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  FLAME

  A Fire on the Mountain Novel

  © 2015 Erin Noelle

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, copied in any form or by any means. Electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author/ publisher, except by a reviewer that may quote brief passages for review purposes only. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each participant.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, is entirely coincidental.

  All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

  Cover Design

  by Hang Le

  Cover Photography

  Furious Fotog

  Cover Model: Brendan James with Model Madness, LLC

  Editing

  Kerry Genova with Indie Solutions & Kayla Robichaux

  Interior Design and Formatting

  Christine Borgford, Perfectly Publishable

  Flame

  dedication

  prologue

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty one

  twenty two

  twenty three

  twenty four

  twenty five

  twenty six

  twenty seven

  twenty eight

  twenty nine

  thirty

  epilogue

  acknowledgements

  about the author

  books by erin noelle

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 13

  THE BRIGHT LIGHTS BLIND ME to everything except the dirt track laid out in front of me. The energetic, bustling noise from the crowd feeds adrenaline buzzing at the speed of light through my veins. The familiar vibration of the bike’s engine securely tucked between my legs locks me into that special frame of mind, where things move in slow motion, allowing me to do what it is that I do best.

  This is it.

  Why I’ve busted my ass every day for the last decade.

  The final tour stop of the year.

  Winner takes all.

  Me or him.

  Do or die.

  Tightly wrapping my fingers around the throttle, I coast down the ramp, picking up speed as I go. By the time the tires hit the clay-colored earth, I envision myself executing the trick—my trick—flawlessly, from takeoff to landing, exactly like I do each and every time I nail the 501 Double Backflip.

  Moments later, I’m soaring through the air, defying gravity. Back arching, I use my body’s strength to propel myself, flipping my bike into two full, backward rotations. This is why I work my body to the brink of exhaustion.

  First flip. My bike above me. Through my goggles, I see nothing between me and the man-made track underneath. Beautiful.

  Second flip. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of yellow and twist my head instinctively, wondering if it was her. If she came to watch. A collective gasp from the packed crowd can be heard a split-second before I look away from the multitude of camera flashes around the arena and glance down below.

  It’s like time sped up and I’m not there. I skipped a step. I blinked too hard and too long.

  Something’s wrong. The ground is too close, rushing at me too fast. I still have half a rotation to go, but without the space. Time slows, even as the clay track hurries to greet me . . . but it’s too late. The world is a blur, the sounds roar of white noise. I’m under the bike, not on top of it. I turn my head again, eyes squinted as if to ward off the imminent pain. I picture her face. I picture her on the sidelines. Even if it wasn’t her, I want to pretend. Pretend she came to see. Pretend she cares.

  I feel the brush of dirt before I register the impact. It’s gritty and hard, and I know before I feel anything . . . this is going to fucking hurt.

  The last thing I remember is the sound of bones crunching, shattering to pieces like the gravel around me, as I hit the cement-like ground. White-hot pain shoots through my body like a speeding locomotive. The breath is forced from my body. I try to suck it back in, try to fill my lungs because without the air, I can’t even gasp in pain. I can’t yell or cry or scream. It all happens inside, trapped and fighting to get out. But I can’t. My chest is collapsed in protest, locked and frozen in shock. All I can get are short pants of oxygen through my nostrils. The dust settles inside and I want to cough it out, but I don’t even dare. Instead, I lay there and choke.

  All around me is silence. Motors are shut down, not even idling. There are no murmurs from the crowd. My throat is burning and the sun is piercing my eyes. I feel footsteps rush up beside me, shaking the ground, jostling me, and exacerbating my pain tenfold.

  As a form leans over me, blocking out the heat from the harsh rays, numbness settles over me. Head to toe, I can’t feel a fucking thing.

  This was it.

  Why I’d busted my ass every day for the last decade.

  The final tour stop of the year.

  It was winner takes all.

  It was me or him.

  It was do or die . . .

  And I’m pretty sure I just died.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 14 (FOUR MONTHS EARLIER)

  HOME . . . FUCKING FINALLY.

  Nearly three hours after leaving my Denver apartment, I shift the transmission of my cherry-red Jeep into park in front of my parents’ house outside of Breckenridge and slump back into the leather driver’s seat, releasing an exhausted sigh. According to Google maps, the drive from my front door to theirs should’ve taken about an hour and a half, but that didn’t account for the tractor trailer that jackknifed across Highway 70 a little ways in front of me, spilling its shipment of cotton balls, and bringing traffic to an absolute standstill.

  For over an hour, I sat unmoving on the major thoroughfare, bumper-to-bumper with a bunch of other motorists, also eager to escape the city limits. Bored, I’d taken the top off of the Wrangler for the trip in an attempt to get a jump start on my tan, but I ended up in the middle of what looked like a midsummer snowstorm, with various sizes of white, wispy puffs swirling around in the warm Colorado wind.

