Wildfire at Dawn

Chapter 1-4

Akbar told himself he was being an i***t. He’d caught that the hot brunette was working up at Timberline Lodge leading the tourists on “activities.” She’d have the pick of a very affluent crop. Tim and Vern were already double-teaming a group of windsurfers at a table closer to Tim, too far away for him to join in unless he wholly abandoned the brunette. But he wasn’t willing to do that yet.

Instead, he flashed five fingers at Jeannie; she flashed back ten. They’d just bet who bought the next round, on how many minutes before Tim and Vern got the two women at the next table to join them, despite the three windsurfer guys they were already sitting with.

They pulled it off in four and he patted Jeannie in sympathy as she went to the busy bar to get a fresh round, though he opted for a lemonade so it wasn’t that big a loss. Her calibration for timing the effectiveness of a pick-up line was for: “flying helicopters to fire,” not: “jumping down into fire.” Of course the way Jeannie looked, she didn’t have to say anything to gather whoever she wanted, but she was a choosy gal. And while he admired her long form and the fire-red streak in her shoulder-long dark hair, she’d never rung his bells or vice versa. So they’d become friends instead.

The noise level was pretty high. Outside the sun was bright and the wind fresh. That meant that three blocks away, down on the Columbia River, the wind would be snapping. And it was out of the west, so it would peel sharp, challenging waves off the river’s surface because the water flow was in the other direction. With the conditions so ideal, it meant that the visitors had worked up large appetites and poured into every restaurant in town.

Again, he let his attention drift back to the conversation at the next table. Not windsurfer types. Locals. He never messed with locals because they made for tougher challenge on the female uptake and the downdraft afterwards could be awkward as hell. Your average windsurfer had two or three weeks vacation, on rare occasions a whole summer, and then they were safely back to wherever they’d come from.

“Activities Director at the Lodge,” she’d said. Well, she sure didn’t look like the type to be leading Bingo night. But he could see her walking through the woods. Her snug jeans revealed long, well-muscled legs. Her worn hiking boots said they were well used. Her tight figure boasted that she did a five-K trail run before Joe-tourist even rolled out for breakfast. He could picture the wind blowing that long curling hair back off her shoulders as she ran.

Akbar could get to like that mental picture of her. A lot.

“What?” She’d turned to glare right at him. He’d been staring as his mind wandered, which was always a bad tactic. He could feel Tim smirking at him for getting caught.

“Sorry,” he scrambled around for a fix. He turned to her father, “I couldn’t help overhearing. You’re with the local drone guys?”

The man nodded carefully. The mother was practically laughing at him; okay, he wasn’t being subtle at all. The hot brunette rolled her eyes.

“Well, you probably want to be talking to that guy,” Akbar pointed across the room, “if you want some real-world data.” Carly and Steve got up to leave at that moment. As they threaded by on their way toward the door, Akbar waved them in. “Steve Mercer, this is—”

“George,” Steve lit up and reached out to grab the man’s hand. “Man did your bird ever save our asses on the Tillamook Burn. We logged almost three hundred flight hours on the drones alone, never mind choppers and air tankers. I’ve got to get you some of the recordings.”

In moments they’d crowded two more chairs around the small table and Amy had delivered fresh ice teas without even being asked. George, Steve, and Carly were rapidly lost in techy esoterica that had Akbar’s eyes glazing over—too much flying, not enough fire.

In the shuffle as Steve and Carly joined the table, Akbar managed to shift his allegiance—and the angle of his chair—from the chopper pilot’s table to the brunette’s. He wanted to send a gloating look toward Tim, but figured the brunette would catch it and boot his a*s.

“That was a pretty good save. Go ahead and do it,” she whispered to him. “But make your gloat a good one, because one is all you get.”

He timed his look at Tim as the brunette pretended brief attention to her BLT sandwich. Tim closed his eyes as if muttering a curse.

“You get him?”

“Got him good. Thanks.” Whoever she was, she didn’t miss much.

