Page 8 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze

Already I can hear the bustling sounds of productive humanity outside. Voices calling to each other, engines starting, the clatter of things being loaded and unloaded. Who the hell voluntarily gets up at sunrise?

I pull the pillow over my head, but it's too late. I'm awake. My back feels like I've been sleeping on rocks, and my hands--I examine them in the morning light--are actually blistered. From one day of work. Pathetic.

The door swings open without a knock, and Shane appears with a steaming mug. The coffee smell hits me first, and I sit up a little too eagerly.

"Morning, superstar," he says, handing me the mug. Before I can properly appreciate the caffeine, he tosses something at me. I catch it reflexively in my other hand. It’s a pair of worn leather work gloves. "Time to be useful. Grace needs help running supply drops today."

Before answering, I take a long sip of my coffee. "I think I've filled my manual labor quota for the decade. Besides, I'm pretty sure Grace would rather work with a rabid wolverine."

Shane shrugs, completely unmoved by my pain. "You can stew in here, or you can make yourself useful. Up to you."

He turns to leave, and I blurt out, "She probably thinks I'm useless, anyway."

Shane pauses in the doorway. "Only one way to change her mind."

I groan, knowing I'm being manipulated but unable to stop myself from falling for it. The thought of Grace dismissing me as some lazy poser celebrity is somehow worse than the physical pain of getting out of bed.

"Fine," I mutter. "Give me fifteen minutes."

Thirty minutes later, because a rock star is never on time, I find Grace loading the last of several boxes into her ancient pickup truck. The vehicle looks like it survived multiple apocalypses, held together by rust and stubborn determination, kind of like the town itself.

"You're late," she says without looking up.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine."

She finally turns, eyeing me from boots to bedhead. "Shane said you volunteered."

"That's a creative interpretation of events."

A ghost of a smile flickers across her face. "Get in. We've got twelve stops today."

The truck's interior smells like soil, coffee, and something vaguely floral that I can't place. Grace drives with practiced efficiency, navigating the rural roads while occasionally consulting a handwritten list.

"So what exactly are we delivering?" I ask, peering into the truck bed through the back window.

"Food staples, medicine, supplies. Some folks can't make it into town easily, and others have no desire to leave their property, so I deliver."

Our first stop is a farmhouse where an elderly couple greets Grace like she's their favorite granddaughter. Their eyes widen when they see me.

"Is that--" the woman starts.

"Blaze Nelson," I confirm, offering my hand. "Temporary delivery boy."

"Well, I never," she says, flustered. "I have your first album somewhere."

Her husband squints at me. "You the fella who set that hotel on fire in Vegas?"

"That was actually a misunderstanding involving a cigarette, one of my bandmates, and some very flammable drapes," I explain, feeling Grace's eyes on me.

"Hm," the man grunts, clearly unimpressed. "Well, come on in. Leave your cigarettes outside." He gives me a pointed look.

"I don't smoke." I hold up my hands, and the man grunts again.

Inside, Grace efficiently unpacks their supplies while I stand awkwardly by. The couple's living room walls are covered with family photos spanning decades. A lifetime in one place. The concept is so foreign to me it might as well be science fiction.

"How are you holding up, Earl?" Grace asks as she checks off items on her list.

"Well enough," he sighs.

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