Page 120 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“Grayson? What is it?”
“He’s out. They made it out.” Grayson’s voice is gruff, swimming with emotion.
I try to bite back my cry of relief, but it’s useless. It’s out, and with it comes the tears of joy. “He’s okay?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yes. He’s at base camp. His cell is toast, but he asked me to call you and tell you he made it out. He said to tell you, two-in. Two-out.”
I smile through the tears and nod like he can see me. “Thank you.” My words are barely audible.
“He’s going to be there for a while until the blaze is contained. If he can’t get through to you, we’ll let you know when his crew is on their way home.”
“Okay.” For the first time, the silence that fills the line is a positive thing as we both breathe easier.
And when we hang up moments later, I slide down the wall and cry with the phone clutched in my hand and Grady’s stamp on every part of my heart.
I scrub my hand over my face and exhale a frustrated breath.
My guitar’s in my lap, my three notebooks are on the table in front of me, and the clock is telling me I’ve been at this way too long.
But I can’t sleep. It seems like sleep is few and far between these days.
And so I work.
It’s all I can do to keep my mind busy and my stress to a minimum.
And I wait. To hear from Grady. To hear the story that his brothers told me—how fire overwhelmed his crew and they had to take cover and then hike their way out. To know he’s home safe. To have that talk he promised we’d have.
It’s been ten days. Ten long ones.
They’ve been packed with new experiences. Me, behind the mic to record for the first time. Me, giving creative input to my own songs. Me, taking a step into facing my fears and realizing that singing my own song in a studio isn’t terribly different from when I’m directing Jett on how to sing a new one.
I pull my guitar onto my lap, tuck my pencil behind my ear, and begin again.
The knock startles me, and my first thought is that Jett’s drunk and coming over as he’s done in the past. But when I look through the peephole, I can’t get the door open fast enough.
Because it’s Grady standing on my doorstep.
It’s Grady looking completely exhausted and more handsome than any man I’ve ever set eyes on. He has an unshaven scruff. His hair is longer than normal, curling over his ears, and his clothes look like he’s been outside camping for days on end without washing them. But he is the best sight I’ve ever seen.
It’s Grady representing every single damn thing I want, and I can’t wait to tell him I intend to have it. Because this time I am going to fight. This time I’m not going to let him walk away without knowing how I feel about him.
But that can wait because within a heartbeat, I am in his arms. Legs wrapped around his waist. Lips against his. Hands running over his back and cheeks and face. Laughter sounding off in the space against us.
“You’re here,” I murmur against his lips.
“I’m here,” he repeats back to me.
“How are you here?” I laugh wondering how he knows my address.
“Your brother gave me your address.”
Simple enough and too much explanation that doesn’t matter right now.
“God, I missed you.”
Our tongues meet, and our bodies press against each other’s as we physically reconnect. He walks us into the house, and I stay attached to him like a spider monkey because there is no way I’m letting him go yet.
Not when he stumbles backward. Not when he sits on the couch. Not when he breaks his lips from mine, hands framing my face, and his lips saying, “Let me look at you, Dylan.”
