I could kiss anyone—sleep with anyone—and not think about that night or her. I could come to TRT once or twice a week after work, and the space rarely evoked a single image of that night.
But fucking tequila…
I tossed back the shot of whiskey, letting it run through my mouth to try and wash out the memories, and set the glass on the bar.
The sound distracted Duke from his focus on the TV. I glanced up, catching the headline underneath the news anchor about some Air Force pilot being removed inexplicably from command. My attention flicked back to my friend. I didn’t pay too much attention to the news anymore, recusing myself further and further into my job and into nature.
“Leaving so soon?” He wondered as his eyes flicked to Barb who was still watching me as though I’d change my mind.
“Early morning. They’re calling for more heavy rain tomorrow, and I’ve got to get up notices and close off the pass around Rainbow Curve.”
“I heard. Didn’t seem like it was going to be too bad,” he replied. “Plus, as head ranger, don’t you have other rangettes to take care of things like that?” He chuckled.
I glared at him. “Being in charge didn’t take responsibilities from my plate; it added to them.”
“I think we’re going to get more than what they say.”
“Yeah?” His eyebrows rose. “Well, I’m heading out to visit friends in Fort Collins when I’m done here, so I’ll be watching from afar.”
“Good.” I reached over the bar to shake his hand.
“You’ll be good?”
I nodded. “My house sits on high ground; I’ll be just fine.”
Rule number one of the scouts and the rangers: Always be prepared.
“Speakin’ of fine…” Duke planted both hands on the counter. “Whiskey, red wine. Hell, even champagne and you’re completely fine…’”
“Don’t start with me, man,” I warned, tugging my hand back with a wave and headed for the exit.
“But tequila…” Whatever else he said was cut off by the door closing behind me as I jogged to my truck in the rain.
They said just one bad night with tequila could ruin the drink forever.
I’d never heard how one good night could ruin it, too.
And on nights like tonight, I wondered if it had ruined more than just the drink…
“You know the rules, Captain Covington. The UCMJ isn’t new information to you.” Each cell in my body vibrated as he spoke, stripping me of everything I’d worked toward.
“But Sir—” Tears pricked in the corners of my eyes.
Fucking tears.
I never cried. Not once. Not a single time in the past six years of my time in the Air Force.
“There are no excuses here, Shay,” Commander O’Shaunessey heaved a sigh. We’d been friends for the last two years since I’d returned from deployment to South Korea. “I understand your position, and personally, you know I’m on your side. But, if I excuse one person, I excuse them all.”
My hands tightened on my arms where I clasped them behind my back, feet planted, and my head bowed slightly in deference and defeat.
“Personal feelings have no place in the military. Trust me, if I could avoid the media hype this is going to draw, revoking your command, I’d do it. But I can’t. My hands are tied.”
My jaw clenched, and I felt the muscles flexing all the way onto my skull where my hair was pulled back in a tight, low bun to keep it out of the way.
I wanted to protest—I wanted to rage.
But like the good soldier I was, I stayed silent and took the punishment as was my duty.
I’d made a mistake, and regardless of the circumstances or details, I needed to accept the consequences.
“You’re an excellent pilot. An excellent soldier.” His tone softened like it made any difference to the wounds he dealt me. “This isn’t the end of your career, Shay. Everyone makes mistakes. You’ve still got plenty of time to come back from this.”
My eyes finally rose to his. “And what are you going to tell the media?”
Of course, my close friends knew the truth of what happened and so did the other pilots in the Viper team, but that didn’t make it any easier to withstand the public annihilation of my image.
Commander Jack O’Shaunessey firmed his mouth—an expression I’d seen countless times during my time at the Shaw Air Force base in South Carolina, though not once ever directed at me.
“Loss of confidence in your ability to lead the Viper Team Unit,” he confirmed. “For your sake and Meredith’s.”
I winced, dipping my chin once more.
“And I’m putting you on three weeks of mandatory leave until this blows over. If you want more time, you’re welcome to it.”
Nausea rolled through me. I’d always faced set-backs head-on—the minor ones I’d experienced—and pushed through them. Higher. Farther. Faster. Now, I’d fallen, and instead of burying my anger and disappointment in my work—in my redemption—not only was my command being stripped, but I was kicked off base for three weeks.
“Thank you.” The words burned like lemon juice in an open wound.
The older, austere commander cleared his throat again and exerted a heavy sigh. “Shay—”
“It’s Captain,” I told him bitterly. “Captain Covington.”
His eyes sharpened, and I knew he was only trying to help. I should’ve saved my vitriol for Captain Jeffrey Scott—too bad the rest of the world was in line in front of me.
I’d been trained to fight—trained to kill—but I’d never felt rage like this toward a person in my whole life.
And the most painful part was how some of that rage was directed at myself.
I might not have known everything, but I had known better.
I couldn’t go home, but maybe coming here hadn’t been the smartest idea.
My hiking boots suctioned into the thick mud of the trail as rain pelted me from every direction.
