Page 9 of Aviator
“I don’t have to do anything. Consider this my resignation letter. Dated effective for the end of my accrued vacation time, which I’m taking as of now. And if you say one word,one word,about it or hinder my job search in the future, I won’t hesitate to take this wherever I need to hit you where it hurts.”
“What the hell has gotten into you?” Garrett sputters at my back as I spin on my heel. I may sound brave, but I’m about to lose it, and the last thing I want is for Garrett andFionato see me break apart.
I slam the engagement ring on the desk in front of them, rush through the office, and back out into the icy morning. The next thing I know, I’m in the front seat of my car, bawling into my hands, snot running down my face. I cry until all my makeup is smeared, my chest aches, and my eyes burn. Then there’s a knock at my door.
Jerking upright, I try to cover the mess with my sleeve until I see Riley standing outside. She gets one look at me and scurries around to the passenger side, hopping in and passing me a makeup wipe from her giant bag of tricks.
“Who do we have to kill?” she asks.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEAN
“God save me from tourists,”I mumble as I creep up the mountain road toward my house.
The little sedan in front of me is fighting through the snow, and I know there’s no way in hell their little car is a match for the icy roads. But did they pay attention to the warnings? Did they rent a four-wheel drive?
Nope. Of course not.
It’s idiots like them that wind up doing something stupid, like getting stranded in the mountains in the middle of winter and needing to be rescued. They finally pull the car to a stop at the side of the road. The father gets out and slams the door, and I can tell he’s pissed as hell, even from a distance. The mom leans out from her side and tries to reason with him. Two kids bounce around in the back, oblivious. Looking at them makes my skin crawl, and all I can think about is getting the hell away and back to the cabin.
The father catches my eye just as I’m moving to go around them. I try to blend in with the leather seat, to no avail. Sighing, I pull up to the stop sign, pausing to look both ways. The father moves to the passenger side and gestures for me to roll down the window, which I ignore.
“Hey, buddy, can you give us a hand?” he yells through the glass and hooks a thumb over his shoulder toward the sedan.
I shake my head and gesture for him to back away so I don’t run him over. His face flushes—either from the below-freezing temperatures or another flash of anger. Probably both. He waits in disbelief, probably certain I’ll change my mind, but it’s useless. His failure to plan is not my responsibility. I rev the engine, and he stumbles back at the loud purr from the Ford F-350.
“What the hell, dickhead!” I hear him shout over the engine.
When I’m sure I have enough clearance, I accelerate through the stop sign and pull onto the road that’ll lead me up the mountain. They can call a tow service and a rental agency and be back to their vacation condo within the hour and won’t be out anything but the inconvenience. That’s why, as I drive away from the red-faced dad, I don’t feel an ounce of guilt.
In the years since I left the Marines, I’ve lived by a hard and fast rule: don’t be a hero. You’d think this would only apply to dire situations—life or death stuff—but I’ve found my life is a whole hell of a lot easier if I use it as a blanket rule. Chicks, kids, little old ladies, it doesn’t matter. Staying my ass out of it keeps me sane, and I have no reason to change.
That’s why I chose Crystal Mountain after getting out of the Marines. Sure, it’s got a shit ton of tourists, especially now during the winter season when the resorts manufacture snow on the peaks for skiing, snowboarding, and whatever the hell else. But the views, man. There’s nothing like it anywhere on Earth. And that’s saying something, considering I’ve flown to some of the most beautiful places in the country, if not the world.
The cabin I share with my Grandfather Luke, or Gramps when he’s being extra sassy, is one he used to share with my Nana Nadine. I used to spend summers here, which turned into all vacations and most of the school year after my mother married my stepdad, Frank. When Frank and I couldn’t stomach living under the same roof anymore, I moved in with Gramps and Nana full-time until I shipped out at eighteen to join the Marines.
My grandmother Nadine passed away while I was in the Corps, and Gramps was fine by himself for the next few years. Gramps called when I was trying to figure out what the hell I should be doing with my life after the military. Said I could stay with him until I figured it out.
After I moved in with him, it didn’t take long for me to realize he needed the help—and the company. When I wasn’t scheduled for a flight, I stuck close to home helping him with the small farm he ran—goats, chickens, a couple ducks—or running him to and from appointments. I hated seeing him getting more frail by the day, but I was grateful for the time we had together. Margaret helped when I was gone or when Gramps and I started to get on each other’s nerves. She was about the only person I’d let come near the place without insisting they return to their vehicle and go back the way they came.
The interaction with the tourists fades into the back of my mind as I drive up the mountain road. Trees tower above me, their branches dusted with a sheet of snow carried from the resort’s machines. We haven’t had a real snow yet, but it’s coming. I swear I can practically feel it in my bones. This will mean a break for me, and I’m surprised to find that I’m actually kind of looking forward to it. The holiday season is always our busiest, so I haven’t been home much to spend time with Gramps. A fact he reminded me of whenever he saw me before his stroke.
The last of the tension leeches out of me as I pull up to the cabin and shut off the truck. Contentment stirs in my chest at the feeling of being home. This is the feeling I’ll do anything to protect. It’s why I hate people coming and disturbing it. Why I won’t answer Ford or Callum’s calls and messages. Why I turn down Felix’s offer to put in a good word for me with NCHART.
I’ve spent most of my life eaten up with adrenaline, fear, and guilt. Now all I want is peace and to be left the hell alone.
Ice crunches under my boots, the only sound in the vast woods surrounding the cabin aside from the occasional sound of the animals behind the house. Crisp mountain air fills my lungs with each breath, along with a hint of smoke from the chimney. They must have a fire going.
Inside, it’s warm and cozy, and there’s some music playing in the background. My ears strain to hear more, and I recognize the song “(Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding. I take off my coat and boots, feeling like I’m shedding a second skin.
I find Gramps sitting in an armchair near the fireplace with a blanket over his lap and a puzzle on the TV tray in front of him. Margaret is perched next to him, taking his pulse. On the side table is a carafe of water and a whole host of pills and gadgets the doctors sent home with us when he was cleared to leave the hospital.
Margaret notices me and smiles. “Hey, handsome. Thought I heard the truck pull up. How was your flight?” she asks, humming as she finishes her task. I don’t know what I would have done without her. I make good money doing what I do, and Luke has a healthy retirement, but the medical bills are going to drown us between his emergency stay, medications, and physical therapy.
We’re lucky he made it through with relatively minimal complications, but that doesn’t mean we’re out of the woods.
“Good, but I’m glad to be home. How’s he doing today?” I move to the kitchen to grab a beer and pop the top, drinking deeply.
