Page 45 of No Hope of Rescue

There’s very little those brothers don’t share. If Brock finds a good reason to share it, he will. But it will have to be a very good reason.

“Remind me again. What’s the problem with being rich?” Brock’s voice rumbles, and I lean over and turn on the metal camp light over his dining room table, so we can all see one another.

Ross shrugs again. “I’m not defined by what I do—”

Brock interrupts. “Because you don’t have to do anything. So work is just a hobby?”

Ross shakes his head. “No. I struggle with who I am. I mean, come on, look at you. You run your own search and rescue company. You’re a brother and a son.” He waves an arm at me. “You have close friends. All—not most—I’m saying all my friends have no idea why I joined. So, there’s a wedge issue. My father doesn’t understand why I hate business and don’t want to run one. Without the incentive of a paycheck, there’s nothing pushing me to figure out my shit.”

Brock says nothing for a beat. And then, “That’s not a problem. That’s a luxury.”

Instead of being insulted, Ross laughs, tipping his beer bottle in Brock’s direction. “That’s what everyone says.”

Brock’s mouth is set. I get it. Like it or not, rich people have sense of entitlement, and he finds it annoying. He’s seen money—drive people away.

“What? I know it’s hard to think of it as a problem.”

Brock wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. “You’re a good guy. You’ll figure it out.”

“I talked with a guy when I was still in the Air Force, trying to figure out my next step. He said I had to make my own purpose. ‘Create my life.’ Jesus.”

“So. Have you? Created some ambition?”

Ross shrugs. “Helping people, maybe?” His question hangs in the air. “I’ll figure it out. You’re right. More people should have my problem.”

Ross’s “helping people,” answer is enough for Brock. He is all about duty, public service, saving lives. He suddenly rises and extends a hand.

“I truly appreciate your help—you’re an ace pilot. Holding that Bell still, in the wind, at that altitude, was no picnic, I’m sure.”

Ross nods and they shake. “No thanks needed.”

There’s a ritual going on here that is so male. But they both need to go through the motions, the shaking of hands, the silent conspiracy not to dive too deep into any one story. It kind of drives me crazy sometimes, but I’ve learned to respect the process. With Brock and the rest of the Weston boys, problems nearly always work themselves out with minimal conversation.

Ross leaves about a half hour later, after a brain-numbing discussion of the Bell and enhanced maintenance schedules. I just nurse my beer, and when I try to do the dishes, Ross rises, claiming that’s his job. That’s when the conversation turns to a part for the Bell that’s nearly impossible to find. When he hangs up the dish towel, it’s clear he’s out of here.

When Brock closes the door behind him, I smile. “Nice recovery.”

“He is a good guy, even if he . . .”

“Has money?”

“Yeah. But about what happened right before he came over . . . ” he says, turning around. The sudden intensity in his eyes makes me swallow a gasp. His gaze is fiery. I take a step back. “What?”

His lips part, and then I recognize what has ignited those eyes: hunger. Heat wells, warming the wetness between my legs again. He wants me.

“Riley,” he says roughly.

I look up at him.

“I don’t know what's happening right now, but—can I kiss you? Really kiss you this time?”

There’s something about his formality that is so Brock. Don’t fuck this up, I think as he slips a hand to the base of my skull and tilts my head up very gently.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he says. It’s like a declaration. “I want to be with you. I’m not sure I know what that means.”

I moisten my lips and start to say something, but before I can, his mouth crushes mine hungrily. Enough to make me gasp when he pulls away.

“Did I hurt you?”