I spin on my heels, nearly tripping over my shoelaces. Jack’s eyes volley between me and Hailey as if he’s been standing there all this time, studying our interaction like a sociologist.
“I was told it’s a good look.” I say, winking at Hailey.
“It won’t be when your shins are charred to the bone. McCafferty, update me.”
Dean swings his recliner around so thatit’s facing us. “Drilled a PT test, three hikes, fire procedures, and pulling an injured guy off a mountain yesterday.”
“And how’d he do?” Jack asks right to my face.
McCafferty delivers his next update with a wicked grin. “He got blisters.” His eyes dart to Hailey, and his sinister look disappears when her smile unzips.
“Ohhhhh!” A series of groans and chuckles seep into the room. Several guys round the corner, a hearty laugh leading the pack.
“Bet you’re regretting everything now, aren’t you, rookie?” My barracks tour guide slaps me on the shoulder.
“Ignore him. He has no tact.” A Hispanic guy with frosted gray tips exchanges a glare with Logan Murphy. He slots a pair of gold-and-black-accented glasses against his nose with a single finger.
“Diego Ramirez, everybody. Mother figure of this crew.” Murphy claps for him.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
Ramirez ignores Murphy’s moniker and tips his head in a bow.
Murphy tosses a thumb in Ramirez’s direction. “If you need an herbal remedy for those feet, this witch doctor’s got you covered.”
“They’re called essential oils, dumbass, and I believe they helped pop out that ponytail you got wound into a knot yesterday,” Ramirez retorts.
I think Murphy’s cheeks flush, but it’s difficult to tell behind his shaggy facial hair.
“Seems like the two of you have met,” Jack interrupts.
We exchange a knowing look as Jack points to the next guy in a line of six.
“This is Hawkeem Jackson, your other captain.”
A Black guy with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes steps forward and shakes my hand.
“Good to meet you, man,” I say.
“So you’re Walker’s replacement. A rookie for a rookie. Watch out for that leg,” he teases.
“Thanks for the warning.”
Jack works down the line. “Returning crew member, Grant Daniels.”
The guy’s thumbs tug at the straps of his overalls as his bushy mustache quirks up on one side.
“What do you say, farmer… why don’t you step up there and shake the guy’s hand?” McCafferty drawls.
“Ya’ll are gonna be sorry when I have a sixty-acre plot of land someday and you’re still living out of the back seat of your trucks,” Daniels says.
“You already have land. It’s called a forest,” Jack volleys back. Then he turns to me. “This is Wells Evans.”
Blond, tall, and muscular… the walking definition of a Disney prince, I notice.
The shortest guy of the group by a foot pats Evans on the arm. “What this one lacks in brains he makes up for in height.”
Evans hip-checks him back, knocking his black-framed glasses to the ground. A tuft of curly red hair gathers above his forehead when he bends to retrieve them off the floor.
