Where the Black Line Ends by Meagan Williamson

Author:Meagan Williamson [Williamson, Meagan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-10-29T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

REED

“That’s your favorite food?” Murphy booms around a bite of bread. “Your last meal on earth and you’re asking for pickles?”

I don’t know why he’s so surprised when he’s also downing his second chicken salad sandwich. It has enough dill spears on top of it to fill a sixteen-ounce jar.

I shrug and reach for his unopened third one. “Well, if that’s how you feel…”

He punches his fist against my forearm, and my radius bends to his blow.

“Murphy doesn’t share food!” he barks.

“Jeez!” I rub my palm against the swelling red blotch. “I can see that.”

“And you wondered where I got my scar from.” McCafferty chuckles, shaking his head.

I gape from Murphy to Dean’s eyebrow and back again. “You did that?”

“He’s only an animal when he hasn’t been fed.” Marshall pats his smaller-than-average palm on the top of Murphy’s head. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Murph?”

Murphy burps in Marshall’s face and fogs up his glasses.

“Careful. He doesn’t like to be touched unless that hand is attached to a six-foot-two Australian model.” Ramirez tsks, peeling back the heel of his bread and grimacing at the soggy side underneath.

“Says the dude with the sexuality of a river,” Murphy fires back.

I wince. I don’t know what the issue is between these two, but a comment like that seems too far. It can’t be easy being bisexual on a crew of eighteen guys.

“Relax, Morgan. I’m proud of my fluidity.” Ramirez winks and ditches his uneaten dinner in the dirt next to him. He jumps to his feet and starts thrusting his hips, singing “Crazy in Love.” Daniels and Evans join in and pretty soon we are an entire flock of male peacocks parading about.

“All right, children, let’s save the mating rituals for R&R.” Jack freezes with his Ridley’s grocery sack dangling from his fingertips, connecting the dots that he just used the words children and mating ritual in the same sentence. We all erupt with laughter.

“That did not come out how I meant it to,” he says, collecting everyone’s trash. “All right. It’s not safe anywhere but the black tonight. Pitch your tents.”

I watch as the guys unearth their sleeping arrangements from their line packs and assemble them on top of charred soil.

Tents, I scoff. Who would want to be stuffed in a claustrophobic coffin when you could be looking at all of this?

A stretch of stars blink to the south where the smoke is less dense. A skittish deer prances across the open field in the same direction, seeking shelter from the fire. Untouched trees sway in the breeze, and even when the scent of smoke filters through my nose with my head inches from the black dirt, this still might be my favorite part about this job. Nope. I don’t need a tent.

“You sure you want to do that?” McCafferty asks, poking his head out of the small zippered opening.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say, easing onto my back and tucking my hands behind my head.

“Suit yourself.” He zips

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