Page 6 of Protect

As hotshots we all have standards we have to meet regularly when it comes to physical fitness, so my Sup is a beast of a man. Nothing really rattles him, so when he gets serious and emotional I know he means it.

“Don’t dismiss the job because of him. Take itforhim,” he says simply. And for some reason, something in me finally clicks. I look around the room. Thisismy chance to make it right, to make losing Jacob worth something. But after I agree, there’s no going back. This was supposed to be Jacob’s job. He always wanted to make squad boss.

I blow out a deep breath and drop to the bench behind me. I know I can’t drag this out anymore. I can’t live in the past and not take on more responsibility because of my fear. Maybe being a squad leader will help mesavesomeone. I can’t believe I never looked at it that way until now. I can almost hear Jacob’s voice telling me to stop being a pussy and to do his job when he can’t.You owe me that much after letting me die,I imagine him saying.

“Shit, fine. I’m all in, Sup. Whatever you need,” I say firmly.

He just stares at me for five seconds like he can’t believe I’m finally agreeing, then pats me on the shoulder as his grin grows.

“Did I hear what I think I just did?” Cal asks, coming up behind me and gripping my shoulders, giving me a shake.

“Yeah, you did. Your boy here is moving up!” Sup adds, loud enough the entire room hears.

“Fuck yeah, that’s the fucking spirit,” Cal says, giving me one last pat on the shoulder.

“Now”—Sup looks around the room—“put on a fresh shirt, boys. Food and drink, it’s happening!” Sup says to the room as he backs away. “We’re celebrating our new Crew Boss.” He points at me. The room explodes with my crew hooting and whistling for me.

I can’t help it. I shake my head and smile wide.

Fucking hell, guess I’m gonna be a squaddie.

“Every. Fucking. Time!” I hear Pete—a bar regular and local Sky Ridge medic—call out as he slaps twenty dollars down in the center of our worn pool table at Shifty’s the precise moment I arrive with his beer.

“You take him again?” I ask Matt, his co-worker, with a grin. He clearly just beat him for the third time tonight. Matt’s chuckling at Pete as he takes the two Budweiser’s off my tray and passes one to Pete.

“’Course.” Matt smirks. “I beat him every weekend and he keeps coming back for more,” he says with a friendly wink.

I laugh. Matt’s a good egg. And handsome. He’s all pretty, wholesome smiles.

“Thanks, Vi.” He pulls a five out of his pocket and pops it on my tray to tip me. He’s been doing that all night, adding to my nice little stash behind the till.

“Good thing he’s tipping, darlin’, he’s taken all my money,” Pete says, looking crushed as he takes his first sip.

“Play nice, boys,” I say, patting Matt on the shoulder. “Go easy on him; you know the more he drinks, the more he bets.”

Matt leans in. “I’m counting on it.”

I shake my head and cast them a smile over my shoulder.

“Double or nothin’.” I hear Matt suggest as I start making my way through the crowd back to the bar.

A few of their buddies laugh. I had all but forgotten what Saturday nights at Shifty’s were like. The smell of perfume and sweat fills the air, it's almost enough to overtake the stale beer and pub food smell.

We’re packed full tonight with a bunch of townies and it’s only 9:30. Some off-duty cops are huddled in a big group in one corner, lit up by the neon glow of vintage signs my parents have collected over the years, and a good-sized group of locals are line dancing to Luke Bryan in the back corner. The bar is lined up with a lot of people I’ve known most of my life. I make my way to a few tables, taking orders to help Lou out then venture back behind the bar to fill my tray. Lou always stays behind the bar. He’s just plain faster than I am after doing this for so many years and he knows the drinks inside and out. I’m still learning, so server duty it is.

I’m just placing the last round of whiskeys down at the table closest to the door when it opens with a ding. I can smell them before I see them and grief swells in my chest. It’s not their existence that hits me. It’s thatsmell. Smoke, and the diesel mix that fuels their drip torches and…dirt. I’d know it anywhere. I take an extra few seconds placing my last whiskey down on the table in front of me, willing the tightness in my chest to subside, reminding myself I can always cry another day. I throw a silent prayer up thathe’snot here, then take a deep breath, turning to face the group of hotshots I know are waiting for me.

I immediately come face to face with those deadly navy eyes.Shit.

Rowan Kingsley. My other ghost, the living one I wish I could avoid.

His nickname is King to all of them, and he was my brother Jacob’s best friend. He was also the guy who absolutely decimated my heart when I was eighteen.

His six-foot-three frame looms over me. He wears his greens and a black Sky Ridge Crew T-shirt. He’s much more muscular than the last time I saw him and of course, he's still gorgeous. Rowan has always had an all-American team captain vibe about him, like he was ripped right from the pages ofMen’s Health Magazineand dropped onto our local hotshot crew. His jaw is wide, strong, and right now, scruffy. His features are straight and rugged, and his right arm is entirely covered in ink. I notice a hawk, with its wings spread wide. They wrap entirely around so I can’t see where they meet. It’s the largest piece on his rippled, corded forearm. I spot the date above it. The date Jacob died. It’s front and center and it hits me square in the chest. A wave of grief washes over me so hard I have to look away.

Fuck.

Before I can even say anything, or the tightness has a chance to set in, I’m swept up by one of them in a crushing hug. It takes me a second to realize the man hugging me is Mike Opperman.

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