Chasing Fire

see him looking after her, that light dimmed. “Are you, more or less, asking for my blessing?”
    “I guess. More or less.”
    “Anybody who makes you this happy—and who talked you into getting rid of those ugly curtains in your office—is good with me. You can tell me more about her while we eat.”
    “Ro. That means more than I can say.”
    “You don’t have heart-shaped pillows on your bed now, do you?”
    “No. Why?”
    “Because that’s going to be my line in the sand. Anything else I think I can adjust to. Oh, and none of those crocheted things over spare toilet paper. That’s definitely a deal breaker.”
    “I’ll take notes.”
    “Good idea because I probably have a few more.” She walked to the stove, pleased that light had turned back on full.

25
     
    F eeling sociable, Gull plopped down in the lounge with his book. That way he could ease out of the story from time to time, tune in on conversations, the ball game running on TV and the progress of the poker game he wasn’t yet interested in joining.
    Or he could just let all of it hum at the edges of his mind like white noise.
    With the idea he might be called up at any time, he opted for a ginger ale and a bag of chips to snack him through the next chapter or two.
    “Afraid of losing your paycheck?” Dobie called out from the poker table.
    “Terrified.”
    “Out?” An outraged Trigger lurched out of his chair at a call on second. “That runner was safe by a mile. Out my ass! Did you see that?” he demanded.
    He hadn’t, but Gull’s mood hit both agreeable and sociable. “Damn right. The ump’s an asshole.”
    “He oughta have his eyes popped out if he can’t use them better than that. Where’s the ball to your chain tonight?”
    Amused, Gull turned a page. “Ditched me for another man.”
    “Women. They’re worse than umps. Can’t live with them, can’t beat them with a brick.”
    “Hey.” Janis discarded two cards at the poker table. “Having tits doesn’t mean I can’t hear, buddy.”
    “Aw, you’re not a woman. You’re a jumper.”
    “I’m a jumper with tits.”
    “Unless you’re going to toss them in the pot,” Cards told her, “the bet’s five to you.”
    “They’re worth a lot more than five.”
    Better than white noise, Gull decided, and likely better than his book.
    Across the room, Yangtree—with an ice bag on his knee—and Southern played an intense, nearly silent game of chess. Earbuds in, Libby ticked her head back and forth like a metronome to her MP3 while she worked a crossword puzzle.
    A lot of sociable going around, he mused. About half the jumpers on base gathered, some in groups, some solo, more than a few sprawled on the floor, attention glued to the Cardinals v. Phillies matchup on-screen.
    Waiting mode, he decided. Everybody knew the siren could sound anytime, sending them north, east, south, west, where there would be camaraderie but little leisure. No time to insult umpires or figure out 32 Across. Instead of raking in the pot, as Cards did now with relish, they’d rake through smoldering embers and ash.
    He watched Trigger throw up his hands in triumph as the runner scored, saw Yangtree take Southern’s bishop and Dobie toss in chips to raise the bet, causing Stovic to fold on a grunt of disgust.
    “What’s a five-letter word for boredom?” Libby asked the room.
    “TV ads,” Trigger volunteered. “Ought to be outlawed.”
    “Boredom, not boring. Besides, some of them are funny.”
    “Not funny enough.”
    “Ennui,” Gull told her.
    “Damn it, I knew that.”
    “He can spout off all those pussy words,” Dobie commented.
    Gull only smiled. He definitely didn’t feel ennui. Contentment, he thought, best described his current state. He’d be ready to roll if and when the call came, but for now knew the contentment of lounging with friends, enjoying the cross talk and bullshit while he waited for his woman to come home.
    He’d found his place. He didn’t know, not for certain, when he’d first understood that. Maybe the first time he’d seen Rowan. Maybe his first jump. Maybe that night at the bar when he’d kicked some ass.
    Maybe looking over a meadow of wild lupine.
    It didn’t matter when.
    He’d liked his hotshot work, and the people he’d worked with. Or most of them. He’d learned to combine patience, action and endurance, learned to love the fight—the violence, the brutality, the science. But what he found here dug deeper, and deep kindled an