Page 2 of The Fire We Crave

I wash anything left in the sink and scrub every surface so we can start baking right away when Kinsey arrives. I collect the utensils and bowls I’ll need and line them up with military precision. Sometimes I’ll listen to a romance audiobook as I work to make it all feel a little less mundane. When I’m done, I ignore the fatigue in my bones, and turn off the lights.

Kinsey will be happy I made a start. My right-hand woman has a natural way with customers, and last night, she had a hot date with the new vet in town that I’m excited to hear the details of. I take some pride in the fact I introduced them. Bones, my mutt who is mostly tricolor Beagle, decided to eat half a packet of cooking chocolate. I rushed him to the vet, but given the time, only Deb, who had started three days earlier, was on duty. She looked after the poor guy so well. And as we talked, I knew her love of obscure facts and shows about archaeology would make her the perfect person for Kinsey.

The sound of a crash, followed by glass splintering across the floor, makes me jump. My heart races, a thudding in my chest so loud, I swear I can hear it.

Bones barks upstairs, but the doorways between him and the bakery remain locked.

Cautiously, I peer my head around the large baking racks and see a hand reaching through the broken pane for the lock.

I grab my phone and run through the kitchen to the front of the store, but see a sleek, black vehicle that looks like a cross between an SUV and an armored car. A man stands outside, and I’m trapped.

Quickly, I call 911, rapidly barking out details. The doorway up to my apartment is off the kitchen, and I’m not going back there while who knows how many men are trying to come in from the rear door.

The operator’s reassurance that the police will be here as quickly as they can does little to ease the panic forcing its way to my throat.

And the moment the man steps foot into the front of the shop, a weapon in one hand, and cable ties in the other, I scream.

“Shut up and sit,” he shouts, and I capitulate, doing as he says. “We told you. Five thousand dollars, and this all goes away.”

1

SMOKE

TWO WEEKS LATER

The fall is simple.

Signal.

Jump.

Open parachute.

Land.

It’s the ground that’s hostile.

The fire burns in the distance. She dances whimsically on the wind, the harsh crackle of burning timber and falling trees her soundtrack.

“Easy,” I mutter to her, glad I’m out of hearing range for my fellow crew. They don’t know that I talk to the flames.

This is Johnny’s first real smoke jump, and he’s full of the piss and vinegar that comes with being a newbie. We’ve practiced these jumps with him plenty, and he knows his role, but we’ll need to keep an eye on him.

There’s a fine line between bold actions to quell the fire and heroics that get you killed.

Hassan and I have done this together for six seasons.

The guy can swing an axe like no man I’ve ever met. He’s stronger than Atom, the enforcer of my club, and that’s saying plenty.

It should be a breeze to bring it under control. We’ve got time to fell trees, dig trenches, and clear debris and dried-out foliage that light faster than a pile of old books.

My fellow smoke jumpers litter the sky. It’s crucial we don’t allow our parachutes to cross. But we’ve done this a million times before, carefully navigating our trajectory as close to the fire line as is safe but allowing tolerances so we don’t end up off course or trapped.

For me, the jump has always been one of my favorite things. I’ve grappled my whole life with low dopamine, searching everywhere for an adrenaline rush or some kind of serotonin response. While others hoot and scream like it’s the wildest rush, it brings me to an even keel.

When the season’s over and I return home to the club, I’ll look for it in reckless sexual behavior and poor choices. I’ll find it in killing for the club.

In another life, I’d probably be a serial killer.

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