Page 3 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze

"Here," she says, thrusting a case of water into my arms without really looking at me. "Take these to the guys working on the drainage ditch and pass it out."

"Where's the drainage ditch?" I ask.

This gets her attention. She looks at me fully for the first time, and I watch as recognition flickers across her face. Though it’s not the usual excitement or awe, but something like suspicion.

"You're not from around here," she says. It's not a question.

"What gave it away? The fact that I don't know where the drainage ditch is, or the fact that my sunglasses cost more than that truck?"

Her eyes narrow slightly. "The drainage ditch is over there," she says, pointing. "And I don't care what your sunglasses cost."

Before I can respond, Shane appears beside us.

"Grace," he says. "This is Orville's cousin's kid. Blaze. He's helping."

"Blaze?" she repeats, raising an eyebrow. "Like the sports team?"

"Like the verb," I counter. "To burn intensely."

She looks unimpressed. "We don't need a celebrity. We need workers. If you can't carry it, do something else."

For possibly the first time since I was sixteen, I find myself speechless. No one's talked to me like that in years. Everyone either wants something from me or is paid to agree with me.

Grace has already turned away, calling out to someone about chainsaws and fallen branches.

"She always this friendly?" I ask Shane.

"Grace Hartman works with Ruby running groceries from the Merc, coordinates emergency response volunteers for the town, and coaches Little League," Shane replies. "She doesn't have time to stroke your ego, especially not today."

"Grace," I repeat. "Fitting."

"Those waters aren't going to deliver themselves," Shane points out.

I consider dropping the case right there and walking back to the truck. But something about the dismissive way Grace looked at me, as if I was just useless baggage, lights a fire under my ass.

When I carry the water to the drainage ditch, mud-covered men gratefully grab bottles. I return for another case and am given two and a new location to deliver, and another. By the third trip, my arms are burning, and my head is screaming, but I keep going.

An hour passes in a blur of manual labor. I help move debris, pass out supplies, and even hold a first aid kit while a paramedic bandages a volunteer's cut hand. No one asks for my autograph. No one takes selfies. They just nod thanks and keep working.

At some point, I find myself working alongside Grace, both of us loading salvaged tools into a pickup. We work in tense silence, with me sneaking glances at her focused profile.

"You missed one," she says suddenly, nodding toward a box of nails I overlooked.

I grab it, adding it to my stack. "You know, a 'please' wouldn't kill you."

"Neither will actual work, apparently," she replies, but there's the faintest hint of something less hostile in her tone. "You're not completely useless."

From Grace, I suspect this qualifies as high praise.

"Don't sound so surprised," I say, wiping sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. "I contain many layers."

"What you contain is an ego the size of Montana," she returns, but there's almost a smile threatening the corner of her mouth.

As the sun starts to dip toward the mountains, I realize my headache has faded to a dull throb, replaced by muscle aches from actual physical labor. My designer clothes are filthy, my hands are blistered despite the gloves, and my nose is probably sunburned.

And strangely, I don't hate it as much as I should.

I watch Grace directing the final cleanup efforts, completely in her element amid the chaos. Something tugs in my chest. Respect, maybe. Or curiosity. Or something else entirely.

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