 101 Dalmatians.” The closet door is on fire. I open it wide as it literally deteriorates in my hand. I don’t see him. I push through the smoke and the clothes. “Do you want to go see him?”
“Yes.” The voice comes from behind me.
“Buddy, you’ve got to tell me where you are.”
The heat is unbearable. I’m using my helmet’s light, but the smoke is so thick now I can only faintly make out where the window is because of the fire trucks’ lights bouncing off the walls.
“I … I’m s-s-scared,” his voice stutters.
I rush in the direction of the sound, and there he is, lying in the bottom of the empty toy box, clutching a teddy bear.
“Hey, Bailey.” I smile. “Don’t be scared, I know the way out.”
Lifting him out of the toy box, I hug him close to me before I put my boot through window and begin kicking as much glass out of the frame as I can. A moment later a fireman’s hands reach through to us. I hear the floor beneath me groan in protest, as if it’s demanding a sacrifice. I shove the boy into the safety of waiting arms, but before I can see the other firefighter’s face clearly, I feel my body break through the floor as it plummets into the hungry fire below.
******
I hate hospitals more than most people do, but I try hard not to think of the reason for that; it won’t help my situation.
My chief is pissed. My trainers are pissed. My brothers are pissed. The only reason my parents aren’t pissed is because they’re in Europe, and I swore my brothers, Caleb and Jake, along with my brother-in-law Nate to secrecy. That included not sharing the news with their significant others. I don’t need more people in here telling me what I did was stupid or heroic or asking me what the fuck I was thinking.
My actions had been neither stupid nor heroic; I had simply been doing my job. I found out later that the “asshole” had been staying with the little boy while his mother was at work—they’d been dating for a couple weeks. Douchebag had been wasted on God knows what when he
fell asleep with a lit cigarette. Apparently, he didn’t want to admit that he’d gotten himself out and left the kid, so he thought it’d be better just not to mention him—the kind of logic that only makes sense to someone who’s wasted.
I’ve been positioned onto my stomach for the past few days as my back heals. I get to watch what’s going on around me through a mirror placed under my face. I can still see my chief perfectly as he’s standing next to me, reaming me a new one, though.
When he’s finished I say, “Just make sure the kid gets to see the puppies at the firehouse.” I wheeze in a breath. “Better yet, give him one.”
“Josh, you make me a fucking lunatic!” The chief leans down toward my ear. “You came too close to dying. Maybe you can exhibit a little more self-control next time.”
“Did the kid live?” I rasp out.
“Yeah, the kid lived, smartass,” the chief concedes. “Get better, son.”
The fall had given me a couple hairline fractures in my spine, and I had pulled muscles in my right leg and arm.
After the chief leaves, I have to deal with the real heavy hitters, my training team. I hear them walk into the room and wait for a new round of lectures. In three months, I have a main card fight to defend my title against Patrick Dalloway.
“Good thing you’re in such great shape, North. The doctor said it’ll only take a few weeks to recover from the muscle strains. Same with your back, but you’re going to have to take it easy and won’t be able to start heavy training again until next month,” Coach grits through his teeth in frustration.
I groan. No training for a month sounds ridiculous. I’m sure I can push up that date.
“Don’t even think about pushing up that date or trying to help speed things along,” he barks, reading my mind. “You’re still a man made of flesh and bone like the rest of us.”
“Yeah, but unlike the rest of you, I have a whole lot of muscle,” I jeer before I break into a coughing fit. Fucking smoke inhalation.
“Save your strength, pretty boy,” I hear McGee, my third coach in command, instruct.
I have three main coaches who arrange my training, accompany me to fights and make sure I’m on track at all times. They’re pretty much my caretakers. Silva, Caruso and McGee.
“The hospital hired a massage therapist a couple months ago. They say she can work wonders, and she’ll be here to work on you in just a few minutes,” McGee says as a nurse comes by and shoots a syringe of clear liquid into my IV drip.
I watch through my mirror as Caruso walks slowly past me, examining me.
“Don’t be your normal self and hit on her first thing,” he says gruffly. “If she’s really as good as her recommendations say, she could be a good addition to your training entourage, keeping you limber for your fights.”
“So, what then? No happy ending?” I joke. I’m not going to be able to stay awake much longer; whatever the nurse put in my IV is taking me down fast.
“Exactly that!” Silva snaps.
Someone taps on the door and I hear a feminine voice call into the room, “Hello, I’m Sophie.”
Chapter Two
Sophie
Clutching my clipboard as if it could shield me from these three hulking men whose physical presence exudes danger and authority, I step into the room. I can’t quite conjure a smile, but I can project a businesslike attitude and focus on the patient.
“Hello, Sophie.” One of the men leans in and offers his beefy hand for me to shake. “I’m Carlo Silva. The hospital staff can’t say enough good things about you.”
“Thank you. But I’m definitely not the town hero like our patient here.” I look toward the man who lays face down on the hospital bed.
“I’m not a hero,” I hear the softly muffled voice speak self-deprecatingly toward the floor.
“Just remember”—another man comes closer—“his bark is worse than his bite.” He smiles disarmingly and I can’t help but smile back. The patient had just been given a dose of morphine; he wasn’t going to have much bark or bite.
