Chasing Fire

challenge, with humor, and there was something in the way they leveled on his that made the moment intimate—as much of a hot slide through the system as the tequila.
    Matching his pace to hers, he picked up the next shot glass.
    Then there was her mouth, just shy of wide, heavy on the bottom—and the way it so naturally, so habitually formed a smirk.
    Small wonder he lusted for a good, strong taste of it.
    “How ya doing, hotshot?”
    “I’m good. How about you, Swede?”
    In answer she tapped her third shot glass to his before they tossed back the contents together. She brought the lime wedge to her mouth. “Do you know what I love about tequila?”
    “What do you love about tequila?”
    “Everything.” After a wicked laugh, she drank the fourth with the same careless gusto as the first three. Together they slapped down the empties.
    “What else do you love?” he asked her.
    “Hmm.” She considered as she downed number five. “Smoke jumping and those who share the insanity.” She toasted them to a round of applause and rude comments, then sat back a moment with her full glass. “Fire and the catching of it, my dad, ear-busting rock and roll on a hot summer night and tiny little puppies. How about you?”
    Like her, he sat back with his last shot. “I could go along with most of that, except I don’t know your dad.”
    “Haven’t jumped fire yet either.”
    “True, but I’m predisposed to love it. I have a fondness for loud rock and tiny little puppies, but would substitute heart-busting sex on a hot summer night and big, sloppy dogs.”
    “Interesting.” They tossed back that last shot, in unison, to more applause. “I’d’ve pegged you for a cat man.”
    “I’ve got nothing against cats, but a big, sloppy dog will always need his human.”
    Her earrings swung as she cocked her head. “Like to be needed, do you?”
    “I guess I do.”
    She pointed at him in an aha gesture. “There’s that romantic streak again.”
    “Wide and long. Want to go have heart-busting sex in anticipation of a hot summer night?”
    She threw back her head and laughed. “That’s a generous offer—and no.” She slapped a hand on the table. “But I’ll go you another six.”
    God help him. “You’re on.” He patted his pocket. “I believe I’ll take a short cigar break while we get the next setup.”
    “Ten-minute recess,” Rowan announced. “Hey, Big Nate, how about some salsa and chips to soak up some of this tequila? And not the wimpy stuff.”
    The woman of his dreams, Gull decided as he opted to go out the back for his smoke. A salsa-eating, tequila-downing, smoke-jumping stunner with brains and a wicked uppercut.
    Now all he had to do was talk her into bed.
    He lit up in the chilly dark, blew smoke up at a sky sizzling with stars. The night struck him as pretty damn perfect. Crappy music in a western dive, cheap tequila, the companionship of like-minded others and a compelling woman who engaged his mind and excited his body.
    He thought of home and the winters that engaged and absorbed most of his time. He didn’t mind it, in fact enjoyed it. But if the past few years had taught him anything, it was he needed the heat and rush of the summers, the work and, yes, the risk of chasing fires.
    Maybe it was just that, the combination of pride and pleasure in what he’d accomplished back home, the thrill and satisfaction of what he knew he could accomplish here that allowed him to stand in a chilly spring night in the middle of almost-nowhere and recognize perfection.
    He wandered around the building, enjoying his cigar, thinking of facing Rowan over another six tequila shots. Next time—if there was a next time—he’d make damn sure they had a bottle of Patrón Silver. Then at least he’d feel more secure about the state of his stomach lining.
    Amused, he came around the side of the building. He heard the grunts first, then the ugly sound of fist against flesh. He moved forward, toward the sounds, scanning the dark pockets of the parking lot.
    Two of the men Rowan had dealt with in the bar held Dobie while the third—the big one—whaled on him.
    “Shit,” Gull muttered, and, tossing down his cigar, rushed forward.
    Over the buzz of rage in his ears, Gull heard one of the men shout. The big man swung around, face full of mean. Gull cocked back his fist, let it fly.
    He didn’t think; didn’t have to. Instinct took over as the other two men dropped Dobie in a heap and came at him. He