Outside. Into the cool of a Ketchikan summer night––a sliver of moon and a silver wash of stars above. I just walked and walked, who knew where. I walked for a long time, miles probably, got lost, turning this way and that, until I knew I was hopelessly lost, but too upset to care.
Finally, I stopped walking and took stock of my surroundings. Nothing. Darkness. No streetlights, stoplights, nothing. I could see a mountain or tall hill on one side, and water in the distance on the other. Close by were buildings disguised as low dark bulks. I could see cracked streets, a chain link fence and deserted parking lots.
And, suddenly, I was scared.
Especially when I heard footsteps in the distance, approaching rapidly. At a quick jog. I tried to hide in the shadows, but as the runner approached and became a huge, hulking form, he saw me and angled toward me.
“Lex?” A low rough growl.
“Y-yeah?”
The figure was wearing a sleeveless hoodie, shorts, and running shoes. Massive shoulders. Improbably tall. He tossed back his hood. “It’s Bast.”
I sighed in relief. “I kinda got turned around.”
He looked around and barked a low laugh. “I’d say. You turned yourself around into the ass end of nowhere.”
“How do I get back?”
He pulled wireless earbuds off his ears, turned them off, tucked them in a pocket, and headed back the way he’d come. Gestured for me to follow him. “This way.”
“You can just give me directions—I don’t want to interrupt your run.”
“Nah. Ketchikan is pretty safe, but no point taking chances.”
“Bast, for real. I can take care of myself.”
His only response was a bearlike growl, which seemed to indicate that the conversation was over. And, looking around, I decided having a big male escort wasn’t such a bad thing. We walked in silence for a long time. And eventually, I huffed.
“So? Where’s your advice?”
He chuckled. “We got some nosy folks in the crew, don’t we? Can’t leave well enough alone when they see somethin’ that needs fixin’. They mean well, but it can be overwhelming sometimes.”
“No kidding.”
“Ain’t my style. You talk, I’ll listen. You ask me my opinion, I’ll give it. But I’d just as soon walk in silence if you’re into that.”
“I’m good with silence.”
“All right then.”
And he was as good as his word—nothing but our footsteps in the darkness as he led us unerringly back to the bar; I knew Mom’s condo was not from here. There was the loud buzz of a seaplane coming in, lights blazing, approaching low and quick, nose up. A few dozen feet above the water the engine cut out, and I watched it float in silently, the floats skimming the water and sending white spray to either side. Then it was sluicing easily across the surface, making for a specific dock, slowing seemingly as if by magic, and then turning to slow and stop right up next to the dock.
“Damn,” I said. “In the dark, no power, perfect landing. I don’t know shit about flying, but I know that was impressive.”
Bast chuckled. “That’s Brock. Used to be a stunt pilot. He was flying before he could drive. A no-power night landing is child’s play for him. He can knock the cap off a beer bottle with a wingtip. Seen him do it.”
“So Zane is a former Navy SEAL and badass combat guy. Brock is a stunt pilot. Bax, from what I hear, used to be an underground bareknuckle brawler, former professional football player, and is now an internationally renowned personal trainer. Canaan and Corin are successful musicians. Lucian owns some business from what I understand…”
“And dabbles in black-and-white close-up photography.” He snapped his fingers. “There’s a word for it. Macro? Macrophotography?”
“Hell if I know.” I laughed. “Xavier is a genius robotics inventor.” I eyed him. “What about you? What impossibly cool thing do you do?”
“Me?” He shrugged, laughing good-naturedly. “I’m just a bartender.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He shook his head. “For real. I manage the bars. More paperwork and less pulling beers these days what with four locations but, at the end of the day, I’m just a bartender.” He eyed me. “Don’t forget Rem, Ram, and Rome. Smokejumpers—ultra elite wildfire fighters—they parachute out of a perfectly good airplane into a wildfire too hot and too remote for the other elite wildfire fighters. Rome helps me run the bars, Remington is a tattoo artist, and Ramsey is a deep brush, big game hunting guru.”
The guys were trooping down the dock, laughing, hanging on to each other and throwing elbows—they were too loud, like some of them had had too much to drink. Brock had flown and was hanging back at the plane, tying up, and Lucas, huge and broad, was walking straight and staying quiet, watchful; I knew from Mom’s emails that he was a former alcoholic, and had taken it upon himself to be a watchful, sober presence for the others as much as he could. Playing catch-up for years of neglect was how Mom said he’d phrased it.
Which left Zane, Ink, Ram, and Myles, four of them sauntering together down the dock, howling with laughter at something—knowing men, I guessed I was probably better off not knowing.
Bast glanced at me, at the guys, and then lifted his chin at me. “You good?”
“Yeah, thanks. Sorry to have ruined your run.”
“Nah, I was just stretching my legs, gettin’ some fresh air.” He smirked at me. “Next time you take a pissed-off walk, just stay next to the water. That way, you can just walk back the way you came.”
“I will. See you later.” I hesitated. “Hey, Bast?”
He paused, turned back. “Yo.”
“Thanks. For the silence, I mean. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”
“Sure thing, Lex.” He waved, and headed off into the darkness.
I waited for Myles and the guys to reach the end of the dock.
Myles saw me,