  Twisting to glimpse over my shoulder, my blue gaze makes a quick sweep of the vehicle, the white sprinkled seats and floorboards only confirming my suspicions. I groan as I grab my purse from the passenger seat. Vacuuming out my vehicle was not a part of today’s plans of doing absolutely nothing. Five finals over the last three days have left my body drained and my mind a pile of mush, and though I’m not sure what it’s going to be like staying under my parents’ roof again for the first time in a couple of years, I’ve been looking forward to a little of Grams’ spoiling. I may be twenty-two, but I’ll never be too old for her homemade tomato soup and special grilled cheese sandwiches, with the crust removed and cut into abstract shapes.

  “Dakota, you’re finally here! It’s so good to see you, honey. We’ve missed you so much.”
Mel bounds cheerfully down the steps of the front porch toward me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders in a motherly embrace. My family may be unusual, not calling our parents “Mom” and “Dad,” but Mel and Doug are about the best damn parents any kid could ever wish for. And recently, as I’ve gotten older and am learning all about adult responsibilities, my eyes have opened to what an amazing childhood I had. I may joke about their tree-hugging, far-left political views and ambitious hopes to spread inner peace to all the guests who stay at their resort, but in all actuality, they kick parenting ass.

  Smiling, I press a chaste kiss to her cheek before trudging around to grab my suitcase from behind the backseat. “I’ve missed you too, but I think you’ve got enough kids to keep you busy around here,” I tease, playfully tugging on her sandy-colored ponytail when I walk by.

  “Oh, you have no idea. There’s a reason God gave me a boy last. If Denny would’ve been the first child, he most likely would’ve been the only.” She shakes her head and laughs heartily as she moves to follow me inside. “We’re leaving in about an hour for Crew’s birthday dinner. You can ride with us if you want, but I assumed you’d be going out afterward with your sisters or friends, so you may want to drive yourself. I know they’ve missed you since you moved away.”

  Shit. I’d completely forgotten about the dinner tonight. Well, there goes my evening of vegging out and doing nothing.

  “Uh, yeah, I’ll drive myself. I haven’t talked to any of them, so I’m not sure what the plan is, but that way, it’ll be easier,” I reply as we stride through the foyer and into the den, where Grams is screaming obscenities and flapping her arms like a wild bird, apparently not thrilled with whatever just happened during the basketball game on TV.

  She stops the minute she sees me, a mischievous grin replacing the scowl on her face. Sashaying—yes, she’s a seventy-something-year-old who still sashays—over to me, she uses the most over-the-top accent when she speaks. “Dakota, dah-ling, tell me you’re home to stay.” She pauses to do the European cheek-kiss thingy in between my giggles, then takes a drink of whatever crazy spell she’s got mixed in her glass today. “We’ve been needing some excitement around here. Ever since you older three moved out and Hudson and Crew pulled their heads out of their asses, the biggest thrill of my day is when your little brother farts at the dinner table. Please. Help a poor, old woman out.”

  “We have plenty of excitement around here, Grams, and stop instigating trouble,” Doug interjects as he walks into the room from the backyard, his tone lighthearted. Turning his attention to me, he opens his arms out wide and cocks his head slightly to the side. “Kota, sweetheart, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Without wasting a moment, I rush into them and squeeze my dad as tight as I can. “Hey, old man! Have ya missed me too? You actually getting some sleep now with me out of the same area code?”

  Snickering, he releases me and rests his hands on his hips, one edge of his mouth still hiked up in a smirk. “Honey, I still lose sleep over you, especially when you’re not here, but it’s only because I love you and I worry.”

  “We both do,” Mel says from behind me, tenderly resting her hand on my shoulder. “No matter how old you are, we’ll always worry.”

  Nodding, I can’t blame them for their concern. Between the ages of fifteen and twenty, I did a lot of searching to find out who I was as an individual, trying to find what made me happy. And more often than not, I found that Happy Dakota was at a party with a beer in one hand and a bong in the other, footloose and fancy-free . . . and more often than not, ending my nights panty-free as well.

  “I know you guys do, and I appreciate it, now more than ever.” I offer them both a grateful smile. “One day before I go back, I want to sit down with y’all. You too, Grams,” I add, careful not to leave her out of family discussions, “and talk to you about my future plans and how things are going at school. I’ve got some ideas.”

  Mel and Doug exchange an inquisitive look, then quickly refocus their attention on me. “Sounds interesting. Just let us know when you want to talk.” Doug nods his agreement before cringing at the sound of something crashing to the floor in the upstairs game room. Something that sounded breakable. “Preferably after he’s in bed though,” he huffs, racing for the stairs.

  After I excuse myself to my old room to get freshened up for dinner—the room I’ll be sharing with Hudson during my three-week break—the cell phone in my back pocket vibrates with a text message.

  Rory: You gonna be at Crew’s dinner 2nite?

  Smiling smugly to myself, a low hum begins to pulse through my body at the thought of hooking up tonight. I’ve spent way too much time studying and working double shifts over the past couple of months, and, unfortunately, my sex life has paid the price. Though my forefinger and thumb can bring me to climax in a matter of minutes, it’s not even close to the real deal. And Rory Tanner is the real fucking deal in bed.