Shit.
After leaving the Commander’s office yesterday morning, I immediately went on my phone and booked a flight. My only family was in California, but that was out of the question. I needed to get away from the world—from the rules I’d broken and the recourse that had been taken against me. And the only place I’d ever felt comfortable enough to let all my guards down and just be was Colorado; it was the only place where I’d ever thought about stopping. And landing. And falling.
My red-eye ticket was purchased and I was barely ten minutes at my housing on base, packing enough clothes for my mandatory vacation, before I called a car to take me to the airport. The longer I stayed, the more I risked running into questions and reporters, and the last thing I wanted to talk about was Captain Shithead Scott. Though I’d gone the last six years without losing my cool under the most strenuous of circumstances—like war—this time, there was no guarantee.
So, here I was again, six years later.
Rocky Mountain fucking high.
Cursing into the deluge, I tripped and stumbled into a nearby tree on the path. The broken bark cut into my hands, but it was better than tumbling head-first into the muddy river that used to be a trail.
Why the hell did I come on a hike?
Landing in Denver, I’d taken the first rental car available—a Nissan Sentra—and booked it up to Estes Park.
I didn’t come back to visit the Academy. I didn’t even come back to visit Zoe, though I knew she was still in the area.
I came for the mountains—the place where I could escape the rest of the world. And for Emerald Lake, the twinkling body of water in front of me as a symphony of rain cascaded on its surface.
Only there was no escape. How high I’d soared was marked only by how far I’d fallen.
By now, the press conference was over. Announcements made. Posts revoked. Gossip starting.
The female fighter pilot with the exemplary record and the drive to be the best was no more. Maybe I should just keep my head down, ride out the next four years
wherever I was, and then leave.
I could fly commercial jets. Or private ones for rich people.
I’d given up everything for the uniform, and today, it felt like that same uniform had betrayed me.
I sucked in a breath and found myself whipped back to the memory of six years ago.
The memory of Logan Daniels.
The rugged ranger who haunted only my very best dreams.
Even after all this time, I hadn’t forgotten his face, the warm desire in his eyes, or the sunrise we’d spent on top of the world.
He’d been a different path—one I wanted so suddenly and so violently, I knew it couldn’t be. I’d worked too hard, had too many plans for my military career, to be waylaid into staying in Colorado just because he’d made me feel things I hadn’t felt before—or since.
He brought me back to my Jeep that morning, typed his number into my phone and told me to message him; he wanted to see me again that night.
And I wanted to see him.
But I was leaving to visit my cousins in California for a few days before I flew to Columbus Air Force Base in Mississippi to complete my Undergraduate Pilot Training.
I never messaged him.
Not even to tell him who I was and why I wouldn’t see him again.
I didn’t know what to say. And since I couldn’t make him any promises, I decided maybe it was just better to say nothing at all. It was only one night…
And that’s what I told myself at first. One night. How much would I ever really think about him again?
Turns out, I went to twelve-thousand-feet far more times than my flying record would account for.
Twelve-thousand-feet in his arms. His kiss. And the taste of tequila on his tongue.
I turned away from the lake and the spot where I’d first seen the park ranger, wondering if he still worked here or lived in the area. As I trekked back to the lot in the downpour, I found myself looking far too hard through the mass of raindrops for his imposing warmth and the shelter he’d given me.
It was raining when I left the airport, but the farther north I drove, especially once I turned onto the thirty-four toward Estes Park, the storm was coming down in torrents. Massive sheets of water that made it sometimes impossible to see.
It hadn’t been this bad when I arrived.
And neither did it stop me. Nothing was as cold or bone-drenching as the abject shame I felt being demoted from commander of the Viper team—demoted from my dream—only a few weeks after receiving, with great media hype, the position.
Captain Shay Covington.
The first female Viper demo team pilot.
The Air Force’s first female single-ship tactical demonstration pilot.
I’d made it. After all these years of climbing, I was set to soar in the fastest planes our military had to offer as the team leader, heading up our major air shows to inspire all those little girls who knew they were meant to be airborne. Just like me.
One mistake, and it was all gone.
I wiped my wet fingers over my face, swearing it was to clear rain from my lashes and not tears before slamming my fist into the tree.
Dragging a deep breath, I knew I needed to leave. After dark in the middle of a rainstorm was not the time to hike to Emerald Lake, no matter how much I needed that reclusive comfort.
My steps made slopping, squelching noises through the thick mud back to my rental. The boots were definitely trashed, and the car was going to need a serious cleaning after I got in it like this. The lights flashed when I unlocked the doors and I slid quickly inside.
My black compression joggers were soaked through, along with my rain jacket and Air Force t-shirt. I’d only booked one night at an Airbnb in Boulder which meant a soppy thirty-minute ride until I could change.
This was definitely a mistake.
Another one.
I pounded my palm onto the steering wheel as I turned around; Highway Thirty-Four was closed leaving Estes Park because of the rain.
