ONE
KNIGHT
Sliding the zipper closed on my bag, I heave it off the bed. I take one last glance back at the familiar but still foreign bedroom I’ve been sleeping in since I moved to Rockhead Point before I stride out the door and down the stairs. I’ve lived in this house for well over a year now, but it still looks exactly the same as it did the day I moved in.
My brothers have all decorated and renovated their houses and yards, but I don’t see the point. This isn’t my home. It’s simply a house I’m staying in. My home is the house I’ve helped build with my own two hands, a quarter of a mile from here, on the land I purchased when I realized this town was a place I wanted to settle in.
Being a smoke jumper is the best job in the world, but that’s all it is…a job. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy it. I do, but if I had to give it up tomorrow, I would without question. I’m thirty-eight years old and heading toward the end of my career jumping out of airplanes and fighting wildfires. The only reason I’m still capable of doing my job is because I’m at peak physical fitness and devoted to performing at the highest level.
Until recently, I thought my job and my brothers-in-arms were enough to make me content with my life, but I’vediscovered I want more. I want my wife. I want a family. I want…my perfect little doll.
I was born and grew up near Sulphur Springs, Texas, the oldest son of Drill Sergeant Anderson Taylor and his wife, Mary. I was raised to be a soldier, and from the age of ten, my days started at 0500 with army-style PT. My father—forever the drill sergeant long after he left the army—lives and breathes the healthy body, healthy mind mentality. He taught me how to be a good soldier: the importance of taking care of my body, how to be part of a team, and how to follow orders and a chain of command.
Two generations of Taylor men before me served their country with pride, and it’s my father’s greatest failure that I wasn’t the third.
The first time I remember my mama telling me I was peculiar was when I was five years old. Back then, I didn’t know what she meant, but I knew I wasn’t like my younger siblings or the children at my school.
I wasn’t sick or dumb. I never saw a doctor, and I wasn’t placed in special ed classes, but I heard all the names the kids in my neighborhood and at my school called me. To them, I was a freak, a weirdo, an oddball, a nutjob, and a few other things I don’t like to repeat.
I’ve always been particular. I like order. I like things just so, and even though I’m sure that I would have survived in the military, I always knew I never intended to follow in my father and grandfather’s footsteps.
The day I graduated high school and told my parents I had no intention of enlisting was the last time my father spoke to me. I don’t miss him, but I do hold some appreciation for the things he drilled into me as a child that have followed me into adulthood. Because of him, I live my life with structure, rules, expectations, and unrelenting standards.
I haven’t seen any of my family since I left home at eighteen, but my mother has kept me updated about her, my father, and my siblings through a yearly Christmas card. My younger brother Eric stepped into the shoes I rejected and enlisted straight out of high school. He served eight years in the US Army before he left, moved back to Texas, and married his high school sweetheart, Marie. My sister Sylvia was volunteering at the VA when she met and fell in love with John, a retired Navy officer. After they got married, they bought a house next door to Eric, a few streets over from our parents, and between them, they have a brood of children. From my mother’s cards, I believe they all like their lives, the town, and their families.
But I’m not like my family, and I never have been.
Even though it’s been twenty years since I lived at home, I still live my life on an orderly schedule. When I’m not on shift, I wake up at 0500 hours. I go for a run on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and do a calisthenics workout on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. On Sundays, I do both. Once I’ve worked out, I shower, then have breakfast at 0700 hours. Lunch is at 1300 hours and dinner is at 1900 hours.
When I’m on shift, I’m forced to adapt to a flexible schedule depending on how many fires we’re called to attend, but when we’re on base, I still adhere to a similar daily routine where I can. During my time in the fire service, I’ve served under captains and leaders who have disliked my need for orderly clarity, but my current chief, Buck, understands that order creates a superior working environment. It’s one of the reasons why this town and these people have become my home.
Prior to moving to Rockhead Point, I considered the notion of friendship…disquieting. I understand and appreciate a clear chain of command, but applying order to friendship is almost impossible. Unlike many people I’ve encountered throughout my life, I have never found any benefit in companionship. Ienjoy my own company and the quiet that being alone allows me. Or that was the way I felt until I came here.
Within a few moments of meeting my chief, Buck Henderson, I realized he was unlike anyone I’d met before. He’s intuitive, quiet when needed, loud when required, and from almost our first encounter, he embraced my need for structure and became one of the first people I’ve ever met whose company I didn’t despise.
His brother and second-in-command, Nero, though very different in personality from Buck, has added levity and enthusiasm to my world. One by one, our team—men I planned to work alongside but never expected to like—have become my…friends, something I’ve never had, or wanted before. Here in Rockhead Point with this team, my brothers-in-arms, I’ve found a family and a home for the first time.
Then I met Tori. Her addition to our group happened when her friend and ex-roommate, James, started a relationship with Buck. When James and Buck moved into Buck’s house, Tori moved into the house next door with Nero.
Tori and my relationship developed when she called one day and asked to use my kitchen. Despite having been invited into all of my teammates’ homes, I’d never opened my private space to them in return, because the thought of having people in my house is disquieting. But as I’m aware of societal expectations, I didn’t feel like I could refuse her without upsetting my position in our group, so I told her she could use my oven, silently despising the idea and the chaos her invasion would cause me. But instead of interrupting the flow of my life, she followed my rules without question. She anticipated how her interruption would affect me and mitigated the impact. In short, she got me in a way no one ever has before.
My smoke jumper brothers are my friends, but they don’t understand me, and I’ve never expected them to, or tried toexplain myself to them. I’m an invited part of their group, but I’m still different in the way I’ve always been different.
But with Tori, I feel…normal.
Prior to becoming friends with her, my only interaction with women was sexual. Despite my general distaste for most people, I still feel sexual urges and desires, and I’ve had encounters with both men and women, but none have ever inspired a desire to spend more time with them once I’ve found physical release.
Not that I want to have sex with Tori—I don’t. Instead, she feels familiar, like the way Buck and Nero describe their feelings toward their sister, Juni. It’s been decades since I’ve spoken to my own sister, and I feel nothing but apathy toward her, but Tori is different. If she’d been the sister I’d been born with instead of Sylvia, perhaps I’d have a different relationship with the rest of my family.
While I find the termbest friendstrange, Tori is the person I choose to spend time with over everyone else. Or she was until I met my doll.
I don’t believe in magic or the arcane. Everything has reason and logic, which is why when I encountered my doll for the first time and identified her as my wife, I didn’t question it. This town, though very different from the army, has its own set of rules. The men here are decisive, act instinctually, and don’t abide by the constraints of societal norms.
Like animals, they find their mates and claim them. My doll is my mate. It’s as simple as that.
TWO
OCTAVIA