“So, are you going to ask my name, or just gawk at me like a love-struck bull calf?”

“Well,” Akbar settled in to enjoy himself as Amy delivered a double-burger with cheese, bacon, and a plate with a double order of onion rings. “I could be easily talked into just gawking if that works for you.”

Her mom had a great laugh. So he turned to her.

“Maybe she secretly likes being gawked at. What do you think?”

“I think, young man, that you’re right on the narrow edge of receiving a sharp poke in the ribs. So don’t stop now. I’m Jane, Jane Jenson.”

“Dad is George. Mom is Jane.” He turned back to the brunette. “Does that make you, Judy? Little brother Elroy in space school? Let me guess, you don’t have a dog, but the cat was named Astro.” He’d been ready for it; the nameless woman’s sharp poke bounced off his tightened gut muscles.

“She’s my only daughter, but you’re dead on about what she named the cat.” Jane then prompted him, “Ask her middle name.”

“Don’t!” the brunette warned.

Akbar fought the smile, he really did, but it wasn’t working. Jane was funny and obviously enjoyed torturing her daughter. George was on about something that could easily be space age and he, Carly, and Steve were paying no attention to the rest of the table. So Jane and George Jenson and named her daughter something Judy, not quite cruel enough to make her the butt of every The Jetsons joke on the planet, but not wholly above it either.

The brunette groaned, then stuck her tongue out at her mother. “Laura. My name is Laura.”

“Don’t feel too bad. I’m Johnny Akbar Jepps, but everyone calls me Akbar the Great.”

She narrowed her eyes in disbelief.

“I know. I guess they love me,” he indicated the table of Tim and the fliers. “Can’t help themselves. The joke is on them though, my middle name means ‘Great.’ What parent names their kid Johnny the Great Jepps? I mean, was that the best they could do?”

“Akbar the Great?” Laura Judy Jenson was proving that she had a great smile. “So they’re calling you ‘Great the Great’.”

“Yeah.” He hit the tone of chagrin just right, as if he hated it so much but didn’t want to disappoint them, and her smile bloomed even further. Damn! was all he could think. For that smile, he’d work a hell of a lot harder than he just had. Her cheeks brightened, the right one dimpled as the smile slid slightly sideways. The eyes that he’d thought were simple brown went golden-honey brown. Her head tipped slightly to the dimple side, which sent her beyond charming and right over into breathtaking.

Akbar felt as if he’d jumped out of the plane and tumbled into freefall. He wondered how much this one would hurt when he landed.

* * * *

Two-Tall went off with a lithe little blond more Akbar’s size than Tim’s; she didn’t even come up to his shoulder. Vern and Mickey wandered off to try the Full Sail Brewery down by the water. Laura had left with her parents and Steve and Carly. Akbar shifted his plate to rejoin Jeannie, the first smokies were just starting to drift in and would find them soon enough. A group of prime tourists jumped on the table the Jensons had just vacated, but he ignored them.

Jeannie ate one of his onion rings, then another as he worked on his burger.

“C’mon, Akbar. Don’t tell me that Judy Jetson got to you.” Clearly she’d been listening to the conversation occurring right behind her.

“Jenson,” he corrected her.

“Holy s**t!”

He looked up at her which he knew was a mistake as soon as he did it.

“Whoa,” Jeannie’s offered a low whistle. “She did. I thought no one got under your guard.”

He ate an onion ring while she sipped her pint of Belgian Red and studied him.

“Washout? No, I can see that didn’t happen. Did you get her number?”

He shrugged. He hadn’t.

“Did she get yours?”

“Goddamn Spanish Inquisition,” Akbar muttered. Jeannie was tenacious, the same way she flew, and wasn’t going to let this one go anytime soon so he answered. “I gave it to her.”

“Did she leave it on the table?”

He felt some glimmer of hope. No, she hadn’t. Laura had taken the paper napkin bearing his phone number.