  Me: Getting ready now, but we’ll have to go back to your place cuz I’m staying with my parents this time. I don’t have any condoms with me either.

  I love how I don’t have to pretend with Rory. There’s never a need to tiptoe around the fact we both want to screw each other’s brains out until our shaky legs collapse, then go our separate ways without a need to say goodbye or ask when we’ll see each other again. Our relationship is what it is, and we both accept it as that.

  Despite many guys’ claim to want a strictly physical relationship with a chick, I’ve learned the hard way that most are unable to keep it that simple. Usually, after the third or fourth time of playing hide the salami, they start pulling that overbearing, possessive bullshit, like they’ve earned some sort of right to know where I’m going or who I’m with. Uh . . . no. I answer to no one, especially not some insecure dillhole who’s afraid I’ll find another stick of meat that I prefer to play with over his.

  In the half a year or so that Rory and I’ve been hooking up, never once has he asked me a single thing about my life outside the sheets we lay twisted in. Of course, now that we live in different cities, it helps keep a buffer between us. On numerous occasions since I’ve moved to the ’burbs of Denver, either he or I have made the trip to see one another, each encounter a feverish frenzy of ripped clothes and entangled body parts. Words are rarely necessary.

  Rory: Cool, but Hudson and Crew will be in his room. You’ll get to hear your sister pray to the god of the orgasms. It’s like a church service every time she spends the night.

  Ewwww. I’m thrilled that my younger sister has finally found the magical powers of her vagina and all, but I don’t want to experience it with her, even if it is from another room. Privacy is one of the best things I’ve discovered since moving out on my own. When my two older sisters, Juno and Denali, and I got our own apartment a couple of years ago, leaving the constant chaos of our parents’ home, I thought I’d learned the meaning of peace and quiet. But it wasn’t until the last six months when I moved into the small studio apartment by myself, a move necessary for school, that I’ve discovered a lot about who I am in the silence.

  There’s a distinct difference between being alone and being lonely, and as long as you like the person you are, then it’s a lot harder to become lonely. Being content in my own company is definitely something I’m working on, something I never had to face when growing up.

  Me: That sounds awful. Hotel room?

  Rory: Yeah. I’ll book it. See you in a bit.

  Tossing my phone onto the bed, I wonder if my parents will mind that I don’t stay here at the house my first night back in town. Didn’t Mel say she thought I’d be going out afterward anyway?

  The display screen lights up the white comforter with another message from Rory indicating he’s reserved a room at Victoria Pointe Lodge, one of the nicest hotels on the mountain, thus eliminating any second thoughts I may be having.

  Tonight, I’ll be fucking in style.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 14

  “DUDE, RHINO, YOU HIT THE b
all backwards. How is that even physically possible? You were like defying laws of golf physics or some shit.”

  Everyone in our group rolls with laughter as Gunner, my cousin, continues to harass our childhood friend, Ryan, about how unbelievably terrible he was on the course this morning. And when I say terrible, I mean it was the worst display of athleticism I’ve ever seen from a physically competent grown man. I had no idea anyone I knew could be that uncoordinated when swinging a stick at a ball.

  Except for Nathan, Gunner’s soon-to-be father-in-law, it wasn’t like any of the rest of us were any good, but the guy races four-wheelers for a fucking living, and he can’t hit a golf ball up into the air three feet in front of him? It was fucking hilarious . . . which is why we’re all still chastising him about it hours later over drinks at Ember Bar and Grille, the after-dinner meeting place for everyone in the wedding party.

  “And then, when we got to the green on seven, he pulled out his—”

  “Baby, leave him alone,” Emmy Sue, Gunner’s fiancée, cuts him off as she slides down from her barstool and stands in front of him. “He was a good sport for getting up early and going out there to try. I’m sure that’s not how Ryan wanted to spend his morning, but he did it for you. For me. For our wedding weekend. Be nice.”

  Softly patting his chest, she peers up at him with her big, brown doe eyes and a slightly pouting lower lip, otherwise known as her look. It’s the look she gives him that he absolutely can’t resist. I know it. He knows it. And she knows it. It’s a lethal fucking look.

  “Please,” she purrs, lifting up on her tiptoes to brush her lips across his. A bonus sweet gesture. The cherry on her sundae, if you will.

  Not even bothering to put up a fight, he succumbs immediately, looping his arms around her waist and deepening the kiss. All thoughts of Rhino’s golf game—or lack thereof—are erased by a single swipe of her tongue. Lucky fucking bastard.

  The twinge of jealousy taunting me from the back of my mind as I watch them interact with each other isn’t anything new. Ever since Emmy Sue, known as Emilia to everyone except those in our close circle, moved on to Gunner and my tour bus last summer, I’ve had a steady dose of sickeningly sweet moments like these. Strangely enough, I’ve found myself wishing more and more that I had a little bit of that in my life. A little bit of someone like Emmy Sue.