Page 7 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

She pauses. Then her fingers close around keys. “Sure.”

“Give me five minutes.” I head toward the stairs.

Behind me, Reid calls, “Since you're going anyway, toothpaste. And deodorant!”

three

Ivy

Beck closes the passenger door, and I realize I've made a tactical error.

I failed to consider that in the four summers I've known Beck Hale, we've never been alone for more than two minutes.

There's always been Reid. Or Tessa. Or half the crew. Now it's just Beck and me. And after this morning, I'm considerably more aware of him.

The crew house disappears behind us as the road curves through the trees. Music plays quietly through the speakers. After a few bars Beck starts tapping his fingers on his jeans, in sync with the music.

I glance over. “Who sings this?”

Beck glances at the radio like it's obvious. “Fleetwood Mac. Everyone knows this one.”

I'm not so sure about that, and it gives me an idea. I reach for the radio and change the station. A guitar fills the truck. “Okay. Who's this?”

Beck listens for maybe four seconds. “Eagles.”

I wait. The singing starts. Eagles. I change the station.

“Johnny Cash.”

Again.

“Creedence Clearwater Revival.”

Again.

“Willie Nelson.”

“You didn't even give that one a second.”

“He has a distinctive voice.”

I narrow my eyes and continue to scan stations.

Beck smiles. “What are you doing?”

“Finding your weakness.”

“You’ve got five more miles.”

“Plenty of time.”

The next station is commercials. The next is talk radio. Then I catch the middle of a song I don't recognize. “Ha. This one.”

Beck listens.

I wait.

His forehead creases slightly. “Ice Spice.”