Burning Rivalry

The air in the bay reeked of diesel, sweat, and the faint, sweet ghost of someone’s burnt toast from breakfast. I was elbow-deep in the engine block of Engine 7, a stubborn piece of machinery that seemed to hate me as much as I hated mornings. The wrench slipped, and my knuckle cracked against a bolt head. I bit back a curse.

“Need a hand, or are you trying to seduce the carburetor?”

That voice. It slid through the garage like warm honey over gravel. I didn’t look up. I knew the smirk that went with it, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners.

“I need you to take a long walk off a short pier, Jace.” I twisted the wrench again. The bolt didn’t budge.

His boots scraped on the concrete. Closer. He smelled like coffee and sandalwood, expensive for a guy who probably made rent by pouring whiskey for lonely women. He leaned against the fender of the truck, arms crossed. The silver hoop in his ear caught the fluorescent light.

“That’s not very neighborly, Eddie. We’re supposed to be a team.”

I finally looked at him. He was all sharp angles and easy laughter, his black t-shirt stretched tight across his chest. The tattoos on his arm coiled like a living thing. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a catalog for assholes who don’t have to work for a living.

“We’re not a team,” I said. “We’re two guys who happen to share a shift. Don’t confuse proximity with partnership.”

He laughed. A real one, low and genuine, and it pissed me off more than his joking.

“Alright, grumpy.” He pushed off the truck. “I was going to offer you a beer after shift, but I guess I’ll drink yours too.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He walked away, and I watched him go, hating the way my eyes followed the line of his shoulders. I hated that I noticed. I hated that he made me notice.

Three hours later, the chief called us into his office. The room was small, cluttered with old photos and the smell of stale coffee. Chief Harris was a bulldog of a man, bald and broad, with a face that looked like it had been used as a punching bag for forty years.

“We got a problem,” he said, not looking up from a clipboard. “The department’s sending a crew up to the old Ranger Station in the Sierras. A two-week training. Fire behavior, wilderness survival, team building.”

My stomach dropped. Team building. I could already feel the forced smiles and trust falls.

Harris finally looked up. His eyes landed on me, then shifted to Jace, who was leaning against the doorframe with that infuriating calm.

“You two are going.”

The words hit like a cold wave. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me, Eddie. You’re the best on the truck and he’s got the most backcountry experience. The department wants a mixed crew. You leave tomorrow.”

Jace grinned. “Sounds fun.”

I wanted to punch that grin off his face. “Chief, with respect, I’d rather scrub the latrines with a toothbrush.”

“Noted.” Harris didn’t even blink. “You leave at 0600. Don’t be late.”

He dismissed us with a wave. Jace clapped me on the shoulder as we walked out, his hand warm and heavy.

“Look on the bright side, Eddie. Two weeks. Just you, me, and the great outdoors. No bar. No women. No distractions.”

I shrugged his hand off. “That sounds like my personal hell.”

He laughed again. That same low, infuriating laugh. “You’re gonna miss me by day three.”

“I doubt it.”

But the knot in my stomach said otherwise. I didn’t know if it was hate, or something I refused to name.

We drove up in a department truck, the road winding through pine forests that got thicker and darker as we climbed. The sky was a pale, washed-out blue, the air thin and cold. Jace drove. I stared out the window, watching the world turn to trees and rock.

He tried to make conversation. “You ever been up this way?”

“No.”

“There’s a lake near the station. Good fishing.”

“I don’t fish.”

“What do you do for fun, Eddie? Besides scowl.”

I turned to look at him. The sun caught his face, highlighting the stubble on his jaw. “I work on my bike. I drink alone. I avoid people who talk too much.”

He smiled, slow and unbothered. “Good thing I’m not most people.”

“You’re not special.”

“We’ll see.”

The station was a squat log building at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by towering pines and a silence so deep it felt like pressure. The air smelled of sap and damp earth. A creek ran nearby, its sound a constant, low murmur.

We unloaded our gear in silence. Two bunks in a small room. A wood stove. A radio that crackled with static. The place felt like a tomb.

“Cozy,” Jace said, dropping his duffel on the lower bunk.

I took the top. “It’s a cage.”

That night, we sat on the porch, watching the stars come out. The sky was a black velvet sheet punched with a million points of light. The cold bit through my jacket. I could see my breath.

Jace handed me a beer. I took it. Not because I wanted to be friendly, but because I was thirsty.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “I don’t actually hate you.”

I snorted. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t. You’re just hard to like.”

“I’m not trying to be liked.”

He turned to look at me. In the dark, his eyes were two dark pools. “I know. That’s what I like about you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. I looked away, took a long pull of the beer. It was cold and bitter.

“You’re weird,” I said.

“Probably.” He leaned back, looking up at the stars. “But at least I’m not boring.”

I didn’t answer. I just sat there, feeling the cold seep into my bones, and the strange warmth of his shoulder inches from mine. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but charged. Like the air before a storm.

I didn’t know what was coming. But I felt it, a shift in the ground beneath my feet. Something was about to crack.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop it.