In fact, all the roads out of Estes Park were closed because of the rain except Trail Ridge Road.
The road between the mountains and the sky.
With a determined frown on my lips, I gripped the steering wheel tighter as I passed by the park entrance sign once more. Even with my twenty-twenty vision, I found myself leaning forward to be able to see better through the windshield.
There was no one on the road.
I checked the clock. It was almost ten pm. Of course, there was no one on the road… especially in this weather.
I let off the gas. The Sentra was nothing like my Trail Hawk—and damn, if I didn’t miss that Jeep right about now.
“Jesus!” I hollered, coming around a turn to meet two bright headlights.
Either the truck was lifted or my rental was so low that they blinded right into my eyes, white spots fading just in time for me to avoid the edge of the road.
Demoted Air Force Pilot Died on Trail Ridge Road.
I could see the headlines now.
Grunting, I approached Rainbow Curve, praying that the road was open beyond the bend.
September was usually around the time it got too cold to pass over the mountain due to snow at higher elevations.
For a brief second, I thought about searching through my phone for the number that was no longer programmed in it. I thought about calling Logan.
“He probably doesn’t even work here anymore,” I chastised myself.
Huffing, I made it around the corner to see the gates partially closed but not secure. Stopping the car, I didn’t even bother to pull my hood up before darting out into the storm and pushing one metal prong wide enough to let me pass.
If it wasn’t locked, it wasn’t closed.
I didn’t care if it took me another three hours to get back to Boulder, I just needed to get out of this damn park.
I ignored the squish of my seat as I climbed back into the car with a violent curse as water got everywhere.
Just clearing the metal barricade, I realized why the gates were partially shut; the storm had brought down branches and trees to the point where the road was hardly passable. Gritting my teeth, I approached the next bend to see too late that a tree had fallen across the entire road.
Swearing and spinning the wheel toward the inside lane, I veered and then hydroplaned toward the embankment against the mountain—a better option than turning off the side of the cliff, but still an incredibly poor choice as the Sentra clunked and bumped off the paved road into the muddy ditch.
My forehead dipped onto the steering wheel. The car stopped and was, most likely, stuck. Dragging in unsteady breaths, I let out a small whimper.
You are above this, I reminded myself.
Composing myself, I turned the wheels back toward the road and tried the gas.
The wheels spun.
Shit.
Two more tries gave the same result.
Cinching my hood tighter, I squeezed through the narrow opening of the driver door. Wiping rain from my eyes, I saw how both driver’s side tires were sunk in about four inches of mud on the side of the road, and because of the consequent tilt of the car, the other two tires weren’t resting on the water-clogged pavement with enough weight to gain any traction and pull me through.
A second scan showed the back wheel wasn’t as deep in the mud and closer to the road than the very front. If I could just move it onto the pavement, it might give me enough traction to get out of here.
Just had to move the car. No big deal. I was a superhero, right?
I snorted in self-disgust, remembering the Super Girl cape the rest of the demo team had given me the day my command was announced to them. Those photos had ended up in the papers.
Not so super anymore.
Planting my hands on the back side of the car, I wedged my feet into the mud and heaved.
The car didn’t budge.
Gathering another large breath, I pushed again with an added dose of bitter cold frustration, the rain freezin
g right through my jacket.
I swore I felt the car shift underneath my hands. Too late, did I realize it was me that shifted and not the car. My feet slipped back in the mud and my knees landed with a disgusting splat followed by my hands as I tried to prevent my face from being the last mud-coated casualty.
“Motherfucker.” The extent of my expletive vocabulary had only expanded over my last six years in service.
Rising back up, I pummeled my fist into the side of the car and then kicked the goddamn Sentra for good measure.
I was not getting stuck on this damn mountain. In this park. In this place.
I wasn’t giving up—if only out of spite—even though the small voice in the back of my mind whispered that I would either be walking back down the several miles to civilization, or I’d be sleeping in the back seat of my rental car with soaking-wet clothes tonight.
Dragging my dirt-covered palms along the car, I wiped the rest on my soaked pants. This time, I wedged my feet against the rock wall, suspending myself between the mountain and the car.
Steeling myself, all my muscles tightened and locked into place like one of Marvel’s Transformers coming to life.
Clenching my jaw, I was just about to push when bright lights flashed over me and the quick blare of a siren sounded.
My head hung, blinded by the truck’s headlights on the other side of the gate, and heavy with relief.
I stood, watching the distant shadow slam the door shut and stalk toward me. I hadn’t opened the gate wide enough for his truck to fit through.
“Ma’am,” a voice called through the howling storm. “You alright?”
For a second, my heart squeezed, hearing a thread of familiarity in his voice. The deep warm rasp. The concern.
I shook my head. It wasn’t Logan. It was impossible to hear with that amount of accuracy in this storm.
“My car’s stuck!” I yelled back, the rain almost drowning out my voice.
Tequila Page 4