The three men exit the room and leave me to my work. “Talk is, you saved a little boy from a house fire.”
“You can’t believe everything you hear.” His voice is ragged from too much smoke inhalation.
I wonder how true that is. The talk of the hospital for the past week has been all about Josh “The Jackhammer” North—city firefighter and national Mixed Martial Arts title holder—especially from the female staff. Apparently he’s a serious hottie with commitment issues, who has a rep for being a man-whore, but not a womanizer. Perfect weekend fling material, I’ve heard. He’ll treat you very right; just remember it’s not forever. I’ve never been into guy sharing that way, but I have to admit his celebrity has me curious.
“Well, how about that Josh North took a nasty fall during a house fire and sustained muscle damage and a fractured spine.”
“Sounds about right.” He groans. “Come closer to the mirror, I want to see who that pretty voice belongs to.”
“Maybe next time, Romeo. I have work to do,” I quip lightheartedly. “You may have noticed I turned up the heat in the room. I’ll keep your back and arms covered for now, but I’m going to lower your sheet and start with your legs.”
“Perfect place to start.” He coughs a little, but sounds as if he’s ready to fall asleep.
I fold the sheet down and can’t help but let my eyes rake over his perfectly sculpted legs. Each muscle is ridged and defined. Intricate, black inked mandala designs highlighted with tribal art adorn each calf muscle and trail onto his upper legs. Feeling like a child about to dig into a rich dessert, I can’t wait to sink my fingers into his muscles.
Pouring the almond oil into my palm, I work my hands together to heat the oil before I touch it to his skin. I begin on his right calf, gently warming the muscle so I can begin kneading it. On the outside right calf he has a black script tat that reads, He who is not every day conquering some fear has not learned the secret of life.
“Are you an Emerson fan?”
“Yeah, I am.” He sounds half asleep.
“Nice.” I slide my hands from his ankle, up his calf to his upper thighs and sink my fingers into the muscles that are waiting for me there. He moans, and I can’t pretend I’m not affected. After I clear my throat I continue, “Look fear in the face. We must do that which we think we cannot.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Eleanor Roosevelt.”
“You seem pretty smart for a guy who likes to get wrecked for a living.”
“Come closer so I can see you.” His words run together. “There could be a happy ending after all.”
“A what?”
The next sound I hear is Josh snoring. He’s out like a light.
*****
“So it is true! Tell me, are the rumors true?” Ayana, my roommate, grills me before I even get through the front door.
“Do you mind if I put my bags down before we leap into your please give me the R rated version of your day moment?” I laugh.
“Fine,” she concedes. “Hello, Miss Charlie!”
Charlotte lets go of my hand and runs into Ayana’s embrace.
“I made your favorite—fish sticks and French fries,” Ayana coos into Charlie’s ear, making her giggle.
I laugh at them as I wriggle out of my jacket and hang it in the closet. Pulling Charlie back to me, I work her coat off as she dances and spins around. “Go get washed up for dinner, sassypants.” Playfully, I give her little bottom a tap, and she runs off into the bedroom we share.
“Honestly, Sophie, these are the bragging rights you’ve earned and deserve when you put that sparkly new graduation certificate to use,” Ayana sing-songs as she moves back toward the small kitchen table she was situating with plates. “Is Josh North as hot in real life as he is on the magazine covers?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve never seen any of the magazines he’s been on.”
“Of course you haven’t! I knew you were goin
g to say that.” She’s mockingly disgusted. “That is why I, your smartest friend, went to the library this afternoon and got these!” she squeals as she litters the center of the table with popular, glossy photo magazines.
I look over the covers. The word “hot” doesn’t do Josh North descriptive justice. Scorching? Volcanic? Meteoric?
“Is he really that gorgeous?” She gets into my face, demanding the truth.
“Um …” Shit, I know I’m blushing. “He’s lying face down on a hospital bed; I didn’t get to see his face.”
“Yeah, you just got to see his ass!” she says, calling me out.
“Oh my God—yes I did!” Her enthusiasm extracts the truth. “And I’ve never seen legs so cut.” I snatch up the Sports Illustrated that he adorns the cover of. He’s in a fighter’s stance.
“Did he make a pass at you?” I can tell she’s expecting a juicy answer.
I bark out a laugh. “He passed out.”
Ayana laughs. “Ah, meds.” Ay is a nurse at the hospital on the night shift. “Well, I wonder about Josh’s other jackhammer.”
“AY!” I slap her arm.
“What’s a jackhammer, Auntie Ay?” Charlie’s innocent little voice questions from behind us.
“He’s a patient and athlete Mommy is working with,” I answer as she climbs into my lap.
“Is this him?” She points to a Josh North I’ve never seen before—he stands on the cover of GQ in a crisp, black tux.
“Yes, that’s him, but to me he looks more like …”—I flip the magazine backside up on the table—“that.”
“You’re silly,” Charlie decides of me. She slides from my lap and squiggles into her seat.
Ay puts food on each of our plates. When she sits she says, “When do you work his torso?”
I smile in spite of myself. “Tomorrow.”
*****
“That was not the way I wanted our introductory conversation to end,” Josh explains the next day. He’s alone in his room this time, still face down in the bed, his voice still raspy.
Dare Page 2
