Page 49 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Bonfires in this town are an excuse for a celebration.

The fire grows wildly, fed by whatever’s close enough to grab. Old fence posts. Driftwood hauled up from the riverbank. A chair someone swore was already broken before they threw it in.

Sparks lift into the night, mingling with the stars above.

The river keeps moving behind us. It doesn’t give a damn what we do on its banks as long as we don’t fall in.

This bonfire party is set in a wide dirt clearing off River Road, which nobody technically owns and everybody quietly agrees is neutral ground. Cars and trucks are parked haphazardly. Bikes are leaned wherever there’s space. Someone’s strung work lights between two trees, lighting up the space. Extension cords are snaking through the grass, buzzing faintly every time the wind kicks up.

Music blares from a pickup with one speaker blown, cycling between classic rock, heartbreak country, and a kid’s playlist no one has bothered to turn off. Dogs weave through ankles, and kids run too close to the fire until someone’s mom yells out their kids full baptismal name in warning.

It’s Redwood Run writ large, in other words.

I stand a little back from the flames with a beer in my hand, boots planted in dirt. Luke’s talking. Saint’s listening with half his attention. Bear’s already eaten something that smells bloody wonderful.

It’s loud.

Normally, I don’t mind loud. I can do loud. I can do the easy grin, the right joke at the right time, the presence people lean on without realizing they’re doing it.

But tonight, I’m not in the mood to perform.

I’m just… here.

Luke bumps my shoulder. “You alive over there, or did you finally turn into metal like one of your bikes?”

“Unfortunately,” I say, “still flesh.”

He grins, all teeth and trouble. “You could try enjoying yourself.”

“I am.”

“That face says otherwise.”

Saint exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, eyes still tracking the edge of the clearing, where a couple of teenagers are attempting something stupid with a sparkler and a can of soda.

Bear hums low. He’s holding a paper plate piled with food, ribs, cornbread, salad that looks suspiciously healthy and might have landed there by accident.

“I don’t know why you keep invitin’ him,” he tells Luke mildly. “He always looks like he’s waitin’ for a fire inspection.”

“I am the fire inspection,” Luke says. “I see all. I judge all.”

Saint finally looks over. “You judging the chili cookoff too, or just people?”

Luke snorts. “Especially the chili. Who puts cinnamon in chili, Saint?”

Saint shrugs. “Someone brave.”

“That’s not bravery,” Luke says. “That’s a cry for help.”

Bear nods thoughtfully. “It was Mrs. Alder.”

Luke visibly recalculates. “Okay. Never mind. It was incredible. Best chili I’ve ever had.”

I take a drink and let my gaze roam aimlessly. People I know. People I’ve known forever. Gus from The Timberline holding court. Tess from The Mile Marker laughing too loud near the bikes. Owen Fitch gesturing, directing an invisible movie while explaining something cinematic to a group that probably did not ask.

Someone calls my name in greeting from across the clearing. I lift my beer in acknowledgment without looking.

Luke follows my line of sight, then looks back at me. “You ever notice how this town can’t just stand still?”